The Other Alcott

by Elise Hooper

  “For what?” May gasped, as though she had just run around the block. “You’re the one who entertained me. That was beautiful.” She knew she was repeating herself, but couldn’t think straight.

  “Thank you for being such a gracious host.” He spoke quietly, leaning back against the doorjamb, raising his violin from his side to rest on his shoulder. The crook of his arm seemed to fold her closer to him.

  May’s face flushed under the gaze of his warm brown eyes. “Good night,” she breathed.

  She closed the door behind him and rested against it before crossing the room to turn off her lamp and pull open the curtains. With the fog gone, stars finally pierced the dark sky like the heads of shiny nails. May placed her forehead against the cool pane of glass. The music from Ernest’s violin still seemed to reverberate off the walls of the dark room. She closed her eyes, picturing the suppleness with which he moved with his music.

  Later, as she climbed into bed, her eyes rested on a watercolor of Orchard House hanging on the wall over her desk. She had painted it years ago on a hot August afternoon as her nephews ran roughshod around the yard. Marmee brought out a pitcher of apple cider, sat beside May, and read The Women’s Journal aloud. Her chest did not tighten as painfully as it once had when she thought of Marmee, but her breath shuddered out of her when her thoughts turned toward Louisa. Anna’s letters kept May abreast of what was happening at home and provided extensive updates on Louisa, so May suspected she knew of their estrangement. Anna had always played the role of neutral party between Louisa and May ever since they had been younger. Though there had been plenty of occasions of discord, usually arguments lasted a day, maybe several, but never this long, and certainly never with a physical distance like this between them to exacerbate the ill will. May rested the palms of her hands upon the icy glass and then moved her hands to either side of her face. The cold sank into her skin and made her shiver. She wished she could shake off the guilt that had taken root deep inside her core, but it remained, winding itself tighter and tighter around her bones and through her muscles until she felt overwhelmed by how to fix the situation.

  Chapter 35

  Saturday morning began with a clear dawn so May dressed and placed her sketch pad and colored pencils in her shoulder strap. In the hallway outside their rooms, she encountered Ernest, who appeared to be returning from an errand, and approached her smiling, the damp, mossy smell of spring clinging to his black coat, as he inquired about her plans for the day.

  “I’m on my way to Saint James’s Park for some sketching,” May said, patting her hair into place and hoping her bonnet was on straight.

  “It’s a lovely day for it. Care for some company?”

  A flash of excitement traveled through May. “Yes, I mean, of course. If . . . if you don’t have any more pressing engagements, I’d enjoy that.”

  She worried her stammering made her sound like a dunce, but Ernest seemed not to notice and wrapped his arm around her elbow. They proceeded downstairs and out onto the street. May stole a glance at his profile and admired the confident tilt of his chin. He didn’t start any conversation, but simply looked pleased. As they strolled along the street, she admired how their steps and pace matched effortlessly.

  “Would you prefer to take an omnibus?”

  “No, thank you,” she said with a smile. “I try to walk everywhere. I like the exercise.”

  He paused and tilted his head as he studied her. “We Swiss like to walk everywhere, too.”

  She hid the flush she knew was rising in her cheeks by turning to watch a grocer place stacks of apples and pears outside his stall while an errand boy swept some dead leaves into the gutter. Ernest pointed out the bakery where he had purchased a lemon pound cake the previous week. She remembered the package wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with string and how he had carried it carefully alongside his violin when he arrived at her room. The spongey yellow cake’s sweetness had been a welcome treat on an otherwise routine day. When she had thanked him, he was gracious without implying any undue heroics, and she noted his humility.

  They reached an entrance to the park, and he deferred to her choice of locating a bench with a view of Buckingham Palace in the distance. She could feel him watching her as she settled her sketch pad on her lap and her pencils next to her.

  “Why did you pick this spot?”

  May lifted her gray pencil and began to sketch light contour lines on her paper. “The last time I was in London, I befriended a lovely couple, both were artists, and we often came here to stretch our legs after sketching in Westminster Abbey.” She smiled to think of how Violet always teased her about her interest in Queen Victoria. The monarchy ran against everything her Californian friend believed, yet the two women always discussed what it would be like to be invited to royal tea at the palace. “Whenever I come here, I always hope to catch a glimpse of the queen. I know it’s silly. She’s probably not even there.” May nodded at Buckingham Palace’s gray towers in the distance. “She’s probably off at Balmoral, or maybe it’s still too cold up there. I suppose it’s more likely she’s in residence at Windsor, but anyway, I always hope to see her.”

  He smiled and leaned back, shading his eyes. “She’s a rare sight in London, that’s for certain.”

  “I know, she sounds so sad, all locked away in mourning.”

  “I wouldn’t feel too badly for her. She’s the most powerful woman in the world. No one has locked her away. Her mourning is her own choice.”

  “Well, that’s just it. It is her choice. To be so powerful and to decide to retreat into her own grief. I think it’s remarkable that she was so in love with Prince Albert.”

  Ernest remained silent and gazed at Buckingham Palace, leaving May to wonder uncomfortably why she had brought up the queen. Why did she have to bring love into the conversation? Her mention of it was too much, too forward. She felt torn between clamping her mouth against any more frivolous talk and wanting to say something more, something that made her sound confident and interesting. “Let’s go see the pelicans. Did you know there used to be an elephant here in the park?

  “Really?”

  “Yes, King James kept a whole menagerie of animals here. Even crocodiles.” She closed her sketchbook and dropped her pencils into her bag.

  “Wait.” Ernest rested his hand her arm. “It’s nice here. We’ve been waiting all winter for this weather. Let’s not rush off. Let’s stay for a bit. We’ll see if Queen Victoria comes out.” He folded his hands in his lap and watched a pair of men pass by, both with newspapers tucked under their arms, engrossed in discussing the day’s news.

  May opened her sketch pad again and smiled at the knowledge he was humoring her, but perhaps he had a romantic streak in him as well, she thought as she sketched the view of the palace.

  He watched her for several minutes before asking, “May I try?”

  She looked over at him. “Try sketching?”

  “Yes.”

  She giggled and handed him the pad and a couple of pencils. “You’re going to pick up a new artistic medium? The violin isn’t enough?”

  “I want to get a sense of what you do, so I understand you better. Should I begin with a light sketch of what I’m going to draw?”

  She nodded, watching his long fingers unselfconsciously grasp her gray pencil. He wants to understand me better. She knit her gloved fingers together tightly and forced them to rest on her lap, trying to control the excitement that spread through her like a sip of brandy, the quick burn down her throat and then the warmth seeping through her extremities, loosening her jangle of nerves. She wasn’t imagining his interest in her. It was real. Somehow sitting next to him was both the most natural place to be in the world and the most unsettling—the conflicting sensations thrilled her.

  “And what about the composition?” he asked. “I shouldn’t just copy you. What should I draw?”

  “Well . . .” May studied the grassy expanse surrounding them. “Perhaps we should start wi
th something straightforward. If we want to move, we could go see the Boy Statue. I’ve learned by sketching many statues.”

  But Ernest’s pencil was already moving, sketching the empty bench next to them. “The angle is awkward from this view.” He groaned. “I’m already making a mess of it.”

  Sure enough, the bench looked too long and low to the ground. “You need to enlarge the end that is closer to us and make the back of it smaller. It’s called foreshortening. You must imagine a vanishing point and all lines must lead to it. Like this.” She began to sketch a more accurate view of the bench with her blue pencil before realizing that she was leaning intimately onto his lap, her balance resting entirely upon him. She froze, feeling his breath against her cheek, and wondered if he could hear the pounding of her heart knocking against her ribs. She slowly pulled back. “Sorry . . .”

  “No, I think I see.” He looked directly at her without any sign of embarrassment and smiled. “I like trying to see the world as you view it.” Even squinting in the daylight, his light blue eyes shone brightly, and she smiled back.

  “Let’s go see those pelicans.” She stood, tossing her art supplies into her shawl strap and slinging it over one arm. He rose next to her and they left the bench and walked past a copse of tall, sinewy plane trees. As they neared the water, a cluster of people came into view, and May and Ernest drifted over to see the attraction. A young man held a bicycle with an enormous wheel in front and a tiny wheel in back. He waved his top hat toward the crowd invitingly.

  “Come on, gents, who wants to take a spin on this high wheel? This is the latest development in velocipedes. Be a sport. It’s a grand way to experience a bit of speed. Three guineas are all it takes.” The man caught a glimpse of Ernest and May, the newest spectators to arrive, and turned his entreaties directly at Ernest. “You, sir. You look like the type of gentleman who’s game for adventure.”

  Ernest laughed and turned toward May with raised eyebrows.

  “Go,” she urged. She cursed her own layers of skirts, wishing she could be the one to give it a whirl. If riding a bicycle was like riding a horse, she wanted to try it.

  “See?” The man gave an impertinent wink and held the bicycle out toward Ernest. “Go ahead. It’s a fine way to impress the ladies.”

  Ernest plunged through the crowd and, upon reaching the fellow, slipped him a couple of coins as he reached for the machine.

  “Now, sir, have you ever ridden a velocipede?” When Ernest grinned and shook his head, the man beamed and raised his voice to the crowd. “Ladies and gents, I have a treat for you! We’re about to witness a grand spectacle! A dangerous spectacle!” The showman slowed his voice and rolled the syllables of the word dangerous for dramatic effect. He turned back to Ernest but still spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Sir, are your affairs in order? Does this fine lady”—he nodded toward May—“know your solicitor’s name so she may settle your estate if need be?”

  The crowd laughed, and May slipped through the crowd, drawing closer to the velocipede. Once next to it, the machine’s size gave her pause. The front wheel was high, impossibly high, putting the narrow, tiny leather seat about six feet above the ground. The front wheel, made of metal, could not have been more than the width of two of her fingers placed together. It looked dreadfully unstable, and finally she understood the reason for the crowd’s excitement.

  A young boy tapped his fingers against the wheel. “It’s a real bone crusher,” he said with a smug grin at May.

  Dubiously, she surveyed the uneven dirt promenade ahead. Why had she encouraged this foolishness? How on earth was Ernest going to ride the contraption? Surely he would break his neck. She tried to move closer to urge him to stop, but the crowd, hungry for something spectacular, pinned her in place. She raised her arm to get his attention, but he was occupied with the man’s instructions for mounting the high wheeler. He placed a foot on the peg protruding from the small wheel in back, and the man gave him a nudge to start the thing gliding forward. She inhaled as the crowd parted to make room for him. Silence. Everyone watched in rapt fascination. May’s shoulders tensed, and her stomach seized with the pending catastrophe at hand. And suddenly Ernest was atop the high wheeler, rolling away from them.

  A handful of small children tore from the crowd and began to chase him, cheering him along. “Don’t take a header, mister!” one boy called out as he ran behind him.

  May’s breath stopped; she stared at his receding figure.

  “Turn! Turn! Try a turn,” the man beside her cried out.

  Amazingly, Ernest turned the high wheeler in a wobbly, wide arc and headed back to the crowd. He searched the crowd in between glances at his handlebars, his lips a thin line of determination, but when he caught sight of May in the crowd, his eyes brightened, and he gingerly raised his arm to tip the brim of his hat at her. The men and women surrounding her burst forth with cheers.

  People turned to look at May, nodding their heads approvingly. With her fingers knotted together against her lips, she realized she was still holding her breath and slowly exhaled, dropping her hands limply to rest at her sides. “Keep both hands on those bars,” she called weakly but her voice was drowned out in the exuberant commotion of the crowd. How had he managed such a feat?

  He rolled up in front of her and somehow hopped to the ground gracefully. Amidst the backslapping, cheers, and women looking sideways at him from under their plumed hats, everything faded away except Ernest. She felt an unfolding of delight inside her chest as he neared her with his hand outstretched. A cautious smile stretched across his square jaw, and his eyes regarded her carefully as the crowd parted to let him reach her. Relief must have shown on her face because his guarded expression relaxed into one of triumph.

  The owner of the high wheeler looked slightly mystified as he took a hold of the velocipede again. “Huh, you’ve really never tried that before?” He shook Ernest’s hand. “Well done, sir.”

  Ernest took May’s arm, and though he nodded distractedly at the volley of congratulatory comments from the surrounding people, he remained focused on her.

  “I began to think that was a bad idea,” she whispered to him.

  “Did you?”

  “You were appallingly high up there.” She shook her head in wonder. “How did you do that?”

  He gave her arm a squeeze. “I concentrated with all my might. I really didn’t want to fall in front of you.”

  She leaned into his shoulder, feeling both surprised at her comfort with him and giddy at the delight that he had been trying to impress her.

  “But if I had fallen and needed nursing, I hoped you’d be the one to care for me.”

  She laughed. “Well, aren’t you sure of yourself?” She glanced back at the men swarming the high wheel owner as they walked away.

  He chuckled. “Honestly, I was just lucky.”

  She put her hand on his arm that linked them together and squeezed her fingers upon his hand for a moment, feeling as though the happiness filling her was a force that could make her explode. All her cares—money, home, art—reduced to a background hum as she took in the fine form of the man walking alongside of her. She was the lucky one.

  A FEW DAYS later, May, Caroline, and Una went shopping near Covent Garden. They wandered through Howell & James on Regent Street admiring jewelry before entering Peter Robinson to look at dresses. While May idled around the department store, she found a collar of cream-colored lace with the delicacy of a spiderweb. She pictured it at the neckline of her pale blue silk gown and imagined Ernest’s eyes traveling down from her face, to her neck, and along her exposed collarbone. Her face reddened. She dropped the lace back onto the counter and busied herself with browsing through some racks of bonnets and hats. Before they left the store, May doubled back to the counter, purchased the lace, and tucked it into her basket.

  At a tea shop near Covent Garden, Caroline described an amusing correspondence she was exchanging with an editor of a literary magazine. She was
signing her name as C. Warner to throw the fellow off the scent that she was a woman. Her ruse worked; he planned to publish some of her poetry in his journal’s next volume. They all laughed at her mischief. May smiled to herself, knowing how Ernest would enjoy the story when she repeated it to him that evening. The secret of her attraction for him gave everything extra significance. She saw and listened to everything wondering what he would think of it. How could no one see her distraction? She could barely see straight.

  She returned home to find a letter from Princess Louise, the Marchioness of Lorne, congratulating her; two of her paintings were selected for an upcoming exhibition of women painters. Just the thought of the beautiful princess seeing her artwork and deciding it worthy of her show made May want to shout with joy, but instead she read it again and again, marveling that Queen Victoria’s daughter, known for her intelligence and artistic talent, had decided May’s painting merited exhibition in her show. Her first inclination was to get out some paper to write to Louisa, but she stopped herself. There had been no letters from Louisa since the angry one May had sent. She flinched and closed her eyes for a moment before reaching for her shopping basket to take out the lace purchased earlier. She would not let herself think of Louisa. Not now. Not when everything else was going so well. She slid the thread of the lace through her fingers, imagining how Ernest would smile when she told about the victory of her paintings. She folded up the lace and put it away. Time to get to work.

  She arranged a handful of bright jonquils from the Covent Garden market into a pewter vase for a still life, flushing to think about the many ways Ernest seeped into her consciousness. This dalliance was merely a bit of fun. She needed a distraction from her worries from home, and he was a fine one, but that’s all it was. A small romance. After all, he was much younger . . . there could no future for such a relationship. The whole affair perplexed her. She could not stop thinking of him.

  ERNEST ARRIVED ALONE that evening. Her breath caught in her throat as she led him into her small room. He took a seat, and she told him about her acceptance into the Ladies Exhibition.