by Elise Hooper
August 18, 1879
Concord
Dearest May,
Your chapters make for a fine stroll down memory lane. What larks we enjoyed together. Your chapters about France and Italy bring it all back to me. I particularly enjoyed that you wrote: “the indiscreet, husband-hunting, title-seeking butterfly is not the typical American girl abroad”—bravo, your readers will applaud the fact that you champion their noble intentions! Reading your draft makes me long to return to our former stomping grounds.
I’d been planning to work on a memoir about Marmee, but stopped. I’m simply too sad for such a project. After casting about earlier this year with his anchor gone, Father is now a model of industry with his School of Philosophy. Thanks to a generous donation by one of his followers, his vision of creating this school is finally happening. Last spring he built a modest building out behind Orchard House that he calls Hillside Chapel, and he’s using it for his classes. I envy his unflagging energy. Yet can you guess where I have found solace and a newfound spark to inspire me? Your letters. I enjoy our daily missives in a way I cannot even describe. Yes, it’s true—I’m at a loss to explain how happy our correspondence makes me.
In other news, I swear Freddy and Johnny grow inches overnight. Anna and the boys escorted me into Boston last week to meet with Mr. Niles about your book. Afterward, we rode on these marvelous little pontoons called Swan Boats in the Public Garden. An inventive fellow has capitalized on the bicycle craze and created a paddle-wheel boat in which the driver propels the boat by peddling—all while the driver’s presence is covered up by the statue of an enormous swan. Apparently, he was inspired by the German opera “Lohengrin” in which a knight of the Grail must cross the river in a boat disguised as a swan to rescue his princess. And you’ve said Boston has no culture! You would love the romance of these beautiful boats. Sadly, the man who invented the fanciful little fleet perished unexpectedly, yet his wife wants to keep the operation afloat. The city has demanded she drum up letters from locals testifying to her ability to run a business on her own. Of course you can imagine who’s first in line to write a letter for her—me. It’s appalling that women be put through such absurd paces to prove their worthiness.
Although our writing is one of my few delights, I long to see you. Would Ernest tolerate a visit from an old spinster after the baby is born? I promise to be a charming guest. Or perhaps you would consider coming home next spring for a visit?
Yours,
Louisa
ONE AFTERNOON IN late September, May sat in the garden stitching a tiny nightgown, enjoying a quiet afternoon. Her finished manuscript sat on the dining room table ready to be mailed in the following day’s post to her sister. A knock at the front door interrupted her musings. There was no sound of Sabine in the kitchen, so May heaved herself out of her chair and ambled through the house to the front door to find her friend from London, William Keith, standing on the front steps.
“Mr. Keith, my goodness, what a happy surprise! Where’s Violet?”
Upon seeing May, his face drained of color, and he staggered backward on his feet.
“Mr. Keith, where’s Violet?”
He gasped, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have shown up unannounced. I should have written first.”
With shaking hands, May reached out to take hold of his forearm and led him into the parlor. He collapsed into a seat and buried his head in his hands.
“She’s gone.”
A cold dread settled over May. “Gone where?”
“Five weeks ago, she and our baby passed away. Neither survived the birth.”
May’s knees buckled, and he jumped to his feet to help her to a chair. Sabine stood in the doorway to the kitchen, looking back and forth between them with a frown.
“I’m sorry to have just shown up on your doorstep with this news. I should have written first. I couldn’t stay in California. Not without her. I’ve come here to get away from all of my memories of her. I’m going to work here.”
“Until when?”
“I don’t know.” He looked around the room with an overwhelmed expression. “Until I can bear to return.”
“Of course. Please, rest.” May looked down upon her friend’s stricken husband helplessly and rested her hands on her stomach to feel her own baby. Her mouth felt dry, her face stiff. What could she say? It was impossible to imagine a world in which Violet did not exist. They sat in the parlor, staring off into the distance until Sabine waved him to the table where she gave him a plate of cold chicken, gravy, and brown bread. Mr. Keith picked at the food listlessly. His skin had the grayish tinge of soggy paper, and swathes of black whisker stubble streaked his neck and cheeks where he had missed spots shaving, doubtlessly distracted by his sudden emptiness.
“She was so happy,” Mr. Keith muttered, shaking his head with disbelief. Next to his elbow, balancing on the edge of the table, stood a small stemless glass of red wine. May wanted to warn him to watch out, to move it, but before she could get the words out, his arm knocked it off the table. The glass crashed to the ground. Shards of glass glittered on the dark floorboards, while a blotch of red wine pooled like a bloodstain. Everyone froze, watching the liquid spread, before Sabine sprang forward and began scrubbing at it.
Mr. Keith lowered his head in apology and gathered his hat to take his leave. He handed May a slip of paper with his address in Paris on it. They did not make plans to meet again. From her front door, she watched him wander down the street, immune to the low rosy afternoon light over the golden hills rolling down to the Seine. May tried to take a deep breath, but could not get the air far down enough into her chest. She was that glass, balancing at the edge of the table; one accidental movement, and she would be broken into a million pieces. What would happen to this baby if something were to happen to her?
ERNEST ARRIVED HOME several hours later to find May, pale-faced, waiting for him in the parlor. “We must speak about what will happen in the event of my death,” she said quietly.
Ernest’s hand lowered slowly from hanging his hat on a hook next to the door. “What’s this?”
She told Ernest about the death of Violet and her child.
“May, you’re a portrait of good health. All is well. Let’s not worry about this now.”
“Let’s not worry about this now? A woman who does not consider her child’s welfare upon her death is a fool!”
Ernest slumped into one of their parlor chairs and rested his elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor. The youthful glow on his face suddenly seemed like a recrimination. May felt every single day of the sixteen years that separated their ages.
“I must think about this.”
“Now?”
“Yes. If I wait too long, it could be too late. If I die, you must send our baby to Louisa.”
“To America?” Ernest looked at May as though she had begun to speak in Chinese. “To Louisa? Why?”
She ran her trembling hand across her face.
“And what if I want to keep this baby with me? I’m its father. I don’t want to send our baby anywhere.” Ernest stood and tried to put his arms around May, but she shook him off.
“You know your life wouldn’t accommodate caring for a baby. And I barely know your family. My family should do it.”
“Your family? I’ve never met anyone from your family. You were estranged from Louisa.” By now, he was yelling. “You thought I didn’t notice, but I figured it out: Louisa didn’t approve of our marriage, did she?”
May’s head throbbed at the prospect of trying to explain it all to him, her mind felt stretched taut. She wasn’t even sure she could explain her feelings. “It wasn’t our marriage, not really. She didn’t want me to leave home in the first place. My family is all I’ve ever really had.” Tears spilled down her face.
Ernest’s face softened. He spoke quietly. “What about me? You’ve had me.”
May wept. She hated measuring her marriage against her family back in Massachusetts, for th
e two were incomparable; her marriage with Ernest seemed too new and raw to compete with the bonds of her family. All she could see was his unlined face and the firm posture of his shoulders. How could she tell Ernest he was young and would marry again and raise another family? May would be reduced to an early chapter in the story of his life, their child a footnote in his story. She had seen it happen many times, and she couldn’t blame him. Wives died, husbands remarried, children fended for their positions in their new households. It was how the world worked.
“Violet’s death is a sign I cannot ignore. Louisa will be able to raise our child with the help of Anna. They will need this baby if something happens to me.”
“Louisa’s an unmarried spinster. She knows nothing about raising a baby. My mother raised nine of us; she can do it.”
“Louisa will do it. She loves me.” May sobbed.
“And I don’t?” Incredulous, Ernest turned and looked out the window, his back rigid.
“Ernest. Please. In Louisa’s care, this beloved baby will have everything it needs. She has money, all the resources a child could need. How will you care for a baby? And work? And do everything that a young man must do to get ahead in life?”
“My mother will help me.”
“Your work could involve travel, you may be sent away.” May pictured her baby being added to the large Nieriker brood back in Baden. Probably one of Ernest’s sisters would be charged with the infant’s care. She resisted shaking her head and spoke slowly to remain calm. “I have no doubt your mother would help, but I want my sister to do it.”
“So she can provide in ways I cannot,” he said in a defeated tone.
May closed her eyes. Ernest’s words stung to her core.
“You have given me more joy than I ever dreamed of experiencing, but I think our baby will need a reliable home. My sister loves me. She will love our baby. She will give our baby a home.” The neglected homes of her childhood came to her: the leaky roof at Hosmer House; the low, cracked ceiling of the attic room the sisters shared at Fruitlands; the cracked parlor windowpanes at Wayside that left them all shivering. Despite her past painful moments with her sister, May understood Louisa could provide the constancy May craved for her baby. She had known this truth with a painful clarity in the moments following the doctor’s warnings about her age. “This child will have everything I never had.”
Ernest took May’s hands to his lips and closed his eyes. “Except for parents.”
“Please. You must promise me.”
He lowered the knot of their hands and sighed with his eyes closed. “I promise. I know you’ll be fine, but I promise anyway.” Resignation pulled the two together, and they stood immobilized, slumped against each other. Outside the birds seemed silent; the street was empty.
“But why?” Ernest whispered. “Why are we even arguing about this?”
“Because women die having babies, women die every day.”
“But you won’t. You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.” His voice was soft. She felt the ticklish warmth of his breath on her ear. May closed her eyes, the solidity of the baby between them, and surrendered her qualms to the calming caresses of his hands upon her back.
Chapter 43
May awaited the mail every day. As soon as Ernest entered the house, she would pounce on him looking for a letter. He’d reveal empty hands but waste no time reaching for her and pulling her close. Wrapped in his arms, she could not stay disappointed with no word from her sister. But one evening he surprised her by marching into the house with an envelope held high overhead.
“Oh, you devil, please, give it to me.”
“And what do I receive in exchange? I had to carry this all the way from the center of town.” Smiling, Ernest brought the envelope up to his shoulder, and it disappeared into his vest.
May pressed in to kiss him while her hand searched for the crackle of paper. “Ha, got it.” She yanked the envelope out from the silk lining of his vest.
He laughed. “You’re cruel to use me like this.”
“You’ll survive. Now let’s see what Louisa has to say about my book.”
October 18, 1879
Boston
Dearest May,
Well, now you’ve outdone me. You will soon be a published author and a famous painter. Mr. Niles has offered you a contract. I’ve reviewed it, and all appears to be aboveboard with the terms of the sale of your book. His paperwork is included in this envelope. After all of my years publishing with Roberts Brothers, we can count on them to offer a square deal. Congratulations. “Studying Art Abroad and How to Do It Cheaply” by May Alcott Nieriker is slotted to be published at the start of the new year.
But now how am I to keep up with you? Based on your reports of those rogue Impressionists, perhaps they would allow me to exhibit some canvases strewn with paint? Fortunately for the art world, I shall refrain from picking up a new creative medium. If you were here, I’d simply give you a gruff pat on the back and perhaps permit you a few extra lumps of sugar in your tea, but since the Atlantic separates us, and I can only write (my preferred mode of communication anyway), please indulge me some lines of praise . . . all joking aside, I’m very proud of you. You’ve managed to create a career for yourself with grace and tenacity. Your practical and entertaining book will help other aspiring women to follow your lead and improve themselves—that is a great service. Soon you will have a new baby and a published book to show off to all of the denizens of Meudon. You should be proud.
Do you remember that old mood pillow you sewed for me almost ten years ago? Its color has faded—Anna was kind enough to mend a split seam on it a few months ago—but I can see it from where I sit now in the parlor. It rests in a place of honor on the horsehair love seat underneath the portrait that Rose Peckham painted of you in Paris. You’ll be happy to know it’s indicating I’m in a fine mood.
Anna would like to remind you not to forget us small-timers back at home when you’re having tea with the kings and queens of Europe. We all miss you.
Yours,
Louisa
When May finished reading the letter aloud, tears coursed down her cheeks.
“Come now,” said Ernest, kissing her on the forehead, “let’s go for a stroll through the village to celebrate.” May nodded through her tears.
HOURS LATER, MAY lay awake in bed, unable to get comfortable. Beside her, Ernest snored. She rolled to her side and forced herself up to sitting. Silver moonlight slipped through the spaces of the window shutters. Despite her enormity, she heaved to her feet, wrapped herself in a housecoat, and tottered downstairs, rubbing her aching lower back. She crossed the parlor to locate Louisa’s letter lying on the mantel, propped up against a photo of Marmee. May’s fingers followed the lines of her sister’s handwriting as she read. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of white, but when she looked up, she realized the nearby mirror was simply showing her own reflection.
She stepped closer to the mirror. Even in the low light of the moon, wrinkles cut across her forehead. Her once pale creamy skin now showed faint spots resembling tea stains. Wiry silver hairs sprang from her scalp. In July, she had turned thirty-nine years of age. Thirty-nine. She had once been a girl who dreamt of wardrobes full of gauzy gowns, of nights at the opera, of houses full of marble floors and matching brocaded furniture. Now the only luxuries she longed for consisted of listening to Ernest play his violin, laughing over a letter from home, and lulling her new baby to sleep—these new aspirations were not a reduction of her dreams, but simply a reorienting, a refocusing. It was as if she had stumbled off a listing ship in a storm and realized that the solid ground beneath her boots was the only blessing that mattered.
LESS THAN A month later, on a cold November night, the pains started at night after Ernest climbed into bed beside May. While his breathing slowed into a steady rhythm, her insides clenched, mildly at first but then more insistently, slow aches like the gradual tightening of a vise; these pangs of discomfort grew until he
r bones began to grind against each other. Her awareness of her surroundings receded, and she focused only on trying to survive one wave of pain after another. She stumbled out of bed and paced the bedroom, the floorboards squeaking nervously underneath. Soon her nightclothes were drenched, but she did not pause to investigate the cause, she simply tried to breathe through the pain hammering inside her. When her legs tired, she dropped to her knees and rested her forehead on her arms, eyes screwed shut, inhaling and exhaling.
By this point, Ernest roused and stumbled into clothes. He might have told her he was leaving to bring back the midwife, but she couldn’t be certain. She only knew her body strained to turn itself inside out; she could only be aware of the throbbing inside of her as she rested her head against the edge of the bed while her hands tore at the sheets, searching for something to hold on to, something to anchor her against the pain hitting her in waves without respite. Eventually hands guided her up off the floor. A soothing voice murmured encouragement in her ear, but May could only hear turbulence sweeping through her.
The midwife materialized in front of her, folding strips of white linen. May experienced a moment of wanting to grab one of those white pieces of fabric and wave it overhead, while calling, I surrender. She wanted to laugh at this vision in her head but was too tired. And humbled. This pain is the great leveler, she thought, curling in on herself, in the end we are all reduced to fighting the forces inside of own bodies and minds to survive.
