Jo & Laurie Read online

  Jo gave him a very saucy look and said, “We haven’t seen as much of you since Laurie left for Cambridge, Mr. Brooke. Whatever have you been doing with yourself? Aren’t you terribly bored?”

  “Terribly,” said Brooke, and Jo noticed just the barest hint of Laurentian sauciness in his own voice.

  “What will you do now?” asked Meg.

  “I’ve decided to stay in Boston with my young pupils,” he said, “since I’m no longer needed here in Concord. I’m gathering my things from Mr. Laurence, so this visit may be my last for a while.”

  “Oh?” said Meg. Jo detected another quiver in her voice. “How sad. But surely you won’t stay away long?”

  Voices came from the hall before Brooke could answer. Once nearly empty, the room was now filling with guests. More friends of Sallie’s were arriving every minute. Here came the Moffats, including Ned and his sisters Annie and Belle, who’d made a cameo in Little Women. Sallie Gardiner was already greeting Ned, and Jo had a sudden suspicion the entire Autumn Splendor Ball had been concocted so Sallie would have a reason to see him.

  A marriage plot, indeed.

  Jo was just about to protest that of course Brooke was needed here in Concord—“for poor Meg’s sake,” she was about to add, to torment her sister—when a flinty “Ah, there you are!” went up from across the room.

  All four looked up to see—of all people—Lady Harriet Carmichael-Carlthorpe coming toward them from across the room.

  “What is she doing in Concord?” Jo murmured, mostly to herself. Meg looked pale, but said nothing.

  “Who is that?” asked Amy.

  Jo whispered, “Lady Harriet. Laurie’s friend.”

  Amy whispered back, “The English lady?”

  “Yes. Don’t stare.”

  “She is perfection.” Amy could hardly stop herself. “Look at her dress! So many beads and crystals. It must have cost a fortune!”

  “Shush,” said Jo. “If you embarrass me, I will send you home to Mama immediately.”

  Lady Hat joined them, immediately hitching an arm through Meg’s on the one side and Brooke’s on the other as if they were old friends. “My dears,” she said, “how lovely to find us all together! What an absolute lark.”

  Jo’s astonishment was so great, she could barely speak. What on earth could the titled and landed gentry be doing in provincial Concord, of all places? She nearly forgot her manners. “Lady Hat,” she said. “I didn’t expect we’d ever meet again.”

  “Nor I, dear Cousin Jo! But Mr. Laurence invited me and the Vaughns for a stay, you know, and we’ve just arrived for the ball. Surely Laurie told you?”

  Jo stiffened at the mention of his name.

  Laurie most certainly had not told Jo that Lady Hat might come to Concord, much less that she knew the Vaughns, whom Jo had only met once or twice herself, through Laurie. There was Kate Vaughn now, greeting Sallie and her mother, but no sign of Laurie’s loud and ridiculous friend Fred. “I see. And where is Fred Vaughn, my lady?”

  “Oh, down at Harvard with Laurie.” She waved her hand. “That’s why we were up north, to take him to university. Kate said your friend Sallie wouldn’t mind if I came tonight. I couldn’t resist the chance to say hello to so many new acquaintances.”

  Jo did not miss the look of significance Lady Hat gave Brooke, nor the sight of her hand on his arm. Nor did Meg, who’d turned pale.

  “I’m sure we are all very glad to see you again, my lady,” said Brooke. “All of Concord is honored.”

  Speak for yourself, Babbling Brooke. Some of us would have been quite pleased never to meet her again, thought Jo.

  “My goodness! I never realized Concord was so charming. All these lovely woods and fields! It’s no wonder the Laurences love it here. And you, too, Mr. Brooke.” She gave his arm an affectionate and proprietary squeeze.

  Thoroughly unconvinced by the lady’s gushing over the provincial life in Concord, Jo was having a growing realization about Brooke and Harriet.

  Are they a couple? Jo wondered. They seem like one, surely they have seen each other in Boston, and it appears he is her escort this evening. But what about Meg?

  Before she could think, Sallie and Kate joined them, saying, “Hello! Hello, friends!” Sallie squeezed Meg’s other arm. Kate introduced Harriet to Amy, who gushed, “A very great pleasure to meet you, my lady” and curtsied like she was meeting the queen herself.

  In the middle of this stood John Brooke, a lone male presence in a ring of ladies. His eyes were only on Meg, even though Meg would look anywhere in the room but at him.

  “And how have you been, Cousin Jo? Cousin Meg?” asked Harriet. “Terribly dull since Laurie went away?”

  “Cousin Jo?” asked Amy, who had not been with them in New York when these nicknames were bestowed.

  “Not at all,” said Jo stiffly. “I’ve been quite busy.”

  “That’s right! I remember Laurie telling me something about your little novel. I knew things were different here, but I never dreamed I’d meet a real-live authoress!”

  The “real-live authoress” would not be offended at such a label, though she was certain the lady meant it as an insult.

  Society ladies don’t write novels, Laurie had once told her. It would be positively scandalous, not to mention unprofitable—which was why so many Englishwomen, including the Brontës, had written under male pseudonyms.

  Here in America, Jo thought, arguing with the Laurie who still lived in her head, things are different.

  And indeed they were. While Harriet prattled on about Boston and Concord—How dear! How charming everything is! How fresh and sweet and new!—Jo watched her sister wilt. In her mother’s borrowed dress—a gown meant for a much older woman, married and respectable—Meg looked wan next to Harriet’s feathers, Jo decided. Perhaps she was wishing she’d worn the House of Worth gown after all.

  Or perhaps it was the realization that Brooke and Kate Vaughn and Harriet were all staying together as guests in Mr. Laurence’s house. They would be having meals together, and evenings in the parlor together. Now this outing, the Autumn Splendor Ball, where Lady Hat was positively glued to Brooke’s side. Gloating just a bit, Jo thought.

  Jo just didn’t see how it was possible. Brooke and Harriet? Why on earth would Lady Hat want Brooke, of all people? She would be better off choosing someone like Fred Vaughn, perhaps, who was her own countryman and a gentleman, after all. Or even Laurie, although the Vaughns’ fortune eclipsed the Laurences’. Still, Harriet could have anyone, so why would she want John Brooke, who was virtually penniless? A scholar without land or titles, dependent on the Laurences and families like them for work.

  Still, it occurred to Jo that she herself disdained both lands and titles, and she didn’t have a tenth of Lady Harriet’s wealth. Perhaps they weren’t so very different as she thought. Perhaps Harriet was following her heart, as Jo urged Meg to do. Except Harriet could afford to follow her heart and Meg could not.

  Beside her, Jo could feel Meg trembling. It wasn’t just Jo, then. She hadn’t imagined it: Lady Hat had set her cap at Brooke, and this visit was meant to cement her place in his affections. That was a plot twist Jo hadn’t seen coming.

  But if John Brooke preferred Lady Harriet to dear, sweet, lovely Meg, then it was only for her wealth. Perhaps he had made the same calculations Meg had: that he could not afford their match, either. They had nothing to give each other, and Harriet—oh, Harriet—could give him so much.

  Behind them, the musicians were tuning up. “Oh!” said Harriet. “If only there were enough young men to dance with! I’m afraid you will be busy this evening, Mr. Brooke.”

  “I am ready to do my duty for the young ladies of Concord,” he said. The musicians were calling people to the dance floor for the waltz. “Would you do me the honor of dancing the first with me, Lady Harriet?”

  Ha
rriet gushed and took his arm. “Of course, Mr. Brooke.”

  Jo watched the two of them move into the first crowd of dancers while, beside her, Meg looked on the verge of tears.

  It always comes down to money, Jo thought grimly. Money, or the lack of it.

  John Brooke had a choice before him: love, or money.

  Choose wisely, Brooke.

  For your sake, and for Meg’s.

  19

  HARVARD YARD

  Outside, the leaves collected on the ground, and the nights were growing cooler. Hour after hour Laurie went to his lessons—mathematics, history, Latin, and literature—with all the enthusiasm of a man walking the plank.

  Or more precisely, that of a man who had already thrown himself headlong into the briny sea, and was now sinking as fast as he could.

  He had wanted Jo to understand him before he left for school, to make certain she knew what he intended, so she would not run off with someone else while he was in Cambridge. But also so the two of them could finally acknowledge what was right in front of them.

  That they were in love with each other, and had been since the very day they met. Tall, tomboyish Jo, with her mane of curls, her impudent tongue, and her generous heart. Jo, who had coaxed the shy Laurie out of his grandfather’s study, who had made his lonely life so jolly by opening her home and her heart to him. Her sisters were his sisters.

  Or so he had thought.

  How could she not understand?

  First, she had believed he was in love with Meg! Next thing he knew, she would be marrying him off to Amy or some other such rot.

  He shuddered.

  Laurie knew he’d had to say it before he lost her to some other chap—he’d seen the way that older gentleman looked at her at the Dickens reading. Fall would bring the harvest balls to Concord, and more church socials; it would bring a new crop of suitors, and one of them would certainly fall head over heels for Jo—just as he had.

  Worse, Jo would marry. She would love someone passionately and with all her heart, as was her nature. And Laurie would have to stand aside and watch.

  Oh, heartache! Oh, gloom! Was love ever so wretched?

  Harvard was a glum distraction during the day, but nights when he should have been studying, he found himself invariably attempting to write to Jo, though it was no use.

  Laurie would begin letter after letter with “Dear Jo,” or “My dearest Jo,” or even “Mr. Snodgrass,” to try to keep his tone lighthearted. But there was no use in trying to be funny when Jo had sent him off to university without any hope of happiness.

  Oh, Teddy, I’m so sorry. But I can’t even imagine it.

  He’d greatly misunderstood her feelings for him, that was clear.

  The turn of her countenance he would never forget, nor the note of panic in her voice when she exclaimed, I can’t marry you. To be a wife and mother, to give up my writing? I can’t! I won’t!

  As if he’d ask her to give up her writing to be his wife—how could she think such a thing?

  I’m not going to marry anyone, Teddy. Especially not you!

  He would never forget the look on her face, never.

  The pain, the actual disgust she’d felt.

  He’d been so wrong about everything. He’d always thought their friendship would be the most important thing in the world to her, as it was to him. But she had turned him away without a second thought. She had never even said she felt the same about him, and it was obvious—glaringly obvious—that she did not.

  Oh, she tried to cushion the blow.

  I’m not smart enough or fashionable enough for you. For your society friends, like Lady Hat.

  As if his acquaintance with Harriet could compare with his friendship with Jo! The Englishwoman was a fine person—attractive, cultured, moneyed. She had a fine title and a fine family. But none of that had ever mattered to Laurie.

  He wanted adventure. Passion. He wanted Jo.

  The way he saw it, neither one of them had ever wanted anyone else.

  Was it too much to think that his dearest friend would also be his wife? That the girl he’d loved with all his heart would love him back? That he might have the kind of love in his life that his father and mother had known? His father had followed his mother all the way to her home country, such was the depth of his love.

  Wasn’t there more to marriage than the staid, careful accumulation of wealth?

  Grandfather could send him to Harvard, and Laurie would dutifully become a businessman instead of a musician.

  I would give up all my dreams for just this one.

  Jo could refuse him all she wanted, but he would love her forever. His feelings would never change.

  If only hers would.

  Just then, the door burst open to reveal his friend Fred Vaughn, Harvard robes flying. “We’re going down to the supper club, old sport. Join us?”

  “I can’t, Fred. I have this blasted Latin passage to translate before tomorrow.”

  “Hang Virgil!” exclaimed Fred. “There will be cricket. A little fresh air and exercise is all you need, man, and maybe some more interesting company.”

  “I’m not interested in company.”

  “Did I mention there’s a halfway decent piano ’round the hall?”

  Laurie looked at the sheaf of papers in front of him, the letters swimming. He’d never gotten the gist of Latin or Greek, despite Brooke’s best efforts. Babbling Brooke, Jo had called him in New York. A joke on the fact that Brooke was the most reticent, closemouthed person Laurie had ever met.

  To his astonishment, he felt actual tears spring to his eyes at the thought of his old tutor. Not to mention the other people he was missing: Grandfather. Mrs. March. Dear Hannah.

  Not to mention Meg and Amy and Jo—even if he’d sworn he’d make himself stop thinking about her.

  How he longed for Orchard House, with its attic garret where the Pickwick Club met, and its little garden, and the hedge with their own personal post-office.

  He’d give anything to be there now. Anything. Not here in his drafty room in Cambridge, watching the leaves turn brown outside while he was shut up with some moldy Latin.

  “Are you all right, old chap?” asked Fred. “You look a little ill.”

  She will not have you, he thought. She refused. Are you going to be miserable the rest of your life? Never to meet anyone else, or have any fun or happiness, because Josephine March has decided against marrying you?

  She doesn’t love you.

  You have to accept that.

  Pick up the pieces and march forward.

  It was the only thing to do.

  There would be cricket, and new people to meet there. People who were not stubborn, obstinate Jo March.

  “All right, Fred,” he said, and abandoned his passage of Virgil. “Just give me a minute to get my coat.”

  20

  LETTERS

  For months the mail had been piling up on a table by the door, neglected by everyone, but most especially by Jo. “My Dearest Miss March,” they all began, and then devolved from there. From Pennsylvania and Delaware, Ohio and the wilds of the Minnesota frontier—even as far away as London or Paris—girls were writing to Jo with one question: What happens next?

  Every week, when Mama went into town to buy groceries and collect the post at the post-office in Concord village, she brought home at least three or four and sometimes as many as nine or ten letters about Little Women.

  On the one hand, it was clear the book had touched its readers with the sweet and tender tale of four devoted sisters, their mother, and the boy next door.

  On the other hand, all Jo’s efforts to complete the sequel had been, so far, a total disaster. Her first effort had been too dull; the second too interesting, for all the wrong reasons. Lacking in good taste, as Niles had said, and not serving your characte
rs or your readers.

  So when those same readers were writing her letters with their demands on her time and imagination, along with their ideas for her sequel, Jo started to view the mail as an oppression, a constant reminder of her failure. She was disappointing her readers, all the young ladies waiting to find out the end of the story. Not to mention her editor, her family, and worst of all, herself.

  “Christopher Columbus!” she exclaimed one day when Meg came in with the post, a full fifteen new letters all addressed to Miss Josephine March, Authoress. “Can’t my gentle readers leave me in peace?”

  “Apparently not.” Meg opened one envelope. “Dear Miss March,” she read.

  I am writing to tell you how much your Little Women has meant to myself and my little sister, and to implore you, please, to make sure that the Laurie in your book marries Jo. My sister Mary and I are quite determined that no other fate for Jo would be at all acceptable, and we have shed many tears over the prospect that this might not be the case. Please write us back and set our minds at ease over the fate of our favorite characters. Yours truly, Anna Lake

  Meg looked satisfied and held out the letter to her sister. “There now, Jo. It’s not just myself, then. Or Niles or Mama or even Laurie. The whole world knows the two of you belong together.”

  “What a bunch of rot,” Jo exclaimed, snatching the letter out of Meg’s hand. “I won’t marry Jo to Laurie for anything! Especially not to please anyone!”

  “Certainly not yourself,” Meg muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, dear.”

  The front door to the house opened, and Hannah and Amy came in, carrying empty baskets back from the Hummels, who had all come down with some kind of terrible cough once more. They’d gone to take the family some of the bounty from Vegetable Valley, since they had so much and the Hummels so little. The troubled family battled a variety of ills every winter, and it strained the Marches’ pocketbook to keep their poor friends in tinder and coal to keep the winter wolves at bay. The Marches had known poverty, but they had never known abject poverty, and Jo was often stunned by the profound difference between having very little and having nothing at all.