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"Let us be wed!” exclaims Laurie, no sooner than he has thrown open the door, revealing the hotel room parlor, the trunks not carefully organized, and naturally the beautiful Amy March, who looks up from her sketchbook and view of Paris—
“I do beg your pardon,” she says dryly.
But she is smiling, her cheeks pink, two welcome splashes of color against her mourning gown — for even here, alone in her her apartments, she still wears the black silks, her uncovered blonde hair her only concession to her privacy — which causes a pang for Laurie, truly, guilty of his own misbegotten and abandoned jacket — “Yes, Miss March — although I should hope not for too much longer —“
“Oh, so we are to be married?”
“Shall I beg?” He kneels before her eagerly, looking adoringly at her now quite-pink face, belying the truth of her sentiment, if not her words. “Will you?”
She takes his hands when he offers them, draws them into her lap, resting together against the paper of her sketchbook. She smells of rosewater and delicate perfume and pencil lead, the sharp tang of paint and turpentine, the musty scent of sunned silks. Amy closes her eyes, turning her head towards the Parisian sun — yet she holds fast to his hands, and he waits her out with patience — patience that brings the memory of someone else laughing with gentle mockery —
True — he and Amy had not discussed this previously. True — as soon as he had received that letter with the terrible news, he had rushed from England to find her, her words and rejection and anger forgotten, insignificant — he would have taken her rejection twice or again, if it eased her in this loss — a loss he as well felt, although less keenly. Laurie had fled — yes, he will admit it — at first feeling as though the roiling emotion was anger — to be rejected by another March girl! — but had been entirely unable to forget this girl, her cool expression, solid nature, but also walking arm and arm, gossiping and laughing along the promenade — the funny sketches she’d make and show only to him, her mock outrages and wicked humor and poise. The few loose strands of blond hair, wisp-like at the back of her neck. He had hated to see her angry with him, to be the cause — had imagined her alone and weeping, and hated it more. Gotten the address and found her outside, alone, without even her damned Fred Vaughn — in that moment, furious, Laurie had vowed to fight and beg if needs must, for how could that fellow have forsaken her, left her alone in funeral clothes — yes; he would beg, he would have no shame, she could simply not marry the man, and if he had to work like a dog to become wealthier, wealthy enough to convince her, run to the ends of the earth or simply to her side —
But of course, she had broken their engagement already, before he’d even properly asked, and it’s Laurie on his knee after all.
It’d all been rather abrupt, these past weeks — packing and traveling from Nice, arranging board and ship and port. Now there is the fuss of the travel itself. Three days they’ve been in Paris, delayed by propriety.
“I had a letter from home,” she says.
He springs back to his feet, has a seat upon the stool before her. Still looking up at her from this angle, which suits Laurie well enough — “Well?”
She picks a paper from under the cover of her sketchbook, handing it to him; only a sheet, the creases well worn already. “You can read it, but the main thing is with Beth gone, Jo says I ought not rush — it will be weeks or longer, and they don’t wish me to spoil my stay on account of things I can’t change.” Amy gives a bitter laugh, unbecoming and cold. “Oh, but my stay is already spoilt. How can I stay and admire galleries, knowing? And now I’m stuck even further — to be trapped in Paris, of all places, and to feel it a burden!”
Laurie reads over the letter, smudged and written hastily. Jo’s hand, which he knows so well — all ink stains and scribbles. He can picture her vividly, her hair loose and wrists ink-darkened, hunched over her little corner writing-desk. She came back from New York for Beth, and would urge Amy to not do the same?
But that is unfair. He turns the paper over. “I wonder if I have a letter, as well,” he murmurs, imagining what advice Jo might offer to a friend, not a sister.
“Oh,” Amy says, suddenly cold. “You might!”
“Why are you cross?” He reaches for and takes her hand again.
“I want to go home, and I’m told to stay. I think about staying, and I feel like a selfish goose. I can’t ask Aunt March, naturally, because even if she weren’t ill herself she’s still cross at me about Freddy, that is, Mr. Vaughn, and you—“
“Come bursting in wishing to elope?” Laurie guesses. She frowns at him, looking down her nose — but her mouth quirks, and he stands to tweak that nose, gently, and take the kiss she offers. “Why not?” he asks when they part. “Forget Paris and forget Concord. We’ll run away to Switzerland, and you can put your hair back into braids. No? Very well. I was just speaking to your loyal chaperones—“
“Oh, were you?”
“Never let it be said,” he intones gravely, “that I would choose to abandon my lady, hidden away in her garret. I intend to rescue her if at at possible.”
“Would you now? Well, you’ve got it right, at least. I know it’s selfish to be cross, as I was already being rather selfish in demanding their escort home, but I am very cross.” Amy sighs and Laurie cannot help but smile at the way she huffs, bringing memories as it does, of Amy, chasing after her sisters, cross and loudly so. He watches amused as she stands from her chair in a rustle of black silks and quiet impatience, pacing somewhat in her frustration. “For once, I find myself in agreement with Jo! If I could simply march onto that ship alone, escort or no! But very well, my lord, how is it that you intend to rescue me?”
He sits and waits for her to understand what he has already, smiling up at her in anticipation, enjoying the way her mouth falls open in a rare moment of lapsed poise, her cheeks flushing. “No!”
“I hope not to my proposal, which you never answered, by the by.”
“Laurie! We cannot wed just to cross an ocean!”— But she smiles as she says it.
“And why would you think it would be just for that cause? Worthy though it may be—“ he stands and catches her arms in his; she turns from him, but weakly, fighting a smile—
“Marrying to escape a chaperone!”
“Are you suggesting I would not chaperone you?” She shakes her head, exasperated and smiling — he grins and she catches his face between her soft hands for a kiss.
“I certainly am!” she says when they have parted —
“True enough; you will need to supervise me, I fear.”
“And yet, you don’t sound the least disappointed, Mr. Laurence.”
“I can’t say that I am. I have always known that I would marry for love—“
“Oh, hush,” she scolds, amused. She goes as if to push him away, to roughhouse as though he was one of her sisters — her pale fist comes to rest on his chest and he takes it in his hands, presses it to his heart.
Seeing her expression falter—
“I am serious. I would marry you today or in a year, and both gladly. My heart is quite thoroughly yours, and if our marriage can do you this practical service, I’m only gladder for it.”
“Oh, Laurie, I hope you aren’t taking me for ungrateful.” Amy pulls away and begins to bustle about the room, picking up her sketching supplies and tidying her belongings. “I do love you, and it’s my love that — well, I worry that you — perhaps once my lord rescues the maiden from her garret, he will find it more the rescuing than the girl that struck his fancy.” She becomes quite busy with the folding of a handkerchief.
He puts his hands in his pockets, watching her fret. “It isn’t that—“
“Isn’t it?” she asks, beseechingly.
“Only recently, I was also far from one I loved, and knew her to be in pain. It was only a channel and not an ocean in that case— but, if I can do this thing— this thing I very truly want to do; do not think I’m being entirely selfless!— and return you to your sisters and mother, I want nothing better!”
She purses her lips.
“I don’t know how many more ways I have to say it,” he says.
“Oh — no, it’s just. I’m being silly, now. But did you really, in England…?”
He smiles, relieved. “I hated Fred Vaughn so much.” And she smiles as well: rolling her eyes as she does it. “Now!” And he goes upon his knee once more. “Amy March, will you please, please just say yes and marry me?”
“Only because you need the chaperone!” she says, shaking her head, her earring swinging merrily.
“For the rest of my life, surely.”
“Then come along, my lord. Out from the tower and to the American embassy!”