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The finest thing about London, it turned out (and perhaps not surprisingly so) was the sightseeing. Laurie had promised bashing around in his first, ill-fated proposal, and Jo supposed they'd find their way to parties eventually; there was no helping it, knowing as she did that his work demanded social engagements as well as ledgers and figuring. But his second attempt at begging her hand--after Jo had asked him to give her some room to breathe, and perhaps to think--had been quieter, full of hopes of a life spent together. I cannot imagine, he'd murmured, on his knee before her like a supplicant, living a life without ever once waking up and kissing you good morning. If you'll have me, we'll find a way to be good for each other--we could do that, couldn't we, Jo?
And thus far, they could. Laurie'd gotten his kisses good morning, ten times over, and even on the long voyage across the Atlantic, when Jo couldn't help but mutter crossly about seasickness, they'd resolved any quarrels before the sun came down for the night. Grandfather--he'd insisted on her calling him that, promising her that it did his heart good to hear her say it--had given them the gift of several weeks' idleness before Laurie began work in earnest, and Jo was intent on seeing every inch of the countryside that they could manage. No one had quite talked her out of Stonehenge yet, far as it was from London.
The finest thing they'd encountered thus far was Westminster Abbey, and all the heroes (and occasional villains) entombed within. Any cathedral was bound to catch Jo's fancy, having only imagined them before this point, but all the imagination in the world couldn't prepare for her the great arches and stonework, nor the sight of Poet's Corner. She might have stayed there forever, sleeping among the dead like a heroine in one of her stories, had she any hope of succeeding without finding herself thrown out by the local constabulary. As it was, they dallied, particularly when they found one of the newest stones in that storied floor.
"It's a marvel, isn't it, Teddy," she murmured, her hand deceptively prim in the crook of his elbow. (In gloves, no less, itchy old things, but if she thought of wearing them as part of a sort of playacting, they were more bearable. And they ensured she needn't scrub every spot of ink off her fingers before she left their cozy little home.) "We nearly shared the city with Dickens."
Laurie made a noise, scratching at the bit of beard he was attempting to grow. (It was meant to make him look dignified and businesslike, and he insisted it was working. Jo was withholding judgment for the moment, but privately, she thought better of his chin without it.) "We nearly met him, I daresay. I'm sure we could have pulled a few strings, if not for his passing."
"Don't say that--" but there was a little smile there in her eyes as she glanced up at him. "I'll only regret it more."
He smiled back, and Jo had the sharp, insistent urge to pull him down for a kiss. Even for her, however, that felt a little too improper in a grand cathedral. Instead, she squeezed his arm lightly, suspecting he'd know what she meant.
"If Dickens is gone, there's a position open," Laurie said lightly, and something in the set of his mouth told her he'd understood perfectly. "You needn't meet him if you write the next David Copperfield."