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Amy woke to the feel of Laurie’s arms wrapped tightly round her middle and the sound of dying embers hissing from the fireplace across the room. Her new home was everything she’d wished for as a girl—elegant where Orchard House was simple, spacious where Orchard House was cramped and cluttered, cultured where Orchard House was… provincial, at least in the eyes of a single-minded child of twelve. Many an afternoon, she’d sat at the windowsill with a pile of secondhand books and a fresh stack of drawing paper, twirling her braids and dreaming about the day she’d be mistress of a splendid estate like the one she now held as Mrs. Theodore Laurence.
The way Amy had pictured it then, she’d have plenty of servants and silk dresses, colorful ribbons for her hair, exquisite paintings mounted on every wall, and yes, a handsome husband to sing her praises from dawn till dusk. Of course, they’d only be home half the year, for the spring and summer months would be spent in Europe, Amy painting modern masterpieces in the Jadin des Plantes while her wealthy aristocrat of a husband did business with other important men of society. Together, they’d walk arm in arm through museums and gardens and galas, the envy of Concord and beyond…
And Marmee would love her all the more for it, because she’d use her newfound gains—both the marital money and the small fortune her genius was sure to amass—to help Father open schools and publish Jo’s books. She’d buy Meg new gloves and shoes and build Beth the world’s finest piano, glistening walnut with pearl-white keys. She didn’t know what dear Marmee would want, but whatever it was, she’d buy that too, and everything would be perfect! She simply needed to “find a worthwhile man and keep him,” as prickly Aunt March liked to scold her older sisters.
And that’s where Theodore Laurence came in. The day Jenny Snow told all the girls at school about mean old Mr. Laurence’s poor, accomplished grandson wasting away in that monstrosity of a house with only his boring tutor to keep him company, Amy knew her prayers had been answered. She’d loved Laurie before ever clapping eyes on him, albeit in the fickle, idealized way that characterizes most girlhood fancies. And then… well, then they’d truly met—she’d made him laugh!—and her heart had positively swelled at the depth of his perfection. He was stylish and well-mannered, a tall, angular boy with curly black hair that hung smartly over one eye and a nose she could sketch every day for the rest of her life and still find it enchanting.
For years, she’d admired him from her window, hoarding charcoal doodles and lovingly rendered sculptures while he pined and perished over Jo, who was equally perfect in her own annoyingly imperfect way—the bold, noble writer with a feisty heart and brains to match. Of course, Amy could never, would never compare, and so she’d consigned herself to a life of wanting and never having, her fate forever sealed when Meg went off and married poor John Brooke in a fit romance and left her with the all-important task of marrying the Marches out of poverty and back into high society. And if Laurie did little things to test her resolve, like gifting her that absurd lobster charm or buying up all the bouquets at the fair to save her dignity after May Chester’s jealous stunt, Amy steadfastly ignored the bumblebees in her stomach, reminding herself that his many kindnesses were done out of brotherly fondness and a deep, unconquerable love for Jo. She’d find a different boy to haunt the rooms of her castle in the air. Besides, Aunt March had big plans for her future, and she had to be ready when the day finally came to chase them.
The trip to Europe was proposed as a chance to “foster the girl’s creativity,” and in Amy’s most secret heart, that was still the dream. But underneath polite excuses about Parisian inspiration and Etruscan architecture was a truth rarely spoken aloud—painting didn’t matter. Finding a suitable husband did. She was no genius, just another silly ingénue with delusions of artistic grandeur and no way of making her own money. And so when Laurie’s old schoolmate Fred Vaughn had set his sights on claiming her hand, she’d submitted herself to the idea of a fond but loveless marriage replete with candy-floss gowns, endless balls, and a charming estate with her own private wing. When the urge to scream and cry into the nearest pillow reared its childish head—a true rarity for a sophisticated little woman such as Amy—she would remind herself that Fred was a decent, handsome man, easy with compliments and praise. More often than not, he bought the wrong flowers (roses rather than lilies) and misjudged her preference in metals (silver looked far lovelier against her pale throat than gold), but he was always well-meaning and would do right by her and her family. If she didn’t think too hard on the reality of having to spend the remainder of her days half a world away from her parents and sisters, she could even find some excitement in the prospect…
Or so she’d incessantly told herself.
She knew now how wrong she’d been, how miserably naïve as to the ways of life and love. She saw it in the way Laurie’s eyes crinkled whenever he smiled down at her, fit to burst with laughter and longing, could feel it in every soft kiss upon her white brow or pink cheek. But then, Amy always had been the March sister most eager to grow up—too sage for dolls and magic as a girl, too practical for poetry and romance as a young woman. In the future, she’d try to learn from her folly and remember just how much she didn’t know. Even more so, she’d try to appreciate all the things she already had. After all, it shouldn’t take a trip across the ocean to discover that everything you ever wanted, everyone who ever mattered, was less than fifty strides from your own backdoor.
And it still was her backdoor, Amy reminded herself. She may be a Laurence now in both name and desire, but she’d forever be a March at heart, and Orchard House would always be there, right across the way, to welcome her home. It was a lovely, comforting thought after so much devastating change—a newer, better castle in the air than any she’d conjured as a child—and it pulled her eyes to the nearest window.
The night sky was a dark, yawning purple, and there were no stars to light the way, but a candle burned in the garret window, much like Jo’s genius, and Amy knew her dear sister was awake scribbling. She wanted to laugh and cry all at once, for while the familiarity of the act was like a warm blanket on the chilliest winter night, the motive was altogether new—girlhood fantasies of money and praise no doubt replaced by a need to paint the past before it faded to memory in rosy, wistful hues.
For several long minutes, Amy tried and failed to fall back asleep, nuzzling into Laurie’s shoulder and attempting to synchronize her suddenly heavy breathing with his. But it was no use—as much as she cherished her husband and the many comforts he provided, what she needed right now was a sister, and nothing less would do.
Thus settled, Amy carefully disentangled herself from Laurie’s long limbs and slipped out of bed, her naked skin prickling uncomfortably the moment her bare feet touched hardwood. With help from the dying fire, she tracked down her heavy overskirt—flung to the floor by her overeager husband in a manner both irritating and horrifically becoming—but it was too wrinkled to wear. For half a heartbeat, she contemplated rifling through her unopened trunk for something suitable, though she eventually settled on the garish combination of Laurie’s abandoned trousers and her slightly less crumpled blouse. If nothing else, it would make Jo laugh in her hour of need.
And with that, Amy Laurence laced up her boots, tiptoed to the side of the bed, and kissed her lord husband’s fine European nose with whispered promises to return in the morning.
~ * ~ * ~
Jo’s left hand shook furiously as it flew across the paper, smudging freshly printed words before they could fully dry. Not to be deterred, she blew up at the tangled mop of hair that fell into her eyes and switched the pen back to her trusty right hand. She and Meg were readying themselves for the holiday ball at Sallie Gardiner’s, and in typical fashion, Jo’s gloves were unwearable, so sticky with lemonade that they could surely be used to sweeten Marmee’s tea.
Jo shook her head as if to dislodge the memory, missing that foolish, headstrong girl more and more with each word she scrawled—
I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. That’s all I can do. No! I’ll tell you how we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don’t you see?
Thankfully, dearest Meg did see, eventually lending the prized glove as Amy and Beth chattered happily in the background, the former absorbed in visions of splendid gowns and elegant people while the latter spoke softly of all the beautiful music sure to be played.
A fat tear or two splashed the last paragraph, and Jo finally stopped her possessed scribbling. “My Beth,” she cried brokenly, her words spoken to the shadowy corner of the room where her sister used to sit, drowning in Tracy Tupman’s trousers, a serene smile illuminating her face. “Why did you have to leave me? Why does everyone have to leave me?”
On a brighter day, Jo might be inclined to admit that she was willfully submitting to her misery, but alone in the dark garret with only her cherished memories to keep her company, the sentiment felt truer than anything dreamed of in her womanly philosophy. The family she so adored was no more, forever shattered by the loss of their sweet Beth. Meg still loved Jo dearly, but she belonged to John and the children now, and it would be their tiny palms she kissed for comfort when loneliness and loss came calling. The days of climbing under each other’s covers to swap hallowed secrets or spin outlandish yarns were long gone, laid to rest the day Meg said “I do” and overgrown with moss and flowers in the years since.
Teddy, too, was gone from her, his whole being wrapped like gossamer round Amy’s graceful finger. He would always be her beloved boy in the story, but in real life, he was a man in both years and manner, and where he went, his “best girl” Jo could no longer follow. No matter how deeply Laurie yearned to still go halves in everything, it was a childish fantasy. The love they shared could never be abolished, but it was undoubtedly altered, as Laurie had said, and the glass wall that suddenly separated them made it impossible for her to do anything but watch with mingled pride and sorrow as he went joyfully on without her.
Even a woman as blind to love as Jo could see that Laurie was hopelessly besotted with Amy, and she with him, their longing hidden beneath mourning clothes, but radiant nonetheless. Oh, how Jo’s heart buckled each time she caught one of their secret looks or flushed whispers. They were a they now, not two separate souls struggling to find their own way. If Jo was what she’d always wanted to be—a free spinster paddling her own canoe—then Mr. and Mrs. Laurence, as everyone now insisted on calling them, were a seamless team, each keeping time with the other as they rowed their shared boat toward the shore. Jo didn’t want what they had—truly, she didn’t—but the lonely knowledge that they were tied to each other and not her left her feeling even more bereft than she had the morning Beth died. Amy would be Laurie’s best friend, his closest confidante, and he would be her family.
What room was there for Jo in any story but her own?
The thought was a sober one, to be sure, and when she tried to dismiss it with a dip of her pen in the nearby inkwell, a quiet bang and accompanying “Ow, my foot!” moaned with familiar and dramatic flair interrupted the momentum.
“Amy, what are you doing here?” said Jo, her sharp tone belying the pleasant surge of affection that gripped her the moment she heard her sister’s voice, for it was as though the sweet sound had been conjured directly by the stroke of her pen.
“I couldn’t sleep, and when I saw your candle in the window, I thought… well, I thought perhaps you couldn’t either,” answered Amy frankly, her shadowy figure finally ascending the last few steps to stand directly in the pool of warm, yellow light. And that’s when Jo laughed—big and bright, the way she used to do when her baby sister misappropriated highbrow words—for the sight that met her tired eyes was wholly unexpected.
Amy frowned, though there was no real gloom in it. “It’s my outfit, isn’t it?”
A clearing of the throat from Jo, then, “Why, you look positively brilliant, your ladyship. Did you come straight from a ball? Or perhaps you were making some late-night calls?”
“Very funny,” said Amy with a staged eyeroll, though her face swiftly softened as she added, “I thought I’d throw on my fairest and finest imitation of one Mr. N. Winkle, if I was to make a trip to the garret.”
“A worthy reprisal,” agreed Jo with a pleased nod of her head, “though you’re missing his signature pipe.”
Heavy silence followed. Jo leaned back in her chair, arms unconsciously crossed, while Amy stared holes through the toes of her immaculate French boots. Then, right as the latter opened her mouth to speak, the former cut in with a low, “And what of your darling Mr. Laurence? Was he not awake to soothe your troubled mind?”
Amy’s pretty face fell, and for a moment, Jo worried her private fears had been found out. But then, the younger sister dropped to her knees in front of the elder, laying her blonde curls upon the empty lap and looking up with such sincerity in her big, blue eyes that any thought of losing her love seemed absurd. “He’s so good to me, Jo, and I adore him more each day…” Amy paused, smiled that secret smile, and Jo’s mind turned yet again to how right she’d been in begging her boy to wait. Only this time, the thought didn’t frighten or grieve her, but gave her peace. The peace of knowing that her loves would take care of each other, even when she couldn’t. “But there are some heartaches only one’s sister can heal.”
And with those words, the last remaining doubts were snuffed from Jo’s heart, replaced by a sense of placid understanding that would carry her through the tough days to come. “Oh, Amy,” she said in a quieter tone, trying admirably to swipe at her traitorous eyes without being noticed. “I’ll always be here to comfort you, even when we’re both old and grey.”
A watery laugh. “I don’t think I shall ever grey.”
Jo snorted, unladylike as ever, and pulled Amy into her lap like a small child.
“What are you writing?”
“Ask me tomorrow, and maybe I’ll tell you,” answered Jo. “But for now, I’d rather live in the present.”
~ * ~ * ~
The sun shone brightly through the open window as Marmee and Hannah bustled about the kitchen, pouring fresh coffee and setting the table for breakfast. Meg and the children would be by in less than an hour, and the house was still in quite a state following the Laurences’ return visit the previous afternoon.
Marmee shook her head and sighed. Getting used to the idea of Meg as Mrs. Brooke was hard enough, but Amy? Well, her baby being off and married was still somewhat of a shock, albeit a pleasant one. She was just about to say as much to Hannah when a sharp knock at the back door made one of Beth’s old cats jump off the high sideboard and onto a stack of glass plates, causing them to wobble precariously.
Picking the poor thing up, Marmee went to greet their visitor with her customary good cheer, throwing the door wide and smiling to find Laurie on the other side.
“Good morning, Mother,” he said with a charming smile of his own. “I’m here to collect my wife.”
From behind them, Hannah cried, “Don’t tell us you’ve already lost the poor girl in that big ol’ house a-yours!”
Laurie laughed. “No, not yet. I checked every room, and when I couldn’t find her, I knew she must have wandered home.”
Home. Was that still the way Laurie and Amy thought of Orchard House? Marmee hoped it was, now more than ever.
“Well, we haven’t seen her since yesterday. Are you sure she hasn’t made a quick trip into town?”
Laurie’s handsome grin faltered, but he was quick to recover. “No, I— I’d bet anything she’s upstairs with Jo. Ever since Beth, she’s been especially homesick for her sisters.”
The room fell quiet for a stretch. It wasn’t awkward or tense, but filled with the sort of thoughtfulness that only comes from shared love. And grief.
“I’ll go check,” said Marmee, and the others nodded their assent as she made her way to the foyer. Halfway up the steps, she heard Laurie, back to his jovial self again, ask Hannah, “Do I smell scones?” Some things never changed, thank goodness.
“Amy?”
Not a sound.
“Jo?”
Again, nothing.
Marmee felt a spike of unease, but buried it hastily in the back of her mind. The loss of one daughter didn’t give cause to fret and fuss over the others the second they were out of sight. And so she pressed on, making her way down the hall to Beth and Amy’s room. The door was slightly ajar, which was uncommon these days, though when she peeked her head inside, the beds were cold and empty, and little particles of dust floated through the undisturbed air.
Meg and Jo’s room was a wholly different story. The door was tightly shut, as was Jo’s preference, and when Marmee opened it, she was met by a sight that made her ailing heart lift. Her babies slept side-by-side in one bed, tucked together like matches, Jo snoring steadily as Amy breathed dainty little puffs against her bare neck. In this tableau, they could have been twelve and fifteen again, for their faces were smooth and girlish, and the worries of adult life were gone.
“My girls,” whispered Marmee, sad to rouse them, yet knowing they needed to get on with their day, “it’s time to wake up.”
Amy stirred first, her lovable nose twitching ever so faintly as her eyes fluttered open. “Is it morning?” she said through a yawn, wrapping her arms about Jo and snuggling back down into the warmth of their shared quilt.
“Well past,” answered Marmee, reaching out to stroke the blonde head before adding, “Meg will be by shortly with the children, and your husband is loitering in the kitchen. I think he’s quite lost without his wife.”
“Oh, Laurie,” cried Amy, nearly toppling out of bed in her haste to stand amidst the tangled sheets. “He must think me horribly negligent and cruel!”
“Yes, Amy,” mumbled Jo, presently awake and very displeased at being so, “I’m sure our Teddy is sitting downstairs with Hannah fretting over what a terrible family he’s married into.”
“Jo!”
The smack of a pillow.
“Amy!”
A playful shove.
“Girls!”
And on it went as the three March women readied themselves for breakfast, Jo scowling and swatting her sister’s hands each time they approached her unruly hair, Amy laughing as she stumbled inelegantly over the legs of her overlong trousers, and Marmee looking on fondly, hoping these last vestiges of girlhood innocence never left her daughters’ hearts.
~ * ~ * ~
“Well, that was quite the unexpected detour,” observed Laurie, his right arm linked with Amy’s left as they walked home after what became rather a lengthy visit with Meg and the children.
“I know,” conceded Amy, hanging her head to hide the blush she felt pinkening her cheeks. “I’m sorry for running out on you like that. It was unkind of me.”
Laurie grabbed her gently by the chin, forcing blue eyes on black. “Never apologize, Amy. Not for that,” he told her, and the smile that overtook her face was something to behold. “I know how much your sisters mean to you, and I’d never wish to deprive you of their company.” He stroked his thumb along the nose she hated but he adored, then cocked his brow rather rakishly and said, “Though I must admit, I’d rather not spend my mornings cold and alone.”
Amy chewed her lower lip in mock-contemplation, quite willing to tease Laurie, if that was the game he wished to play. “Yes, my poor, neglected husband. I can’t imagine how horrid it must have been for you without me to warm the bed,” she crooned, standing on the tips of her toes to kiss his quirked mouth.
Laurie cleared his throat. “Indeed, my lady. It was quite an ordeal.”
Amy nodded sagely. “I suppose I’ll have to make it up to you in due course.”
“The sooner the better, I dare say.”
“Well then, my lord,” said Amy in her best conciliatory tone, “let us hurry home, so I can pay my debt and be done with it.”
Triumphant and exceptionally pleased with the day’s turn of events, Laurie glanced about the yard, and seeing no one to upset his wife’s propriety, tossed fair Mrs. Laurence bodily over his shoulder and ran her the rest of the way home.
~ * ~ * ~
Jo, now dressed in her scribbling suit and cap, watched from the garret window as Amy and Laurie made a sight of themselves on the front lawn. She could only imagine the rush of happy embarrassment her sister must be feeling at such a display, but decided it would do her prim, often priggish nature good to be carried off every once in a while.
By way of both congratulations and a healthy dose of teasing, she went to the four dusty chests hidden in the corner of the room and carefully removed one of their lids. The lining still smelled of Beth, and the treasures buried within—sheet music, a woolen cap, baby teeth, a ribbon filled with sun-bleached curls—reminded Jo that one could never be dead so long as memory lived.
Returning to her writing desk with the desired artifact in hand, she set about writing a new note for the post office in the woods.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Laurence,
Please accept this gift as a token of mine and Beth’s approval of your recent union. If certain public displays in the yard are any indication, you’ll soon be parents to a child of your very own, and we shall once again be aunties. As Joanna once taught Beth the value of kindness, compassion, and humility, it is our sincerest hope that the future baby Laurence might glean the same from her company.
All our love,
Jo & Beth