Chapter Text
Giving in to social pressure, she observed the six weeks of bed rest prescribed for new mothers. However, Amy Lawrence refused to accept the role of an invalid.
Instead, she sat upright against a mound of pillows, occupying her mind with reading, answering letters, and sketching. She kept her bed dress tidy and her hair neatly brushed, ready for visits from her female friends.Bess was always close, either in Amy’s arms or in the nearby bassinet, as Amy went about her business and welcomed guests. No matter how busy Amy seemed, half her attention stayed fixed on her daughter.
Not everyone in polite society understood Amy’s devotion. In the Laurence’s circle, a nursemaid took the infant from a new mother, who then returned to their social duties as soon as possible. Laurie, raised by nannies and governesses, agreed with this arrangement. He truly believed that hiring a nursemaid was necessary for Amy’s comfort and well-being.
Amy understood Laurie’s good intentions and relented. Still, she found little value in his choice of nursemaid. Mrs. Howard was a stern woman who seemed to frown more than smile. Her approach to infant care clashed with Amy’s, which was influenced by her mother’s gentle example.
On her first night in the house, Mrs. Howard lingered at Amy’s bedside, clearly waiting for permission to take Bess.
When no such permission was given, she finally spoke.“If you wish, Madame, I can take Miss Bess to the nursery for the night.”
Her tone was diplomatic, but Amy heard the disapproval behind her words. “No, thank you,” Amy replied softly, her voice polite but firm. “My daughter stays with me. The bassinet is quite sufficient for the night.”
“Mrs. Laurence, you need rest as well,” the nursemaid persisted.
Amy shook her head and drew Bess closer. “I shall rest when she does,” she said softly, gently tracing her baby’s ear. “I wouldn’t miss a single moment with her.”
“Mrs. Laurence, Miss Bess—”
“Bess does best in her mother’s care,” Amy said, her voice firm and unwavering.
Bess made a soft, persistent sound, and Amy smiled at her. “Already making your opinions known, darling? Your father would say it’s my March stubbornness showing early.”
“Mrs. Laurence...”
“You may go now, Mrs. Howard,” Amy said, dismissing her.
The next night, determined to take Bess to the nursery, the nursemaid made another attempt. Amy’s resolve, strengthened by her role as the lady of the house, carried her through.
Amy, with a calm and measured tone, instructed, “You may set the linens there. Kindly see yourself out, and do close the door behind you.”
After that, Mrs. Howard understood her place, and Amy was able to keep Bess close to her. Mother and daughter established a peaceful routine. Every morning, while Bess nursed, Amy watched her carefully, trying to memorize every detail, from her eye shape to the tiny wrinkles on her knuckles. On warm afternoons, Amy would cradle Bess in her arms, and they would drift into a peaceful sleep together.
Amy soon found that her voice was the most soothing sound to Bess. When Bess was fussy during the day, Amy would read letters from home. Both mother and daughter enjoyed the letters. Marmee’s steady wisdom and Meg’s gentle sympathy brought Amy comfort. Jo’s wild stories, written especially for her niece, delighted Bess with tales of girls running away to sea, princesses learning to swordfight, and witches casting terrifying spells on deserving travelers.
“Your Aunt Jo is incorrigible,” Amy said to Bess. She sighed, resigned to the inevitable. “Once we’ve settled in Concord, between Jo and your father, you’ll have your full share of skinned knees and soiled pinafores before you’re grown.”
She tried reading poetry aloud, but it had less pleasant results. The Transcendentalist poets favored by the March parents made Bess cry.
“Your dislike of Mr. Emerson will hardly please Grand-père March,” Amy teased, brushing her daughter’s cheek.
Amy knew that life with an infant wouldn’t always be peaceful mornings and poetry. She braced herself for tough nights, but expecting them didn’t make them easier to bare when they came.
One night, Bess wouldn’t settle. Amy rocked her, singing lullabies, but Bess only cried louder. Amy tried feeding her, but Bess latched briefly and then pulled away, fussing. She changed Bess’s clothes and nappies to make her more comfortable, but her daughter wailed throughout, her small body stiff with protest. Amy paced the room, bouncing Bess until her arms ached, matching her daughter’s cries with each step.
By dawn, both mother and daughter were in tears.
Around nine, Amy heard the chamber door creak open. Laurie had arrived for his morning visit. Amy, too exhausted to fix her hair or smooth her gown, held Bess close and stared at the door. Though she wondered whether to ask for his help or send him away, she couldn’t help feeling relieved.
Help had arrived, whether she wanted it or not