The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott (20 page)

Mr. Singer paused and steadied his hand, dropping the remaining money in place. “No, of course not, Mrs. Hawkins.” He slowly pushed in the drawer. “There. All set. I hope you have a lovely afternoon.” Mrs. Hawkins scoffed and turned away without a reply.

Mr. Singer sighed, then turned to Anna. “Hello, Miss Alcott, is it? I believe I’ve met your sister, here.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Louisa.”

“Yes, hello, Miss Louisa. Joseph isn’t here today. He’s gone to Bellows Falls to pick up a shipment of flannel.”

Louisa exhaled, relieved he would not pop out from the back room at any moment. “Sir, we’re looking for our sister Lizzie. Not May—she is the one who is Catherine’s age. Lizzie comes between May and me. You haven’t seen her today in town, have you?”

“No, my dears. I’ve had only the regular customers today.” He nodded toward the door, just now closing behind the haughty Mrs. Hawkins. “Though I can’t say I wouldn’t trade some of them for a gentle sister of yours.”

Louisa smiled at the tired-looking man who seemed to have aged so far beyond his years. She felt full of sadness for him, for Joseph—for herself. And Lizzie—where could she be?

 

 

Though Anna and Louisa dreaded
the scene at Yellow Wood, they knew they had better hurry to tell their parents they had no news. Back home, Abba sat in the parlor twisting a handkerchief in her lap. May sat by her side, stroking the worn sleeve of Abba’s dress. Abba looked up when she saw them walk in. “My girls, have you found her?”

Anna knelt down in front of her mother. “No, Marmee. But I know we will hear something soon.”

“This is dreadful,” May said. “Just dreadful.”

“Your father has gone to look in all the shops.”

“We just came from there,” Louisa said from where she stood by the fireplace, immediately regretting drawing attention to herself. Abba looked at her expectantly. “No one has seen her,” Louisa said.

“Well, where else can we look?” Abba’s voice was frantic. “Where else could she be? A person doesn’t just vanish into thin air.”

Anna looked around the room. “Have you noticed anything missing? Her bonnet? Any of her books?”

May nodded. “Her shoes are gone but her bonnet is still here. And this is very strange:
My
pink poplin dress, the one with the yellow sash that got torn on the gate at Pinckney Street—it’s not in my room.”

“Well, that’s it,” Louisa shouted a little too loudly. “She probably took it to a seamstress to have it fixed—to have a better sash sewn on. As a surprise. A belated birthday gift.” May had turned fifteen in July.

“But she hasn’t any money, Louisa,” May said softly.

They brooded a moment, unable to think what to do next. Then, out of the silence came the
clip-clop, clip-clop
of horses out in front of the house. Louisa ran to the window and yanked the drape aside.

“It’s Mr.
Singer’s
carriage.” The others rushed up behind Louisa and watched as the carriage slowed and a man got out. Louisa gasped and let go of the drape. It swung shut. “It’s Joseph.”

“Louisa,” May shrieked. “Get
out
of the way—we can’t see.” Louisa moved away from the window, panic prickling the skin across her shoulders.

“He has a young lady with him,” Abba said.

Anna was a head taller than her mother and stood behind her. “Is it Nora Sutton?”

Louisa gave her older sister a scathing look, which Anna pretended not to see.

May shrieked again. “Nora Sutton is wearing my pink poplin. Look—there’s the yellow sash!”

Louisa took a breath and looked out once more. A smile spread across her face and she felt her voice wobble in her throat as she tried to speak. “That’s not Nora Sutton—that’s
Lizzie
. See, Anna, she has on your old bonnet. It’s Lizzie—she’s all right!”

“Here they come,” shrieked May, dropping the drape.

Louisa ran to the front door and threw it open. “Lizzie!” She ran to her sister and folded her in her arms, pulling her inside and ignoring Joseph. Abba, Anna, and May crowded around.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” Abba cried. “You don’t know how we’ve worried.” Louisa took care to lead her sister straight to the sofa and not to look up at Joseph, who stood watching the happy scene from the threshold, his hat in his hands. Soon Anna noticed their want of manners and rushed to the door.

“Joseph, please—come in.” He nodded his appreciation and stepped inside, closing the heavy door.

Anna went to the window and refastened the drapes to let in the late-afternoon sun. “So we have you to thank for rescuing our sister?”

Joseph chuckled. “I don’t know that she needed rescuing, but her feet
were
tired after such a long walk. I believe she did appreciate the offer of a ride home.” Anna squeezed his arm and gestured to their father’s armchair. “Please—sit. I will make some tea.” She scurried into the kitchen.

“Long walk?” Abba said, still reeling from the shock of seeing her timid daughter dressed for her outing. “To where?”

“Bellows Falls, Marmee.” Surprised, they all turned to Lizzie. She hadn’t spoken a word since she arrived. A flash of orange fur darted out from the kitchen. Ginger leapt into Lizzie’s lap and nudged her face into the crook of her elbow.

“You walked to Bellows Falls?” May asked, incredulous. Lizzie nodded, stroking the cat’s head. “But that’s five
miles
at least.”

Lizzie sat up very straight on the worn sofa and slowly untied the bonnet. Her eyes were bright, though she looked tired and pale. “I just wanted to see . . .” Her voice tightened with tears. “. . . if I could do it. And I did.”

Louisa knelt down on the floor in front of her and took her hand. “Of course you did.”

Lizzie looked at each of her sisters. “Home is, to me, the most wonderful place. You know that I have always been content to listen to my sisters’ stories, to see the world through your eyes. But sometimes . . .” She hesitated.

“. . . you want to see it for yourself,” Louisa said.

Lizzie nodded. “I wanted to turn up my hair and put on a nice dress—can you believe yours fit me, May? ”

“Well, you
are
petite. I don’t think it will be stretched out too terribly much,” May said, worried.

“At first I thought I would just walk down to the shops here in Walpole,” Lizzie continued. “But when I got there I felt disappointed that I wasn’t going to have more of an adventure. So I crossed the river and kept walking north. It was a lovely morning.”

“Oh, Lizzie,” Abba moaned. “Think of all the things that could have happened to you! The river is so high from the rain last night. What if there had been a storm? What if you had turned your ankle with no one there to help you?”

Louisa, safe now from any blame she might have shared had something bad happened to Lizzie, grew irritated. “Oh, Marmee—she’s fine! Can’t you see? Now, Lizzie, tell us more. What did you do when you got there?”

“Well, I walked up and down the main street. Then I noticed a little bakery with a café attached, and I just stood looking at all the cakes through the window. The baker waved me in and pointed out the tarts, telling me their names in French. They looked like little sculptures. May—you would have loved them.”

Anna came back with the tea tray and poured for Joseph and her mother and sisters. She settled in the chair opposite the sofa.

“Well, I hope you went in and had one,” Anna said.

Lizzie smiled. “I did! The baker gave me the biggest one. It was made with plums and little currants. And I had a coffee with cream.”

May sighed. “It sounds divine. You must have looked very sophisticated, sitting there alone in the café.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Perhaps I did, until it came time to pay the bill.”

“Oh, no—you hadn’t any money!” Louisa cried.

“Well, I thought I had—I took my coin purse. I’ve been saving my rag money. But I forgot I gave the money to Father and asked him to give it to that family on River Road that’s had the scarlet fever.” Lizzie’s smile vanished and her voice grew sad. “The father is dead, you know—and there are three small children. All their dolls had to be burned.”

“Lizzie, you’re generous to a fault,” Anna said.

“Well, in this case, yes—because I hadn’t any money to pay the baker, and I couldn’t very well return the purchase, since I’d already eaten it! I didn’t know what I was going to do. I felt the panic welling up inside me and I made a show of searching through my purse over and over, even though I knew I wouldn’t find a penny in it. I was going to leave him my locket, just so he believed that I
would
come back when I had the money. But then Mr. Singer walked in and I was saved.”

Joseph, who had been sitting quietly as the story unfolded, interjected. “It was my pleasure to help. If only I had arrived sooner and saved her the worry of those few minutes.”

Lizzie shook her head. “It was just right. He generously paid the bill—for which I
will
repay him as soon as I can—and saw me out. That’s when he asked me to ride with him back to Walpole. I’m sorry, Marmee—I know it was rude to say yes.”

“Nonsense,” Joseph said. “The timing was perfect and we were headed to the same place. Besides, I suspected your family might have been worried.”

“Well, my feet
were
very tired. And the walk home would have been long.”

“You made it a lovely ride,” Joseph said. He looked directly at Louisa and met her eyes before she could turn away. “The Misses Alcott make such pleasant companions. I only wish I had occasion to see them more often.”

Louisa’s heart felt like an old rag wrung out too many times. How could a person be at once so kind and so cruel? Why did he insist on these insinuations that only reminded her of his betrayal? She turned back to Lizzie, determined to focus on the happy news of her safety.

Abba covered her eyes with her hand and shook her head. “I am glad this tale has a happy ending. Should we expect our Lizzie to become a woman of the world? Have you had enough adventure?”

Lizzie squeezed her mother’s hand and stifled a tiny yawn. “I am so sorry I worried you, though I am glad I went. I wanted to know that I could go off for the day on my own, like any other girl my age. But I
don’t
think I want to do it again.”

“Well, you may, any time you like,” said Louisa. “Only, please tell us first!”

Joseph stood up. “Mrs. Alcott, I thank you for your hospitality. But I should be going and let Miss Elizabeth rest.”

Abba stood up and walked with him to the door. “I think we all must rest after such a scare. I am grateful to you for your help, and I know my husband will want to thank you himself when he hears what you have done for our Elizabeth.”

Joseph shook his head. “Please do not think of it again—it was my pleasure.” He stepped out into the sun and placed his hat on his head. Louisa sensed his gaze was fixed on her but she refused to meet it. “Good day, ladies.”

 

 

The women fell
into a pleasant quiet as afternoon turned to evening. It was too late in the day to start the laundry, the activity that usually consumed their Mondays and Tuesdays, but they decided they could make it up tomorrow. Abba went up to the bedrooms to collect the sheets. Lizzie stretched out on the sofa under a blanket, though the room was sweltering, and her sisters flitted about, replenishing her tea and fetching her books to keep her company. Anna declared she would mend the yellow sash once and for all and set to work, with May looking over her shoulder to watch for stitches that weren’t quite as even as they could be. When Bronson arrived home soon after, his forehead creased with worry and his shoulders low, this was the scene that revived him: all four of his daughters, at home and whole, gossiping and sewing and reading as if this had been an ordinary day.

After a time Louisa noticed that Abba had been absent awfully long and wondered whether she hadn’t begun the laundry after all. When Louisa saw she wasn’t in the washroom, she glanced into the bedrooms. Abba sat on Lizzie’s bed in the room she shared with May, looking out the window at the back lawn with the empty clothesline and the field beyond.

“Marmee, here you are.” Louisa noticed the clothesline. “Don’t worry—we’ll finish the laundry tomorrow. I’ll work double-time.”

Abba nodded but didn’t turn around. “Isn’t it wonderful that Lizzie is home, safe and sound?” Louisa could see her mother’s shoulders were trembling. “What’s the matter —are you ill?”

Abba sighed and turned to Louisa, revealing a face lined with tears. “Only in spirit.”

Louisa sat down beside her. “But aren’t you
happy
that everything turned out well? No one is hurt—nothing has changed.”

“Everything is
always
changing,” Abba said, cringing at the plaintive sound in her voice. “You couldn’t possibly understand. But the way you encourage Lizzie to go off on her own so carelessly—it’s as if you
want
to take her away from me.” Abba’s voice was hoarse from crying.

Louisa felt the guilt bloom open in her chest, just what she’d feared all day. “Of course that’s not what I want! But, Marmee, Lizzie is
not
a girl anymore and May won’t let you make her your pet any longer. You have to let them grow.”

“You cannot know the hardships, the exhaustion, the worry I have felt all these years . . . I’ve always wondered if God made woman as an afterthought—and then was ashamed of his own handiwork.” Abba’s voice took on the lifeless quality Louisa dreaded.

Louisa took her mother’s hands. “Oh, Marmee, you sound so
wretched
.” Abba sometimes descended into these “spells,” as the girls called them, where despair conquered her spirit for a time. Anna always insisted their mother was only temporarily ill and would soon regain her cheerful disposition. To Anna, the despair was just a physical symptom, like a cough or a fever. But Louisa knew it ran through her mother like a current, sweeping up everything in its path and plunging down. Bronson always said that, of all the girls, Louisa was most like her mother, and he didn’t mean it as a compliment. Both were mercurial, passionate, willful. Louisa had seen despair like Abba’s from the inside. She had inherited it the way some daughters came into a silver tray or a set of spoons.