The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott (29 page)

Polly, the Clarkes’ stout older servant, answered the door.

“I’ll take your coat, Miss Alcott,” she said.

“No, thank you, Polly—I won’t be but a moment. I came to bring the sewing.” Louisa handed her the package of towels wrapped in paper.

“Is that Miss Alcott?” Mrs. Clarke said, coming in from the parlor. “Do come in, dear, and have some tea. What a dreadfully cold morning.”

“I won’t trouble you, Mrs. Clarke.”

“Nonsense. Polly, would you please put on the tea? And bring us some of that wonderful sweet potato bread.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Polly turned and her white cap bobbed toward the kitchen.

“Let me hang your coat,” Mrs. Clarke said, helping Louisa slip it off. She moved awkwardly with it to the front closet. It was clear she was inexperienced with a task of this sort. It was as if she wanted to show Louisa that though she was fortunate to afford servants, as well as a girl to do her sewing, she didn’t take their work for granted. It seemed a silly show, and Louisa was almost flattered that it mattered to Mrs. Clarke what she thought.

“Now,” she said with a satisfied sigh. “Let’s go sit by the fire.”

Mrs. Clarke was the wife of Ebenezer Clarke, a member of the Massachusetts General Court, and a lady of fine reputation in the city. She was known for her grand parties and the paintings she made of the birds and squirrels in the Public Garden.

They settled on the velvet armchairs that flanked the marble fireplace. “So tell me, Miss Alcott—how is the writing going?”

A little wave of panic came over her. Stupidly, vainly, she’d told everyone she met about her plans for a stellar writing career in Boston. The daughter of Bronson Alcott wouldn’t establish herself in Boston just to be a seamstress. Now, of course, they all wanted to know how she was faring. She cleared her throat. “Well, I am determined to keep trying, though so far I haven’t met with much success.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Clarke said, brushing Louisa’s doubt away with a flick of her hand. “I am sure you will come by with good news very soon. You can’t give up—that’s the main thing.”

“Oh, I don’t intend to. But sometimes I wonder . . .”

“What’s that, dear?”

“I wonder if I shouldn’t be looking for a more steady type of employment. I will continue writing, of course, no matter what I’m doing with the rest of my time. But Anna is working in Syracuse now and I can’t help but think I had better do my share as well.”

“I see. Well, as you may know, my daughter Frances is a teacher at a school in Plymouth. Of course, it isn’t that she has to work,” Mrs. Clarke said, then reddened with the realization that she sounded like she was bragging about her wealth again. “But she loves teaching and Mr. Clarke and I feel it is very important for our children to learn the value of work and what the lives of others less fortunate than ourselves are like.

“Her letter from last week mentioned that one of the teachers is leaving to marry. Would you like me to inquire about the position for you?”

Polly brought in the tea tray and set it on the table between them. The china was so white it was almost blue, and the fronds of a fern splayed in the center of each saucer.
Ask and ye shall receive,
Louisa thought as Mrs. Clarke described the teaching position. But did she want to receive it? Coming from Mrs. Clarke an “inquiry” was more like a command. Probably, the job would be hers if she wanted it. She should be happy. It was just as she said—now was the time to think of others.

“That would be very generous of you, Mrs. Clarke. I would appreciate it.”

“Not at all, dear. We cannot squander this bright mind of yours on sewing and other chores.”

Or teaching a herd of children their letters,
Louisa thought.

“The pay is quite good compared to most other schools,” Mrs. Clarke said. “You’ll have money left over to go to the theater, to buy a winter coat. The one you were wearing when you came in—is that all you have? Surely it can’t be warm enough for the January winds. They cut right through you.”

Louisa nodded, sculpting a smile for her face that she hoped was convincing. She could really help her family with a position like this. And, of course, who wouldn’t love a few nicer dresses, a bonnet or two? But though she loved luxury, freedom and independence were luxury to her a thousand times over. The thought of losing them made her desolate.

 

 

By the time she arrived
back at Mrs. Reed’s, her mind was a tangled mess. She would have to decide, she knew; but at the moment all she wanted to do was escape into the mind of another writer. She started for the stairs up to her “garret” but she noticed the aroma of potatoes and glanced at the clock. It was nearly time for dinner. So her escape would be short-lived. She stole into a corner of the parlor with her old favorite,
Jane Eyre
, and drew a curtain on her troubles.

Mrs. Reed was in the kitchen making a lot of racket. The door on the woodstove screeching open, the rustle of the logs. The thud of a full iron pot lifted off the stove and set heavily on the worktable. The clatter of the mismatched bowls with chips around the rim.

But none of it penetrated Louisa’s mind. Growing up in small apartments with three sisters and an endless stream of her father’s friends visiting, a girl learned how to crouch inconspicuously in a corner and block out the noise so that she could plunge into the world of a story.

“Caroline,” Mrs. Reed called into the hallway. “Please come help me serve.” Mrs. Reed gave a frustrated sigh when the girl did not respond.

Jane was explaining to Mr. Rochester just why she thought he
wasn’t
handsome, though in truth she thought him full of unconscious pride and at ease in his demeanor in the most beguiling way.

Mrs. Reed emerged from the kitchen, looking around the parlor for the girl. Steam had formed a patina on her sagging cheeks. She glanced over at Louisa and rolled her eyes. “Reading
again
,” she muttered.

Mr. Rochester told Jane that he was in a talkative mood, and since it suited him, she should speak. But Jane was stubborn—why should she have to talk for the sake of talking, just because he was ordering her to do so? He sensed her annoyance and apologized.

Caroline rounded the corner near the banister. “There you are,” Mrs. Reed began. Then she stopped short. “Caroline,” she hissed. “What have I told you about letting strangers in off the street?”

Mrs. Reed put on her slightly more polite public voice. “I’m sorry, sir—all my rooms are full up. I can’t take anybody new just now.”

The smell of the stew was beginning to break into the world of Louisa’s story. Her stomach gurgled and she realized she hadn’t eaten a thing all day except for the bread she’d had at tea with Mrs. Clarke. One of the most challenging aspects of the philosophy of self-denial her father tried to teach his daughters was resisting the siren song of food. Louisa was no tender waif—she loved to eat and had a man’s hunger.

Practiced in patience, Louisa kept her eye trained on the letters. She wanted to think a little more about what Mr. Rochester meant by
“remorse is the poison of life.”
But it was too late—her concentration was broken. The light in the room shifted. She became aware that someone was walking toward her.

“Sir, where are you going?” Mrs. Reed cried, panic in her voice. “I told you—there’s no room here.”

The figure blocked the light and the page darkened. When Louisa could no longer resist it, she looked up. Joseph. Louisa blinked, staring at him, astonished. His hair had grown—it curled over his collar—and his cheeks were pink from the wind. She wondered for a moment whether her hunger was playing tricks on her, whether her mind was plagued by visions. But then the mirage opened his mouth to speak.

“You’ve written plenty of romantic tales,” he said, taking the book from her hands and gently closing it. “Didn’t you know I would come?”

 

 

 

E
very inch of her wanted to fly to him right there while Mrs. Reed watched, her mouth agape, and Caroline stood twirling her hair around her finger. But good sense prevailed, at least for the moment.

She stood up. “Mr. Singer,” she said in an affected tone. “What a lovely surprise. Shall we go for a walk?”

His grin was full of mischief. “Yes, I believe we shall. A long walk.”

“Mrs. Reed, Caroline—this is Mr. Joseph Singer.” The aunt and her niece waddled over sheepishly, unsure how to account for the fact that they had been staring openly at him since he walked in the door.

“Pleased to meet you,” Mrs. Reed said, shaking his hand. Then, turning to Louisa, she said, “The stew is served in just a minute.”

Louisa shrugged. “I may miss it, I may not. I’m not sure.”

“You’re going to miss it,” Joseph said.

“I’m going to miss it,” Louisa parroted. Joseph broke into a smile that made Louisa a little weak with joy. Mrs. Reed harrumphed and made appalled little noises as she turned toward the kitchen.

They pushed out onto the sidewalk, which was crowded with shoppers and matinee-goers and families walking to friends’ homes for dinner. Joseph grabbed her hand and began walking ahead, his long stride wrenching her along.

“Where are we going?”

He didn’t turn his head to answer but strode on until near the end of the block they came to a narrow alley between two tall buildings. He pulled her sharply to the right and she followed him down the passage. One of the buildings ended before the other, creating a space that was hidden from the street. Only there did he pull her to him, so hard she felt the collision of their bodies echo through her bones. He pressed his face into the space between her neck and shoulder. His nose was cold from the wind and it sent a shiver down her arms. She was reeling. He was
here
now. Here in her arms. But why? How? What did it mean? Her hand moved of its own volition to the back of his head, her fingers touching his hair.

“I didn’t know your hair was curly,” she said. “You’ve let it grow.” He lifted up his head and looked at her, then brushed his finger across her lips, kissed her. How lovely it was to feel the very
fact
of him pressing against her. He was no reverie or vague-faced man in a book. He was real—his breath warm on her face, his coat smelling of burning leaves. But soon her mind corralled her impulses.

“What are you
doing
here?” she asked, almost angry.

He looked at her surprised, as if her stern voice had jarred him out of some half-consciousness. He opened his coat and reached into his breast pocket.

“Tickets,” he said, handing them to her. “To New York. The train leaves tonight.”

“Louisa, we can start again. Everything that’s happened . . . we can put it behind us for good. A new city, a new beginning.” He ran his thumb along her jaw. “We can be together; we can tell the truth.”

She closed her eyes and listened to her heart galloping in her chest. She felt ecstatic but angry. Why now? Already she felt trapped between two choices—to stay in Boston or to face the fact of her failure and go to Plymouth to teach. Now he presented her with a third option, an appallingly selfish, dangerous, beguiling option. “It’s impossible,” she whispered.

“My cousin—I wrote to him. He says there is an extra room we can have. It’s small, but we can manage it until I can find work. Of course, we’ll be married at once. Otherwise it wouldn’t be . . . proper.”

She felt suddenly shy and turned her face away, thinking about just how improper they’d been together when no one was watching. Her eyes followed a cat who walked along the top of a fence at the end of the alley. It twitched its white tail and Louisa thought of Lizzie. She felt a rush of longing for home. “What did you say to Nora?”

“Don’t bother yourself about that. I’ll talk to her. I’ll write to her.”

“She doesn’t know you’ve gone?”

“Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter. I don’t
love
her. And she doesn’t love me. She’ll probably be relieved.”

Louisa shot him an accusing look. “You
must
know she will be devastated.”

He shook his head. “It’s better this way.”

“And what of your sister? Surely you can’t think she will go out to service.”

“We will go ahead to New York and get settled. Then we can send for her.”

“But won’t Catherine be angry? After all, this arrangement was meant to address your father’s debts and give your sister the sort of life to which she feels . . . accustomed,” Louisa said, stopping herself just before the word
entitled
slipped out instead.

He pressed his lips into a grim line. “I thought I would be able to go through with it. I thought I could make the pact despite the way that I feel about you, because it is my responsibility to take care of Catherine now—and I accept that responsibility. But there is another way to honor it. We are young and I am not afraid to work. We will live simply and, in time, pay off my father’s debts. My sister will just have to become accustomed to
another
way of life.”

Louisa shook her head in disbelief. She had spent so many weeks trying to crush the fantasy that her unchecked mind was eager to pursue. That he would come for her. That somehow, after everything, they could find a bridge between the two worlds she loved in equal measure.

“You can stand here all day thinking of reasons why you should not come. But eventually we will miss our train.” He put the tickets back in his pocket and buttoned up his coat. “After my father died, everything became clear to me. What I need to know is, do you love me? Because if you do, we can find a solution for everything else.”