The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott (25 page)

And comfort was exactly what Anna needed now. Louisa glanced out into the parlor at her sister, who sat in Abba’s rocking chair gazing numbly out the window at the gray sky. Judging that the beans needed at least another quarter hour, Louisa sighed and told herself that she could no longer put off telling Anna what had been weighing on her heart since Wednesday.

She crossed the room and stood behind her sister, looking out to see what she had been watching. The leaves of the maple tree in front of the house had begun to turn. The bright green was edged with orange, as if slow flames devoured the leaves.

“Do you remember the day we went to Singer’s to buy the fabric for the drapes?” Anna’s voice was scarcely above a whisper, as if sorrow itself constricted her throat. She had sensed Louisa standing near, but her gaze held steady. Louisa nodded, then said softly, “I do.”

“I thought to myself that day, ‘I will be engaged to be married by the time these leaves turn orange.’ I remember thinking that
so
distinctly. Isn’t that strange?” Louisa put her hand on Anna’s shoulder.

“It’s not like me at all to have such a thought. The hubris—to think I had control over it all, that I could
will
it to happen. And yet I was so sure I was right. As if I were having some kind of premonition. That was before I’d even met Nicholas.”

“Nan,” Louisa began, her voice already quavering. “The things I said to you on Tuesday night, the way I questioned his intentions . . .” She crossed in front of Anna and sank down onto her knees and took Anna’s hands. “I am so ashamed. Can you ever forgive me?”

Even in her sorrow Anna’s compassion broke through. “But your
heart
is broken. You only said them because your heart is broken. Of course I forgive you.”

Louisa released the sob wedged in her throat and rested her cheek on Anna’s lap as she cried. Not only had she said these things and thought worse, but when the shock of their father’s news about Nicholas abated, Louisa couldn’t help but bemoan the fact that she would now be stranded in Walpole, taking care of Anna. She felt her dream of an independent life in Boston, the place where she could finally be herself, free from obligation, free from her heartbreak, was slipping away. Louisa’s heart felt hollowed out like a melon rind. Her hair was damp from her work in the kitchen, and Anna brushed it with the tips of her fingers.

“None of it was even close to true,” Louisa said. “Everyone knew how much he loved you, and you him. They treated you like a widow today, as they should. Even if you weren’t married in God’s eyes, you were married in your hearts.”

Anna’s hands stopped their absent caressing. “Please,” she whispered. “Say no more about it. I cannot bear it.”

Louisa sat up with a start. “Of course—I’m so sorry. I only meant—”

“Please,” she said again. “Please.”

Louisa nodded. “Let me make you some tea.”

Anna looked out at the leaves again. “I must leave this town at once. As soon as I can find a position somewhere.”

Louisa’s head shot up. “Leave?”

“Argue with me all you like—it won’t dissuade me. That funeral today wasn’t just for Nicholas. It was for me, for the life I was meant to have as his wife, the mother of his children. Each time I pass that house I will think of the corner of the garden where my corn and beans would have grown, all the unhung Christmas wreaths. If I stay here he will die over and over again, every day. Have mercy and let me go.”

How quickly everything kept changing! “I will speak with our father as soon as possible. Anything you want, my dear sister, you shall have. The Almighty Friend is looking down upon you now, one of his tenderest servants. Let him give you comfort. Sorrow is only a season. You will be glad again—I know it.”

Anna turned her vacant gaze on her sister and stared at eyes the same color as her own: dark like the soil. Louisa instantly knew she had taken her stalwart optimism too far. Anna’s tone was low. “It is through the sheer force of will that I do not walk down to the river’s edge right this second and throw myself under the current. I’ve thought of little else these last days—it seems to me the sweetest dream of relief. I know that
you
shall be glad again, and it pleases me to know it.” Her voice turned cold as she looked away. “But take care not to speak of things you know nothing of.”

 

 

 

B
ronson secured by letter a position for Anna in Syracuse as a teacher at the newly built New York Asylum for Idiots, run by the famous Dr. Hervey Wilbur, where children born without all their faculties could go to learn a trade or simply how to read and write. Anna dreaded going and regretted asking to leave as her day of departure approached. But it was too late for changing her mind. And at work she could earn money to help the family, something she was beginning to realize her father might never be able to do. Bronson, Louisa, and May stood in front of the house while the driver loaded Anna’s luggage into the carriage that would take her across the bridge to the train in Bellows Falls. She would ride the rest of the day, by train and then another carriage, to Syracuse. The trees along Wentworth Avenue had gone copper and vermilion, and a few leaves cascaded down around them. Louisa thought wistfully that no matter where Anna went, she would not be able to escape the reminder of these leaves. This thought was interrupted by a sound from behind her. Abba and Lizzie stood in the front window, knocking on the glass and waving to the traveler. Bronson stepped forward and put his hands on his eldest daughter’s shoulders.

“You break an old man’s heart today, and yet I know you must go. Take an early bed, my child. And walks each day. Give yourself time for reading and other pure amusements.” He kissed her forehead. “And above all, heed your conscience.”

Anna gave a solemn nod in response, and Louisa noticed with a somersault of joy in her stomach that the tiniest hint of a smile crossed Anna’s lips. They had laughed many times together over their father’s penchant for monologues full of wise advice. How wonderful it was to see that the old Anna resided within her, dormant beneath the heavy blanket of sorrow.
Perhaps Father is right,
Louisa thought.
She must go away so that she can return to us her old self.

Anna hugged May next. “Good-bye, little sister.”

“I hope you won’t wear your widow’s weeds
too
long,” May said worriedly. “They make your complexion look awfully pale.”

Anna sighed. “Don’t worry, my dear—I will take care that my fashions don’t embarrass you.”

May winced and grasped Anna’s hand. “Forgive me—wear what you please. And know you have all my love.”

Anna laughed at her inability to stay upset with May for more than a moment. “Now get inside and help Marmee. You really will have to do your share now.” May nodded and turned back toward the house.

Louisa pulled Anna close and kissed her cheeks. “Work hard. But not
too
hard.” She pressed an eagle into her palm and closed Anna’s fingers around it. “Buy a dress or two in Syracuse. See a play.”

Anna glanced at her hand and then looked up startled at Louisa. “But this is for your writing room—your little place apart. You took an oath!”

Louisa shook her head. “It’s all right—I can spare it. And don’t try to argue with me. It’s my money and I can do what I like with it.”

Anna smiled and shook her head. “You never fail to surprise me, my dear.” Bronson stood talking to the driver about the route and Anna leaned in close to Louisa so he would not hear. “Now I have a surprise for you. But first you have to promise you won’t be angry.”

Louisa gave her a suspicious look. “I suppose that depends on what you’ve done. I can
try
not to be angry. . . .”

“That’s the best I can hope for. I want you to go into my sewing basket—I told May I’d leave it for her to have my ribbon and trims—there’s something in there for you.”

“What kind of something?”

Anna hesitated, examining Louisa’s face. “Letters. Probably a dozen.”

“Letters from my sister, I hope,” Louisa whispered back, her eyebrows drawn together.

Anna shook her head. “They just kept coming, for weeks after the Suttons’ harvest party. And then they stopped. But I didn’t want you to burn them, in case . . . well, in case things changed. And they have, haven’t they?”

An abrupt laugh exploded from Louisa’s lips and she nodded, tears pricking her eyes. Everything had changed and then changed again. Margaret’s gossip had revealed the truth about Joseph and Nora, had given Louisa an excuse to yield to him when he came to her the night of the play. But that brief succumbing, sweet as it was, had nearly caused her to lose sight of what mattered, to forget that her object was freedom, not the fleeting promise of love. She thought back on that night in the field, the terrible things they’d said to each other. Joseph had nearly begged her to let him love her, to let him walk through life by her side. But she was like an animal in a trap, gnawing off a part of herself to get free.

Anna squeezed her hand. “Louy, you should talk to him. Don’t leave things the way they are.”

A flicker of something like hope crossed Louisa’s face, but the wounded part of her, that once-tender place now grown over with the tough skin of a scar, couldn’t let her take the risk of hoping. “The way they are is the way they should be. His life is his, and my life is
mine
. And that’s what I always wanted, more than anything else. That my life would be my own.”

Anna sighed. “And there isn’t a way you could have both? Love him
and
have your freedom?”

Louisa shook her head. “It’s not possible.”

Anna watched her a moment. “I wish it could be different somehow. But I suppose you will do what you must.”

Just then Bronson reappeared and turned the face of his pocket watch out toward Anna. “It’s time to go, my dear.”

Anna nodded at her father, then leaned in to Louisa, whispering, “At the very least, fish those letters out. You certainly don’t want May to find them and cause a scandal.”

Louisa glanced nervously at the house, then nodded.

“I’ll write you every day.” Anna choked on a sob.

Louisa gave a wicked smile in reply. “Well, soon you will have to send your missives to a new address. I hope to go to Boston before long.”

Now Anna smiled, a real, full smile. “Write until your fingers break. It may be the cure for everything. And don’t think of this place. Pretend it was the setting in one of your stories, now finished. Perhaps one you threw in the fire.”

Louisa thought for a moment of her night on the stage as the Widow Pottle, Fanny Kemble in her emeralds, Joseph’s hot breath on her collarbone. “One cannot always judge things by the way they end.”

“True,” Anna whispered, gathering her overcoat close to her neck. “One must have faith. I want so much to believe the Psalm: ‘
He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds
.’ ”

And with that she was gone. As Louisa headed back into the house, she pictured Anna speeding out of New Hampshire in the rented carriage, wrapped tight in heavy blankets to stave off the cold morning air. In the entryway she wiped her boots. May and Abba were in the back of the house, talking loudly over the clang of pots in the sink. At the foot of the armchair near the fireplace Anna’s sewing basket sat, its lid askew. Louisa glanced back at the kitchen and then crossed the room to it.

The top tray, divided into sections, held a half-dozen cards wound round with various colors of thread and ribbon. A length of stiff lace had been folded into a square. Louisa pinched the center ridge of the tray and lifted it out of the basket. The deeper space below held a lone ball of yarn, a rusted pair of scissors, and the thick stack of letters. She hesitated before reaching to pull them out of the basket, as if their existence posed an actual physical threat. But once they were in her hand she almost laughed out loud. They were mere letters—paper and ink. Knowing they were in the world didn’t change a thing. She stood, straightening her skirt, and stepped toward the hearth to cast them in. But then she hesitated, glancing at the flames.
Perhaps
, she reasoned with herself
. Perhaps it would be all the same if I tucked them away. . . .
She climbed the attic stairs two at a time and lifted the lid of the trunk that sat at the foot of her bed. Inside, there was a place where the lining was torn away. She tucked the letters behind the threadbare calico, placed her hand against them. Then she stood, swinging the lid shut, and began the arduous task of forgetting.