The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott (26 page)

Louisa spent the weeks
after Anna’s departure preparing for her own. She examined her scanty wardrobe in the midday sun to locate the spots and scrub them out with a horsehair brush. Her mending basket overflowed with a few mousseline and batiste dresses handed down from a cousin, which she intended to make over, and she depleted the family’s candle supply significantly in a few nights as she stayed up late sewing.

A few days after Anna’s first letter arrived Louisa felt the familiar tightness in her abdomen and, the next morning, saw the red bloom of blood on her drawers. Its appearance took her breath away. Through sheer force of will she had nearly erased the memory of lying with Joseph in the tall grass. In forgetting, she did not have to acknowledge that she was at risk for a far more serious consequence than a broken heart. Her body would carry no lasting reminder of her transgression. Though she usually cursed the cotton batting and ladies’ belt as a burden, reaching for it now prompted a twinge of relief.

Though she had been the one to initiate the Boston plans, Abba seemed to regret that impulse as the day of Louisa’s departure approached. Suddenly, destitute families across New England were crying out for donations of candles, wool stockings, pickled vegetables. A few pieces of broken crockery urgently required gluing. Fall dresses had to be aired and pressed, sprigs of rosemary tucked in the pockets to keep them fresh until the weather turned cool. Louisa strove to make her mind still, like the surface of the river, and indulge her mother’s requests. It was only a matter of time now, and she could spare a few more days.

On Louisa’s last Friday in Walpole, Mr. Parsons’s sow got her foot caught in some chicken wire and suffered such severe injuries from her struggling that he had to put her down. A red basket containing five pork steaks appeared on the doorstep at Yellow Wood Saturday morning, along with a note from Mrs. Parsons wishing Louisa well on her journey. Abba seized the basket and rushed to the kitchen with Bronson fast on her heels. Though she had no intention of deferring to his prohibition on meat, Abba allowed him to believe she was waiting for his approving nod. Louisa and her mother patiently weathered his speech on the sins of a carnivorous diet—the suffering of the animals, the filth of the farmyard. He frowned and weighed the consequences, finally allowing that it would be wasteful and rude not to make use of the gift.

Abba broke into a full smile and praised her husband’s ardent compassion, declaring they would have a feast to send Louisa off properly. Anna had sent home a portion of her first week’s wages, and for once there was enough to buy a few extra treats. Abba shooed Bronson back to his study and scratched out a list of ingredients on a scrap of the butcher paper. Louisa pulled the shopping basket from the top shelf of the pantry and wrapped a wool shawl around her shoulders. She glanced out the window to assess the sky—pale but clear—and started off for Washington Square.

The heat of the woodstove fogged the windows of the grocer’s tiny shop. Inside, a table overflowed with winter squashes: the strangely shaped butternut, the warted acorn. Louisa chose a heavy squash and asked the grocer for five potatoes, two pounds of butter, and a block of cheese. As she turned to leave the shop, she felt pleased with the heft of her loaded basket. It was warm for a November day and dinner would be lovely. She nearly had her freedom.

Across the square a man in an unbuttoned coat stood leaning against the door of a carriage. He touched the brim of his hat, then reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and examined his watch.
Joseph
. Louisa stood frozen a moment, mortified at the thought of what they would say to each other if he saw her. With her free hand she pulled the collar of her shawl slowly up over the back of her head, hoping she could hide, wondering whether he was alone. Just before she turned away, he looked up. His eyes registered her presence but his expression remained cold. They stared at each other, neither of them moving to wave or nod in recognition. A figure emerged from behind the carriage, her purple skirt fluttering in the wind. Nora held her package to her chest. Joseph turned away to help her up, brushed her trailing hem into the cab, and closed the door behind her. As he stepped up and settled onto the open front seat, Louisa remembered the time she had sat there beside him while his sister pouted all the way to the circus.
He’ ll get to keep his carriage now,
she thought.
Catherine will be so pleased
. Joseph tossed the reins and eased the phaeton forward, his gaze fixed on the road.

 

 

 

The day of her departure
finally arrived. Her manuscripts lined the bottom of her trunk and she piled the clothes and a few mementos on top. The savings she had guarded all summer were safe in the trunk’s lining. It was time, finally, to leave everything else behind. Though she was afraid, the thought of Walpole shrinking in the distance propelled her forward.

She was edgy with anticipation when Bronson saw her to the coach parked in the road.

He shook his head. “Two of my girls gone this month,” he said as he kissed her cheek.

“I’m going to write like mad and sell these stories to anyone who will have them as quickly as I can,” Louisa replied.

“You must be patient, daughter. We cannot determine the pace of our accomplishments. That is for the Lord to do.” Louisa knew her father doubted whether she could sell her
Christmas Elves
because it was so late in the season.

“Yes, Father, but I believe the Lord and I are in agreement that He intends me to be a writer.
Now
.”

Bronson chuckled. “Well, I hope you are right. But in case the publishers are slow to respond, your mother wanted me to give you this.”

He pressed a slip of paper into her hand. It said: “Mrs. Clarke, 13 Chestnut Street, Beacon Hill.” She looked up at him, confused.

“This family just took in some sick relatives and is in need of new linens. Your mother was proud to recommend you to do the sewing. It is the womanly art at which you are
most
successful. Your stitches are almost as pleasing to look at as Anna’s.”

Louisa smoothed a smile over the face that threatened to break into a scowl. It was the same old theme: if only she could be more like Anna—womanly and docile—perhaps he would love her better.

“Thank you, Father. I will not need it, but if it makes Mother happy to know I have another way of earning money, I am happy to take it.”

Bronson nodded and helped her into the carriage. “The peace and patience of the Lord be with you, my child.”