Jo & Laurie

by Margaret Stohl

  He whispered back, “If you don’t, I shall have to give it to the poor-house.” Then he smiled and pulled her toward the curtains. “The House of Worth. I’m sure it will fit. Monsieur Worth came highly recommended; he’s Lady Carmichael-Carlthorpe’s personal couturier.”

  “Who?” Meg looked confused.

  “No one . . . an old family friend. I said I wanted Jo to have just one dress that was every bit as unique as she is.” He was flustered, and Jo couldn’t help but smile. “This was where she said to go.”

  And then all anyone could do was stand there marveling at the gown in front of them.

  Laurie pointed. “See how there’s almost no crinoline or bustle at all? It’s called a . . . polly . . .”

  “Polonaise, monsieur.” The attendant smiled at him.

  He nodded, relieved. “That. Made for Princess Alexandra. It’s apparently the style now, a princess line or something.”

  Meg smiled incredulously. “Are you explaining crinolines to me now, Theodore Laurence? As if you’ve ever worn one?”

  He scratched his head, trying to remember. “I think it’s hand-stitched . . . I know there isn’t another one like it in the world, because it was made after a very particular drawing.”

  Jo was incredulous. “A drawing?”

  His face turned red. “One of mine.”

  “Teddy? You . . . drew me . . . a gown?” Jo was practically apoplectic at the thought.

  Now his face was the color of one of the more purple beets from Vegetable Valley. “Only sort of. Monsieur Worth’s dressmakers made it fashionable and all that. I just sort of . . . inspired it, I suppose. Master of Inspiration that I am and all.”

  “You did all this for me?” Jo shook her head. Today had escaped her, utterly. “This is beyond inspiration, Teddy.”

  Laurie struggled to express himself. “It’s from a portrait of my mother when she was young, in Paris. She was laughing and so happy and so alive . . . Well, it’s the one picture of her that always reminds me of you, Jo. The dress isn’t the same, of course, but an approximation of it.” He pushed a lock of brown hair out of his face with a sigh. “I can’t explain it any better than that. I just wanted you to have something that would make you feel . . . the way my mother taught me to feel about Verdi.”

  Jo squeezed his hand, keeping her eyes on the length of silk the color of moonlight.

  Meg is here, so I can hold your hand and tell you how wonderful you are and nothing will be strange and everything can stay perfectly jolly between us.

  Couldn’t it?

  Part of her was already regretting her refusal of Laurie’s gift. She had to admit that. But another part of her—the biggest part, if she were being honest with herself—was far more pleased that she and Laurie both could give this moment to Meg, who was already stepping behind the curtain to have the attendant dress her, pale with shock but giving the tiniest smile of pleasure. Like the copy Jo had once seen of Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, as if Meg had heard a secret she didn’t dare tell.

  Jo gave Laurie one last, grateful look and disappeared through the curtain after her.

  And as the recipient of the look watched her go, he marveled that the House of Worth was so aptly named.

  A few minutes later, Jo emerged dressed in Meg’s old evening dress, a newer version of the modest white tarlatan Meg had worn to Sallie Gardiner’s debut, which had had such a prominent place in Little Women. It was understated and drew no attention to its wearer, as fitted Jo perfectly. Her new kid gloves and matching boots would do well enough for the evening. She was elated.

  Meg, on the other hand, emerged from the dressing-room in a gossamer haze, silvery silkwork flowing down from her bosom—like the clearest, coldest water from a Concord brook in the peak of summer—embroidered with the tiniest, most delicate threadwork, in the pattern of soft silver lilies . . .

  Not unlike a certain watering-hole.

  Jo felt her heart stop. It had been meant as a private language between herself and Laurie. Something he was trying to tell her. But now it was Meg who would wear it, not Jo. She had refused his gift. Refused him, in fact, and given her sister to him in her place.

  Oh, Laurie.

  All Jo could do was hug her sister, hard. When she pulled away, she could see Meg’s face was as dazzling as the dress. “You look glorious, Meg. You’ll be the most beautiful girl in the room.”

  “If I am, it is only because of the most generous gentleman in the room.” She smiled at Laurie. “Thank you, Laurie. Truly. Both of you.”

  “De rien, Mademoiselle March.” Laurie bowed with a smile, giving Meg his arm as he escorted her outside to the waiting carriage.

  Waiting to take them to the opera, to Verdi, La Traviata and the tale of the fallen woman.

  As Jo followed behind, now carefully holding her dress—Meg’s dress!—above the puddles, it occurred to her for the first time that Meg and Laurie were not so very far apart in age, after all.

  A Laurie of my own.

  That was what her sister wanted. She had said so herself, hadn’t she?

  Jo March, what have you done?

  11

  PRESENTING LADY HAT

  Some moments pulse more brilliantly than others, as if time itself could have a heartbeat of its own. Jo felt it as she walked into the theater in Meg’s old tarlatan dress, watching her sister moving through the crowd on Laurie’s arm. The cascade of silk nipped at her waist, darted at her bosom, tucked along her hip, and her matching silk-gloved hand rested on the arm of one of the most eligible young men in Massachusetts, if not all of America.

  As heads turned and the elegant couple made their way through the well-heeled crowd, Jo felt as if the future were already written, and she simply had to turn the page to keep reading.

  If only I can bear it.

  For the third time, Laurie looked back to Jo, offering his left arm.

  Jo shook her head. Meg was the pretty one, the charming one. In her elegant and fashionable attire, she would be the talk of New York society for days, if not weeks. Who was that girl with the Laurence boy? Where had she come from?

  Jo felt positively inconsequential in comparison.

  Perhaps that was the way things should be. Meg should be the one who received everyone’s admiring glances, not regular old Jo March, the somewhat-known scribbler from Concord. She could still move through the world largely unseen, as a writer should.

  So why did it bother her so that Laurie and Meg seemed to be taking such pleasure in each other’s company, suddenly? That the crowd parted with a whisper, admiring the lovely couple, even while Jo walked in their wake?

  Invisible.

  If, all of a sudden, Laurie preferred Meg to her, that shouldn’t bother her in the slightest. Why would it? He would still be her dearest friend. She couldn’t wish a better suitor for her lovely, calm, devoted sister, who deserved nothing so much in the world as a man who would appreciate both her beauty and her temperament.

  Could she?

  Better to lose her to Laurie than to some strange man who would take her far from home, where they might not meet more than once or twice a year, Meg bearing his children and slaving over his household, ruining her sweet disposition with childrearing or poverty, or both. On the contrary, marrying Laurie would be a boon to their whole family, raising all their fortunes. Laurie could never hope for a better wife than serene, beautiful Meg, truly the best of all the March sisters. How happy it would make Mama, and Father, and even Amy.

  Jo could be the maiden aunt, tending their children, writing her books by night, with no thought of marriage or children for herself. Unencumbered. The best thing for everyone. Truly.

  Jo had practically resigned herself to the certainty of their betrothal when they reached a private opera box, where they were met by John Brooke. His eyes widened at the sight of Meg in her elegant gow
n, at least until he dropped into a stately bow.

  “Mr. Brooke!” said Meg, failing to hide her excitement. “Laurie neglected to mention you were joining us this evening.”

  “Miss March,” he said, his fingers trembling as he lifted Meg’s gloved hand for a greeting kiss. “You have never looked lovelier. Not even your sister could describe such beauty in the pages of her books.”

  Jo raised an eyebrow. I don’t know about that.

  Laurie elbowed her.

  Still, it was nice to see the ladies at the House of Worth had not wasted their efforts, to judge from the way Brooke was looking at Meg.

  To be fair, Meg was looking at Brooke as if he were the Prince of Persia.

  Now Laurie snuck a conspiratorial glance at Jo and winked. “Please, the two of you should take those seats,” he said, pointing to the front row. “I’ve promised to explain the whole opera to Jo, so we’ll be back here getting shushed.” That much was true.

  “I expect nothing less.” Mr. Brooke smiled, offering Meg his arm.

  “As always,” Jo said, gamely.

  Brooke led Meg to the front of the box, leaving Jo and Laurie to sit together behind them. Laurie didn’t seem the least reluctant to let Meg go. As the lights went down, and Meg and Mr. Brooke settled into their chairs, he hardly glanced at them.

  Lowering into her own seat, Jo wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing about Meg and Laurie. It would hardly be the first time. The authoress Jo March did have a bit of an imagination, after all. Seeing Meg in that silvery dress, her hair done up in the latest fashion, her arm in Laurie’s—it would probably have given anyone ideas.

  Jo watched as Meg and Brooke put their heads together, speaking so softly, no one else could hear.

  “You see it, don’t you?” Laurie whispered.

  “Shush,” Jo whispered back. Why, are you jealous?

  “I knew we’d be shushed, but I didn’t expect it to come from you,” he hissed.

  She was irritated. He was right, of course; there was definitely something there.

  It was never just fiction, the idea of Meg and Brooke.

  If only Meg would admit that. And if only everything wasn’t so confusing.

  Soon plain old Jo March, in her borrowed tarlatan, found herself taking in Verdi’s greatest masterpiece from a private box at the Grand Opera House.

  The luminous center-stage prima donna, whom Jo observed through a pair of gilded opera glasses, opened her mouth, and the most astonishing sounds came out. Jo had never heard anyone sing like that—high and sweet and powerful, all at once.

  As every thrilling note crept up and down her spine, Jo became quieter and quieter. For once, she had no words at all. She was too busy feeling. But what was she feeling as she watched Meg and Brooke put their heads together and whisper? When she watched Laurie absorbed in the music, a small smile on his lips?

  It seemed that one night, one series of small, nearly insignificant moments, had changed them all irrevocably: herself and Meg, Laurie and Brooke. And that there would be no going home again, not to the people they’d been before.

  What is happening?

  It was all impossible, this business of love and marriage, suitors and family and money. Why anyone would voluntarily spend ten minutes worrying over any of it was beyond her. Much less writing—or even reading—a whole novel about it.

  Perhaps I should have stuck to Tall Talers.

  Meg should stay home with the family, where she belonged. Except of course that wouldn’t make her happy. Brooke made her happy. That was all too clear now.

  As the music rose and the lights brightened, Jo felt a steely resolve. Beth had never even had a chance to sit in this opera house and listen to Verdi. Meg had to live her life, had to find her happiness. If she did love John Brooke, then she must accept him if he asked.

  Time was so short, for all of them.

  Jo glanced at Laurie, who already had the look in his eyes, the one that meant he was lost to La Traviata.

  And with that, she closed her own eyes and let the music carry her away.

  * * *

  • • •

  AT INTERMISSION, LAURIE reached around to grab the crimson velvet back of Jo’s chair. His face was still glowing; he hadn’t looked away from the stage for the last half hour. “Oh, Jo, now do you see why we had to see Verdi? Isn’t it splendid?” For the moment he seemed like her old friend, excited about his Italian music and memories of his mother’s country.

  “It was perfect, Teddy. You were so right.” She took his gloved fingers in hers, squeezing tight. Now that the lights were up again, she found her eyes straying to her sister. In front of them, Brooke said something low in Meg’s ear, and she smiled, winningly.

  Laurie bowed his head to whisper in her ear. “I believe love is in the air tonight.”

  She looked at him. Everything beyond their crimson-draped balcony box—the noise of the crowd, the grandeur of the stage, the glow of the lights—began to fade away.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Jo hardly managed to get the words out.

  “Why, Meg, of course.”

  Jo’s mouth was suddenly dry. Perhaps she had misjudged everything, after all. “You’re smitten with Meg; of course you are. She’s beautiful.”

  “Meg?” Laurie asked, taken aback, as he turned to her with a flash of his dark eyes.

  “You have my blessing, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” she began.

  “You’re joking,” he said, loudly.

  Jo wanted to shush him again. “Am I?”

  Laurie threw back his head and let out a peal of laughter, loud enough that half the opera house turned and looked at them. “Oh, Jo! You goose.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You think I’m in love with Meg?”

  “Of course not!” Jo hissed. “I just thought . . .” Then she stopped, because in truth she had no idea what she thought, what she wanted, what was happening. Tonight had folded everything back on itself a hundred times already.

  “Please,” Laurie begged, amused. “Were you jealous, Jo?”

  She could feel her face turning the color of the opera curtains. “Of course not, you vile thing!”

  He looked at her fondly. “I know what you thought. Meg is very lovely in your dress, but we’re no match, Jo. Surely you know that.”

  Jo stared down at the kid-gloved fingers folded in her lap. She was starting to wonder. If Meg is no match for him, then who is?

  “Mr. Laurence! Is that you?” A woman’s voice came from behind the curtains at the back of their box. “I heard you from six boxes down.”

  Laurie sat up, startled.

  Jo smelled the powdered, perfumed, lace-edged bosoms before she saw them, though they would have been difficult to miss. Frankly, they were difficult to not look at, as they occupied the curtained entrance to the box almost entirely.

  Their owner was a particular beauty—stunning in a manner unlike any that Concord had ever seen and ever would—or so Jo guessed.

  As Laurie rose to his feet, it became obvious he had spent a great deal of time looking at this literal bosom friend himself, judging by the familiarity with which the two now greeted each other.

  “Hullo, old Hat!” Laurie gave her an emphatic kiss on each cheek.

  “Hello, darling!” said the beauty.

  “I didn’t know you were back in town. You didn’t mention it when last I saw you! I thought you were leaving for Paris for the summer,” said Laurie.

  “Changed our minds!” said the lady. “Imagine that.” Her laughter spilled across them, as if she’d tossed a handful of silver pieces into their laps.

  Jo snorted. Meg and Brooke now rose to their feet to see who had arrived.

  “Hat?” Jo echoed.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.” The lady Hat held out a pale, slender, soft-gloved
hand. “I’m Lady Harriet. And surely you must be Laurie’s dear Cousin Jo! I’d know you anywhere.”

  “Lady?” Meg blurted, in an uncharacteristically un-Meg way.

  “I—I . . .” Jo stammered. “Cousin?”

  Laurie was red-faced now. “We’re not actual cousins, Hat. I keep telling you that.”

  “Just as I keep not listening to a word of your endless prattle, dear boy.” Harriet chuckled sweetly. “Now, do try to be less of an unbearable beast and introduce me to your friends properly, please. You know how I loathe disappointment.”

  Laurie swept his arm into a melodramatic bow, reaching for Harriet’s hand with, Jo noticed, yet another emphatic kiss. “Lady Harriet Carmichael-Carlthorpe, formerly of Sussex, briefly London, now perhaps seasonally or, one hopes, eternally New York City. Or so it seems most men of my species hope and pray, at least to hear Hat tell of it.”

  “Fervently,” Hat sighed. “The praying. I find it quite trying, actually, the dull repetition of masculine veneration . . . you know.” She winked at Jo, who realized she was still staring, and not at Lady Hat’s face.

  “I can’t imagine,” Jo said, forcing her eyes upward. “I mean, I truly can’t.”

  Laurie looked from Jo to Lady Harriet, and back to Jo.

  “And now, dear Hat, it is my great honor to present Miss Jo March of Concord, formerly of Concord, briefly of New York City, now perhaps seasonally or, one hopes, eternally—”

  Harriet regarded them imperiously. “Of Concord?” She did not move her eyes from Jo’s.

  Jo found herself blushing. “It does seem likely.”

  Laurie shook his head. “Don’t interrupt, Hat.”

  “I couldn’t, quite literally, as the excellence of my upbringing forbids it,” said Lady Harriet, now glancing at Meg in her silvery silk and, interestingly, at John Brooke. “And who are these friends?”

  “May I present Miss Margaret March and my tutor, John Brooke.”

  Lady Harriet smiled in acknowledgment. “Aha, the tutor! I do enjoy meeting a man of education. Mr. Brooke, I don’t know how you manage with Mr. Laurence here, but I commend your bravery during the war.”