“Mr. Babcock?”
Whatever had seemed to require delicacy or caution before, now the older man smiled, knowingly. Lorie was, after all, a very self-possessed young man, in the best possible way. He retained his country appearance because he meant to, and because he was not bothered to change according to the opinions or customs of others.
“You’ve been friends with Joanna for some time now, haven’t you?”
“I have. She’s my best friend.”
“I’m not surprised. I could tell even by the quiet between you two. And by the way she’s more prone to write against your back than any number of the desks available in this house.”
“Yes, she prefers my company when she’s working, and making me a desk means I can’t wander off,” Lorie said with an amused snort.
“Well. I do feel intrusive, interrupting the two of you every night. You behave perfectly respectably together, of course, but one must be mindful of appearances,” Mr. Babcock said, even as he remembered that neither Lorie nor Jo behaved out of such an adherence. “Let not your good be ill-spoken of, and all that.”
“Yes, sir. We understand.”
“Have you considered simply proposing marriage to her?”
“Not at all,” Lorie answered easily, and without shock or reservation, which made Mr. Babcock feel that perhaps the suggestion needed clarifying.
“You mean to remain this close, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And you aren’t interested in courting someone else?”
“No, sir,” he said with a chuckle.
“I didn’t think so, Loren—there are only so many nights in the week.” And Mr. Babcock had a chuckle himself. “But then, what is it? I hope you’re not one of those young men resistant to the institution of marriage, as I couldn’t in good conscience permit your company, I’m afraid.”
“No, sir, it’s nothing like that.”
“Well, then?”
Lorie thought for a moment, of what he might say that didn’t betray his friend’s confidence, while respecting the man who provided her a home, and them a place to enjoy each other’s company.
“We’re happy as we are,” he said, settling on disappointing Mr. Babcock’s curiosity rather than speaking too freely. “I’m happy where she is. I’m happy to matter so much to the process of her work.”
“And you’re sure she’s happy with this arrangement, too?” Mr. Babcock pressed. “You don’t want to awake one day and find she’s accepted another proposal because you misunderstood.”
“We have this arrangement because it makes her happy, and that is enough for me.”
Mr. Babcock’s forehead was desperately creased, and he seemed simultaneously at a loss for words and very certainly unsatisfied that the conversation had run its course, so it was Lorie who reached for the doorknob with a smile.
“Good evening, Mr. Babcock.” He let himself out, and from the dark street outside the home gave a kind of salute. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
It was a moment before Mr. Babcock gathered himself enough to leave the entry and head back up the stairs. When he did, he found Jo standing just inside the sitting room, her pen and papers held close, and a faraway smile on her face so that he knew she’d heard everything.
* * *
“Miss March? A gentleman is waiting for you outside the stage door.”
Amy spun around at the young girl’s voice, and not a hair slipped out of place, nor did the gilded laurel crown she still wore. Everything was fastened tight, from her straightened hair in the high spiral bun all the dancers wore, to her corseted waist, from which the dance skirt billowed. When she was a girl, she recalled despising the feeling of being pulled too tightly, or at least the practice of sitting long enough for the preening to take place. She could not be more different now. Many girls kept clothing to change into, escaping their costumes at the earliest convenience. Amy could live in hers. She never arrived to a hall or a home, or wherever she was performing, in common clothing. She always came stage ready, and she always left the same way. The performance was far longer than some imagined, and she delighted in its entirety. She could not imagine receiving her audience in anything less than the spectacular attire they’d watched her dance in, whether she’d been a soloist or not.
“Shall I send the flowers to the dormitory, Miss March?” the young white girl asked now, as she helped Amy into her cloak.
“Yes, Anna, thank you. And you’d better be getting back, hadn’t you? First years have an early curfew, as I recall.”
“Not if we’re assisting a performer, Miss March. I thought we could walk back together? There are so many things I’d like to ask you, and Miss Evergreen told us you won’t have time to tutor this spring, with your recital schedule.”
Amy softened, delighted by the young girl’s enthusiasm.
“Is that why you’ve volunteered as stagehand tonight?”
Anna nodded, and held her hands together before her, her feet naturally resting in first position.
“How’s this, then. I’d better go and say hello to whoever’s waiting for me, but come to the barre room tomorrow at six A.M. Is that too early?” Amy asked, already knowing the girl’s answer.
“I’ve already done my calisthenics by then,” Anna said excitedly, and she almost bounced away, leaving Amy to glance once more in the vanity backstage before heading for the door.
“Something told me it was you,” she said as she entered the early spring night to find Joseph Williams there.
“I told you I’d like to attend one of your performances,” he said, a bright bouquet in hand, which he didn’t offer because Amy hadn’t yet taken an interest.
“And I told you I’d suggest one that might be to your liking,” she said, beginning to walk.
“I found that this one was. It’s just lucky I looked into the matter myself.” He stepped into her wake, but idled until she turned back. “I thought it best to come to an ensemble production, so as not to distract you during a solo revue.”
“Mr. Williams, whatever makes you think I’d find you a distraction?” she asked. It was an innocent enough question, intentionally made to sound complimentary despite that both parties knew better.
“Perhaps I’d hoped to be,” Joseph said, lifting the bouquet as though to entice Amy.
“You have very lovely taste in flowers, Mr. Williams.”
“Amethyst,” he said through an amorous sigh, his hand and the bouquet sinking.
“I find it quite improper, Mr. Williams, that I refer to you so formally, and you say my name so freely.”
“What would you like to be called? Miss March? I called you Amy when I made your acquaintance, didn’t I?”
“I was a child then, wasn’t I? And we all thought you had an interest in my eldest sister.”
Joseph sobered, adjusting his once-playful expression at the shift in conversation. Amy made no such adjustment, but waited for his reply.
“I was worried my poor handling of your sister’s affection might complicate my very genuine interest in you, Miss March. Although I’d foolishly hoped it wouldn’t.”
“No need for such dramatics, Mr. Williams. My sister is an engaged woman, and I assure you her childhood and momentary infatuation with you is not what complicates your interest,” Amy said.
She adored standing beneath the moon, with a nearby gaslight as a spotlight, a gentle breeze moving her costume skirt, and the edges of her cape. She had no intention of saying so to her company, lest he attribute some of her enjoyment to himself. Joseph Williams had proved to be a man accustomed to being desired, and she would not suffer any expression of arrogance.
“May I ask what does, then?” he asked, a sparkle returning to his eye. They might as well have been playing a game of strategy. After all, Amy could admit to herself, she enjoyed complication.
She took a deep breath before responding, turning her chin so that the light above them caught the glisten of makeup on her cheek.
“How do you mean?”
“You seem as lovestruck as she was thought to be at the time, and I unfortunately…,” she said, and then she sighed.
“Yes?”
“As you were, Mr. Williams, I am devout in my ambitions. I cannot be parted with them on your behalf, as you could not part with the war effort for her.”
When Amy curtseyed in goodbye, and turned again to walk home, Joseph Williams followed.
“I would not think of parting you from your ambitions, Miss March,” he said, and she stopped again. “Though I would appreciate the occasional invitation to be an admiring spectator, and perhaps furnish you with a carriage afterward to safely transport you home.”
Amethyst turned back to face him.
“I have no objection to that courtesy,” she said, stepping back and glancing down at the bouquet of flowers until Joseph understood that he should offer them now. “But you will be the one to wait this time, if it’s me you want, and not just a March bride. I’ll not be engaged before eighteen, not for any man in Boston.”
“A very clearheaded and well-communicated stipulation, Miss March. Now,” he said, gesturing toward the street where a carriage was waiting. “May I see you home?”
* * *
Jo was late again, though at least this wasn’t a proper salon meeting, so only Madeleine Plender waited. She rounded the corner onto Pinckney Street and wove around a couple as they strolled, hurrying as best she could without losing the pages she’d bound with twine and stuffed under her arm. She’d given Madeleine at least thirty pages at the last salon for her and the other members to peruse, and had promised to deliver more soon, which was what she was running to do.
When she reached the home, she tried to collect herself on the stoop before using the knocker, and then posing with as much calm as she could muster.
“Joanna, I’m so glad you were able to come!” Madeleine said, and reached in to kiss the young woman on the cheek.
Jo hesitated and then quickly pecked Madeleine’s cheek before she pulled away. It was not a greeting they’d ever shared, though it was common among the salon members. She entered when invited and led Madeleine into her own drawing room.
“I did not intend to be tardy to see you again, I must apologize. I lost time writing these last few pages, and wanted to include them.” She offered them to the woman, almost shoving them in her excitement, and then patted the twine as though it were more difficult than she expected to part with the work. “I was worried, at first, that writing a book would prove outside my talents,” Jo said, her eyes on the pages. “And yet, the more I write, the freer it comes. It is something entirely new, the experience of writing of my life. I don’t think I would ever have thought to do it, had you not suggested it.”
Jo finally met Madeleine’s eyes, and the woman was smiling softly.
“I’m so glad you’ve taken up the challenge and are finding it rewarding. That’s more than we could have hoped for.”
“And the words themselves?” Jo asked, and she took a seat to demonstrate her readiness. “I’m eager to hear your feedback, and that of the other women.”
“I’ve had the chance to read it, and one or two others, and Joanna, we are beside ourselves with excitement,” Madeleine said, joining her. “Your narrative has all of the elements of successful books of this kind, and you are so skilled at juxtaposing the beauty of your family and your home against the heinous nature of enslavement.”
When Madeleine spoke, she had a way of adding delicate flourishes with her hands and creating a kind of melody with her words that let the hearer know when she was drawing to a close. It surprised Jo to find that Madeleine Plender did not write herself, because she had clearly been instructed on the proper way for a woman to hold an audience’s attention, and she excelled at it. It was how Joanna knew that she was not finished with her assessment. Madeleine’s voice had ended on a higher register than it did when she had come to the end of speaking, and now she watched Joanna, politely, as though awaiting permission to say something that—without invitation—might seem indelicate or upsetting.
“Thank you so much, Madeleine, for your kind words and attention. I would welcome any criticism you might have as well.”
“That’s very gracious, Joanna,” Madeleine said, and she nodded approvingly. “And I find very little to criticize in your work, as you well know. We want in no way to interrupt your unique voice and heritage. In fact, it’s something the women and I have agreed we would like to see more of.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Jo said, and it was evident in the way her brow creased.
“We expect the audience for this slave narrative to be much broader than any you’ve had before. It won’t just be likeminded Northerners and Southern abolitionists taking an interest in this book. Not if we have anything to say about it,” she said, leaning forward, as though sharing a scandalous secret. “Literature has such a power to unite this country, even if only in readership. And any feedback we offer is merely in service of that.”
Jo wished the woman would cease with her long and winding and horribly polite preamble, and tell her what changes she had to suggest, but she only returned Madeleine’s smile and nodded.
“We’ve found that even among the educated Northerner, there persists an affinity for the slave dialect, in writing. Especially when it’s authored by a woman.”
Jo blinked. “Pardon me?”
“It’s what I meant when I spoke of your Southern heritage, Joanna. There’s some authenticity lacking, in the way you present your enslaved past. In the crisp and intellectual wording you choose. We’d hoped you’d consider rewriting it in a more familiar, more rudimentary voice. Which I think would see this book sell well, after which there is so much good work you’d be able to do!”
Jo blinked at Madeleine again, aware of the way it unsettled the woman. She was attempting to maintain a certain kind of friendly candor, and Joanna’s facial expression, or the lack of one, seemed to make that difficult.
“Do you suppose that I spoke in broken English until the moment I was freed?”
“Well, I’m sure it took some time to master the language as you use it now!”
“I have always spoken this way, as does my entire family, and a great many other Black people I knew back home.”
“Of course there may be exceptions, Joanna, but I think it’s reasonable, given their circumstances, that readers would find it hard to believe slaves speak the way you do.”
The room fell quiet then, except for the almost indiscernible sound of Jo’s quick breathing.
“I hardly think you should blame anonymous white people for the way you particularly feel about those of us born into slavery, Madeleine.”
“Joanna, mind your temper—I am only trying to help you succeed at your craft.”
“No, you are trying to help me recognize my place, and stay there. Which is not something I have a mind to do.” She stood abruptly, and forced Madeleine to stand as well.
“Joanna—”
“I would like my pages back, please, Madeleine.”
“I wish you would reconsider your behavior, Joanna. I am not the villain here. I’m the one offering to publish you!”
“So long as I diminish myself. So long as I don’t threaten to take your place, in which I have no interest, though I can see the ways you make up to remind the others not to admire me too much, being from the South and formerly enslaved as I am.”
“How can you speak so impolitely to me, in my own home?” Madeleine said, her hand at her chest.
“I will take my leave of it, if you would please give me my pages.”
Madeleine stood a moment longer, staring at Joanna and clearly beside herself at the way the visit had gone. Then she assembled the early pages Joanna had furnished her with and the ones still bound with twine before leading the young woman back to the
front door.
“I do hope you will reconsider your behavior, Miss March,” Madeleine said when she’d let Jo out and handed her her work. “It has been boorish and indecent, if I am honest.”
“I have come to regard Northern society politeness as being just as deceiving as the etiquette that lived alongside enslavement back home, Mrs. Plender. And so I hope that you will reconsider yours. You have done many great services to this community, and I would hate to think you would so overshadow them.”
Madeleine Plender closed her door without saying goodnight, and once the exchange was over, Jo felt herself shiver with the immediacy of regret.
* * *
Jo couldn’t go home, not when she would only toss and turn for the rest of the night. Not when she needed to know whether she’d proved herself impossible. There was a worry and it would not be relegated to the back of her mind: What if I am the problem?
She stopped on the street, which glistened wet under the gaslights, arrested by the question. There wasn’t enough water to have been from the uncapping of a hydrant, nor was it hot enough to warrant it, and there hadn’t been any rain for at least a week. Its presence shouldn’t bother her—water on the cobblestone streets was not a cause for hesitation or concern to city dwellers, and they never seemed to wonder over its origin.
“Perhaps I think too much,” she told a phantom Lorie, who of course was not beside her that night. He was at his boardinghouse, either rabble-rousing with the other young men who lived there, and who like him worked as daily hires throughout Beacon Hill, or sleeping.
“I shouldn’t go,” Jo said, still standing in the street, and then turned around because the boardinghouse was actually back the way she’d come. “I’ve already been called indecent today.”
She arrived at the brownstone in no time, as the streets were almost entirely deserted, and she’d stalked down them in a particularly unladylike fashion. At the door, she’d rung the bell, and had been met by the woman who oversaw the house and lived in a room directly off the entry. Probably she was situated there to enforce a curfew, if men’s boardinghouses had them.
So Many Beginnings: A Little Women Remix: 2 (Remixed Classics) Page 21