~ LMA
Johanna
I STAYED IN BED LONGER THAN USUAL the next morning. I was certain the household would sleep off their excitement over Louisa’s arrival, and I chose to lie awake in the cot beside May’s bed, musing on the night before and the future that would soon be mine.
In truth, I was a bit frightened to face my friend. It was no secret that I admired Louisa, that I cared for her as the sister I never had. But while I could share my thoughts freely on paper and in a letter, I wondered if I would be able to so easily communicate them face-to-face.
Though she had written of her acceptance of me and Nathan, I wondered if she would approve of a marriage. Fiddlesticks! I got out of bed and began my morning toilet, careful not to wake May, who still slept. This was my life, not Louisa’s. Liberty might be better than love in her eyes, and yet I had never been more independent in my life. More at liberty to choose love. And that meant I needn’t anyone’s approval.
I heard a soft snore coming from Mr. and Mrs. Alcott’s bedroom across the way before I descended the stairs with light steps and stopped short upon finding Louisa at her desk in the parlor. With the creaking of the bottom step, she looked up and smiled.
I suddenly didn’t know what to do with my ringed hand. Putting it before me felt too showy; putting it behind me felt as if I was trying to hide something. “You’re up early,” I said. “I thought for certain you’d sleep late with all the festivities last night.”
“I couldn’t sleep too late, for my curiosity over the account books woke me with the first ray of dawn.” She looked at the ledgers before her. “Things have, as I expected, fallen behind when the moneymaker was away.” But her smile softened her words, and she didn’t seem cross. “Lucky for me I have plenty of offers waiting. There is sudden hoist for a meek and lowly scribbler who was told to ‘stick to her teaching,’ it seems. I will have to become like a spider once more—spinning out my brains for money.”
I smiled. Maybe it was good we spoke now. She seemed in a jolly mood. I could tell her of my plans to marry Nathan, allay any fears she had of turning me away. “I am making plans . . . ,” I began.
She turned toward me fully. “Johanna, you’ve been quite dear to me and my family. And we could still use your help unless you are ready for a new adventure.”
Yes. An adventure. That’s what marriage to Nathan would be. A beautiful, engaging adventure.
“I think I am.”
The corners of Louisa’s mouth turned downward. “I see. Well, I suppose you miss your family. No doubt they miss you.”
“I do, though that is not my plan.” I fidgeted with the ring on my hand, then tentatively, showed her my fingers.
She grasped my hand, her mouth falling open. “Johanna! I had no idea you were quite so serious.”
I breathed deep, relieved to be out with the news. “We are.”
She leaned back in her chair. “It’s beautiful. And you are happy and at peace with the future you have decided for yourself?”
I nodded. “Very.”
“Then I am happy for you.” She stood and embraced me, and I tried to fight off the emotion bubbling in my throat.
We pulled apart. “Thank you,” I said. “For being happy.”
“Have you written your mother?”
I shook my head. “Not yet, but I aim to today.”
“Please know you are welcome to stay here until the wedding.” She grinned. “I admit I’m glad you will be close by.”
“Me too.” I knew I should let her get back to her accounts but could not leave without voicing one question. It was a question I hadn’t let myself think of until now, a question that might be ridiculous to ask, even. And yet, imagining my wedding, imagining George walking me down the aisle when I wished John could be the one to do so, propelled me to voice my thoughts. “Louisa, do you think John would be pleased?”
She looked at me steadily then, and I almost regretted the question at once. For Louisa was nothing if she wasn’t honest, and I didn’t know if I wanted her honest answer.
“I believe he would be pleased you are happy, dear. And I’ve no doubt you are a good judge of character. That you have spent adequate time with Nathan to know what type of man he is, that you haven’t one doubt he will treat you well to the end of your days. That you have thought long and prayed hard about your decision, that you are not merely being swept away by emotions like my Sylvia in Moods.”
No doubts. Yes, of course I hadn’t any. But like a rooster crowing at an ungodly hour of the morning, the memory of Nathan shoving me aside, of the fallen and broken plate of cookies, clamored for attention. I thrust it aside. He had apologized, had shown himself a man of upright character these past several months. All was well. And as far as thinking and praying, wasn’t love about more than thought? Wasn’t it an instinct of sort, a knowing? Surely God directed my heart in this matter. This was where I belonged. I’d felt it the moment I’d come to Concord, and now that I had the entirety of my life with Nathan to look forward to, I felt certain that this was where it was all to lead me. To the man I loved. A man who wanted me forever and always by his side. A man passionate about the very same things as me—the rebuilding of our country through literature and writing. We would work together, be a team not just in marriage but in benefiting society through our words.
I wanted it so badly I could nearly taste it on the edge of my tongue, as sweet as a peppermint drop and ten times more satisfying.
Why should Louisa have to ruin it by comparing me to one of her characters? And that flighty girl Sylvia, no less. She had learned a hard lesson in Moods. But I was not some fictional character. This was real. This was life.
Still, I had opened this line of talk with my own question. I must affirm Louisa’s statements that I did indeed, have no doubts.
I nodded. “Of course I am certain of this. With all my heart.”
Louisa turned back to her ledgers. “Then I am quite certain John would be pleased.”
We decided upon a September wedding. Nathan sent fare for Mother and George’s little family and invited them to stay at his home the week of the wedding.
The ceremony proved a small affair. Mrs. Alcott had been ill of late and Louisa hired another girl, devoting herself to her marmee as she spun away at what she called one of her “sensational” tales dubbed Fair Rosamond.
Louisa alone made her way up the drive to Nathan’s backyard to watch the minister marry us. George, proud and tall, gave me away while Mother dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. A modest crowd of Nathan’s friends, many whom I’d just met for the first time, along with his uncle and a few acquaintances from church, also joined us in the celebration.
Mother and George’s stay was all too short, however, and soon Nathan and I bade them goodbye at the station and were off to our brief seaside excursion.
Life as a married woman proved to be bliss. I’d never seen Nathan happier and for once he seemed at peace with his uncle and his career. We settled into his home, where I enjoyed keeping house and cooking for him, always encouraging him to invite his friends whenever he chose. He did not go to Boston as much and many times we acted as silly as two children, chasing one another around the house, laughing and teasing until we ended up in the bedroom in one another’s arms.
One night I came to him as he sat on the outside porch. The sun bade good night earlier as the year waned, and I snuggled into the crook of his waiting arm where he sat in the porch swing. I held a few papers in my lap. An important piece of myself I wanted him to have. Papers of vulnerable words I wished to share with him. My poetry.
I’d hoped he’d ask about them, but he just kept pushing his feet to move the swing, staring off at the lingering sun as the gentle chirp of crickets sang it to sleep.
“I wanted to show you some of my writing. My poems.” I quelled my anticipation. There was so much that could be lost in this moment. He could read them and think less of me. He could think them nothing more than silly sentim
ental scribbles. Or he could pretend to like them to spare my feelings.
He closed his eyes, leaned his head back in the chair. “I’m tired, Johanna. Might we look at them together tomorrow?”
I didn’t answer straightaway, for surprise stopped me from doing so. “Yes . . . yes, of course.”
But the next day was busy, and Nathan never asked after my writing in the weeks to come. Every time I thought to bring it up, fear of being brushed aside kept my mouth closed.
Like any young wife, I vowed to be a light in my husband’s world—to try to please him in every way, to keep home a pleasant place. I insisted that Ivan was no longer needed as I had nothing to do but see the house ran smoothly. Quite honestly, I did not want to share the duties—or the house—with the older gentleman, and once he left and Nathan saw how cozy it was with just the two of us, he was pleased.
As was normal with most anything, the newness of our marriage began to wear off after several months. The playfulness settled to what I believed was something realer, truer. But the “truer” thing came with that familiar shadowed look of Nathan’s as Christmas came and went and the doldrums of winter settled upon us. He resumed his Boston trips and sometimes at night, he would lock himself alone in his study for hours while I sat by the fire mending clothes or carving away at a poem or two by candlelight.
I once left a poem on his dresser. A gift to him, certainly, but a relatively simple and lighthearted endeavor that bared my heart and feelings for him all the same, disclosing this part of myself that I longed to share but that he persistently neglected to see.
I read it over one more time before leaving it with a few brilliantly colored autumn leaves.
KISSING IN THE KITCHEN
The kitchen door opens,
Expectation enters.
She holds her breath.
He passes her
and places his lunch pail
on the corner counter.
His scent is of winter
when it’s warm inside.
She longs to go there.
The moment lingers,
her breath still holding
inside her heart.
A step closer he comes.
She feels his warmth.
Inevitable embrace
awaits,
while she inhales
him and hates that he
is so far away.
Then it goes,
the moment
of too-far distance,
and he folds
her inside his
strength.
She no longer waits
or wants,
for there it is,
kissing
in the kitchen.
When he came home later that day and placed his lunch pail on the counter, he came to me with surety, kissed me with enough passion to create a small, crackling fire within me.
“Thank you for the poem,” he said.
I smiled up at him, my heart singing. “Did you like it?” I asked, sure he must have with a response like that.
He tapped my nose. “It is adorable. Just like you.”
Adorable.
The word was meant to be a compliment. Why did it feel an insult? Did he think my verses nothing more than childish musings to fawn over? Did he not see any literary promise in them?
That night, he hid himself away in his study again. When I knocked upon the door and entered at his call, I did not miss the shining glass of liquid sparkling by the firelight. It couldn’t be. He’d promised, after all . . .
“I wanted to check in on you. See if you need anything.” Such as my company.
He shook his head, his eyes glassy as he stared into his drink. “I am to be the one to take care of you.” He seemed to do battle with something within himself, only I did not know how to give him what he needed for victory.
“Leave, Johanna. Now, please.”
I did, going to my cold bed, feeling an intruder in my own home. I had such high expectations about our future together, our marriage. Had I been blind?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Life is my college. May I graduate well, and earn some honors!
~ LMA
Johanna
I STRAIGHTENED from where I was picking currants from our bushes and wiped my sweatied brow with the backs of my berry-stained hands. The warmer weather seemed to bring hope to our household. I had decided to foster that hope with one of Nathan’s favorites—currant jam. He’d given me enough money in the household account to order jars and sugar, and I had spent the last two days gathering the ripe berries.
I knew if Nathan saw me, he would insist on hiring a boy. It seemed to bother him when I did what he considered “common” work, and yet I thought it healthful for my mind and body, and it did not bother me. I did not tell him that I often visited the Alcotts to help when I could, as both Louisa and her mother had recently suffered the rheumatic fever. The last I visited, Mrs. Alcott was half-blind, Mr. Alcott seemed to have aged tremendously, and Louisa herself seemed weak and a bit nervous—not at all how I remembered her.
She insisted on paying me what she could when I helped, and only to soothe her pride did I accept. I often wondered if it were easier for her to think of me as “the help” rather than a friend who simply wanted to help.
I lugged the currants into the kitchen, smiling as I thought of Nathan’s reaction to seeing a stock of jam in the pantry that night. I donned my checkered apron and opened my copy of Mrs. Cornelius’s book with all the determination of a runner set for a grueling race. I imagined Nathan slathering the jam on my fresh bread, how he would look at me with surprise and pleasure when he tasted the sweet spread upon his tongue.
I had seen Mother make jam plenty and had even helped her once, but to my dismay, and despite my ardent efforts to boil, strain, and sugar it, the mixture proved too runny and would not for the life of it become a beautiful, smooth concoction.
And still I did not give up, trying to reheat and resugar and scold the liquid into jelling. The sun began its slow descent, and I knew I should be cooking the mutton, for Nathan was to arrive any minute, and yet I could not release the thought of all those beautiful currants gone to waste.
Finally, looking at the mess of a kitchen, runny currant mixture all over my new jars and pans and stove, I slumped onto the floor, admitting defeat, and sobbed into my checkered apron.
I had opened the window to allow the burnt sugar smell to clear out of the kitchen, and above my sobs I heard a carriage mounting the drive. My tears flowed all the more, for I liked to be waiting for him on the porch, the scents of a simmering supper wafting to greet him. Still, would he not understand? Surely, as soon as Nathan saw me in such a state, he would take me in his arms and assure me that all would be just fine in the end. That he didn’t care about jam as much as he cared about being home with me.
I heard the carriage stop and then . . . voices. One was Nathan’s. The other, a man’s voice I didn’t recognize.
Of all days! He’d brought company home. In my early days of housekeeping, when I was certain that being a wife and having dinners on the table would be a feasible task, I had told him to invite guests whenever he saw fit. And he had beamed at me as though I were the sweetest girl in all the world. Only now . . . oh, he should most certainly have sent word!
I fell further into despair and did not even bother getting off the floor or fixing my hair or wiping currant juice from my face. What did it matter?
The voices again, then footsteps in the house and Nathan’s voice. “Dear? Are you home?”
“I’m here,” I answered weakly. I didn’t bother to lift my head, for I didn’t want to see the shadow of disappointment cross his face at the untidy kitchen, at the mess I had made.
Did I imagine the foul word that came from his mouth upon entering?
I waited for him to come to me, to kneel on the floor beside me and wrap me in his strong arms, to call me “dear” again and ask what was wrong. But he
didn’t, and I lifted my head. “I’m sorry, Nathan. I’ve ruined it all.”
His chest puffed out in a deep breath as he surveyed the kitchen again, his gaze finally landing on me. “I’ve brought Charles home. Charles Inglewood. I invited him to stay for the night. We’re to talk of the possibility of a new venture. What I’ve been wanting to do . . .”
I swiped at my eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He paced the kitchen, raked a hand through his hair. “He can’t stay. Not like this. Not with you . . .” He looked at me again, and I’d never felt so inadequate before him. Yes, sometimes he came to bed late and seemed to avoid me. Sometimes he could be withdrawn or surly, but he had never, never looked at me as he did in that moment. Such displeasure, even disgust, that I felt certain he regretted marrying me.
I didn’t know what else to offer, what would improve the situation, if anything.
“I will drive him into town and put him up in the boardinghouse. We will fetch dinner and do our business there. Perhaps by tomorrow morning, you could be presentable for a breakfast.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” I wanted to help him. I would redeem myself.
“Very well.”
And he was gone. Without a peck on the cheek or a kind word.
I heard him explaining away the change of plans by claiming me ill, and a rebellious part of me wished to pop out of the house in my currant-stained checkered apron and prove him a liar. He had been gone for days! Hadn’t he enough time to talk business? Why must he bring it home and then desert me when I felt such a failure?
I sank to the floor again as the horse clopped back down our driveway, and I let the tears come.
Much later, when they were dry, I got to work cleaning the kitchen. More than anything, I wanted to run down to Orchard House, to pour my troubles out to Louisa. But she was in one of her writing spells, composing fairy tales for a Christmas book that Mr. Fuller had requested.
I could not bother her with such a trifle as jam. And I knew she would take my side—say that Nathan should not have given me such a great burden and surprise when we had not spoken for days about such affairs as dinners.
The Orchard House Page 18