Little Woman in Blue

by Jeannine Atkins

  May welcomed the entire Emerson family. Edith had left her baby at home with the servants and brought camellias from her greenhouse. Dan French, who told her he was continuing to sculpt, and his father offered congratulations. Most of May’s students were there. Some had brought beaux, brothers, and cousins, so there were plenty of gentlemen who held the doors as if May didn’t open them herself dozens of times a day. Alice couldn’t manage the trip from New York City, but May had hardly expected her to come all that way.

  A light rain drummed on the windows and slate roof, mixing with the sound of a fiddle brought by a neighbor. May would have wished for sun, but at least the overcast sky meant a forgiving light was cast on the worn furniture. Soon there was dancing as well as soft, satisfying exclamations as May put Concord Sketches into guests’ hands. She turned the wide pages past the preface right to the drawings. She poured a glass of Mr. Bull’s grape wine for John, who watched his boys play among stacked books they pretended were bridges and castles.

  Hearing a knock on the front door, May opened it to greet Mr. Niles, who had more gray in his dark hair and more droop in his mustache than when she’d last seen him. She said, “How kind of you to come!”

  “I wouldn’t miss the chance to congratulate you. And Mr. Fields for his good luck to have you as an author, or I suppose I should say artist.” As Mr. Niles stepped inside and stamped his feet on the mat, he looked around and said, “It’s rather like the parlor in your sister’s book.”

  “Perhaps a bit.” Only that morning she’d been glad that the geraniums had bloomed and been pleased with the effect of a velvet swathe she’d arranged behind the bust she’d made of Father. But now it took all her strength to keep from apologizing for the humble furnishings. “I’m afraid the weather kept Mr. and Mrs. Fields home.”

  “A wise decision. I left looking more dapper, but I had to help the groom dig the carriage wheels out of the mud. And where is your hardworking sister? Back at her desk?”

  “In the kitchen.” May wondered if she was keeping out of the way so no one would gush about her book instead of May’s. Or was she bored or even jealous? Was that why she’d written so cruelly in the first place?

  “People are already asking for a sequel,” Mr. Niles said.

  “Why, the ink is hardly dry.”

  “And we’ve sold twenty-five thousand copies. We’re planning a gala to celebrate its first anniversary.”

  She nodded. “I must see to other guests. But let me introduce you to my mother. Where did she go?” She checked the kitchen, then ran upstairs. After looking through all the rooms, she glanced through a window and saw Mother on her knees under the elm tree. May ran downstairs, out through the rain, and kneeled beside her.

  “Where are my lilies of the valley?” Mother asked. “Remember how I wore them in my hair at my wedding?”

  “They’ll come back.” May heard the rain patter on the leaves above her, falling more softly on the ground.

  11

  THE GALA

  May checked her reflection, adjusted her jet earbobs, and practiced her smile in a room where maids helped ladies arrange their hair and brushed dust from their hems. The townhouse was spacious, but she’d felt crowded as she passed guests including some of the most eminent families in Boston, all expensively if not fashionably dressed, in rooms scented with lilies and beeswax dripping from candelabras. It seemed as if everyone, or at least their wives or daughters, had read Louisa’s book. The event celebrating its first anniversary had even lured Alice back to Massachusetts.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” she said. “New York isn’t such a backwater as we’ve been told, but it’s still difficult to meet the proper sort of gentlemen. Oh, May, how thrilling for you to be in a book.”

  “I told you, I’m not. Most everything is made up.”

  “You’ll do better than Julian, but I’m glad Louisa had the youngest sister marry the dashing neighbor and have a baby. Even if I can’t understand why she hinted that their poor little girl might die.”

  “I should go make sure she doesn’t glare at admirers.” May found it hard not to feel annoyed that Alice seemed giddy to be here, while she hadn’t come for May’s own smaller celebration.

  “I wanted to ask you about …” Alice reached for her wrist.

  “We’ll talk later.” May headed toward Louisa, whose high-collared black dress would be all right for church, but not a gala, and certainly not one given in her honor. As usual, she wore her brown hair parted in the middle and pinned above her neck. She’d refused to see Madame Canagalli, the Italian hairdresser favored by the city’s elite, saying, “People come to see what success looks like and feel better when it looks ordinary.”

  But no one seemed disappointed. Many snuck peeks at the family, too, as if trying to decide if their mother was as wise as the one in Little Women and whether Anna could be as good-tempered as the oldest sister. May supposed they thought of her as the girl so jealous of a sister that she’d shove her life’s work into the fire, and so careless of her own life’s work that she’d swap it for a young man she didn’t love with her whole heart. One lady told May, “It seems Louisa, with her way with words, is following in your father’s footsteps. How extraordinary to have two famous people in one family.”

  May supposed she meant that three renowned people in a family would be impossible. She accepted a glass of sparkling wine she carried past a grand piano, a harp, and ladies holding tiny bouquets that swayed as they danced, flashing color and fragrance. Father stooped over a table laden with sliced chicken sandwiches, creamed oysters, and iced cakes. He explained the benefits of whole grains to maids who silently poured Madeira wine, though not to the rims of the crystal glasses. This was Boston. May wasn’t surprised that the cream puffs were sliced in half.

  She sat between Mother and Anna, who’d left her ear trumpet at home. When people approached, she did little but nod and try to look agreeable.

  “I used to know Boston, but this isn’t the same city.” Mother’s gray-brown eyes widened. “My grandfather was a minister here.”

  May squeezed her hand and leaned toward Anna, speaking with her mouth near her ear. “Stop fretting about the boys. They’ll be fine for one night.”

  “This is the first time we’ve left them with someone who isn’t family. And John doesn’t get out much.”

  “Like you. Is he all right?” May had noticed how he increasingly depended on his cane, which he must have left with the cloaks. Strangers were apt to ask if he’d injured his leg in the war, and May expected he found it easier to lean on a wall than to watch sympathy fade from faces as he explained that his legs had hurt so severely and for so long that he’d never fought.

  “He works hard and doesn’t complain. We don’t live in style, but we’re happy.”

  “Like the young women in Louisa’s book.”

  “It’s a good story. Though I’m afraid Lu doesn’t know much about being a mother.”

  “Perhaps you’ll write the real story. Father always said your sentences were the finest.”

  “He liked my penmanship. Besides, that was years ago. Now one sister is a published author. Another brings art to our town. And what have I done?”

  “Father says your children are your masterpieces, and there could be nothing finer.” May looked up as a girl hurried toward her with a book, saying, “Please, Miss Alcott, may I have your autograph?”

  “I believe you’re looking for the author.” May pointed her mother-of-pearl fan toward Louisa.

  “Then you must be Amy. Didn’t you marry Laurie?”

  “No.” May’s voice was louder than it should have been. “No, I haven’t married anyone.”

  The girl backed away. May sighed. She hadn’t meant to frighten the poor child. As Louisa, Father, and Aunt Bond claimed chairs next to theirs, Mother whispered, “Where are we?”

  “Boston,” May said.

  “Everything’s changed,” Mother said. “Boys ride their horses so fast, it’s
a danger just to cross the streets. There are warehouses where there were once homes and churches.”

  Anna told Aunt Bond, “This may become just like Uncle Tom’s Cabin, with Uncle Tom coffee cups and little Eva lamps. Louisa gets stacks of letters from girls asking for another book about the March sisters.”

  “Why, soon I may be known as the father of Louisa May Alcott,” Father said.

  Everyone laughed politely.

  “It’s too bad, dear, about your illustrations.” Aunt Bond put her wrinkled hand on May’s wrist. “I’m glad I have my first edition.”

  “I tried to keep her pictures, but editors don’t bother about what authors think. They care only about sales,” Louisa said.

  “Publishing is all about favors. They have an artist they owe work to, who might be somebody’s friend. There’s no loyalty to excellence,” Father said. “People laughed at Michelangelo, too.”

  “Father, they were right. The girls did look swollen,” May said. “And engravers changed the quality of the lines.”

  “But to call your command of anatomy slipshod,” Aunt Bond said. “What was it, that the heads were too big? Or too small? What a shame.”

  “Aunt Bond, will you be attending the new concert series in the Athenæum?” Anna tried to change the subject.

  “The Athenæum isn’t what it once was. The new pictures are so dark that I can hardly tell who is who,” Aunt Bond replied.

  “A review is just one man’s opinion. And critics are always jealous,” Louisa said. “I’m sorry that your illustrations weren’t put in the reprints. You know I tried to …”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The last thing May wanted was pity. She was glad to see Mr. Niles coming toward them.

  Louisa introduced Mr. Niles to Aunt Bond, who said, “You’re my niece’s editor? We were just saying how our May …”

  “How we appreciate your work,” May interrupted.

  “But we won’t talk business.” Mr. Niles extended his white-gloved hand to Louisa. A perfect half-inch of cuff showed from under the sleeves of his swallowtail coat. “Success becomes you.”

  “All I want of success is that it make me a better person.” Louisa tightened her lips.

  “Poverty is the philosopher’s crown,” Father said.

  Violinists lowered their bows. Dozens of white-gloved hands clapping made a padded noise. A new piece began, and feet swept, scuffed, and swished over the floor, which had springs installed underneath to add bounce to the dancers’ steps.

  Mr. Niles asked Louisa, “Would the guest of honor care to dance?”

  “I’m afraid I must stand here and write my name,” she replied, as a girl thrust a copy of Little Women toward her.

  “Yes, the duties of celebrity.” He turned to May. “Might I have the honor?”

  “I’m not a celebrity, and I have no duties.” She dipped her right knee and curved her fingers for him to take.

  “I would have thought a belle such as you had her dance card filled.” Mr. Niles’s smooth pink fingernails and pearl cuff links contrasted with his dark coat and black, silver-streaked hair.

  “I always leave a space for the best-dressed man in the hall.”

  He offered her his elbow, shook his handkerchief, set it on her half-bare shoulder, and put his left hand on top. As they waltzed, she let her fan tap the space between his shoulder blades. She smelled soap, the cream-colored gardenia in his lapel, and something waxy in his moustache. As they glided into a pas de basque, she thought his arms seemed strong for a literary man. But while he could execute a perfect glissade and chassé, he didn’t try to tug her closer than was proper.

  “I’m afraid your sister is enjoying none of this,” he said.

  “She’d be happier writing in her room.”

  “But these days, an author must also meet the public.”

  “We’re very proud of her.”

  “So family loyalty isn’t part of the fiction?”

  “You read Louisa’s book?”

  “Not every word, though my assistant did. Generally, I prefer more action. My favorite scene was when the hot-headed writer skates away while her pretty younger sister falls through the ice.”

  “Not a word of it is true.” When the music stopped, she thanked him and said, “That girl is clawing the hem of Louisa’s skirt. I’d better help out, before she steps on her fingers.”

  As she headed toward Louisa, Alice grabbed her arm and pulled her from the dance floor.

  “Haven’t you met any eligible men?” May asked.

  “I came here to talk to you. May, my aunt said I may finally go to Europe, but I can’t travel alone. They’re all watchful that I don’t get swindled, but I need a friend who might guide me. My aunt says we might provide for your expenses.”

  “To go to Europe! Your family would pay for the voyage?”

  “And the inns and travel while we’re there.”

  May shrieked and hugged her. The violins in the next room got louder.

  “There is a condition.” Alice stepped out of her arms. “Your sister must come, too. If we traveled with someone so renowned, we might be given rooms with views and the liveliest dinner tables.”

  “Louisa is awfully busy now.” May felt her heart thump. “She’s already been to Europe and didn’t have much good to say about it when she returned.”

  “She’s too polite to trumpet her adventures to you. May, I’m an orphan now and must listen to elders willing to guide me. My guardians insist that I must make the trip worthwhile, and they think that Louisa might be a way for me to meet the best people.”

  “You mean the wealthiest people.”

  “Don’t raise your eyebrows. You want a well-to-do suitor as much as I do.”

  “I don’t call such people ‘best.’ What about love?”

  “I understand some marry people with lesser fortunes, but I’ve never been that kind of romantic. And don’t think New York has made me craven. I’m not thinking only of myself, but must look out for my family, too.”

  “I’ll talk to Louisa.” May gave her a quick hug, then walked away, telling herself that all that mattered was that she might finally cross the sea. If they left soon, she might see the spring Salon in Paris and arrive before her birthday. For a few more months, she could honestly tell people that she was in her twenties.

  She broke into a group of girls surrounding Louisa. “Pardon us, but I need a word with my sister.” As May whisked her to a quieter corner, Louisa said, “Thank you for rescuing me. A gentleman told me that his wife had read my book, expecting me to be flattered. Because his wife apparently can’t speak for herself? Because he can’t be bothered to pick up my novel himself? Maybe he’s right. I wanted to write something worthy.” Louisa glanced at Father, who’d pulled some papers from his pocket and seemed in danger of delivering a poem.

  “Everybody else loves your book. You didn’t write it for Father,” May said.

  “I write everything for him. At least everything I put my name on.”

  “Then that’s your mistake. Maybe you should take a pseudonym more often. You’ve achieved your dream, and you’ve never looked so miserable. You have silk dresses and fame …”

  “I hate how people speak of mine as ‘sudden’ when I’ve worked for twenty years.”

  “You must simply say ‘Thank you,’ the way Mother taught us. And try to be happy.”

  “I craved fame so much that I never prized what I had. A writer has to observe others. It’s easier when they’re not staring back.”

  “Then we must fix that. Let’s go to Europe and meet people who’ve never heard of Little Women and don’t expect the author to be a genius or a saint. You can be yourself, or invisible, if you choose. Alice asked me to go with her! She’ll pay my expenses. All I have to do is lecture to her on the differences between Renaissance and Medieval Madonnas.”

  “I’m so happy for you!” Louisa threw her arms around her.

  “You should come, too. I don’t think Alice woul
d mind.” May thought it wise to conceal that this was required, which might only alarm or annoy Louisa.

  “I’ve already been,” Louisa said.

  “As a nurse, who couldn’t go where she pleased.”

  “We can’t go to Europe when Mother is so—not herself.”

  “We’ll write to her. We’ll describe everything, and she’ll enjoy it as much as if she were with us.”

  “Her health could worsen, and it would take weeks or even more in the middle of winter to make plans to sail back. And we must think of Father.”

  “He’ll live to be one hundred.”

  “It’s the healthiest people who surprise us.”

  “Didn’t your doctor order rest? You’ll do that better away from home, with me looking out that you don’t overdo.”

  “I suppose you want to go to Germany.”

  “To see Julian? No, that’s over.” May thought of how his mother had written to hers that the girls were taking piano lessons with Clara Schumann, a most talented woman as well as a mother of eight, and Julian was doing very well in his engineering classes. May suspected he spent more time in cafés with tankards of bier than he did in lecture halls. She looked past Louisa to an oil painting of a girl holding a baby lamb signed with a name that looked French. “I have dreams besides romance. I’m not that girl you made up, who gives up art because she’s not a genius.”

  “May, you’re talented, but …”

  “Don’t say it. No one ever tells you that you can’t rival Shakespeare or Dickens.”

  “I hear that all the time.”

  “From someone besides yourself? Lu, isn’t it time to rest on your laurels, as you never have before?”

  “I have been tired. My doctor says I should stop writing for a while. A real vacation might finally cure me from whatever I got in the hospital during the war. You don’t think Alice would mind if an old lady tagged along?”

  “The eminent author? I’m sure I could persuade her.”

  “I’m not only worried about Alice,” Louisa said. “I’m not sorry I wrote my book, but I’m sorry I hurt you.”