She knelt and filled the trunk with her small notebooks with accounts of silk stockings, yellow gloves, lace, watercolor paper, and sales from her paintings. She tied a thin blue ribbon around her old diaries and letters, tucking in her green refusé card and a pine twig that would turn brittle but that might leave a scent. She packed her antique dagger, her jewelry box, and the locket with Mother’s picture. Before including her work basket, she took out her scissors and snipped off a lock of her hair. She sealed it in an envelope, which she labeled: May, December 1879.
She pushed herself off the floor to gather her stack of watercolors. She crouched before the hearth like the girl in Louisa’s book, but it was her own masterpiece, not her sister’s, that she moved toward flames that rose yellow, orange, blue, and silver-gray. Embers glowed and swelled. These paintings of violets, roses, and geraniums were the best work she’d ever done, but Louisa hadn’t asked to see them. Her sister already knew May had won places in the Salon and had a husband and baby she adored. Enough jealousy had come between them. Why shouldn’t May spare her from seeing paintings in which she’d shown joy and grief in the same space?
She pushed them toward the fire. As edges blackened from the heat, hissed, and curled, she snatched them out. A scream caught in her throat as she scorched her fingertips. She yanked back her hand, dropping a painting in the coals. It was caught by a larger flame, swallowed, puffed, then crumbled into ash.
She blew on her fingers to soothe them. She remembered standing by the old bridge, promising to give Louisa something that mattered and to be with her when she was dying. Wasn’t Louisa’s worst fear to be alone? May picked up a fallen bootie, curled her hand around it, and dug her fingernails into her palm. She called, “Ernst! Please! Bring the baby.”
He dashed into the room and crouched beside her. “What are you doing on the floor?”
“I was cold.”
“Yes, your hands are freezing.”
“Please. Bring Louisa.”
He helped her back to bed, then brought in their child.
With hands that smelled slightly smoky, May stroked her sweet-smelling head. She looked up at Ernst. “Our baby’s healthy, isn’t she? That’s all that matters.”
“No! That isn’t enough.” Ernst looked as horrified as May had felt when Anna had said almost the same words, years and years ago. May loved him for this innocence. He was young and beautiful and had eyes that always seemed to be on her and not the baby, who’d grown so much during the past weeks. May touched her lips to the top of her downy head. Her whole face puckered in delight.
“Promise me something,” she said.
“Anything, dearest,” Ernst said.
“If I don’t live, I want Louisa to raise her.” Her voice scraped up, deep and urgent.
“May, the baby is fine. And so are you.”
“Promise.” She didn’t know how many words were left to her, and she couldn’t waste one. In his grief, Ernst might neglect this precious girl. She knew that his mother and Sophie would mind her for a while, but they had other cares, too. Madame Nieriker already had children. Sophie was likely to marry before long and have babies of her own.
“I don’t know what to say when you’re this way.”
“Just say yes. Oh, Ernst, if only Louisa could know a little of the love we’ve had. I want to make things right for her.”
“May, I need you.”
“And I want you to be free.” She looked him in the eye. “You’ll go to Brazil or look for Mr. Edison. Someday you’ll find another wife.”
“There never could be anyone else.”
“I had everything I wanted. You and our baby and painting. Now you and our beautiful girl must be free. She’s small, but born in France, raised in America, she’ll know that two continents can be hers.”
“May, you must get better!”
“This is Louisa’s only chance for a child.”
“She’s not young. You’ve told me she’s not well.”
“A baby will make her feel young again.”
“Perhaps your sister Anna would care for a baby, if you insist on such things.”
“She has her boys. It’s Lu who needs someone to care for. Ernst, she would teach her right from wrong. She wouldn’t let her waste her time on foolish things.” Maybe Louisa would brush her hair and tell her stories about her maman, a pretty woman who was sometimes selfish, sometimes vain, but who had followed her great dream. And for as long as she could, for as well as she could, Louisa would assure their girl that she wasn’t alone.
“If it will give you peace, I’ll promise. But I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Her heart ached for him, but she felt strangely calm, too, as she kissed the baby’s eyelids. She had loved France, but she wanted her daughter to know the hills she’d known as a girl. She wanted her to draw on the walls of her old home, to tug her grandfather’s white hair, and, when she grew older, to try to scramble up his bookshelves. May’s child should meet her cousins, boys who’d teach her to skate around the river bend, and, in summer, to swim and row a boat.
She handed Ernst the baby, letting her palm slip from the round, precious head. “Will you write a letter to Louisa for me? Tell her I was happy.” May closed her eyes. She was lucky. That hadn’t changed. She’d married a man she loved with her whole heart and gave birth to a daughter. Friends and strangers in Boston, London, and Paris had chosen her flower panels for their walls. She had climbed a mountain in the Alps. She’d published a book of her landscapes and written a guidebook she hoped would coax other women to travel and paint in England, Italy, and France.
Ernst twined his fingers through hers.
May wanted to stay with him and see their baby grow, but the room was turning dark. The cradle creaked too loudly. Had she fallen asleep? Was her fever worsening? Her breath became ragged. Did the church bells clang thirty-nine times, one for every year of her life? Were those the songs of robins, wood thrushes, and phoebes? She clutched as if reaching for a long stem beneath bobbing blossoms. She must hold on. She must let go. Why was everything so dark? Why was she shivering? The flames in the hearth burned brighter. The room was getting smaller, or was it the world, or the hours?
As her breaths shortened, pictures from her past expanded. Lilies opened all at once, turning the river white and gold. Standing by the bridge, Louisa urged her to go to Paris. Striding down the Champs-Élysées, May held a programme with her name in it. Ernst’s hand stroked her hair. The baby scrunched her perfect mouth. A girl waved her father’s handbills in the park, a coin folded in her hand under the sky that had always touched her and the earth.
23
TWENTY-EİGHT DRESSES
Louisa pinched the edges of her shawl together, trying to keep out the cold New England wind. Around her on the wharf, people waved to passengers waiting to leave the ship. Louisa quietly gazed at the ocean, blue in the afternoon sunlight, but saw nothing beautiful in its waves or wideness. She slipped a hand into the pocket that held May’s last letter, sent by Ernst a year ago. She’d memorized some words: “Whatever happens, I want you to know that these past two years of happiness made it all worthwhile. Everything is perfect.”
But it wasn’t, Louisa thought. She’d grieved ever since she’d found Mr. Emerson in their parlor, standing before the portrait of May in her blue hat. His eyes looked almost unbearably sad as he said, “May’s husband wrote to me so that you might hear the news from an old friend. If only I could prepare you.”
“I am prepared. I expected this,” Louisa said. Those were the only words she could find that kept her from falling into his arms and embarrassing them both. After Mr. Emerson shut the door, she tipped her head, the way May used to do before an unfinished painting, picked up her bolster pillow, threw it against the wall, and screamed.
In spring, a ship had brought trunks from Paris. Louisa had kneeled before one to take out a sewing basket, notebooks, and a tin of watercolors with tubes labeled bleu de ciel, géranium, and
terre d’ombre. She shook out dried pine needles as she unfolded gowns that May had worn to all her fancy dinners and her blue smock. What had May thought she could do with clothes she wouldn’t wear, paints she couldn’t use, and diaries written in handwriting she’d never see fresh again? Why had she sent paintings she couldn’t bear to hang?
But the baby! Sending her was the worst idea of all. The infant had been too young to risk the crossing in spring, then that summer, Louisa was plagued by a fever that flared off and on for months. It hadn’t been until six weeks ago that she’d sent a nurse overseas to fetch the baby. Now she wondered if she should have waited even longer. Maybe May had had everything she’d ever wanted, but why did she think everyone wanted the same things she did? Whatever had made her think that at forty-eight, Louisa was fit and willing to start raising a child? She already had Father, Anna, and her boys to worry about.
The harbor grew noisier as passengers hurried down the gangplank, shouting greetings. Louisa spotted the short, plump nurse, but Mrs. Giles’s arms were empty. Where was May’s child? The ship’s captain walked beside her, and so did a tall young woman whose loose hair blew in the sea breeze. She held a baby on her hip.
For a moment, Louisa felt as if she might be waking from a nightmare and that May was coming home. Then she realized that the woman must be Ernst’s sister, who’d insisted on coming to see May’s daughter safely to Massachusetts. It had seemed a waste of time and money to Louisa. She’d offered capable Mrs. Giles a handsome salary for her help. But there was nothing Louisa could say, since the Nieriker family was paying Sophie’s way. Louisa just hoped that Ernst’s sister didn’t expect to be entertained. She’d made a list of good, clean inns where a young woman might safely stay and meant to encourage her to spend most of her time in Boston.
Louisa greeted Mrs. Giles, introduced herself to Sophie, and shook hands with the captain. Then her eyes fell on the baby. Her round face looked rosy. Her eyes were the same blue as the forget-me-nots stitched along the neckline of her frock.
“I’ll see that our luggage gets where it should,” Mrs. Giles said.
Louisa nodded as she briskly set off.
“Thank you for everything you did for us.” Sophie gave her hand to the captain, who held it a bit too long, then bowed as he excused himself.
“He was so sweet to our little traveler.” Sophie tightened her grip on the little girl, who clutched Sophie’s bonnet and tried to yank if off. Failing that, the child tugged at the ribbons of her own little hat.
Sophie laughed, then gently pushed away her soft small hand. “She hates hats. We put them on. She takes them off. I’m afraid she got a bit brown, but you know how small those cabins are. We could hardly keep her inside all the time.”
“I expect the sea air was good for her.”
“Yes. May was always opening windows. And she so loved the ocean!” Sophie’s eyes brimmed with tears. “How you must miss her. Through those terrible weeks, she kept asking for you.”
Louisa nodded curtly. She thought how it wasn’t only that Sophie Nieriker wore her hair the way May did, but she was selfish like her, too, thinking that everyone must want to hear whatever she felt like saying.
“We dressed May in white and covered the casket with flowers,” Sophie said.
Louisa looked away. Wouldn’t she ever stop talking?
“Did my maman write you that Ernst left for Brazil? He needs to forget. I mean, of course he’ll remember. He has work there, and …”
“Work is the best medicine.”
The little girl tugged her hat again, this time managing to pull it off. She threw it down to the wharf, revealing puffs of reddish-gold hair.
“Lulu, no!” Sophie sighed, smiled, and bent to pick up the hat. “She’s determined. And clever, too.”
“You call her ‘Lulu’?”
“‘Louisa’ seemed like such a long name for a baby, so we started to call her ‘Lu.’ May told us she used to call you that. She babbles all the time, but she’s said some words, including ‘Lu.’ Her own name! The little darling was so proud. She’d say it over and over, so we began calling her ‘Lulu.’” Sophie hoisted up the small girl. “I’m sorry. You must think me selfish, keeping her to myself. Lulu, you must meet your dear aunt.”
Before Louisa could speak, the child was in her arms. Lulu twisted her head to see who was holding her, then squirmed out of Louisa’s arms to the wharf. She dropped to her knees, sped off on hands and knees, pushed herself up, and started to walk, wobbly and quick on her short, chubby legs.
“Stop!” Louisa’s heart pounded as the little girl toddled toward the edge of the wharf.
Sophie lunged forward and caught her.
Lulu laughed, shrieked, and threw out her arms as Sophie picked her up.
“You must listen to your aunt.” Sophie firmly handed her back to Louisa, who squeezed her to her chest. Her heart raced. Why hadn’t she held her harder, run faster? She could have fallen into the sea! Why hadn’t May asked Anna, who would know what she was doing, to raise her daughter?
Louisa pressed her face in the small girl’s yellow-red hair. Why hadn’t she gone to see May? Why hadn’t she told her about all the hours Mother had gazed at her portrait during her last illness, how she read her letters over and over and said her name moments before she died? Why had she assumed they had as much time as they could need? She should have told May that even when she and Mother had missed her, it had brought them pleasure to know that somewhere in the world, a woman was doing exactly what she wanted.
“Isn’t she young to walk?” Louisa asked.
“She started just before we left France,” Sophie said. “My mother says that’s not terribly unusual at her age, but she is advanced, don’t you think?”
“She doesn’t like me.” Louisa tightened her arms as Lulu wiggled.
“It’s not that. She’s curious about everything.”
“I don’t know anything about raising a girl.”
“That’s what I thought at first, too, but she lets you know what she needs.”
“Lu, lu, lu, lu, lu,” the little girl babbled.
“She already knows a few words in French, German, and English,” Sophie said. “She’s quite a genius. Maybe she’ll be a writer, like her famous aunt.”
“I hope not.” Louisa saw Mrs. Giles raise her arm as she stood by a carriage. She looked assured, directing the driver, but Louisa wondered what she could know about her niece.
“You’ll have a lot to teach me.” Louisa linked her free arm through Sophie’s. “Will you come stay with us for a while?”
“Thank you. Oh, you’re as good and generous as May said you were.” Sophie’s eyes welled with tears again. “I’m going to miss her.”
Of course she would. No one who’d known May could forget her. Louisa squinted in the sunlight, thinking of her third book about the March sisters, in which she’d made Amy be a contented artist, wife, and mother to one darling girl. She’d begun writing it when May was expecting her baby, then put it away when May became ill. But she hadn’t destroyed it. She was done filling up a room with smoke. Recently, she’d taken out the manuscript again, needing not only to make money for Anna’s boys, but now May’s daughter, too. It was painful to write about a woman who was teaching her daughter how to paint, something that should have happened in life. But Louisa owed this portrait to May, who’d yearned for stories of good wives and mothers who wouldn’t squander the gifts of their hearts and hands.
“Come on.” Louisa carried the small girl toward the waiting carriage. She looked into Lulu’s eyes, hoping she wouldn’t forget to one day tell her that blue was her mother’s favorite color, and how she would have adored, even envied her eyes. “May. Can you say that? Your mother’s name was May.”
“Lulu lulu lu,” the little girl chanted.
There were so many things to tell her about her mother. Louisa hoped she had time, while spoiling her with silver mugs, gorgeous dolls, picture books, boxes of colored
chalk, and twenty-eight dresses at a time. For now, she’d take her home, with one backward glance at the sea and the wide, unpredictable sky.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
My fascination with May Alcott Nierker (July 26, 1840–December 29, 1879) began when I was a girl playing Little Women and my older sister claimed the role of Jo. Even then, I thought there was more to the youngest sister than mangling words, obsessing about fads like pickled limes, and worrying about her nose. As I studied art history as an adult, May’s name, along with those of other nineteenth-century women artists, reappeared. I remained somewhat haunted by the way Amy stops making art in Little Women, saying that it’s only worth doing if you’re a genius. I wondered both why Louisa May Alcott never entirely acknowledged her own genius and how her real sister had reacted to seeing her fictional counterpart give up a quest for beauty that defined much of her life.
Questions like that led me to old diaries, letters, memoirs, fiction, and biographies by or about the Alcotts, as well as those focused on Concord neighbors such as the Hawthorne and Emerson families, Henry David Thoreau, and Daniel Chester French. I read books about women artists of the period, particularly Mary Cassatt, and other expatriate artists working in France at a time when academic art was being challenged by Impressionism. May was mentioned in some of these books, and a 1927 memoir by Caroline Ticknor put her at the center. But because much was missing, as I researched in libraries, historic houses, museums, and at riverbanks, I drew upon my imagination to develop my sense of May. Much as a portrait painter begins with a particular face that changes as she chooses colors and brushstrokes, I began with descriptions of real people, places, and events to form impressions. Dependent on both facts and mysteries, I elaborated upon summaries to create scenes that comprise a work of fiction.
Biographers believe that May’s death was likely from the effects of puerperal fever, which she contracted during childbirth, probably from an infection that rose from unsanitary conditions common at the time. May was buried in the Montrouge cemetery in Paris, though Louisa arranged for a marker in the Concord cemetery, which simply bears her initials. The year of her death, Louisa began writing Jo’s Boys, her third and final book about the family at the center of Little Women, in which we find Amy has grown up to become an artist, “one of those who prove that women can be faithful wives and mothers without sacrificing … [their] special gift.”
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