“Where should we put him, Father?” Beth asked.
“He can stay in Anne’s room,” Bronson said.
Anne’s room was next to Louisa’s, separated only by a thin wall. Her pulse ran quicker at the thought of Fred sleeping just a few feet away. They would be able to hear each other’s movements and know the moment the other fell asleep. She gave herself a little shake. Even if he had suddenly become a handsome man, this was still old Fred. They had climbed trees together and caught frogs in the river. Their friendship was more interesting and valuable to her than any flirtation could be. She glanced up to find him watching her. For the first time, Louisa dropped her eyes first.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Disagreeable as it was to help get dinner,
it was harder still to go begging for it.
Tomorrow we’ll have the first of the strawberries,” Louisa promised as she laid the table for the evening meal. “But for tonight, the pickings are slim.” Even though Fred was accustomed to their ways, Louisa felt ashamed of the plain fare she served. Soup—again—bread, and the last of the apples made up the entire dinner.
“Louisa!” Her father shot her a disapproving look. “Plain food strengthens the body, but too much richness weakens the mind.”
“Maybe so, sir,” Fred said. “But to my mind, the company is what makes a meal worth eating, and I’d choose the Alcott table over an extravagant feast with anyone else.”
Bronson clapped him on the shoulder. “Well expressed, young Fred.”
“Oh yes,” echoed Beth faintly, her eyes fixed on Fred’s face.
“Enough, or we’ll all get swelled heads,” Louisa grumbled. “At least the flowers are pretty.” She gestured to the sideboard where a vase stood, filled with the flowers Fred had brought. Fred had presented them to Beth like a knight giving his lady a token. Louisa had to hide her smile when she saw how Beth blushed.
As they ate, Bronson expounded on the life cycle of the apple, stabbing the last fruit on his knife and using it for an example. Fred hung on every word and even Louisa had to admit that Father spoke very well. How typical it was, she thought, that her father’s words could fill the room, entertain and amaze, and then fade away like frost on a sunny day. It was no wonder the Alcotts were poor, when her father’s best asset was so ephemeral.
Fred amused them with stories about his time at school in New Haven. Father responded with tales of his days as a Yankee peddler. After the last plate was cleared, they adjourned to the parlor. Beth played the piano until her fingers hurt and the house rang with their singing. Even Louisa sang. Somehow when Fred joined her in a duet, she forgot to feel self-conscious about her lack of musicality.
The sun had set but the moon had not yet risen when there was a gentle tap on the front door. It was Mr. Emerson. It was the first time Louisa had seen him since she learned about Henry and Lidian. As she hung up his coat, she watched him closely, but somehow he looked exactly the same as always. If Lidian was betraying him, Mr. Emerson didn’t seem to know it.
“How tactful you are to come after dinner,” she murmured to him.
“Prudent, my dear,” he confided. “I like a joint of meat and wine with my meal.”
“You won’t find those here,” Louisa agreed.
Mr. Emerson was surprised but delighted to see Fred, and soon the gentlemen were seated in front of the fire, talking.
“It’s good to have Fred back,” Beth said to Louisa as they washed the dishes in the kitchen. “I thought we would be so sad and lonely tonight without Marmee and May.”
Louisa scrubbed the dishes, splashing soapy water about the sink. “I did, too. But Fred filled up some of the empty space.”
As Louisa brought tea into the parlor, Bronson was bragging to Fred about the family’s connection to the Underground Railroad. Louisa frowned. She would prefer to keep their involvement secret. But what harm could come from telling Fred? He was as reliable as the sunrise. And for his part, Fred was delighted to learn that his old friends were part of the Underground Railroad and he had many questions about George.
As Bronson extolled their fugitive’s virtues, Emerson stood by the mantel, fiddling with a book. He carefully straightened it out and turned to Bronson.
“My old friend, I think you should be distancing yourself from the Railroad right now. With your wife away, don’t take on additional responsibilities.”
Louisa rolled her eyes. As if Father was exerting himself for George! The only thing he’d done for the fugitive was put him in jeopardy.
“Waldo,” Bronson answered after a brief silence. “Shouldn’t we turn the question around? Why aren’t you taking on this responsibility? You’re the bravest man I know. I heard you give a fine speech denouncing slavery, but you won’t join the Railroad?”
Emerson frowned. “Do you remember that speech? I gave it at the church and the sexton refused to ring the bell to tell people I was starting. That speech wasn’t popular; Lidian and I weren’t invited anywhere for weeks.”
Bronson snorted. “What need do men such as we have for social respectability? Better to uphold one’s principle in thought and deed than compromise for the sake of an invitation to tea!”
“What would you have me do?” Emerson asked. “Break the law and hide strangers in my root cellar?”
“Yes!” Bronson exclaimed.
Emerson shook his head. “Helping one slave at a time is tackling the matter piecemeal. Better to work to change the laws of the land rather than break them. Besides, every slave who escapes makes it harder for the ones who remain in captivity.”
Louisa watched Emerson closely, trying to decide if his words were logical or simply a justification for his inaction.
“You should meet our guest. He is a noble man who deserves his freedom. He can read and reason as well as Fred here.” Bronson shook his head gravely. “Waldo, we cannot take our own liberty for granted but refuse it to others.”
“But you are chancing your own liberty. What happens to your family if you end up in jail? The risks . . .” Mr. Emerson began.
“Are acceptable to me,” Bronson finished.
Fred, who had been listening respectfully, suddenly summoned the courage to speak, “Mr. Alcott, the risk is worth taking, and I admire you for it. But should the girls be involved? Louisa should not be endangered for your ideals.”
Bronson’s head jerked up and he glared at Fred from under his bushy eyebrows. Before he could take Fred to task, Louisa stepped in.
“I’m almost sixteen, Fred Llewellyn! Old enough to make up my own mind. I found George. He was alone, scared, and needing my help. As an abolitionist, I’m bound to come to his aid.”
Bronson and Mr. Emerson exchanged amused glances while Fred stumbled over his apologies.
“You heard her, Fred,” Bronson said. “She sounds just like her mother when her mind’s made up.” His voice flattened, as though the resemblance wasn’t entirely welcome.
“How could we stand by and do nothing?” Beth chimed in, startling the others who had almost forgotten her presence.
Bronson strode over to Beth and enveloped her in his long arms. “Beth, my fine, brave girl!”
With a pang, Louisa turned away and busied herself rearranging the sheet music on Beth’s small piano. Although she had the same convictions as Beth, Father never approved of her like that.
She started when a hand touched her shoulder. It was Fred. He spoke quietly, for her ears only.
“Beth is a kind soul, but I admire your courage more. You are a warrior for goodness.”
She elbowed him, but not too hard. “You are an idiotic boy.”
“I’m not a boy, although I’ll concede the foolish part,” he said laughing.
In better humor, Louisa turned back to the small group. Mr. Emerson stood up to go. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Louisa. Your mother would be proud to see you take up her mantle so well.” Louisa couldn’t help noticing the emphasis he put on the word “mantle.” She glanced at the ma
ntel of the fireplace and received an approving nod from Mr. Emerson. He bowed to Beth. “Bronson, Fred, good night. Louisa, bring Fred to the house: Lidian will be pleased to see him. I’m leaving for Boston early tomorrow morning, but I’ll be back in a few days.”
“Will you see Ellen?” Louisa asked. Ellen was his oldest daughter, and Louisa’s sometime pupil. “I hope she’s enjoying her visit with her cousins.”
He nodded. “I’ll take her your regards.”
After Emerson left, Beth showed Fred his room and Bronson retired to his study. Louisa went to the mantel and opened the book there. A ten-dollar bill lay between the pages. Smiling, Louisa slipped it in her pocket. Tomorrow she would go shopping and the family would eat well. Thank goodness for Mr. Emerson.
CHAPTER NINE
It’s bad enough to be a girl, anyway,
when I like boy’s games and work and manners!
After the household had gone to sleep, Louisa lay in bed staring out her window. She’d heard Fred moving about the adjoining room for a few minutes but then nothing. She sighed and tossed the blankets aside and went to her desk. So much had happened today; she couldn’t tamely go to sleep. Then she pushed herself away without even dipping her pen in ink. There was only one thing to be done.
She pulled on her boots, wrapped her warmest shawl about her, and stepped out into the garden. The moon was three-quarters full and cast a pure, cold light over the garden.
“Less than an hour.” A voice came out of the shadows next to the house. She jumped before she realized the voice was a familiar one.
“Fred! What are you doing out here? You scared me half to death!”
“When I saw that your new room had a door to the garden, I laid a wager with myself. How long before Louisa sneaks out to explore the night? I thought you’d wait until midnight at least.”
Smiling, Louisa put her fingers to her lips. Glancing at the dark house, she gestured for him to come away with her. They climbed up the hill behind the house. Bronson had terraced the path in a clever zigzag to make the climb less demanding. Halfway up the hill was a comfortable bench Bronson had built. No matter what his shortcomings were as a provider, Louisa often had reason to be grateful that her father was such a clever architect and carpenter.
Fred wiped the bench clean of dew with his handkerchief.
“How gallant,” she exclaimed. “I suppose I have to curtsy to the fine gentleman now?”
“The essence of being a gentleman is that I don’t notice if you do or not,” Fred said haughtily, nose in the air. They both laughed and collapsed onto the bench.
“We can see the whole town,” she said, gesturing with her whole arm at the panoramic view. “There’s the steeple of the Congregational Church. See how it glistens in the moonlight? Oh, you can see our post office from here.”
The “post office” was a tree stump at the base of the hill. Father had hollowed out a space inside the wood and built a clever door at just the right height for children to use as a post office. The Alcott girls used it as a secret place to exchange letters, poems, and books. Last summer Fred had left a small bouquet in it every morning for Marmee. Even Father had taken to leaving letters of advice to his daughters there.
“Is the old post office still going?” Fred asked.
Louisa shrugged. “Not now. With Anne and May away, there’s only me and Beth.” A light breeze pushed against their faces. “Look, you can see Mr. Emerson sitting in his study!”
Fred looked obediently. Without turning back to Louisa he said, “Louisa, as lovely as this view is, I don’t think it’s the reason you’re wandering in the middle of the night.”
“I had more things to think about than would fit in my little room,” she admitted.
“Was I one of them?” he teased.
“Of course. But you were the least upsetting thing . . . Oh, I don’t mean that. I am very happy to see you. But other things happened that require some thought.”
“Tell me,” he said. “Let me help.”
“You know about George, but wait until you hear the rest.” She told him about Mr. Finch, Miss Whittaker, and Mr. Pryor. “And in addition to all this trouble, I have the care of the whole house while Marmee is away!”
“That is an awful lot.” Fred was thoughtful. “Let’s see: Beth will help with the house. Together, we’ll all keep George safe. And I’m here now to keep this Finch character from bothering you. That leaves the lovely Miss Whittaker. Can I meet her?”
Louisa wrinkled her nose at him. “She’s just your type,” she said loftily. “Artificial, well-dressed, and as polished as a mirror.”
“Firstly, that’s not my type at all,” he said, with an amused lift of his eyebrows. “My type is a young woman with a bad temper and messy hair who is an indifferent cook.”
“I knew you didn’t like the soup!” Louisa said, then blushed as she realized she was suggesting that she was Fred’s type.
“The soup was fine but the company was better.” He held up a second finger. “Secondly, I’d like to meet Miss Whittaker so that I can describe her to a friend of mine in Washington.”
Her embarrassment forgotten, Louisa clapped her hands in excitement. “So you can ask about a certain Miss Climpson whose name mysteriously changed on the journey from Washington to Concord?”
“Exactly. Her story is suspicious to me. If she was up to no good there . . .”
“Then perhaps she’s up to no good here.” Her sharp nod sent her long, thick hair flying. “That’s a capital idea!”
Fred caught a strand of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. “Your hair is the color of chestnuts. It’s quite beautiful, even if it’s all a-tangle.”
Secretly pleased with the compliment, Louisa took pains not to show it. “Miss Whittaker tells me it’s unfashionably long.”
“It’s even longer than last year.”
“It’s such a bother to take care of. I’m planning to chop it all off soon,” Louisa promised. “The barber told me he’d give me good money for it.”
“You mustn’t do that,” he cried. “It’s your best feature.” With a sly grin, he said, “Without it, you might be mistaken for a boy.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Louisa cried, gathering her hair and putting it on top of her head. “Boys have it all their way in this world.”
“I used to think so, too, but now I see that young ladies have more power than I thought,” he said.
“If I were not a girl, then all the faults that I am most scolded for would be considered blessings,” Louisa said matter-of-factly. “Father would love me if I were a son.” In Fred’s eyes, she saw the reflection of her forlorn expression.
He put his hand over hers. “He loves you. He just doesn’t recognize that you are a lovely young woman, not a child any longer. But I do.”
Louisa went very still. “Fred, don’t,” she began. She pulled her cloak tighter across her chest, uneasily aware that she wore only her nightgown. A year ago, she wouldn’t have cared, but tonight she couldn’t help but think of how inappropriate her clothing was.
“Louisa Alcott, can’t you take a compliment from an old friend?”
Watching him warily, as though he might suddenly drop to one knee and propose, Louisa said in her primmest tone, “Thank you, Mr. Llewellyn.”
“That’s better,” he said with a smile. “Now, Louisa . . .”
“Look!” she interrupted, pointing at the sky. “A shooting star.”
They were silent for a few minutes, only speaking occasionally to point out a new star that had joined the twinkling tapestry in the sky. Finally Fred said, “It is beautiful up here. I wonder that you ever sleep when you can enjoy the world like this at night.”
A stray memory crossed Louisa’s mind, making her smile.
“What is it?” Fred asked.
Louisa tilted her head to one side. “Do you want to hear something I’ve never told another soul?”
Fred stretched his arm across the back of
the bench and said, “Of course.”
“When I was little, Mr. Emerson gave me a book to read. It was about a little girl named Bettina, who was Goethe’s muse. I wanted so much to be Mr. Emerson’s muse. I’d sneak out at night and leave him posies on his porch. And I would spend hours up here just watching the light in his study window.”
“Did he ever know?”
“I hope not!” Louisa shook her head violently. “I wrote him dozens of letters, but luckily I thought better of sending them. And eventually I grew up and out of my infatuation.” She drew her knees up on the bench and hugged them close. “But while it lasted, it was glorious.”
Fred chuckled. “You are full of surprises. I’d like to see those unsent letters—I daresay they’d make for fascinating reading.”
“I daresay,” Louisa said, giving him a gentle shove. “But I burnt them all long ago—I’m careful with what I leave behind. I might die tomorrow, and it would be too utterly shaming for that story to outlast me.”
“Only fifteen and already considering your legacy?” Fred mocked.
“Oh, I’ll have one,” Louisa assured him. “Someday I’m going to have a fortune of my own.”
“Everyone wants to be rich. The question is how?”
Louisa pretended to consider, as if she hadn’t done this mental exercise hundreds of times. “I’ve no one to leave it to me. I won’t marry for it. That leaves earning it.”
“Again, how?”
“Once I thought I might be an actress.”
“You were the star of every play we put on in the barn,” Fred agreed.
“But Marmee thinks it is unbecoming, so that leaves my writing. I’ll get rich and famous through my novels.”
“Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?” Fred smacked a hand to his forehead. Louisa glared at him, unsure if he was mocking her. “Tell me, Miss Alcott, what magnificent opus are you writing now?”
“A novel about an extremely worthy girl. She’s penniless. And an orphan.”
The Revelation of Louisa May Page 7