The Revelation of Louisa May (11 page)

“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.”

“Naturally.”

“Through her purity and kindness, she charms an aristocratic English family and eventually wins the heart of a rich lord.”

“Hmmm,” Fred said. “That's your idea of a happy ending? She marries money?”

“She marries for love, but he happens to have money. She'll be happier that way. You don't know how awful it is to be so poor, but I do.”

Fred's father was a lawyer, and he had enough money to send Fred to school but not much was left over.

“So you'd never marry a poor man?” Fred's joking manner had deserted him.

“I don't think I'll ever marry,” Louisa said seriously. “I couldn't give up my independence.” She allowed herself to think for a moment about all that she wished to do and see, all the stories she wanted to write.

“But . . .”

Louisa put her chin in her hand, staring down at her house. “Who else but me will take care of my family? I'm doomed to be an old maid, with a pen instead of a husband, and a heap of novels in place of children.”

“Now, Louisa Alcott, that would be a tragedy,” Fred cried. “I'll not let it happen.” He put his arms around her, bent his head to hers, and kissed her.

Louisa's mouth parted in surprise; Fred took advantage to kiss her more deeply. The bristles of his beard rubbed against her cheek, his firm lips pressed against her soft ones.

She pushed him away with such force that he fell off the end of the bench. “Fred Llewellyn, don't do that again!” she cried as she turned to flee down the hill.

“But Louisa!” Fred's words were lost in the darkness as Louisa sprinted down the hill and back into her room.

Safely inside, she shut the door and leaned against it, panting, her heart thrumming.

“You won't show the soft side of your character,
and if a fellow gets a peep at it by accident
and can't help showing that he likes it,
you . . . throw cold water over him, and get so
thorny no one dares touch or look at you.”

L
ouisa, is everything all right?” Beth asked as they set the table for breakfast with plain wooden bowls and flax linen napkins.

“Of course,” Louisa answered. But she didn't meet her sister's eye. A thick lock of hair slipped free of Louisa's hastily fixed bun.

“You look as though you haven't slept a wink and you're as skittish as Goethe.” Beth deliberately slammed the milk pitcher on the table. Louisa jumped. “See,” Beth crowed. “I told you so!”

“It's nothing.” Louisa stirred the porridge on the stove, adding raisins as a special treat.

Beth smiled. “Those are Fred's favorite.”

Louisa blushed, cursing Fred for his distracting presence in her thoughts. “Will you call Father and Fred to the table?” she said, more sharply than she intended.

“Louisa,” Beth began. “I need to tell you something about Father . . .”

“Later, Beth,” Louisa said sharply. “After breakfast.”

Her brow uncharacteristically furrowed, Beth left without a word.

Louisa stirred as the porridge thickened. The night before, Fred had remained outside for almost an hour. Then he had knocked quietly at her door. Pressed against the door on the other side, her heart beating so loudly Louisa was sure he must hear it, she had not answered. She had touched her lips, tender from her first kiss. It was a moment she'd not even dared to dream about. But Louisa wouldn't fall in love with a poor man like Marmee had. Not for kisses, not for love, not for anything.

Finally Fred had gone to his room and she had listened to his pacing, as regular as the ticking of a clock, until she had fallen asleep. When she woke, her dreams had left faint
shadows of Fred, etched just below the surface of her thoughts. Try as she might, she couldn't remember what she dreamed about.

Louisa told herself she was not listening for Fred, but when she heard his deep voice talking with Beth, her stomach leaped. What would he say to her? Would he be cross? He had no right to be; he had acted the thief and stolen a kiss from her. Perhaps he would expect her to be angry? Or contrite? Would he understand if she told him that she was more confused than anything else? Did this dizzy feeling mean she cared for Fred as more than a friend? Was love like flying on the back of a leaf in a storm?

“Ugh! I'm all discombobulated!” She threw the porridge spoon across the room, where it stuck to the wall next to the door.

“This doesn't bode well for breakfast,” Fred said, filling the doorway. His thick red hair was tousled about his head and his blue eyes were bright with mischief. He had to tug hard to pull the spoon away from the plaster, then he handed it to her. “Good morning, Louisa,” he said. “I hope you slept well.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice to respond. His smile was charming; his crooked teeth lent his face a dash of imperfection that was appealing. She wished she could look somewhere besides his mouth, but it was impossible. She recalled every detail of his kiss and felt the warmth color her cheeks.

Beth followed Fred into the room and went to the icebox to get the milk.

“I slept well, too,” Fred said. “Although I had the strangest dream of wandering out in the garden with a lovely sprite. She floated out of my reach and then disappeared altogether.”

Louisa beamed. What a clever way to air the subject without any embarrassing details and in a way that naïve thirteen-year-old Beth wouldn't understand. Louisa took up the challenge. “Isn't it strange how one's imagination plays tricks on one?”

“Clearly.” His eyes glistening with mischief, he said, “Because I thought my sprite was a beautiful maiden—but it turns out she was just a tomboy in disguise.”

Louisa couldn't help it; she burst out laughing.

“What's so funny?” asked Beth.

“Nothing,” Louisa and Fred replied simultaneously.

“Good morning.” Father came in and sat down. He looked well rested, and Louisa wondered that he had spent his first night away from Marmee with so little strain. Didn't he miss her at all? With a pang of remorse, Louisa remembered how miserable he had looked before dinner the night before.

He took a spoonful of the porridge that Beth put in front of him. “Raisins? Your mother never puts raisins in the porridge. And so much sugar.”

Louisa bristled. “We're celebrating Fred's first morning with us.” She put a pitcher with cream on the table.

“
And
cream? Louisa, it's unnecessary. Fred didn't come to us for gluttonous meals.”

Fred brought his bowl to be filled by Louisa and whispered in her ear, “Gluttony would be the
last
reason to come to the Alcotts'!”