27
DAYBREAK
After Jo’s retreat, Mr. Brooke and Laurie retired to the Laurences’ house across the lane and made plans to call on Amy the next day. Meg made excuses for Jo, but it felt like something had been broken, some connection irretrievably severed. Laurie would marry Harriet and leave Concord.
It was possible he might not come back, perhaps ever.
Beth was gone. Amy was lost in the land of shadow, and Laurie would leave them for London and the Continent. Meg would marry John, and Jo would be left alone with only her manuscript to keep her company. It was what she said she wanted, but why did freedom taste like ashes in her mouth?
Laurie was going to marry Lady Hat—who would have thought? For some reason, when Jo refused him, she did not imagine he would marry someone else. That had never factored into her imagination. What did she assume? That he would wander the earth alone, on his own, his unrequited passion for her burning within him?
Perhaps he was never as besotted as he had claimed. He’d left in early September; it was only the second week of November! Had he forgotten about her so quickly? Indeed he had. He wouldn’t even look at her that evening.
The Marches spent a terrible night listening to the wind howl in the chimneys, and the house grew even stuffier and hotter than usual. Still Father did not come. They had to conclude he must not have received Mama’s letters after all.
Meg didn’t know if the next day would be any better. She could hear Jo rolling over in bed next door, stomping upstairs to the attic in a fit of pique. Jo’s heart was broken, even if the stubborn thing didn’t know it yet.
Oh! It was hard to watch her sisters suffer, especially when Meg herself was finally so content. It seemed too much to hope that Amy would get well, much less that Jo would find her happiness, now that Laurie was engaged to Harriet. Jo had no one but herself to blame on that score.
In the morning the air was clean, as if it had blown itself out. The sky through the curtains was an unbelievable blue, cloudless, with a hint of coolness. The trees were almost bare, the ground littered with crackling leaves.
As Meg had guessed, Jo had been up all night. She’d kept replaying the scene Laurie had described over and over in her head: Laurie falling into the puddle and the lady laughing. Harriet teasing Laurie as she, Jo, used to do.
There’s nothing like a friend who can make you laugh at yourself, Meg had said.
Laurie had such a friend, but it wasn’t her. Wasn’t Jo, not anymore.
They would be married in London. They would not expect to come back to Concord often.
His friendship with Jo would die on the vine for lack of sunlight.
Jo could not believe that Laurie would marry the bosoms. The pretentious lady they’d met in New York, the one who’d gone on about the uppertens, was no kind of match for the funny, kind, energetic friend Jo had known for so long.
Perhaps he’d changed more in Cambridge than she’d realized.
During the night, when she’d realized sleep wouldn’t come, Jo had actually gone into Amy’s room and told Mama to go get some sleep. “I’ll wake you if anything happens,” Jo said. Mama, exhausted, kissed her hair and went to her room.
Amy had not spoken at all during the night, only coughed and coughed so hard, Jo thought the poor little thing’s ribs would crack. This is it, Jo thought. This is the dark hour. The shadow-lands coming for Amy, just as they came for Beth. As they will one day come for Meg, and for me.
Jo closed her eyes and prayed for Bethie and Amy.
She opened her heart to the pain and the grief and the darkness, letting herself feel the ache of loss and love. She wept for her little sisters—one gone, one going—the two little souls she cared most for, in the entire world.
And when she could weep no longer, she crawled into bed next to her sister and slept as if she were halfway in the grave herself.
“Jo.”
The voice was almost too quiet to hear.
“Jo.”
She sat up with a start, disoriented. “Amy?!”
Morning had come; Jo could see the blue at the window. But even more surprising, Amy was awake and whispering that she would like to go sit outside. “To see—the flowers,” she said.
It was autumn, and the flowers were brown and dead. Still, no one could bear to refuse her. Not now.
Especially not her big sisters.
Mama gathered her up and carried her downstairs and outside to her chair next to the remains of Vegetable Valley.
“How long—have I—been sick?” Amy wheezed.
“A fair while,” said Jo. “Not forever.”
“Don’t fret about that,” Mama said. “Enjoy the cool air. It’s a beautiful day.”
Amy smiled. It was.
They covered her with blankets to keep her warm. Meg brought her tea, and Jo rubbed her feet. Amy closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face.
They waited, watching her. The sun made her pale skin look the slightest bit pink.
For a while they sat outside and read to her. Wuthering Heights this time. Jo read:
1801.—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist’s heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! He little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced my name.
“Mr. Heathcliff?” I said.
A nod was the answer.
As she read, Jo glanced up at Amy from time to time. Her sister didn’t seem to move. She was as still and waxy as a statue.
A little while later, Amy took a deep breath and coughed. When she could speak again, she said, “I do—feel—better.”
She took another breath, and another. Paused.
For the first time in weeks, the cough did not follow.
“Where is—my—doll—from Laurie?” she whispered. “Can I—have something—to eat?”
Meg and Jo, Mama and Hannah looked at one another, afraid and hopeful. “Of course,” Mama said with tears in her eyes. “Anything you want, dearest.”
The worst hadn’t happened after all. The worst had passed them by. The shadows had been chased by the sun.
WHEN THEY ARRIVED to check on the patient, Brooke and Laurie were pleased to find Amy in much better spirits, and in returning health. She refused the broth Mama made and asked for bread and butter, which made everyone laugh with relief. As the day wore on and Amy sat outside, enjoying the outdoor air, her strength returned.
At first it seemed like she simply rallied, as many people do, for the change of scenery and the nice weather. Her color came back, and the cough receded little by little. The wheezing in her lungs reduced.
Mr. Laurence’s doctor said it was the most remarkable turnaround he’d ever seen. “I didn’t want to say so, ma’am,” he said to Mama, “but I’ve never seen anyone recover from consumption for sitting outside. I shall have to try it on my other patients, and see if it works.”
That night, when they brought her inside, she slept soundly, and she woke in the morning asking for johnny-cake and apples. Ravenous, she ate and ate until her mother said she must not overdo it and risk a stomachache.
Jo poked her in the belly and said, “Besides, you’ve emptied the larder. We’ll have to go to town for supplies.”
Everyone laughed. Their relief was palpable. Everything could be funny again, now that Amy was on the mend.
After two days of improvement, when it was clear Amy would live, Laurie and Brooke announced they were leaving once more. Laurie would return to his studies, and Brooke to his students in Boston. Once he and Meg were married, they would move there.
“We can leave now that we know we shall not have to part from you forever,” Laurie said, and tweaked Amy’s nose.
“Laurie! Don’t!” Amy said, but she smiled. Jo thought how pleasant it was to see them tease each other again.
This was followed by a darker thought: the question of whether they would ever do so again. Now that Amy was better, Laurie had no reason to stay. There would be his studies and his wedding plans, and Harriet in Boston. He would not even return for Thanksgiving; he had plans with Harriet’s family for the holiday.
Then in the spring, he would go away to England.
Maybe forever.
“So,” said Jo to Laurie, “will you be home for Christmas, at least?”
Laurie picked absently at a fingernail. “I doubt it. Harriet will want me in New York, I think. And with Grandfather going to London for the winter, there won’t be much call for me to come home.”
“I see.”
“I hope you return for our wedding, at least,” chided Meg. “We’ve planned it for December, around Christmastime.”
“Oh, is that so?” asked Laurie. “Brooke hadn’t mentioned it.”
It was the first Jo had heard of a Christmas wedding. Laurie squeezed Meg’s hand warmly, and for a minute he was the old Laurie again. “Of course I will be there. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”
One more visit, Jo thought. One more, and then he would be gone forever.
There are so many ways you can lose a person.
She wished she hadn’t known.
MEG AND JO went with the men to the train station to say their good-byes. After an awkward carriage ride, during which Meg and Brooke held hands and Jo and Laurie looked everywhere but at each other, the men bought their tickets for their departure. They were on the same eastbound express, headed to Boston.
Laurie cleared his throat and announced the train would be there in less than five minutes.
This sent Meg into paroxysms of despair. “Oh, darling!” she said. “I will miss you so!”
John held his bride tightly and urgently whispered declarations of love in her ear.
Jo and Laurie stood apart, embarrassed by Meg’s tears. Jo was uncomfortably aware of a fifth presence at the train station, one who was visible to both even though she was absent: the figure of Harriet. Laurie’s bride-to-be.
She could picture Lady Hat now, flouncing across Boston to pick out her wedding clothes. Probably the finest silks, the tiniest embroidery. Or perhaps she’d ordered her clothes from France, from the House of Worth. She could afford every luxury in the world. Between the Carmichael-Carlthorpes and the Laurences, there would be no expense spared. Unlike Meg, who would have to scrimp and save and make do with everything.
How could he think the bosoms would make him happy? Not her Theodore Laurence. Not ever.
But then again, he wasn’t her Theodore Laurence. If he could profess his love for Jo and propose to Lady Hat all within the space of a season, then it was likely Jo really didn’t know Theodore Laurence at all.
Meg was weeping openly now, but Jo had little patience for her sister’s displays at the moment. “Ugh,” she said. “I’ll be glad when they finally get married so all this nonsense will stop.”
“That’s Jo, ever the romantic.” Laurie chuckled.
“And once they’re married, he will take her away,” said Jo. “Everyone is leaving.”
“It can’t be helped,” said Laurie. “You must think of their happiness and not yours. That’s just how it is, I suppose.”
Jo felt something within her wither. “And will you think of me, scribbling away in my attic, while you and Harriet spend your fortunes?”
Laurie smiled sadly. “I’ll always think of you as a different sort of fortune, old friend. And I’ll treasure our friendship, no matter how far away I go.”
“But not enough to come back.”
Laurie’s mouth opened, then closed again. “I will be glad to meet you anywhere you go. You know that. We shall see each other in the West End, won’t we? You with your play and me with . . .” His words dwindled into silence.
With a wife in tow. A wife of money and position who would keep him in England after Jo left. Their friendship would never be the same. They both knew the truth of that.
She’d refused Laurie on the grounds that she was not fashionable enough to be his wife, that his friends would laugh at her and feel embarrassed for him. But she had never considered the opposite—that if Laurie chose a more fashionable wife, the wife would always stand between them, casting a very long shadow on their friendship.
Or ending it.
Laurie! Engaged! It was ludicrous, and she was angry, except she didn’t know what or why she was angry, only that she wished . . . oh, she did not know what she wished.
The conductor was calling for passengers. Laurie squeezed Jo’s hand and climbed aboard. Brooke kissed Meg’s hand once, quickly but with feeling, then climbed aboard after him.
The train began to pull away. Meg clutched her sister’s arm and said, “Oh, Jo, what will I do these few weeks without him?”
Jo felt the weight of her sister’s arm. “He isn’t going for long, Meg. He’ll be back by Christmas, and you’ll be married.”
“Soon,” Meg said. The train was pulling out of the station, taking Laurie and Brooke with it. “But not soon enough.”
Meg really was weeping now. Jo was horrified to feel a tear tremble in the corner of her own eye.
I will not weep, she thought. I will not I will not I will NOT.
I had my chance.
Laurie asked me first.
He loved me first.
But I let him go, and I don’t deserve him.
I didn’t want him then, and I don’t want him now.
Not now. Not ever.
But Jo, of all people, knew a story when she heard one. Especially when the ending had been gotten so wrong.