It was much easier, thought Lulu, settling into the armchair in the attic from legs that were suddenly shaky, to think about the past than the present these days. The past was safe and held no surprises; the past, she knew, had a happy ending. It was much easier, for instance, she thought, reaching for the letters, than contemplating her parents’ marriage to reflect on how relatively few letters Jo seemed to have written to Meg during 1868, compared to how many she had written to Amy in that time. It made sense, of course, she reflected, sinking with relief into the now familiar world of her great-great-grandmother’s life, since after Jo had returned to Concord from the New York trip, she and Meg had obviously lived close enough to see each other regularly in person, while Amy was still off traveling in Europe. However, it was frustrating that the five from New York were the only letters that remained addressed to Meg from that trip, because they apparently held all the information there was to be read about the youthful Herr Bhaer. After those—apart from the brief mention to Meg in that sad letter about Beth of the Shakespeare he had given Jo for Christmas—he simply disappeared from the correspondence, resurfacing several years later as fully fledged Professor Bhaer, with whom Jo had founded the school for boys. Presumably, they had agreed to keep their engagement secret for some reason until he had completed his studies, but it must have required some self-restraint for Jo not to have mentioned him at all in all that time. Maybe in the fifth letter, there would be an explanation but Lulu would not open the fifth letter, not on this strange and disturbing evening when so many things she knew had been thrown into the air. She would reread the letters to Amy instead, to see whether, despite herself, Jo had let slip some clue to her younger sister of the feelings she must surely be discussing in person with her elder. She curled her legs beneath her in the armchair, and set herself to the task, until one letter, in particular, stopped her.
Concord, June 1869.
Dearest Amy,
I have just been again to Beth’s grave and laid upon it two roses, a fine and cultivated one from Mr. Laurence’s conservatory from you, and a thorny wild one I plucked from the hedges from me. I’m glad you’ve agreed not to shorten your visit to all those splendid places, although I miss you—it’s too late for you to say good-bye to Beth, which must grieve you, but she’s well and happy now, and she blessed you with her last breath, which must give us all what comfort it can in these sad days.
Dear, has Laurie yet arrived to see you? And has he, by chance, made mention of me? I ask because we’ve had one of our silly quarrels, and I want to make up with him. I wrote him a letter earlier this year and made a joke about his music, which offended him. Then he wrote back and made a joke about my writing, which offended me, and—you know how hot-tempered we both are—I made no bones about telling him so, and told him never to write to me again. So there we sat for many weeks like two stone statues, half the world apart, and each too proud to unbend. And then when Beth failed, so many things went out of my mind, and suddenly I looked up and saw that Bethie was gone, and Laurie and I had been sore at each other for weeks, and both too stubborn to ask pardon.