“Take a deep breath,” said Fee. “Remember that she’s an older woman and that the fact is that you were quite disrespectful to her. But remember, too, that we’re here and we’re on your side.”

“Okay.” Sophie flashed her mother a brief, shaky smile. “Here goes.”

With a hand that trembled only slightly, she opened the envelope and read.

Dear Sophie,

It’s late at night in my hotel room, and I am unable to sleep, as I am still recalling your words to me of this evening. It was not pleasant to be called “stuck-up,” or “stupid,” especially by someone who is so very much younger than me.

However, I have given the matter some serious consideration, and have come to the conclusion that—although your manner certainly left a great deal to be desired in the way of politeness or of respect for your elders—still, on the whole, you were correct to say what you did. I was wrong to dismiss your friend so thoroughly, and I did exhibit a great want of manners in my dealings with her. It is, as you so accurately stated, rude to be rude, and you did the right thing in pointing it out to me. Our family has always been loyal to its friends and has never hesitated to speak up on the side of right. I’m proud to see that you are following on in this tradition. Would you please send me your full address so that I can write Charlie a letter of apology?

Your mother tells me that you are a talented young actress, and interested in getting some experience on the London stage. I wonder if, when I visit London in February for your sister’s wedding, you would care to be introduced to my friend Marcus Wickham? He has a connection with a theater called the Vagabond, a popular theater, apparently, where, thanks to him, I saw a production of Hamlet on Wednesday—despite the theater’s unfortunate name, I can assure your mother that it is a perfectly respectable place. I believe that Marcus is its artistic director or some such—he’s a new friend of mine, and surprisingly sensible for a theatrical person.

Take care of yourself, my dear, and keep speaking up for what’s right—although, as a concerned aunt, I might just suggest that in future you consider taking a leaf out of what is unfortunately not your aunt’s own book, and throw a modicum of diplomacy into the mix!

Merry Christmas from your affectionate aunt,

Amy.

10

Concord, november 1870.

Dearest Bethie,

It is a year and a half since you left our little home to go to the other home so far away, and not a week has passed since but I’ve picked up my pen to write to you of what we were doing and how we were faring, and always burned the letters later for they were so full of grief and despondency that I couldn’t bear to keep them. But I think I shall keep this one, dearie, for I write to tell you that, for the first time since you left us, I am truly happy again. Amy and Laurie arrived back from their travels this week, and, oh, Beth, the difference in Amy! The silly little goose with all her childish affectations has quite gone, and the fine young lady we knew before she went to Europe has grown into a woman of good sense and real kindness. It does me good to see the tenderness with which she cares for old Mr. Laurence, and she has asked Meg to teach her how to cook and housekeep, for, she says, however many servants there may be in a house, it is a poor home if its mistress don’t know how the work should be done, too. And such a kindness she did me last night that I can never fully thank her for, and I must tell you the story, for it’s a comical one.