“I wonder what he’s doing,” said Emma, “lodging in a room in someone else’s house.”

“Don’t know,” said Lulu. “Don’t care. His business, not mine.”

“I bet there’s a story there,” Emma continued. “You should ask Mom.”

“You must be mad,” said Lulu. “I’m not going to ask Mom to pry into her lodger’s secrets.”

“Aha!” Emma pointed her fork in triumph. “You respect his privacy. That’s a very good start.”

“You know something, Emma,” said Lulu. “There are times when you can be really, really annoying.”

Concord, July 1867.

Dearest Amy,

It’s late at night, but I can’t go to bed without telling you of my vexation with Meg, for I fear if I don’t tell someone, I shall fall prey to spontaneous combustion like wicked Mr. Krook in Bleak House. You recall how she plotted all last year to get me to marry John’s work friend, the good-hearted but altogether uninteresting Jack Scott, bringing him to endless calls upon Pa when I “happened” to be at home, issuing sudden invitations to walk into town at the precise time when he “happened” to be there about his own errands, giving hints and sly looks in his presence, followed in his absence by rapturous sisterly lectures about the blessed companionship of the married state—although what precise manner of companionship she was recommending for me remains mysterious, since neither Jack Scott nor I have ever had two words to exchange with each other beyond “Good day, Mr. Scott,” “Good day, Miss March,” and on a particularly resplendent occasion, “What agreeable weather we are enjoying, are we not?” You will recall how hopeful I was to hear he had begun to court Nan Green from out along the Lexington Road; you will recollect the jig of glee that I danced around the parlor to hear of their betrothal; you will remember my declaration on the day when the church bells rang out for their marriage, that that day was the happiest, not only of his life but of my own, too.

Well, it seems that our sister is not satisfied yet. This morning, Meg just “happened” to pay a call while she was about her errands, and while she was here, just “happened” to invite me to dinner tonight, adding that we would have the company of Jack and Nan Scott. Of course I said yes, for although I don’t care to marry Jack Scott, I like him well enough, and Nan has vivacity enough for both of them, so the conversation would be assured to be amusing (why is it, Amy, that the jolliest of girls will sometimes marry the dullest of men?); and when Meg added that Demi had been particularly asking for Aunt Dodo, well, my presence was secured, for you know how those two little tyrants have me in their thrall, spoilt as they are.

Up I turned at the Dovecote at the appointed hour, bib and tucker on, bearing a large slice of Beth’s gingerbread for the twins, a book from Father for John, who is still Meg’s despair when he loses himself in his reading, and a couple of pots of Hannah’s jelly and a posy of roses for Meg … only to find that Demi was not the only “bacheldore” who was awaiting my arrival. There in the parlor were Jack and Nan Scott at one end of the sofa, and at the other, a stout gentleman with a high complexion and particularly well-polished boots, whom Meg presented with a flourish as “Jack’s brother George, newly arrived in town from Pennsylvania.”