To do Mr. George Scott credit, he appeared every bit as alarmed by my presence in the company as I was by his. For two pins, I’d have made my bolt for freedom right there and then, and spared both of our blushes; but before I could so much as move, Meg had steered me to the chair beside him, and begun.

Was I aware, Jo, that Mr. Scott was a voracious reader?

Well, hardly, since until five minutes before this, the fact of his very existence in this world had been a matter of blissful ignorance to me, let alone the question of how he was accustomed to spend his leisure hours.

Did he not observe, Mr. Scott, how tenderly Mrs. Brooke’s sister played with the babies and how dearly they loved her?

Quite so, replied Mr. Scott, staring in appalled fascination as Demi smeared grass and molasses down one of Mrs. Brooke’s sister’s cheeks and onto her collar, while Daisy’s latest caress effected total destruction on what few shreds remained of her hairstyle.

How were Papa’s new slippers coming along, Jo, and was he aware, Mr. Scott, that Mrs. Brooke’s sister was a particularly accomplished needlewoman? How was he settling into Concord, Mr. Scott? The town had a remarkable history and had played a prominent role in the Revolutionary War—perhaps Mrs. Brooke’s sister might be prevailed upon to accompany him to visit some of the more interesting parts?

And so on and so on until by the end of dinner, Mr. Scott had pushed his chair back away from the table and halfway into the kitchen broom closet in terror, while I had retreated almost to the garden on mine in mortification.

“What on earth can have possessed you!” I said when they had left, which they did early, for Nan requires much rest these days and Mr. Scott had the appearance by this of one hunted by savages or bears. “I don’t know who was the more discomfited, him or me.”

“That you both were reluctant to push yourselves forward speaks well of your modesty and of his good sense,” she replied serenely, having picked up Demi’s torn nightshirt and sewing away on it as if she had no other care in the world. “I, for one, thought the occasion went particularly well, and look forward to many more until you become more at ease in each other’s company.”

Is it marriage that has so addled our sister’s wits, Amy? Why can she not understand that every woman in this world who still remains unmarried does not yearn to be coupled with any man who happens to be a bachelor? Meg used to be a good and sensible creature, but if this is the effect that domestic felicity has upon one, I might just choose to live out my days as a spinster instead.

Your loving—and determinedly heart-whole—sister,

Jo.

6

New York, Monday, December 1867.

Dearest Meg,

Another encounter with my Herr B. upon the staircase, and, oh, how my heart soars. He spoke to me, Meg! He said, “Gut efening, Mees Marsch,” and when I blushed and stammered like the foolish creature I become in his presence, he inclined that noble head—for he don’t snub me, unlike some of the other young men, for being “only a governess”—and added, “I trust it goes vell viz you.” “Very well, thank you,” I managed to reply, and then, visited by an inspiration, was emboldened to add, “Zehr gut, danke.” Those glorious blue eyes blazed as he looked at me with interest. “You learn my language?” he asked. “Trying to,” I told him, thinking of the poor old Professor who had all but plucked his beard from his chin in despair at me but an hour before. “I am sure you vill do zehr vell,” he said. Zehr vell! Oh, Meg, I am in the very seventh heaven!