The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott by Kelly O'Connor McNees Page B

ever.
    The coy demeanor dropped from his face. “Miss Louisa—”
    “Just Louisa, please,” she interrupted.
    “—I don’t believe I ever have encountered a woman quite like you.”
    Louisa’s eyes darted back to that safe place on her knees. It was a wonder she had not stared a hole straight through them.
    “I feel I could talk to you about anything and you would understand. Do you feel the same?”
    She did not nod or shake her head or move her lips. She felt she heard the top and bottom rows of her eyelashes crashing together, so silent was the air in the room as he spoke.
    “And a writer yourself, with success at so young an age. Think what a long career you have to look forward to, all the stories you will bring to the world.”
    Louisa grimaced. “Nothing is guaranteed. Some interests are more easily carried over into adulthood than others. Women have many responsibilities that fill their time—they cannot depend on the luxury of hours on end to write.”
    “But what a shame it would be to let your talents languish.”
    Louisa gave a short, sad-sounding laugh. “You haven’t read a word I’ve written and yet you fret over the loss of my talent. Take care not to heap on too much praise until you are familiar with its object.”
    “I’ll soon change that. I wrote to my cousin Edward asking him to send me a copy of your Flower Fables .”
    “Oh, dear,” Louisa said, her face full of dread. “Please remember—I wrote most of those tales when I was just a girl. I like to think, to hope, that my writing has improved somewhat since then.”
    “I know I will enjoy your work. I can hear it in our conversations. You have a gift.”
    “I fear some people believe it should be a youthful amusement and nothing more. Perhaps you have heard that the singular preoccupation of a young woman’s life is to find a husband.” Louisa gave him a wry smile.
    A strain passed across Joseph’s pale eyebrows a moment, as if her comment called forth an unpleasant thought, but as soon as the troubled look appeared it vanished. His freckles dotted the apples of his cheeks like spilled wheat. “Yes, I believe I am acquainted with the idea,” he said, grinning.
    Louisa sighed. “And when he is found, the work has only begun. Take Margaret, for example. Soon she will be a wife, keeping a home for her husband, nursing his relatives and her own, preparing for children, God willing. She won’t have time for anything else.”
    Joseph scoffed. “Hardly! Margaret lives for parties and gossip—two things she’ll be able to pursue just as well, if not better, in marriage.”
    “I beg your pardon—I don’t like your tone.” Louisa’s voice surprised her by sounding sharp. She softened it. “Please don’t speak about her that way. Margaret is my friend.”
    “And mine. I only meant that she is very different from you, is interested in different things.”
    “We may be unlike each other, but the duties of a wife are the same for each.”
    “I disagree. Husbands vary just as wives do. The possibility of a happy marriage hinges on the choosing, though most girls are so eager to make the pact, they do not take the time for careful consideration.”
    His smug tone needled her. “Is that so? You seem to have thought an awful lot about this matter.”
    “Not at all—it’s just that the facts of it are very clear. You, for example. It will be very important that you marry the right sort of man—”
    “And I suppose you think you know what sort of man that is.” Louisa felt her cheeks get hot.
    He nodded and broke into that infuriating grin, his playfulness returning. “I do. Primarily, he will have to be the sort of man who does not mind being interrupted. You know—the sort who would rather listen than talk. With you, one is apt to do a lot of listening.”
    Louisa felt her temper swing inside her head like the tongue of a bell. “When someone has graciously accepted your visit—an unannounced visit, I might add—do