Chapter 1

Posted on Saturday, 26 April 2008

“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Elizabeth, lying on the rug.

“Not that is a truth universally acknowledged,” cried Emma, laughing, plopping down next to her.

Jane was sitting on the rocker, and she looked up from the army sock she was knitting. “Poor Lizzy,” she said sympathetically. “You did so want that book, didn’t you?”

A few chords groaned from the old piano, where Anne sat. “We do have Father and Mother, and each other, do we not?” she said.

Elizabeth gazed sombrely at her. “We do not have Father, and shan’t have him for a long time.” She didn’t say, “Perhaps never”, but each silently added it, thinking of Father far away where the fighting was. Emma bit her lip and absent-mindedly took one of Lizzy’s heavy chestnut braids, twirling it around her hand.

No one spoke for a while; then Jane said in a gentle tone, “You know Mother thinks we ought not to spend money on pleasure and frivolity, because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone. We ought to make our own small sacrifices, and do it gladly, for the poor men in the army.” But she sighed, and thought regretfully of the pretty things she used to have, and would still like to have. Jane was more generous than most, with a philanthropic nature, but she had her vanity like any beautiful girl naturally would.

“We’ve each got a dollar, and I’d wager that it wouldn’t help a whole army much. We should spend it and make ourselves happy; I don’t expect anything from you or Marmee, but I do so want to buy Undine and Sintram for myself,” said Elizabeth, all the while feeling rather selfish, and hoping for Jane or Emma or Anne to say it was perfectly all right.

“I had wanted some new music,” said Anne, with a quiet little sigh.

“And I wanted new drawing pencils. I shall get them,” decided Emma.

“Yes, let’s spend it, and have a little fun! Marmee wouldn’t wish for us to give up everything, and it is our own dollar. We work hard enough to earn it,” said Elizabeth, a sudden hint of defiance in her tone.

Jane looked despondently down at her knitting. “To be honest, it is rather tiresome, teaching those King children.”

“It’s naughty of me, but I do think doing chores and washing dishes is ever so disagreeable. My hands always become so stiff, that I can scarcely practice anymore,” said Anne, with another sigh.

“My position in our uncle’s shop is quite odious. Dealing with cranky and argumentative customers is a hard lot, I should think, more so than any,” declared Emma.

“It’s not half so bad as attending to a stiff, overbearing old lady, who’s never satisfied with anything, and worries you till you want to fly out the window – or bash her head in!” exclaimed Elizabeth. Her tone left her sisters in no doubt as to what course of action she preferred to take.

Jane admonished her. “Lizzy! She is our aunt – and even if she weren’t, you shouldn’t say such things. Isn’t that right, Emma?”

Emma shrugged. “Do not call her ‘aunt’; she evidently does not care to admit us poor destitute relations. And Jane, remember that she is the Lady Catherine, thank you very much.” She wrinkled her nose derisively.

“She does mean well,” said Anne, though try as she might, she couldn’t keep a tiny note of doubt from her voice.

Elizabeth gave an inelegant snort. “And pigs can fly, I suppose! Stuffy, mean old lady. Obscenely wealthy, yet never sparing a penny for any of us.”

“She and Mother did quarrel. Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding.”

“Heaven forbid that anyone is responsible! Heaven forbid that we must think ill of anyone!”

“Lizzy, Lizzy!” chided Jane, waving her army sock in an authoritative manner. “Do not distress poor Annie. And if sitting idly makes you cross, you had better take up your half-done knitting directly. You too, Emma. And Annie dear, will you not put the kettle on the stove?”

Elizabeth stuck her tongue out at Jane, but she and Emma fetched their work obediently, and were soon knitting away. Anne hummed a soft lullaby as she filled the kettle with water, and set it on the stove.

We will take this opportunity, then, to draw a sketch of the cozy scene. The light from the fire cast a warm glow on the sisters’ cheeks, and outside the twilight was falling dark, and the December snow fell softly against the windowpane. The furniture was plain, but adorned with colourful ornaments and cheery anecdotes. On the walls hung several pictures; the girls’ favourite was the portrait of the entire March family, done by Emma’s seven-year-old hand. Father looked owlish in his reading spectacles, and Mother held baby Annie in her arms.

That was eight years ago. Now, Father was away, and Mother had streaks of grey in her pretty dark hair. Anne was thin and pale, small for eleven, and Jane’s face was careworn.

Jane was the prettiest and the eldest at sixteen, fair and blue-eyed, with soft blonde hair and an angelic countenance. Emma was fifteen, and dark where Jane was fair, although she had the same blue eyes. Her ears were rather large, which was her main complaint; her mouth seemed made for laughing, and she had a small inquisitive nose. Elizabeth, or Lizzy as she was generally called, was dark-haired like Emma, and the only one of the sisters who had their father’s brown eyes. Hers was a piquant face, and she had on an impish expression more often than not. Anne was delicate and slight, sort of a faded version of Jane; her hair and complexion were slightly paler, and she appeared so fragile, that her mother often looked upon her with worry.

The clock struck six and, having swept the hearth, Anne put a pair of slippers down to warm. The sight of the old shoes had a good effect on the girls, for Mother was nearly home, and they brightened to welcome her. Jane set her knitting aside, and rose from the rocker, for it was Marmee’s favourite seat; Emma got up to light the lamp; and Elizabeth forgot how tired she was as she set the slippers closer to the blaze. She regarded them contemplatively.

“They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair.”

“I thought I’d get her one, with my dollar,” said Anne.

“No, I shall!” insisted Emma.

“I’m the oldest,” began Jane, but Elizabeth interjected with a decided, “I’m the man of the family now that Papa is away, and he did tell me particularly to take special care of Marmee and you girls. So I shall provide the slippers,” she ended triumphantly.

Emma rolled her eyes at her younger sister. “He only told you that to make you pleased, so you wouldn’t throw a fit when he went, for you were – and are – such a child and a tomboy.” Elizabeth poked her in the shoulder. “Ow!”

“Why don’t we each give her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves?” said Anne.

“That’s like you, dear! What will we get?” exclaimed Elizabeth.

Jane glanced up thoughtfully from where she was preparing the tea. “I think I shall buy her a pair of gloves. Her hands are often cold when she comes home.”

“And I will get the slippers! Army ones, best to be had,” cried Elizabeth.

“Do you think she’d like some new handkerchiefs?” wondered Anne.

“I’ll give her a small bottle of cologne; she likes it, and it won’t cost much, so I’ll have enough left to buy my pencils,” added Emma.

“How will we give the things?” asked Jane.

“Put them on the table, and bring her in, and see her open the bundles. Don’t you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?” answered Elizabeth.

“Let Marmee think we’re getting things for ourselves, then surprise her. We’ll go shopping tomorrow,” said Emma.

“Do you think she’d like new handkerchiefs?” said Anne again.

“Of course, darling,” said Jane, and Emma and Elizabeth both echoed her, adding reassurances of their own. Anne, pleased, smiled and reached up to set out the teacups. Elizabeth and Emma continued knitting by the fire, and Anne and Jane moved about busily.

“Christopher Columbus!” Elizabeth yelled suddenly.

“What is it, what is it?”

“My hair!”

They all laughed then; Elizabeth’s braid had caught fire, from sitting too close to the source. It had burned for a whole half-minute, before Elizabeth noticed anything awry. A whole chunk was a different shade than the rest, and Elizabeth shot a murderous glare at the fireplace.

“Glad to find you so merry, girls,” said a cheerful voice, very dear to each of the sisters, for to their mind it belonged to the most splendid mother in the world.

“Marmee,” said Elizabeth, the pout disappearing from her face.

“Dear Lizzy, what happened to your hair? And how tired you look! Was your aunt very difficult today? Emma, how is your cold? Did you have a pleasant day, Jane? Come and kiss me, Annie.”

Mrs March, while saying this, shed her wet things, and put her warm slippers on. She sat down on the rocker, and drew Anne to her lap, while the girls went about being helpful in their own particular ways. Jane arranged the tea table, Elizabeth flew about here and there, clattering everything she touched, and tripping over chairs and dropping napkins, while Emma hovered about her mother’s rocker affectionately, draping a blanket over her and Anne, drawing a footstool near, and occasionally giving directions to Jane and Lizzy.

As they all gathered about the table, Mrs March said, with a particularly happy expression, “I’ve got a treat for you all after supper.”

The girls all beamed a quick, bright smile. Anne’s face lit up, Jane bit into her bread, forgetting the poor texture of it, and Emma laughed delightedly. Elizabeth tossed up her napkin, crying, “A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!”

“Yes, it’s a nice long letter, and he sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message for you girls,” said Mrs March, patting her pocket as if there was a treasure there.

Anne ate no more, but sat quietly, waiting for the others to finish, in anticipation of the letter. Elizabeth, in her haste to get to the same treat, dropped her bread, butter side down. Jane and Emma laughed fondly at her, and Mrs March bade her be careful.

“I think it was splendid of Father to go as chaplain, when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for soldier,” said Jane softly.

“Don’t I wish I could have gone!” said Elizabeth, sighing regretfully.

“Oh, do you, Lizzy? What would you have gone as?” said Emma, laughing.

“Oh, as a drummer, or such, or even a nurse, just so I can be near Father and help him,” said Elizabeth, with such a sober mien that Emma stopped laughing and patted her younger sister’s hand comfortingly.

“When will he come home, Marmee?” said Anne, in a small voice, her lip quivering slightly.

“Not for many months yet, my darling. He will stay and do his work faithfully, and we will not ask for him a minute sooner than he is needed. Now come, dears, and hear the letter.”

They all drew to the fire, Mother in the rocker, with Anne in her lap. Jane and Emma perched on either side of her, on the armrests, and Elizabeth sat at her feet, drawing her knees under her chin, and biting the singed end of her braid pensively.

Mrs March drew out the letter with one hand, and began reading; her other arm was holding Anne protectively in a comforting embrace. Elizabeth leaned back against her mother’s leg, and listened attentively. Emma’s dark head was bent, and Jane laid a hand on her mother’s shoulder. Father’s letters were always touching, though hopeful and cheery, but when he mentioned “the soldiers bravely marching forth down the hill, with the sun shining benevolently, a picture that dear Emma would delight in drawing”, a tear rolled down Emma’s cheek, and she thought of how much gladder she should be to see dear Father than a whole troop of splendidly dressed soldiers, drums, and trumpets.

“... and give a hug and kiss to my dear girls, whose affection I hold near my heart always, and keeps me marching no matter how long or dreary the day. A year seems a very long time to wait, but tell them that while we wait we may work, so that the time need not be wasted. I know they will be loving children to you, and do their duty faithfully with good nature. Tell them not to lose heart, and tell them always to remember that Father is thinking of his little women.”

A sound suspiciously like a sniffle escaped Elizabeth, and Anne buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Jane observed quietly, “We will all do as he said, and truly try to improve ourselves, so that he may be proud of us when he returns, won’t we?”

“Indeed! I’m a selfish girl, and so I’ll start with thinking of others, sometimes, before myself,” cried Emma.

“And I shan’t be so wild and thoughtless anymore, only try to be patient like Jane, considerate like Anne, and try not to get mad at Lady Cat,” said Elizabeth, thinking that keeping her temper was much harder than facing a rebel or two down south.

“I’ll try to be less vain sometimes, but it is hard, for I like being pretty, and a lady,” said Jane pensively.

“I’ll try to learn some of Father’s courage,” mumbled Anne into her mother’s shoulder. “And Lizzy’s.”

“Lizzy’s isn’t courage! It’s recklessness,” said Emma, teasing. Then she sighed, and said, “And I’ll try to be kinder, too.”

“Those are good resolutions, girls,” said Mrs March gently. Then she continued, “Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrim’s Progress when you were little? Nothing delighted you more than to have me tie ‘burdens’ to your backs, and let you travel through the house from the cellar to the housetop, where you had all the lovely things to make a Celestial City.

“And so we play it all our lives,” she continued. “Our burdens are here, our road is before us, and the longing for goodness and kindness is our guide. Now, little pilgrims, suppose you began again, not in play, but in earnest, and seek to improve yourselves before Father returns.”

“I should like that,” said Jane, after a moment’s silence.

“So should I,” Anne said.

“But what of our burdens?” frowned Elizabeth.

“You each just named yours,” reminded Mrs March. “Jane’s is vanity; Emma’s is selfishness; Annie wants for courage; and you wanted to learn patience and sympathy. Now come, my children, and gather your knitting; for as Father said we must not be idle.”

And so the March girls knitted away by the lamp and firelight. Jane’s fingers darted nimbly, and her rows were even and precise; Emma paid meticulous attention to every stitch; Elizabeth’s piece resembled a sort of bundled handkerchief rather than a sock, but she knitted with zeal; and Anne hummed softly as she carefully stitched each row.

As they knitted Hannah cleared the table, and when the clock struck nine the girls put their socks away and gathered round the piano for evening song. Only Anne could coax any tune from the old worn instrument, and she sang in a delicate lilting voice that at once commanded both tears and smiles. Mrs March and Jane were born singers, so led the little choir, and Emma’s rich voice added tint to the song. Elizabeth wandered through the melody at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a quaver or a croak that spoiled the most pensive tune. She was the little duckling amidst the swans; but somehow added rather than took from the performance.

Chapter 2

Posted on Saturday, 3 May 2008

Elizabeth woke early in the fresh dawn. She opened one eye, then the other, and shut both at once when she saw the room swathed in tender light. Then she remembered the day, and her eyes flashed open again; she sat up excitedly, causing the bed to shift a little – Anne groaned, and turned over sleepily. Elizabeth nudged her, until at last poor Anne finally awakened.

“Lizzy,” she said.

“It’s Christmas, Annie! Christmas!” returned Elizabeth. She fell back on her pillow with a contented sigh, and then yelped.

“What is it, Lizzy?” said Anne worriedly. For though her sister did have a very annoying habit of waking her at the most inopportune times, she still loved her, and would never wish any harm upon her.

“My pillow is as hard as a rock,” said Elizabeth, sitting back up, and twisting around. She gave the pillow a poke at once cautious and belligerent. Then she reached under it, and withdrew a pale canary yellow volume.

“Oh, it’s a book. Is it the one you wanted?” asked Anne.

“No, it’s Pilgrim’s Progress,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully. “Come, Annie, look under yours, and see if you have one.”

Anne did so, and also found an edition; hers was a soft dove colour, and Anne smiled in her quiet, sweet way as she traced the binding reverently with her finger. Elizabeth bounded happily off the bed, and into the adjoining room, where Jane and Emma slept.

“Merry Christmas!” she said.

Emma’s dark head emerged from under the covers, and she opened her eyes blearily; then she groaned, and turned over, burying her head beneath her pillow. This was not entirely conducive to sleep, since there was beneath it a soft lavender book, which made direct contact with Emma’s nose.

“Ow!”

Elizabeth giggled.

Jane sat up drowsily, her golden hair in tangles. She looked concernedly at her sister.

“Are you alright, Emma?”

“Yes,” said Emma grumpily, sitting up and rubbing her nose. She looked crossly at Elizabeth. “Merry Christmas, indeed, you little imp.”

Elizabeth giggled again, and gave Emma’s nose a playful tweak. “Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains...” she sang, dreadfully off-key. Emma held her hands to her ears in protest, and Jane laughed.

“I think Lizzy sounds lovely, just like an angel,” said Anne, staunchly defending her sister. Emma rolled her eyes heavenward, and held the back of her hand to her forehead, dramatically falling back on her pillow. She failed to reckon on the book, however, and sat back up with a startled yelp, much like Elizabeth’s.

The girls all erupted into laughter then, even Emma, who joined in rather begrudgingly. They quieted down after some time, and Jane and Emma examined their books; but Anne suddenly hiccupped, for she had not quite recovered yet, and the girls broke into fresh giggles anew.

“Oh, stop, stop!” gasped Jane, leaning back. “Come, Lizzy, fetch your book and Anne’s, and we will read together.”

Her eyes full of mirth, Elizabeth bounded back into the other room, and returned almost instantaneously with both the yellow and dove-coloured volume.

The sisters all gathered on the floor by the window, in a cozy little circle, and began to read companionably. Jane sat next to Anne to help her with the hard words, and Emma kept Elizabeth focused by poking her shoulder or pulling her braid once in a while. The silence was pleasant around this pretty scene, the young girlish faces looking so earnest perusing the words, and was only disturbed by the rustling of pages and an occasional “Ow!” from Elizabeth, when Emma poked too hard.

“We must resolve to read a little, every day, henceforth,” said Jane solemnly, when they were done. She had a sweet, pious nature that exerted an unconscious influence over her younger sisters.

“I certainly shall,” said Emma. “I feel refreshed, hopeful sort of, when I read it. To be sure, it is not as exciting as novels, but it is infinitely better for me, I think.”

“Anyhow, it’s Christmas, and we should all prepare Marmee’s presents. I have mine ready,” said Elizabeth.

The girls all ran down, and Hannah met them in the room. “Where is Mother?” asked Jane.

“Goodness only knows, some poor creature came a-begging, and you know there was never such a tender-hearted lady as your ma to give out drink and vittles and clothing,” replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Jane was born, and was considered more as a friend than a servant.

“She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready,” said Emma. She withdrew the little basket beneath the sofa, which was filled with all the girls’ gifts. Elizabeth lifted the cloth that covered it, and took a peek.

“Why, Emma, is that yours?” she cried, indicating a magnificently large flask of cologne.

Emma blushed. “Yes, I felt so guilty purchasing only such a small thing for dear Marmee, and so returned it for a larger. You see I did want to start directly to be less selfish,” and she sounded so earnest and humble that Elizabeth hugged her on the spot, regardless of the basket, and pronounced her “a trump”. Jane smiled, and commended her generosity, while Anne offered her nicest ribbon for decoration. Emma thanked them gratefully.

“Oh, look!” exclaimed Elizabeth, looking into the basket once more. “Annie’s gone and stitched ‘Marmee’ onto every one of her hankies, instead of ‘M. March’. How funny!”

“Isn’t that right? I thought it would please her,” said Anne, looking troubled.

“Of course, dearie, it’s very sweet of you to think of that,” said Jane soothingly, frowning at Elizabeth and giving Anne a kiss.

“There’s mother! Hide the basket, quick!” exclaimed Elizabeth, when they heard the street door opening and closing, but not before reassuring Anne and saying that it was a remarkably clever idea.

The basket darted under the sofa and the girls to the table, waiting eagerly for Marmee and breakfast.

“Merry Christmas, Marmee! Thank you for our books, we read some, and mean to everyday,” said the sisters in unison.

“Merry Christmas, girls! I’m glad you began at once, and hope you will continue,” said Mrs March, smiling. Then she looked at her daughters seriously, and said, “Not far from here lies a poor woman with a newborn baby. Six other children are huddled together on a single bed to keep warm, for they have no fire. My dears, will you not give your breakfast to them as a Christmas present?”

They were all silent for awhile – for they were hungry, and had waited nearly an hour for their breakfast. Elizabeth was first to break the silence, for she said, in her own impetuous way, “I’m so glad you came before we began!”

“May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?” asked Anne eagerly.

“I shall take the cream and muffins,” said Emma. And they all thought her very heroic to give up her favourite articles.

Jane was already piling the bread into one big plate, and covering it in a basket.

“I thought you’d do it,” said Mrs March, her eyes beaming proudly. “Come, dearies, you shall all help me, and when we come back we shall have milk and bread for breakfast, and we will make up for it at dinnertime.”

Hannah carried some wood, and thus the procession set out. It was still early, so no one was out to laugh at the queer party. They went through the back streets, and when they came to the poor run-down place their faces softened and took on benevolent expressions.

The room was poor, bare, and miserable, with broken windows and no furniture, except a cold-looking single bed, on which there huddled six hungry-looking children. A mother was weeping by it, holding in her arms a scrawny baby, wailing pathetically.

“It is good angels come to us!” said the poor widow, her tears turning to those of joy. The children’s blue lips smiled and their eyes shone hopefully. “Angels,” they repeated in a chorus.

“Funny angels in hats and mittens,” said Emma.

“And one with a singed braid,” added Elizabeth, and set them all laughing.

Hannah set up a fire, and the children moved closer to the blaze. Elizabeth, ever the handyman, stood on a wobbly stool and attempted to stop the broken windows with old hats and her own cloak. Emma set out the table, and Anne sang softly to the children, while Mrs March comforted the widow with promises of help. Jane dressed the little baby, with such a loving, motherly expression, that the child stopped wailing and giggled up at her.

It was such a happy scene, though poor and bare; and I’ll wager that there was more joy in that single room than any elegantly furnished fashionable home. The children laughed, and that Christmas cheer stole into their hearts slowly; their gratitude warmed the girls more than the most ravishing meal could have.

Anne gently stroked a small child’s hair, a little four-year-old girl who seemed so very thin and frail. A tear fell on the girl’s pale cheek, and the widow squeezed Anne’s hand, whispering words of her hopes for the child.

The poor shaken door opened again, with a blast of wind and admitting a thin, shivering boy. He looked to be fifteen or so, with wide brown eyes that seemed too large for his wan face, and patched trousers and shirt. He looked in shock at the March girls assembled, and looked bashful while he tipped his hat, which looked like a very scrunched-up piece of fabric.

“Freddie,” cried the children. The boy’s stride was powerful for his slight frame, and he walked to the widow’s side, pressing a coin into her hand.

“God bless you, Fred,” said the widow, tears springing to her eyes.

“It’s the least I could do,” he replied gruffly, turning to leave. He turned at the door, and looked quizzically at the March family once more, then tipped his hat again and walked out.

After the door closed behind him, the widow turned to Mrs March, and said in a low voice, “There never was a kinder boy than Fred. He works for the Brookes, and doesn’t earn much, but he never forgets his poor aunt.” She sniffled.

Mrs March patted her hand comfortingly.

“Freddie always tells us stories when he can,” little eight-year-old Bertha was confiding to Anne, Elizabeth, Emma, and Jane. “He’s so funny too, and tells all sorts of adventures from the war. He’s going to enlist, you know, to be a soldier soon. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“War is never wonderful,” said Jane, thinking of Father.

When the girls went away their hearts were light, thinking tenderly of the poor children, and forgetting their own hunger entirely. When they stepped into their own comfortable, warm home, they felt very fortunate and blessed indeed.

They ate their milk and bread without even thinking of complaint, and when Mother went upstairs to collect clothes for the poor Hummels, they set out the presents on the table. It was not a very grand affair, but each article was done up with such love and care, that they knew Marmee would be pleased.

“She’s coming! She’s coming!” cried Elizabeth. “Three cheers for Marmee!”

Anne played her gayest march, and Emma threw open the door. Jane enacted as escort, being the tallest, and conducted Mrs March to the table with great dignity. Mrs March was both touched and surprised, examining her gifts with bright eyes and reading the notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief slipped in her pocket, well-scented with Emma’s cologne, and the gloves were pronounced a perfect fit.

There was a simple and loving charm in the way the gifts were given and received, that made it so pleasant at the time, and so sweet to remember long afterward.

The day flew by with the girls making merry, singing carols and hymns, and composing a nice long Christmas letter for Father. And when they all gathered together for dinner there was a wonderful surprise for them.

For on the table was ice cream, bonbons, and fruit, as well as a ridiculously large cake – such a size could only be ridiculous, since the departed days of plenty. And in the center were two large bouquets of hothouse flowers. It was like Mother to get up a little treat for them, but such an extravagant affair was quite unheard of. The sisters looked on with eyes filled with wonderment, thinking that the race of angels wasn’t entirely extinct.

Anne voiced their thoughts. “Is it our angels?” she whispered, her soft blue eyes shining.

“Mother did it,” said Jane and Emma simultaneously, with identical bright, sunny smiles.

“Lady Cat had a fit of benevolence, and sent the supper!” cried Elizabeth, with sudden inspiration.

“Not quite, dearie. Old Mr Bingley sent it,” said Mrs March, beaming.

“The Charlie boy’s grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into his head? We don’t know him,” exclaimed Emma, fingering a bonbon as if she was afraid that it was only the stuff that dreams were made of.

“Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party, and that pleased him. He knew my father years ago, and asked to send some trifles for my children in honour of the day. I couldn’t refuse, and so now you have this supper to make up for your milk-and-bread breakfast.”

“That boy put it into his head; I know he did! He seems a capital fellow, and looks as if he’d like to know us, but he’s bashful. I wish we could be friends, and Emma thinks so too, but Jane is so prim that she won’t let us speak to him when we pass,” said Elizabeth, as the ice cream was passed around, and everyone ate to their heart’s content.

“It isn’t proper. He looks pleasant, however, and a gentleman, though I daresay he can’t be much older than I am,” said Jane thoughtfully.

“Annie’s cat ran away once, and he brought her back,” volunteered Emma.

“It was so kind of him to bother with Snuffles,” said Anne. “He and Emma talked awhile, and he seemed very nice, although I was too shy to speak with him.”

“But he walked off when he saw Jane, blushing all of a sudden,” remarked Emma, biting into a candy.

“It was a bit rude of him, I think,” said Jane. “I would have had no objection to conversing with him.”

“Well, he does seem to have nice manners, and I’ve nothing against your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself, and I would have invited him in, but he went away in rather a hurry. He looked quite wistful,” said Mrs March.

“He has a cousin, too,” said Emma. “Charlie said he was a bookish sort of boy, the same age as him, but rarely ever coming out of the library.”

“How I wish I could have such a haven!” said Elizabeth, sighing wistfully. “Lady Cat never lets me read for more than fifteen minutes straight, and it is so hard to find any interesting books. They’re mostly sermons.” She made a face.

“Now, Lizzy, it’s Christmas, and you mustn’t say such things, or make such faces,” chided Jane.

“Yes, we do have much to be thankful for, don’t we?” said Emma, chewing on her candy contentedly.

“How beautiful these flowers are,” sighed Anne, touching a delicate pink petal.

Mrs March drew her close, and gave her youngest daughter’s forehead a kiss.

“Not nearly as beautiful as seeing you so rosy and happy,” she said tenderly. Anne laid her head on her mother’s shoulder, as was her wont.

“How I wish Father was having as nice a Christmas as ours,” said Elizabeth softly, with a sweet, loving look at all her family.

As if agreeing, the clock chimed, and the kettle whistled; outside the window the North Star shone brighter than the rest, and all the girls looked upon it, wondering if Father was seeing the same star, or thinking the same thoughts.

Chapter 3

“Emma, Emma! Where are you?” cried Jane at the foot of the garret stairs.

“Here,” answered an exasperated voice from above, and, running up, Jane found her sister painting one of the nearly wilted hothouse bouquets by the sunny window. This was one of Emma’s favourite refuges, and she often retreated here to paint or draw to her heart’s content. Now Emma laid her paintbrush aside and waited to hear what news had her sister so excited.

“Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs Gardiner for tomorrow night!” cried Jane, waving a piece of paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight.

“’Mrs Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Emma at a little dance on New Year’s Eve.’ Marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?”

“Our poplins, of course,” said Emma, standing up and arranging the flowers. “What’s the use of asking that? We don’t have anything else.” There was a touch of resigned melancholy in her tone.

“How I wish I had silk!” said Jane mournfully. “Mother says I may when I’m eighteen, perhaps – but two years is such a long time to wait.”

“I daresay our pops are good enough for us. Yours will look like silk, it looks so new,” said Emma, in a soothing voice, but then her face turned frantic. “Oh Lord! But what of mine? I forgot the burn and tear in the back.” She thought it was very kind of her not to mention whose fault it was (Lizzy’s). “Oh dearest Jane, what shall I do? And there is a rip in the hem, too.”

“Now, now, Emma,” consoled Jane. “It won’t show very badly if you sit still, and keep your back out of sight. Your dress is still a bit long for you, so I shall help you tuck it in, and then there will be an end to that problem.” Jane then turned to more pressing concerns. “Do you think Mother would lend me her little pearl pin?”

“Yes, it would look lovely in your hair,” agreed Emma. “And oh, but my gloves are so stained with paint – maroon paint! – and what shall I do with my slippers? They’re tight and hurt so.”

“I suppose you may wear Marmee’s old ones in her trunk, though they are a bit old-fashioned and worn. As for your gloves, you can embroider over them, in little ivy or flower designs. It would be just the thing, and look so quaint!” said Jane.

“Yes, but maroon, though it does match my dress,” said Emma, woefully. “I suppose I can do my initials.”

Jane kissed her, and pranced happily away, singing blithely as she skipped down the stairs to “accept with thanks” Mrs Gardiner’s note. She then proceeded to look over her dress, and do up her one lace frill; and not forgetting Emma’s dress, she carefully tucked in her sister’s hem.

On New Year’s Eve the parlour was deserted, for the younger girls were busy upstairs playing maid to their older sisters. They were all absorbed in the all-important business of “getting ready for the party”. Simple though the toilettes were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and when finally the two were finished, they all claimed the effect was quite splendid.

“Christopher Columbus, you both look so nice that I do declare I’m nearly tempted to be a lady myself,” said Elizabeth, laughing.

“Nearly,” replied Emma with a smirk.

“Yes, you do look nice, but I think Lizzy would look odd all dressed up like that. Besides, I like her the way she is,” said Anne, taking Lizzy’s hand. Elizabeth squeezed her fingers fondly.

“Do you really think it looks fine enough?” said Jane, anxiously peering into the mirror.

“Oh yes,” said Elizabeth, nodding her head emphatically.

Jane did look beautifully resplendent, in her silvery-blue dress, poplin or no. The little pearl pin looked lovely against her golden hair, as Emma had predicted; speaking of which, that young lady looked pretty too, in her maroon dress, which matched the “E.M.” on her gloves. The dress was done up with all sorts of different little artistic touches, and Anne commended her ingenuity.

“You chose to wear your slippers after all?” said Jane, looking down.

“Yes,” said Emma, wincing even at the thought of those horrid shoes. “Mother’s pair was stained, and so old. They are terribly tight, though.”

“Of course, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die,” remarked Elizabeth, bouncing on the bed, and got whacked by a pillow for it.

“Have a nice time, Emma dear,” said Elizabeth, her voice muffled beneath the pillow.

“Thank you,” was her laughing response, and she descended, with Jane following.

“Goodbye!” cried Anne, leaning out the window, when she saw two bonnets bobbing out the front door. Then she heard her mother’s voice, calling from the dining room window below, “Jane! Emma! Have you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?”

“Yes, very nice ones, and Jane has some cologne on hers!” Emma called back.

Elizabeth smiled from her spot on the bed, hugging the pillow to her chest. “I daresay Mother would ask that if we were running away from an earthquake.”

Meanwhile, Emma and Jane were walking daintily down the street. “... one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is known by neat boots, gloves and handkerchief,” Jane was saying. She had a good many “aristocratic tastes” of her own.

“Now, don’t forget to mind your back, Emma,” said Jane, after a prolonged prink in the Gardiners’ dressing room. “And do be careful of those slippers.”

“I will.”

Down they went, feeling slightly timid, for they rarely went to parties, and even though this was a small gathering it was an event for the two girls. Mrs Gardiner greeted them kindly, and her daughter Sallie immediately drew Jane into conversation. Jane’s pretty looks and ladylike manner appealed to her, and Sallie went about the room introducing “Miss March” to all her friends. As soon as the music started Jane was asked to dance, being about “five times prettier than any other girl in the room” as Emma saw it.

Emma herself seemed to attract some partners too, but she always slipped away, thinking how mortified she should be if the burn and tear in the back of her dress were to show. And then there was the matter of her shoes. They were pinching her toes dreadfully.

Slipping into a curtained recess, Emma breathed a sigh of relief. But another person had also taken refuge there, and she found herself face-to-face with a serious-looking boy some two years older than her.

Emma started to stammer an apology, and inched away slowly, all the while blushing furiously, but the boy smiled and said pleasantly, “It’s alright, you may stay.”

“I – I’m not disturbing you?” said Emma doubtfully.

“Not at all.”

Silence reigned for awhile, with the boy gazing sombrely at her, and Emma biting her lip nervously. At last she came up with an unoriginal, “Well?”

“Yes?” the boy looked startled.

“Shan’t you introduce yourself? I’m Emma March. You may call me Emma, if you like.”

“Oh! I see,” he inclined his head, having not much room to bow. “George Knightley.”

“Charmed,” said Emma, absently fingering the stitching on her glove. Then her head snapped up, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “Charlie mentioned something....”

“Charles Bingley, you mean?” said George, smiling. “He’s my cousin, and right this moment out there prancing about somewhere. He likes this sort of thing, which is more than can be said for me.”

“So you’re the bookish fellow he was talking about,” said Emma carelessly, then she reddened. “I beg your pardon, Mr Knightley.”

“It’s quite alright, and I’m not Mr Knightley, only George,” said the boy solemnly, but his eyes twinkled with fun. “Charles did speak of your conversation, and – what was it, Snuff box? – anyhow, I’ve wanted to meet my charming neighbours ever since.”

“Snuff box!” cried Emma, a little indignantly. “Mind, George, it’s Annie’s cat, and a regular good one too. His name is Snuffles.”

“I apologize,” said George, hiding a smile.

“Oh, it’s alright,” said Emma. “It is a funny name, and I told Annie so, but she thought it was sweet. At least it is better than Chris – that’s what Lizzy wanted to call him, after Christopher Columbus, you know. She’s always saying it.”

“I see.”

“Yes. Why do you not dance? I’m not because there is a terrible tear on the back of this dress,” confided Emma. Somewhere in the back of her mind Jane’s voice told her in stern tones that one did not relay this kind of information at such a party; but Emma dismissed it. George didn’t seem the sort of boy to laugh at something like that.

And he didn’t. “I feel awkward. I’ve been abroad a good many years, and haven’t been in company enough yet to feel entirely at ease.”

“Abroad! Oh, do tell! I love dearly to hear people tell of their travels. Did you visit any great museums? You see I love to hear about art especially.”

George was at first uncomfortable, but Emma soon set him at ease, having a natural sort of lively charm that drew people out. She chatted gaily, asking eager questions, and George answered them with growing enthusiasm.

“Did you go with Charlie then?” asked Emma.

George nodded. “Speaking of which, he wanted to introduce me tonight to a ‘Jane March’. He somehow found out that she was to be here, and has been excited to come ever since.”

“Oh!” cried Emma. “I hope Jane has not missed me.”

Emma drew the curtain aside a little, and peeked out. She spotted Jane, who by her horrified expression most likely saw her poking her head out. Glancing about her nervously, Jane gracefully made her way to where Emma stood.

“Emma,” she hissed.

“I’m sorry,” Emma whispered back. “But I didn’t want to dance, you know, with the burn and all. So I had to hide.”

“There is such a thing as declining an offer, you know.”

“I didn’t want to seem particular. It’s all Lizzy’s fault, anyway,” said Emma petulantly. Then she recalled herself, and stepped out, beckoning to the solitary figure still inside.

“Jane, this is George Knightley, Charlie Bingley’s cousin.”

“How do you do?” said Jane politely.

“Very well, thank you,” replied George. He seemed to be looking beyond Jane, with a curious expression on his face.

“George, there you are, I’ve been looking for you. Where were you? I wanted to point out Ja—,” Charlie halted abruptly, when he saw who was with his cousin, and turned a truly remarkable scarlet.

“Miss M-March,” he stuttered. Emma thought it infinitely amusing that he didn’t even remember to acknowledge her.

“So you are Charlie,” said Jane pleasantly. “You may call me Jane, if you wish. Thank you for retrieving Snuffles the other day. We did appreciate it ever so much, especially Annie.”

Emma meanwhile was looking at Jane and Charlie thoughtfully, a gleam in her eye. “Jane looks very lovely tonight; don’t you think so, Charlie?” She watched, her blue eyes merry, as Jane pinked slightly with pleasure.

“Y-yes,” said Charlie. He still had not gotten over his embarrassment, and had not yet fully regained his ability to form coherent sentences.

“Will you not ask her to dance?”

“Of- of course,” said Charlie, stumbling as he turned to Jane. He held out a hand, and looked to her with such entreaty in his eyes that Jane smiled, and took it.

Emma turned gleefully to George after they departed.

“Emma,” he said in a slightly reproachful tone.

“Well, he did seem happy,” said Emma defiantly. “Wait till I go home and tell Lizzy. She and I will have a grand laugh then.”

“At the expense of my cousin and your sister.”

Emma looked up at him, hurt. “Of course not! Only they are so suited to one another, and at least I hope they will be friends.”

“You are very young to be matchmaking,” said George, though his voice was less forbidding.

Emma shrugged. “It’s not matchmaking. I shan’t wish them to marry – heavens, no! Jane is only sixteen, and shouldn’t for at least many, many years. I only wanted to help poor Charlie, he seemed so unhappy that Jane took no notice of him. Like a little schoolboy who can’t overcome his admiration.”

“That is a very apt description!” exclaimed George. “He fancies himself in love at the drop of a hat – or rather, a pretty face, soft hair, and blue eyes. Mind, he likes blue eyes, preferably big ones.”

Emma laughed, catching the note of exasperation in his voice. “You are very cruel to say such things of your cousin.”

“He also tends to fall out of love just as quickly. You do think that your sister is not in any, erm, danger?”

“Lord, no. She sees him as a small child, really. You see she has this older-sister complex, what with having three younger siblings and all,” explained Emma. Then she winced slightly.

“Are you alright?” asked George.

“Perfectly. Only – promise you won’t tell?”

“Of course.”

“My slippers are bothering me. They’re quite terribly tight, and I don’t know how in the world I’ll be able to make it home. And Hannah shan’t be here till much later,” said Emma, wincing again.

“You should call a carriage,” said George, looking at her in concern.

Emma coloured. “I’d prefer not,” she said quietly.

Comprehension dawned, and George looked shamefaced. He opened his mouth to apologize, but a cry escaped Emma, and – lo! – she tumbled to the floor.

Many heads turned, and Emma’s face flamed in mortification; Jane was at her side in an instant, looking as embarrassed as she, while George lent her a hand to pull her up.

“Oh, I am so very, very sorry,” cried Emma.

“What is the matter?” said Jane worriedly, leading her to a chair. “Oh! Never mind, I know. It’s your slippers, isn’t it? Well, I shan’t say ‘I told you so’, but... Lizzy told you so!”

Despite everything, Emma laughed, albeit weakly. “I’ve sprained my ankle very badly. How long do you think, before Hannah comes?”

“Not very long,” said Jane, glancing at the clock.

Soon Emma was installed in a side room, with her own slippers off and a pair of Sallie Gardiner’s on. She entreated Jane to leave her for supper. She was adamant that at least one of them have a good time tonight.

“Keep an eye out for Hannah, and the minute she comes, tell me,” said Emma. “Now go, and enjoy yourself.”

Jane left, after a kiss on her cheek, and Emma was left to fret on her own.

Jane returned straight after the supper though, with George and Charlie in tow. Charlie was ever eager to obey Jane’s every command, and since entertaining Emma was one, he did it with great enthusiasm. George amused Emma with tales of his and Charlie’s travels, and the rest of the evening was thus pleasantly spent, until Hannah came.

She came, she saw, she scolded. Emma assured her that she was fine now, although she wasn’t much for walking. Hannah sighed and worriedly said they had to call a carriage; Emma immediately protested that it would cost ever so much. George then spoke up quietly, and offered their grandfather’s carriage for use, which would come in fifteen minutes. Charlie insisted fervently, quite overwhelmed by the idea of rendering the beautiful Jane March a service.

Seeing not much other choice, Hannah, Jane and Emma accepted, with heartfelt thanks. When the carriage came they all piled into it, and chattered until they reached home.

Thanking them again, the girls descended, Emma with some difficulty. She limped into the house with Hannah’s and Jane’s aid, and the moment she entered Elizabeth and Anne bounded to her, Lizzy demanding to know every detail of the party.

When they got a sufficiently intricate account of the evening’s events, Elizabeth remarked with a condescending air,

“See! That’s what happens when you try so hard to be fine. I daresay you walk just like a grasshopper in a fit.”

Chapter 4

Posted on Saturday, 10 May 2008

“How hard it is to take up our burdens once more and go on,” said Jane sadly. The morning after the party was a miserable one, for the week of merrymaking was over. Jane sighed as she straightened her shabby gown and prepared for her return to an ordinary, dreary existence, as she saw it.

Emma yawned and placed the teapot back on its place mat. “Lord, but am I tired! I don’t feel like budging at all, let alone walking to that fancily done up shack Uncle calls a shop.”

Jane jerked her blue neck ribbon with uncustomary vengeance. It gave way, falling limply into her hand, and she stared at it disconsolately. “What’s the use of being pretty, when no one’s there to see me except those cross little midgets?”

Mrs March looked up from where she sat composing a letter that must be finished straight away, and bade Jane not to complain; Hannah was grumpy, for being up late didn’t suit her, and frowned as she stalked in from the kitchen. She laid three hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. No matter how grumpy she was, she never forgot to make them; they were very comforting to the girls on their walk, for it was long and bleak, and poor Jane and Emma got no other lunch.

“Aren’t we all bright and cheery today!” said Elizabeth, her mouth full of muffin, and warming her hands with the pies.

“It’s easy for you to say!” cried Jane, in a fiery tone. “You don’t have four spoiled children to look after, and Lady Catherine actually employed a governess for you, while I’m trudging away being one.”

Elizabeth lowered her head to hide her expression, but Jane saw it nonetheless. Immediately contrite, she flew to her younger sister’s side, apologizing tearfully and saying she didn’t know what had gotten into her. Emma rolled her eyes exasperatedly, saying that Lizzy needn’t be so touchy, nor Jane so melodramatic, and entreated Anne, who was lying on the couch with a headache, to fetch Jane’s bonnet – the new one, with the blue bow.

Anne got up slowly, dislodging Snuffles who had nestled within her arms, and got the bonnet, handing it to Jane with a kiss, saying that all would be well pretty soon. Jane smiled wistfully, and said that she hoped so too.

“Don’t waste your time with idle wishes,” scoffed Emma.

“Don’t be such a damper, Emma,” rejoined Elizabeth.

“Well, we had better get going,” said Jane hastily, standing up and donning her bonnet. She shot Emma a significant glance, seeing that she was still too lazy to get up. Emma pouted as she stood with Elizabeth, and the trio made their way out the door.

“Goodbye, Marmee. Goodbye, Annie!”

“We are a set of rascals this morning. Poor Marmee could hardly write two lines, and Annie had a headache,” said Elizabeth sombrely as she closed the gate after them.

“A headache, which could not have been lessened by my crossness, or ordering her about,” said Emma, wearing a penitent expression.

When they turned the corner they looked back, for their mother was always at the window to nod and smile, and wave at them. Somehow, the girls couldn’t have gotten through the day without that, for a little motherly gesture was sure to affect them like sunshine.

“If Marmee had shaken her fist at us instead of blowing a kiss, it would serve us right!” cried Emma, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the harsh wind and snowy walk.

“More ungrateful wretches than we are were never seen,” said Elizabeth.

“Don’t use such dreadful expressions,” replied Jane from the depths of her veil, in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world.

“It’s true, though, and you know Lizzy likes strong words that mean something – sometimes they mean too much,” said Emma. “But you’re a blighted being, Jane, and decidedly cross today because you can’t sit in the lap of luxury all the time.”

“Just wait till I make my fortune! Then you shall revel in all the fancy silk dresses, frilly bonnets, and invitations to parties that you can ever want!” said Elizabeth stoutly.

Emma laughed, and pulled her braid affectionately before parting ways with them. Uncle March’s shop lay in a different direction than the Kings’ place and Rosefield, and Elizabeth waved cheerfully goodbye, before turning and taking Jane’s hand, who despite it all was beginning to smile.

Lady Catherine and the Kings were neighbours, so Jane walked with Elizabeth for the remainder of the journey. At Rosefield’s gate Jane hugged her little sister, and whispered, “Take care, Lizzy. I’m sorry about this morning. I was angry and cross, and shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Elizabeth hugged her back, and kissed her cheek. “I know.”

“Goodbye, Lizzy.”

“Goodbye, Jane.”

When Mr March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate friend, Jane and Emma begged to do something toward their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, both parents consented, and the two girls fell to work with the hearty good will which in spite of all obstacles must surely succeed at last.

Jane found a place as nursery governess, and felt rich with her small salary. And in spite of all her misgivings, she really was quite fond of the little Kings, hers being a naturally tender disposition. She had a gentle way about her that could not fail to recommend her to small people. Lucy, Paul, Jamie, and Susie were sweet though spoilt, and Jane was their idol. But as she said, Jane was “fond of luxury”, and her chief trouble was vanity and poverty. Two such traits simply were not the epitome of compatibility, to put it mildly.

Jane found it harder to bear than the others because she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of ease and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be envious or discontented, but it was natural that a girl of her age and beauty should long for pretty things, friends, accomplishments, and a happy life. At the Kings’ she daily saw all she wanted, for Mary King was just out, and she caught frequent glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about theatres, concerts, sleighing-parties, and merrymaking of all kinds, and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to her. Mary King herself put on such airs, which quite disgusted Jane, though she was at the same time fairly envious.

Poor Jane seldom complained, but a sense of injustice pervaded her outlook, and her sweet manner was sometimes made bitter by it. She had not yet learned to know how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy.

Emma also found something to keep her busy, in the form of a position in her Uncle March’s clothes shop. She worked at the counter, doggedly wearing a cheerful expression all day, no matter how difficult the customers were. Sometimes she saw Sallie Gardiner or Caroline Moffat, who would look at best ashamed to see her, for they were particular friends of her sister Jane’s. Caroline would turn up her nose haughtily more often than not, and look at her in disdain; and Emma took a wicked pleasure in toying with her. Miss Moffat’s biting remarks were always foiled or tempered by her.

Though prone to think too highly of herself sometimes, Emma was a kind, loyal girl, with a loving heart; the surest way to rile her was through her family. Her father often said that she was like a flame: slow to burn, but quick to light.

“Miss Raphael”, as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and never was as happy as she was when copying or painting in her attic haven by the sunny window. She loved creating her little pieces of visual magic and beauty, as she called them, and could sit for hours on end adding the finishing touches to a portrait or landscape.

If asked what her greatest trial was, Emma would have said, “my ears”, for they were rather large, and she always thought mournfully of monkeys whenever she looked in the mirror. Being a handsome girl, despite the ears, she had her share of vanity. But she was good-humoured and possessed the happy art of pleasing without effort, which won her many “friends”, even though said “friends” did not usually acknowledge her at Uncle March’s shop. Emma was not blind, and she knew that they were at best insincere, but she could never bring herself to be unpleasant to them, though I daresay they deserved it. (The sole exception, of course, was Caroline Moffat.)

As for Elizabeth, she thought she should also be allowed to work, but Mr and Mrs March refused; she was still so young, after all. Elizabeth protested loudly, obstinately saying that she wished to help, too, in a singularly plaintive way, that made her parents smile. But an opportunity for her to “help” did come.

After troubles befell the March family, Lady Catherine (Mrs March’s half-sister) had offered to adopt one of the girls, being a childless old widow. The offer was declined, and the old lady was much affronted; and other friends said to the Marches that they lost all chance of being remembered in her will. But the unworldly Marches only said that they couldn’t give up any of their girls for a dozen fortunes.

Lady Catherine would not speak to the family for some time, but happening to meet them at a friend’s, she took a fancy to Elizabeth. Her vivacity and humour appealed to the old lady, and she proposed to take her for a companion. This did not suit Elizabeth at all, but then hearing that she may help her family this way, she complied. There was also the added incentive of private lessons that Lady Catherine offered, which won the girl, being very determined to succeed, so that when she grew up she may buy her sisters all manner of comfy things. Anne would have a lovely grand piano, music lessons, and never have to do dishes or sweep or mop again; Jane would have the garb and benefits of a rich heiress; and Emma would have all the paints and drawing pencils she could ever desire.

To everyone’s surprise, tomboy Lizzy got on famously with stiff, overbearing Lady Catherine. There was an occasional tempest, since two strong wills must inevitably clash, but Lady Catherine always cleared up quickly and sent for Elizabeth with such urgency that she could not refuse. And in her heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.

The main attraction for Elizabeth, however, was the big library, left to dust and spiders since Sir Lewis’s death. “Uncle Lew” she remembered as a kind, jolly old man, who bounced her on his knee, let her build trains and tunnels with his big Latin dictionaries and antique chairs, and bought her cards of gingerbread whenever he met her on the street. Rosefield’s library was a region of bliss to Elizabeth, whose one great passion was books.

The moment she finished reciting French and doing sums with Miss Jenkinson (and Lady Catherine, who liked to oversee her lessons), and the moment Lady Catherine took her nap, Elizabeth hurried to the library and buried herself in adventures, poetry, and sometimes even romance. But like all joys it must come to an end, and it did, as soon as Lady Catherine called in her shrill voice, “Eliza Roberta!” And she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash Pug, or read Belsham’s Essays by the hour.

Elizabeth’s ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was she was not yet quite sure, and left if for time to tell. Meanwhile, she found her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn’t read, run, and romp as much as she would like. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series of ups and downs both comic and pathetic. But the training she received at Rosefield was just what she needed, and the thought that she was doing something to support herself made her happy, despite the perpetual “Eliza Roberta”.

Anne was the baby of the family, and much petted. She would have been in a fair way to be spoiled, had her nature not been what it was. She was quiet, shy, and afraid of strangers, which made it quite impossible to send her to school. It had been tried, but Anne would always come home in tears, begging to have her lessons at home, with Father. Even when Father went away, and Mother was called to devote her skill and energy to Soldiers’ Aid Societies, Anne went faithfully on by herself and did the best she could with her sisters’ help. She was a housewifely little creature, always helping Hannah to make home neat and comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be loved.

Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely or idle, for Anne’s world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed each morning, for she was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever. There was not one that was whole or handsome, since when her sisters outgrew these idols they passed to her. Anne loved them all the more for it, and set up a little hospital for infirm dolls. There was one forlorn, handicapped figure among them, an old toy of Elizabeth’s, which having led a tempestuous life, was reduced to little more than a bundle of rags. Having no top on its head, Anne sewed on a neat little cap, and as all limbs were gone, she enfolded it in a blanket to hide these deficiencies. She brought it bits of bouquet, soothed the poor invalid with sweet lullabies, and took it out for fresh air, hiding it in her coat, because Lizzy would laugh.

Anne had her troubles as well as the others, and often sat at the old piano trying to piece together little songs with notes that were out of tune. She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so patiently, that it did seem as if someone (not to hint Lady Catherine) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw Anne wipe the tears off the yellow keys when she was all alone. But she sang like a lark about her work, and never was too tired for Marmee and the girls.

By some strange attraction of opposites gentle Anne was most intimate with harum-scarum Lizzy, confiding in her all her hopes, tribulations, and thoughts. And over Elizabeth she exerted an influence which did the older girl good; some of her recklessness was quelled, and her sharp nature softened. In turn Elizabeth “stuck up” for her everywhere they went. She had been known to give some boys a thrashing once, for teasing Anne at school. When she came home muddied, with her dress in ruins, and a large grin on her dirty face, the family laughed at first. Then Mrs March sat her down, and gave her a scolding, while Jane bemoaned her unladylike behaviour, and Emma tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smirk.

The girls were a companionable set, quarrelling sometimes but always making up. The elder two girls looked out for the younger, “mothering” and guiding them through many of life’s trials. Elizabeth, who rebelled against this treatment, saying she should take care of them, since she was the “man of the family”, consoled herself with protecting her sole younger sister Anne with a fierceness that was really quite touching.

So the March girls toiled, and strove for that goodness of character which sometimes seems so hard to achieve. Their efforts are sure to be rewarded, in spite of all difficulties; and rewarded not through riches or wealth, but something infinitely dearer.

Chapter 5

“What in the world do you think you’re doing, Lizzy?” asked Emma, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other.

“Going out for exercise,” said Elizabeth, with a mischievous twinkle in her brown eyes.

Jane came into the hall, drawn by the voices, and looked doubtfully at Elizabeth’s attire. “I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough! It’s cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the fire, as we all do.”

“Oh, come, Jane! That’s no fun,” cried Elizabeth. “Tell Annie bye for me, I’m going out. I shan’t doze by the fire like some old pussycat Snuffles. I’d rather have some adventure. Emma, come with me.”

Emma threw a longing glance in the direction of the living room, were the cozy fire was. Seeing her somewhat inclined to “doze by the fire like Snuffles”, Elizabeth dragged her to the door, throwing at her a scarf, mittens, boots, and thick jacket.

Jane laughed, and returned to the fire to curl up with Ivanhoe, listening to Anne play away at the old piano, with Betsy the infirm doll as spectator. Anne and Jane cheerfully bade them goodbye, while Emma tramped grumpily out the door after Elizabeth.

Elizabeth began to dig paths with great energy. She shovelled the snow, and Emma swept with the broom after her, and soon there was a path all around the garden for Anne to walk in when the sun came out and the dolls needed fresh air.

The garden separated the Marches’ house from that of Mr Bingley. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the flowers which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and glimpses of lovely things to be caught between the rich curtains.

“Look! There’s Mr Bingley driving off!” said Elizabeth suddenly, pointing. Emma looked up, and leaned against her broom, shielding her eyes.

“So?” said Emma, ingenuously.

“Come,” Elizabeth only said, digging her way down to the hedge.

“Lizzy! What sort of mischief are you thinking of doing now?” demanded Emma, following her with an exasperated expression.

Elizabeth said nothing, only packed a snowball into her hand, brought it back, and threw with all her might. It smacked very satisfyingly against an upper window of the mansion, and Elizabeth stood back with a smug grin, while Emma watched on in a sort of stupefied fascination.

“LIZZY!” she finally said. Her tone was a medley of disbelief and horror.

“Oh, see! He turns!” said Elizabeth, waving an arm wildly. “Charlie!” she bellowed.

“What in the name of heaven are you thinking!” cried Emma.

“Hello there!” said Charlie, his voice slightly raspy, leaning out. He inspected the window pane, and was visibly relieved to find that no lasting harm was done.

“Good morning!” Elizabeth called back. “How do you do? Are you sick?”

“Fine, thank you, only terribly bored, and recovering from a cold,” he croaked.

“That’s a shame. Why don’t you have someone read to you?”

“George is with Grandpa, and I hate to ask Darcy all the time. Besides, I don’t like it.”

“Not like reading!” said Elizabeth, appalled. “Well, why don’t you invite your friends then, and have a regular romp? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“This is very bad form, Eliza Roberta,” said Emma. Desperate situations called for desperate measures, in her opinion.

Not unexpectedly, Elizabeth scowled, but she paid no attention to her sister.

“The boys would tire me out. Grandfather forbade them to come while I’m sick.”

“Why don’t you have a nice, quiet girl come, then?” said Emma. Elizabeth looked to her in surprise, wondering at the sudden transformation in her face. She didn’t look disapproving anymore; in fact, she looked very pleased. There was a very suspicious smile playing about her lips, and Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as she regarded her older sister.

“I don’t know any,” said Charlie sadly.

“I’ll take offense at that!” laughed Emma.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” cried Charlie, flurried. “I meant – oh, drat it.”

“Well, why don’t one of us come over and amuse you?” suggested Emma.

“Would you?” said Charlie, beaming.

“Of course! Just wait and see,” said Emma, turning back and hurrying towards home. Elizabeth lifted her shovel and followed her quickly.

“Christopher Columbus, but what was that?” said Elizabeth.

“Don’t you see?” said Emma, as if speaking to a very small child. “We’ll just ask Jane to come and help Charlie. She’s so kind-hearted she’ll never decline something like that.”

“Why Jane?”

“You dimwit! Don’t you want them to be friends? They’ll suit each other wonderfully,” said Emma.

“Oh.” Elizabeth paused. Then she rolled her eyes. “Emma.”

Jane knocked tentatively, thrice. She held a plateful of blancmange in one hand, and Snuffles in the other. She bit her lip nervously as a maid opened the door.

“Good day,” she said politely. “I’m here to see Mr Charles Bingley.”

“Show her up, it’s Miss Emma or Miss Lizzy,” Charlie’s voiced called down, and the surprised servant hastened her up the stairs.

Jane frowned, a premonitory feeling settling in her stomach, as Charlie opened the door of his room.

“Hello, E–,” Charlie’s smile faltered, and his face paled. “Miss... J-Jane?”

“Hello, Charlie,” said Jane brightly. “Emma said that you wanted for company, and that ‘I’d do’, so I came. I hope you like blancmange; it’s so soft and would be wonderful for your cold. And I brought Snuffles too, Annie asked me to.”

“Oh, I-I see,” stammered poor Charlie. He looked in panic around his room, which in spite of half a dozen servants was anything but tidy. Jane raised an eyebrow, and then calmly said, “Sit down, Charlie, and have some blancmange.”

Charlie obeyed dazedly, sitting down on the couch. Jane placed the dish in his lap, and deposited Snuffles beside him on the cushion. The pussycat mewed contentedly, stretching out and nuzzling Charlie’s elbow.

Jane hummed as she went about the room; she straightened the items on the mantle, swept the hearth, and plumped the pillows, lending it an entirely different air. Charlie watched in respectful admiration as she whisked things into place, and when she was done she drew a chair by the couch and sat down, the compassionate smile never leaving her face.

“Thank you,” said Charlie shyly.

“You’re welcome,” replied Jane cheerfully. “Shall I read to you?” She nodded at some books lying nearby.

“That’s alright. I’ve read all those, and I’d rather talk, if you don’t mind,” Charlie felt extremely proud of himself for saying so much without a stutter, although his voice was so quiet that Jane had to lean in to hear him.

Jane smiled. “Of course I don’t mind. Although I fear I’m not as good at it as Lizzy. Once she gets going, there’s no stopping her.”

“Lizzy seems like a fun sort,” said Charlie.

“She’s a nice girl, although a bit of a tomboy.”

“Annie is the quiet one, who stays home a good deal, and sometimes goes out with a basket?” said Charlie with interest. “I saw her once, and Snuffles is hers, I suppose.”

“You seem to know a great deal,” said Jane laughingly.

Charlie said frankly, “You see I often hear you calling to one another, and when I’m alone up here, I can’t help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And when the lamps are lighted, it’s like looking at a picture to see the fire, and you all around the table with your mother. Her face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, that I can’t help watching it. George and I don’t have mothers, you know.” His colour was high at having rambled so much, and at the end his mouth twitched a little, and he blinked as he poked at the fire.

The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jane’s warm heart. There was an instinctive, protective feeling towards the sick and lonely boy who had no mother – as Emma had said, she had an “older sister complex”, which now kicked in full force and softened her mien and voice.

“We’ll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you’d come over and see us. Mother is so lovely, she’d do you a heap of good, and Annie will sing and play for you if I beg her to. She has the most beautiful voice, and Emma will show you her drawings too, which are quite splendid. Lizzy makes us all laugh, and have a jolly time. Why don’t you come with George sometime? Won’t your grandfather let you?”

Charlie bit his lip. “I don’t think he likes me to be a bother to strangers,” he said slowly.

“We aren’t strangers, we’re neighbours. And you shan’t think that you’d be a bother. Everyone is quite willing to meet you and George.”

“You see Grandfather doesn’t go about much, only on business, and George goes with him. He’s always in the library, and doesn’t mind me most of the time. Mr Darcy, my tutor, doesn’t stay here, you know, and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stay home and get on as I can.”

Jane frowned. She said in a patronizing tone, “You ought to go out more; you’re so stifled in this old house. Annie’s bashful too, but she isn’t always cooped up in the house all the time, like you. Fresh air is good for the constitution, you know.”

Charlie coloured at being called bashful, but was silent. It was impossible for him not to take it as kindly as Jane meant it; there was a motherly cast to her face as she said it, and if Charlie’s feelings had been anything but what they were, he would have found it very pleasing.

“Emma mentioned that you’re a governess,” he said at last, changing the subject.

“Oh yes, to the King children. They’re such spoilt, cross little dears,” said Jane fondly. She didn’t seem to realize that her description was slightly contradictory, but Charlie smiled.

“Do tell,” he said.

“Well, there are four. Lucy is the oldest, and such a sweet girl, only used to getting her own way, you know. Susie is everything prim and proper, a little lady really, with the funniest, most ridiculous airs. Paul and Jamie are twins, and very boisterous – they’re a handful, certainly. There was a time when....”

And so Jane and Charlie chatted, and by and by Jane lost her condescending tone, and talked with him as an equal. Charlie was pleased, and smiled more and more; once he laughed aloud at the antics of Paul and Jamie, and a curious maid peeked in to make sure everything was all right.

They ventured down to the library after a time, Jane having expressed a desire to see it, to have something to tell Lizzy when she returned.

It was a grand, magnificent room, shelves lining every vertical surface, and the warm tints of the books’ bindings gave the room a mellow, comforting atmosphere. It was larger than Rosefield’s, and Jane concluded that it would fairly take Lizzy’s breath away, if she ever saw it.

Jane sank into a thickly cushioned chair, with a happy little sigh. She wondered idly what it would be like to live in a house such as this; with comforts of every kind, and riches to be seen in every corner. It was a dangerous thought process, making Jane prone to envy and discontent, forgetting what she had that Charles did not: a loving mother and family, which was infinitely better than any velvet luxury.

Snuffles yawned, stirring her from her reverie, and Jane looked up to smile at Charlie, who stood with his hands clasped by one of the shelves.

“It is splendid. Lizzy would be ecstatic if she were ever allowed free reign somewhere like this,” said Jane.

“I don’t spend much time here. George and Grandfather do, and they’re always purchasing new additions,” said Charlie, feeling that he would have gladly spent two dozen afternoons in here, if only for the sake of being able to sound knowledgeable for Jane.

The doorbell rang then, and Jane jumped to her feet. “Mercy me, is it Mr Bingley?” she said, panicking a little.

A maid beckoned from the door. “The doctor to see you, sir.”

“I suppose I had better go,” said Charlie, walking to the door. He stopped to turn, saying shyly, “You won’t go before saying goodbye, Jane?”

Jane laughed. “Of course not, now run along like a good boy.”

She amused herself in her own way while Charlie was gone, inspecting the portraits as well as the books. She let Snuffles descend from her lap, and wandered round the room slowly, gazing thoughtfully around her. She fingered a small photograph of George, squinting at it contemplatively.

“Looks like a sensible sort, although what Lizzy would call ‘dull’,” murmured Jane absently.

“Really?” sounded an amused voice at her shoulder. Jane whirled around, and then promptly blushed intensely from head to foot – for it was George, of course, who else would it be? She could not, for the life of her, meet his eye, and studied the carpet with unconvincing fascination.

“Now who’s that, eh? And who’s this Lizzy, who calls my grandson dull?” said another voice, gruffly. To poor Jane’s horror, it was Mr Bingley.

“I apologize, ever so much!” she cried.

“You do, eh? So you didn’t mean it? Tsk, do you lie as well, young lady?”

“Grandpa,” said George, embarrassed. “I’m sure Miss March meant no offense.”

Jane looked to him thankfully, smiling tentatively. Mr Bingley chuckled, “There, there, I’m only teasing.” There was a kindly light in his eyes, which put Jane at ease instantly, and she was much relieved.

“Thank you, sir,” said Jane shyly. “I’m only here, you see, to keep Charlie company, since he’s sick.”

Mr Bingley’s eyes hardened at the mention of his other grandson’s name, and Jane unconsciously took a step back. “Just like his father, dallying with young girls, playing on their better feelings,” he bellowed.

“I beg your pardon, sir!” said Jane, in a sudden flash of spirit, her eyes alight with angry expression.

“Now Grandpa,” soothed George, taking the old man’s arm. “Come, you must be tired, sir. Let me help you to your room.” He shot Jane an apologetic glance, and led Mr Bingley away.

Jane, flushed with excitement, stood rooted for some time, before a small voice said from behind her, “I heard voices. Did Grandfather come?”

Jane’s eyes softened and she turned to Charlie with a gentle smile. “Don’t worry, he wasn’t very offensive, and I know he is kind, since he did send that lovely dinner. You put it into his head, didn’t you, Charlie?”

“I –,” started Charlie. Then he looked down. “No, George did,” he all but whispered.

“George,” repeated Jane, her expression dreamy. “He is so kind,” she said.

Charlie kept his eyes downcast, not liking the new note in her voice at all. He sighed, looking up. “Yes, he is,” he said in a resigned tone.

“Well,” said Jane, shaking herself from her trance. “I had better get going. I ought to help Annie with dinner. Goodbye, Charlie, it’s been a real pleasure, and I hope you feel better soon.”

After Jane left, however, Charlie thought that he felt considerably worse than when she first came. His thoughts turned despondently to her dreamy expression as she said his cousin’s name, and he sighed again as he sank into the chair, staring morosely at the carpet. Concession of defeat had come even before there was a battle; he knew, with a heavy heart, that he never stood a chance.

Chapter 6

Posted on Saturday, 17 May 2008

Mr Bingley was much upset by the visit, but George soon calmed him, and he slowly came to terms with the realization that Charlie and the March girls’ friendship was everything that was innocent and pure. He allowed Charlie to associate with them, and the boy happily acted on it, developing his acquaintance with their neighbours – especially Emma and Elizabeth. He was shy of Jane, unable to forget his disappointment, and Anne was generally too bashful herself for them to get on as swimmingly as he did with the two middle sisters.

As for Emma, she was eager to know what her sister thought of Charlie, and if any of her hopes had been realized.

“Well, Jane, how did you find Charlie?” Emma had asked her older sister excitedly.

“He’s a nice boy,” Jane had said. “Very well-behaved.”

To which Emma had frowned – it was not exactly the romantic declaration she had been hoping for.

But she was happy enough with the way things were progressing (despite Jane’s obstinate refusal to see Charlie in a romantic light, which Emma considered highly insensible on her part), which was more than can be said for a certain Mr Darcy.

As Charlie made more and more frequent trips over to the Marches’, where there was in abundance the friendly feeling and affection which he could not find at home, his tutor complained that his mind was always over at the house next door, and never attended to his studies anymore. Mr Darcy, in a fit of desperation, turned to Mr Bingley and asked him to exert his authority as guardian; the old gentleman complied, and the visits between Charlie and the Marches ceased for a time.

Elizabeth, happening to know of this from Charlie, via the top window of the mansion, was all righteous indignation. She marched over next door one afternoon, demanding to have an audience with Mr Bingley, in high dudgeon. The maid who’d opened the door replied that Mr Bingley was not at home; and then Elizabeth flew into such a fury, that poor Florence was quite bewildered.

“Little girl, do calm down,” she said. This, of course, only added to Elizabeth’s ire, and with one last glare at the hapless maid stalked in directly.

She wandered through the house in a huff. She had been here before, and looked in all the places where she thought she might find Mr Bingley; until after having searched half a dozen rooms she began to re-evaluate the veracity of the maid’s assertion that he was not at home. Sighing, she retraced her steps, with the noble intention of retreating gracefully, but unfortunately on her way back was distracted by her single favourite room: the library.

She stood at the doorway, undecided as to whether she should enter or not, when she muttered to herself, “Deuce take it, what’s the harm?” (The first part of which I am sure would have made Jane suffer an apoplectic fit, had she heard) and walked in the library with decisive steps.

She was just wrapped up in a simply delicious novel, and was just at the zenith, when her solitude was disrupted by a tall man in black, who strode in without ceremony. She raised her head in annoyance, and shut her book, standing up with an imperial air.

“What the devil?” said Mr Darcy (who else could it be?) starting in surprise.

“So you are Charlie’s tutor,” said Elizabeth disdainfully. “Dear me, you are so vulgar, I would never have guessed.” And she wrinkled her nose, completely disregarding the fact that she had uttered, “deuce take it” not that long ago.

Mr Darcy stared and coloured, shocked at the girl’s impertinence and (wholly uncalled for) patronizing tone.

“See here, little girl,” he began, with an impatient gesture.

“I am not a little girl! My name is Lizzy March, if you please,” said Elizabeth, raising her voice and shaking the book at him belligerently.

“Well, Miss March,” he said, glaring at her, thinking that she was a little touched in the head, as well as extremely rude. (The book continued to shake irefully.) “If I may ask what you are doing at the Bingley residence, uninvited and certainly unwelcome – ”

“I was here to see Mr Bingley. And if it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have needed to see him anyway!”

“Is that so?”

“Yes! It was because of you that he wouldn’t let Charlie come and play,” said Elizabeth, only realizing how childish the words sounded after they left her mouth.

Darcy was silent for a while; then he raised a brow and smiled indulgently. “I’m sure he would care to hear your opinion on the matter very much. However, it is really no concern of yours, and Charles has more important things to do than associating with little girls. He has lessons to learn.” He said all this with an excessively condescending tone, as if to a small child. And this offended Elizabeth beyond measure, for she considered herself far past the stage of being a small child, at the mature age of thirteen.

To put it simply (and mildly), she was furious.

Words apparently failed her. She stood fuming silently for some time, shooting daggers with her eyes at the unwitting Darcy. After that brief intermission, she straightened herself calmly and lifted a hand – the hand holding the book – and slowly brought it back.

You may imagine what then proceeded.

And as Elizabeth exited the mansion, leaving behind an astounded Darcy, she reflected regretfully that it had only hit him on the shoulder.

Unsurprisingly, Elizabeth got a scolding from Hannah and Mrs March when they found out. Jane held a hand to her head as she listened, looking at her with big, disapproving eyes. Elizabeth initially refused to see the error of her ways, until Mrs March reminded her of her Christmas resolutions, so soon broken. She gently bade her to think of Father, and how disappointed he should be; at which Elizabeth retorted that it was a very sad ploy, but her lip quivered nonetheless. She signed an apologetic note the next day, which she had composed with her mother’s help.

When Mr Bingley learned of the fiasco, he was mostly amused, and looked on Lizzy March with a singular sort of respect – the child had to have some gumption, after all, if she could defy Mr Darcy, let alone throw something at him. That young man was much too stiff by half. And contrary to what everyone expected, he revived the connection between the two neighbouring houses, allowing Charlie once more to visit as he chose.

But understanding that all play and no work was unacceptable, after a stern lecture each from Mrs March and his grandfather, Charlie did not visit nearly as much as he did originally, instead returning to his studies with renewed readiness to focus, for Mrs March’s gentle chastisement was fresh in his conscience.

Otherwise, Elizabeth’s little scene at the mansion did not succeed in achieving anything except establishing a fierce contention between Charlie’s tutor and herself. She viewed him as arrogant, disagreeable and insensitive, and felt towards him all that a rebellious child would feel towards an unreasonable adult. (Which is, come to think of it, not a figure of speech, but pretty much the truth.) He saw her as an insolent little girl, full of vulgar, rough, boyish ways that did not at all sit well with his idea of a pleasant child. He thought how appalled he should be if his sister Georgiana displayed such devastating conduct – throw a book at him, indeed! – shocking behaviour – and consequently thought very lowly of Mrs March’s parenting skills.

He made the mistake of voicing this thought aloud on one occasion, which magnified Elizabeth’s ire even further. But she kept silent, wisely aware that any impulsive action now would only affirm his absurd claim. And with this final stroke, all hope of reconciliation was lost.

“Terrible day, so cold and harsh! Almost didn’t make it. We’re home, Hannah, Annie!” yelled Elizabeth, shutting the door behind her as she followed Jane and Emma inside. The three youthful faces were flushed from the harsh winter wind, and all three girls hastily shed their coats, making their way to the living room, where they could warm their hands by the fireplace.

“Hello, sweeties,” said Hannah, bustling in cheerfully. “How was your day? Annie’s not home, she went out to buy fish for dinner, the little darling.”

“I hope she’ll be careful,” said Jane, peering anxiously out the window at the swirling snow and dark clouds.

“Christopher Columbus, Annie shouldn’t be out in such weather,” exclaimed Elizabeth, cuddling near the window with Jane. “It looks to be getting worse too.”

“Well, there’s no use fretting over it,” said Emma. “It’s not as if we can do anything.” Although her tone was nonchalant, she also looked in concern out the window.

The girls all took up their knitting then, occasionally throwing a perplexed glance at the window, noting the darkness and howling wind with growing alarm. The hour ticked by, with no sign of Anne’s bobbing brown hood and basket outside on the path, and even Hannah lost her cheer and joined the sisters in their worry. Soon it was five, and pitch black outside; when Mrs March arrived, the only light emanated from the sparse street lamps.

“Marmee,” they all cried simultaneously, flocking to her.

Mrs March shed her coat and scarves, glancing at her children. “Where’s Annie?”

“Oh,” said Jane tearfully. “She went to buy fish for dinner, only never came home.”

“They won’t let me go to search for her! Marmee, you must let me do something!” said Elizabeth frantically, near hysterics.

Emma only took her hand, glancing at the window again and shivering close to her mother’s side.

“We’re so worried,” she whispered.

Mrs March had grown decidedly paler, but her voice was calm as she spoke, though it shook slightly. “Heavens, God help her,” she murmured. “Girls, you will stay home, don’t dare step outside. I will search for Annie.”

“But Marmee!” said Elizabeth. Mrs March held up a hand and looked at her sternly. Elizabeth only sniffed, and turned away.

Her mother sighed. “Patience, child.”

“Come, Lizzy,” said Jane softly, laying a hand on her little sister’s shoulder. We will wait, and pray; you will only be an impediment if you go.” And with a gentle but firm hand she led her to the living room.

“You will find her, Marmee?” said Emma, a desperate note in her voice, as she watched Mrs March don the coat she had just shed. Hannah then came with a small lantern, handing it to Mrs March silently.

“I hope so,” Mrs March only said.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” said Hannah, dabbing at her eyes. “I shouldn’t have asked her to run the errand, to buy that cursed fish. I – I only thought to treat you all with a bit of a different dish, you’ve all been working so hard like, and Miss Lizzy was behaving so nicely after that rebuke. Oh, ma’am....” she faltered, burying her face in her hand.

Mrs March patted the kind, loyal servant’s arm reassuringly. “It’s alright, Hannah.” And then she turned to open the door, and strode out, the lantern in her hand shining like a beacon in the darkness.

Elizabeth listlessly pressed the piano keys, staring dully at the fire. The discordant notes rang jarringly, and Emma snapped from where she sat peeling potatoes for dinner, “Lizzy, it’s not helping. Will you have a care and be silent, if you will be useless?”

Elizabeth’s hand fell from the keyboard, and she lowered her head. “I don’t know what to do,” she said, her shoulders slouched and a quiet fear borne partly of helplessness evident in her voice.

“Well, you can at least help me peel these things,” said Emma sharply, turning her full attention on the potatoes. Jane, who was slicing the peeled vegetables, said softly, “Emma.”

Emma bit her lip, and she blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay. “I’m sorry, Lizzy,” she whispered.

Elizabeth only nodded, mechanically taking a potato and slowly unravelling the outer layer. She stared at it intently, fascinated by the way the light played on the white flesh; it seemed blinding nearly, but she could not tear her eyes away. It was too painful to look elsewhere. She would either encounter Emma’s stone countenance, Jane’s tear filled eyes, Hannah’s panicked face, or the window, which offered a full view of the unrelenting wind and snow, and seemed to flaunt the empty lane that led to the house.

By and by the potatoes were peeled and sliced, and in the pot and cooking on the stove. Jane and Emma couldn’t bear to do nothing, so washed their hands and took up their knitting. They chattered, more for the sake of filling the empty room with sounds than for conversation. Elizabeth leaned against the old piano. She had not said a word since her plaintive, “I don’t know what to do,” and her silence was now unnerving. But Jane and Emma talked on, in a vain attempt to distract their minds from the crisis at hand.

The doll still sat on the piano, where Anne had left it. Slowly, as if in a daze, Elizabeth reached out and took poor infirm Betsy from her panoramic place on the instrument. Elizabeth stroked one yellowed cheek with surprising gentleness, and once bent down to kiss the cap that Anne had sewed on Betsy’s head with such painstaking care. She sighed shakily, and slowly sank to the floor, closing her eyes.

“Lizzy,” said Jane, setting her knitting aside and bending down towards her. “Come, Lizzy, have faith. Annie will be alright.”

“I always laughed at her,” said Elizabeth, speaking slowly, and surprising them all. “I always laughed at her for loving a doll so much. She took her on walks, you know, and sang to it; I always hear her singing to Betsy at night.”

Emma entreated her to stop, but she went on. “And then once I said, in jest, that I was jealous, for she never sang to me especially, and dear Annie looked so chastised and earnest when she said she would gladly sing for me all the time if I so wished, that I – oh, dear, dear Annie,” Elizabeth said the last brokenly, with a little sob.

“Lizzy, Lizzy,” said Jane, holding her close. “All will be fine. You’ll see.”

Elizabeth laid her head on Jane’s shoulder, nodding into it. Snuffles, who had hitherto been resting at Emma’s feet, mewed pitifully. Emma picked him up, rubbing his ears comfortingly, as if in reassurance that soon his gentle mistress will be home. She sighed, and looked to the window for the thousandth time that evening; but this time her eyes brightened, and she jumped up, dislodging Snuffles.

“See the moving light! It’s Mother, it must be!” she cried, running out the room. Jane and Elizabeth were quick to follow. Hannah also bustled after them, thanking her stars over and over again under her breath.

They opened the front door with expectant faces; their eyes widened when they perceived the picture that greeted them. Elizabeth’s hand slipped from Jane’s, and she bounded to the figures with a startled cry.

Mrs March looked terribly tired and worn, her cloak wet and wrinkled, and the lantern in her hand significantly dimmer than it was when she first set out. But she was not the only one present on the doorstep; there was partly hidden behind her a gangly boy, thin and scared-looking. And nestled now in Elizabeth’s arms was the frighteningly still body of Anne, which seemed so chillingly cold and impossibly small.

Chapter 7

Posted on Sunday, 25 May 2008

The boy stood awkwardly for a while, as he watched everyone bustle in, fussing over Anne. Everyone save Mrs March, who laid a hand on his shoulder, her eyes shining with unspoken gratitude. Freddie smiled self-consciously, and tipped his old hat, of which he was so very fond, saying, “Well, I’ll be going now, ma’am. I hope Miss Anne gets well soon.”

“Thank you, Freddie,” said Mrs March with a gentle, matronly smile. Freddie nodded, then gave a little wistful sigh as he saw the light go on in the upstairs window. He swallowed thickly, and strode away briskly towards the gate and into the night.

The unconscious Anne was quickly brought upstairs into the room she shared with Elizabeth, and changed out of her dirty clothes into her nightgown. Hannah went down to the kitchen to make some broth at once, and Emma departed to fetch the local apothecary. Jane quietly followed Hannah as well, to help. Elizabeth held her sister’s hand tightly as she lay on the bed.

“What happened, Marmee?” she asked, her voice quavering slightly as she noted an ugly bruise on the side of Anne’s head.

“She was hit by a carriage,” said Mrs March simply, as she rinsed out a cloth. “The Moffats’ gig. I think Caroline’s brother Ned was driving, a bit recklessly. At least, that is what Freddie said. He’s a good boy, and brought Annie to the Hummels’, for temporary shelter.”

“How did he come to find Annie?”

“He was running an errand for the Brookes, and saw the gig injure Annie. And can you believe it, but he said that Ned Moffat did not even look back, though there was a commotion,” and Mrs March’s expression was uncommonly dark for her usually gentle face.

“Those horrid Moffats!” cried Elizabeth with vehemence.

“Quiet, Lizzy,” said Mrs March. But Anne stirred, and moaned, as if asking relief from a nightmare. Elizabeth’s attention at once pivoted to the pale face lying against the pillow, and she felt her own eyes well up with tears. She squeezed her hand again, and didn’t budge from her seat until Emma came back with the apothecary an hour later.

As it turned out, Anne was not too seriously harmed, though the household suffered a great fright. A week after the incident Ned Moffat came to apologize, though he went about it somewhat ill. It wasn’t his fault – he was only driving a bit quickly – he didn’t even know until that Wentworth boy told him off to the Brookes, who told his parents, who gave him a scolding – of course he didn’t deserve it – but by Jove, he was sorry for Miss March’s misfortune. Mrs March graciously accepted his clumsily worded apology, but there was no warmth lost in her tone.

Elizabeth openly scorned and condemned him after he left, and so did Emma, but Jane, ever willing to excuse anyone, said that it was only an accident. He felt awkward – perhaps he was truly sorry but didn’t know how to express it all that well, as was often the case with young men. All this Jane said, but whether anyone other than herself sincerely believed it will be left to the reader’s speculation.

Perhaps Jane would have been as vehement in her disapprobation as the rest of the family, but for the fact that the young, handsome, and rich Mr Moffat had shown a particular admiration for her. In her heart she could not but be flattered by his attention, though she tried not to let it affect her judgement – but it was hard, for she was young and beautiful as well as poor, and the novelty of a “suitor” went straight to Jane’s head. Poor girl, she hardly knew what to do – there was Ned Moffat, and then also her own romantic ideal George Knightley to reckon with.

To the great relief of all the family, Anne recovered with time, though the incident left her weaker than ever and she walked with a slight limp for many days afterward. Hannah doted on her, admonishing her if she so much as lifted a finger to pour herself a cup of tea. It was heart-warming, however, to see the colour flood back into her cheeks, and to hear her laughter more and more.

From next door little tokens of concern and flowers were sent, wishing for Anne’s speedy recovery. The old gentleman especially took to coming over on fine afternoons, sitting by Anne’s bedside and amusing her in his own affectionate way. The two got on haltingly at first, Anne being naturally in awe of Mr Bingley, who had a strong expression and stern gaze. But soon all obstacles were conquered, for kind deeds can help to overcome shyness; and the little girl and the old soldierly gentleman were henceforth often seen together, in either one of the houses or on the sunny garden paths.

When Anne was fully recovered she took to visiting often at the mansion next door, hammering away at the perfectly magnificent grand piano. Mr Bingley would sit in his study with the door open, to listen as the sweet tunes floated in, and sometimes Anne’s lilting voice sounded in song to accompany the notes; it warmed the old gentleman’s heart, for he felt as if he had got his own little granddaughter back, who had had the same blue eyes and serene expression as she sat at her little cabinet piano....

And a surprise did await Anne one evening, as she came home from the gardens where she had been strolling with Betsy.

Elizabeth with great excitement ushered her into the living room. In the middle stood the most adorable instrument Anne had ever seen – she stood in rapt silence for awhile, wondering if perhaps she was dreaming.

She did not notice that she had voiced this thought aloud until Emma laughed and shook her head. “No, you aren’t; Mr Bingley sent it. Isn’t that charming of him?” Anne was quite overcome, and could only nod.

Mrs March led her gently to the new piano which replaced the older one. Jane pulled out the bench for her, and Elizabeth laid out Anne’s favourite music.

So Anne tried it, and everyone pronounced it the most remarkable piano ever heard. It had evidently been tuned and put in apple-pie order, but, perfect as it was, the real charm lay in the happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Anne lovingly touched the black and white keys and pressed the bright pedals.

“You ought to go and thank him,” said Mrs March.

“I shall,” agreed Anne, tenderly closing the lid.

And donning her hood, she set out across the short distance towards the mansion, singing lightly as she went. Florence opened the door for her, and she thanked the maid with bright eyes.

She found Mr Bingley in his study, his grey head bent over an elegantly framed portrait. Anne stole in timidly, stopping beside his chair and laying a hand on his shoulder. The old gentleman started, and sat up straight, his face softening when he saw who had disturbed his solitude.

“I wanted to thank you,” said Anne softly.

“Now there, no need for that,” said Mr Bingley gruffly, setting the portrait on the desk. Anne touched it gently, noting that it was the picture of a young girl like herself, with soft hair and mild blue eyes.

Without a word Anne put her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. Mr Bingley enfolded her in his arms, thinking of his own dear little Ellie who departed so soon; Anne felt for his loss, her gentle heart overflowing with empathy.

“Annie, I’ve invited someone to dinner for tomorrow, and I hope you will help prepare something special,” said Mrs March a few evenings after, cuddling Anne in her lap.

“It’s not me, is it?” said Charlie laughingly, as he jumped one of Elizabeth’s pieces on the checkerboard, to the annoyance of the very same young lady.

“Charlie!” cried Elizabeth, staring outraged at the board. Emma, who was overlooking the game, laughed and pulled her braid affectionately, saying, “Don’t be a baby, Lizzy. There’s plenty of time still to turn the tide.”

“No, it isn’t you, Charlie, although you are welcome if you like,” said Mrs March.

“Then will you not tell us who is coming?” said Jane, who was fixing up a bonnet for Susie King’s doll.

“Frederick Wentworth, Mrs Hummels’s nephew, the boy who so kindly helped Annie that terrible day,” said Mrs March, hugging Anne closer as she thought of that day’s worry and suspense.

“I should like to thank him too,” said Anne thoughtfully.

“Ha!” cried Elizabeth triumphantly, as she skipped her piece across the board. Charlie laughed, and conceded the game to her.

“You are getting better by the minute, Lizzy,” he said. “Pretty soon you might even be able to best Darcy.”

Elizabeth frowned. “I don’t understand how you can like him so, Charlie. He is such a disagreeable, unreasonable, awful, ridiculously conceited...” she said, exhausting her repertoire of words synonymous with “Charlie’s tutor”, in her definition.

“As well as handsome and clever,” said Charlie, with a sly wink at Emma, who coloured, retorting that it was very unfair of him to hold her words against her in such a way. Elizabeth, appalled at this proof of her sister’s gross betrayal, exclaimed that he was, indeed, the ugliest and stupidest person she knew.

“Lizzy,” chided Jane, before Mrs March could.

“I am sure he is not so bad as you make him out to be, dear Lizzy,” said Anne. Elizabeth shrugged, and said that perhaps she was right.

“Anyhow,” she said with a sage expression. “It is a very bad use of time, arguing over that – that tutor’s” – this was said as if it was the height of insult – “deficiencies, or lack thereof,” she ended, shooting a look at Charlie and Emma, who both laughed.

“Well, I should really go back now,” said Charlie reluctantly, referring to his watch. “Thank you for a lovely evening, ma’am,” he said to Mrs March, who kindly patted his hand and wished him goodnight.

“Goodnight, Charlie. I hope you aren’t too disappointed over your defeat,” Elizabeth called after him, laughing.

“Not at all.”

And perhaps he was not so torn over this defeat, but he was still smarting over a previous one; and that wound, in all likelihood, would continue to smart for a long time.

Anne flew about the kitchen the next day, Hannah occasionally as frantic as she was in getting things done, and occasionally chiding her for so much exertion only weeks after her accident. Soon the girls came home, and three more helping pairs of hands joined in to make dinner. But a short while after, they all came to a unanimous decision that Elizabeth had better be driven from the kitchen, before she destroyed the entire meal’s worth of dishes. She would be better off elsewhere, where she wouldn’t topple over pots and pans every minute; so Elizabeth grumpily made her way to the dining room table, where she proceeded to set out plates, napkins, and cups with a fierce scowl.

Mrs March and Freddie arrived at the same time, Freddie looking very stiff and freshly-scrubbed. Hannah made him feel at home instantly, bustling and hovering about him like an affectionate old aunt.

Anne shyly stepped forward and held out her hand, saying, “I’m so glad to see you, thank you for what you did that day.”

“You’re welcome,” said Fred, slightly uncomfortably, taking her hand and staring at it for awhile before shaking it hesitantly. “Miss Anne.”

Elizabeth spoke up then. “Let’s to dinner now, it smells wonderful, though they wouldn’t let me anywhere near it.”

Emma laughed, “And good thing we didn’t too. I daresay you would have burned one half, and dropped the rest.”

They all took a seat around the table, and each dish was pronounced perfectly divine, in taste as well as design, for Emma loved to arrange the food prettily on the dishes, saying that it added a beautiful air to a meal. Elizabeth would shrug, wondering what the use was if it all ended up in your stomach either way, all jumbled up and – here Jane would command her to stop.

Dessert was a surprise – fruit and lemon pie. Hannah looked reluctant as she brought it out, while Jane, Emma and Anne looked confused, not remembering making the lemon pie, only arranging the fruit. Elizabeth beamed all round the table, announcing proudly that she had made it.

“How did you get into the kitchen without us knowing?” cried Emma, dreading what was to come and eyeing the pie with a great amount of suspicion.

“I made it yesterday with Hannah’s help,” said Elizabeth smugly. “It’s very good, I promise, and Hannah didn’t help me much. Fred, why don’t you try it first, being the guest of honour and all?”

Fred squirmed a bit in his seat, looking very terrified at the prospect. He had heard enough from all members of the family to understand that Lizzy March was not precisely an exemplary chef, and so we may excuse him for shrinking a bit from the formidable task that lay ahead of him. He never thought to decline, for that would seem rude – so he nodded apprehensively, taking a plate with a slice of pie with thanks.

He picked up his fork, and timidly poked at the crust. He looked up, and saw that everyone’s eyes were on him, watching him intently. He took a deep breath, holding up a morsel to his mouth, and swallowed quickly. He closed his eyes briefly, wondering if there existed in the world anything more vile, but dared not voice his thought. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that Elizabeth was looking to him with a bright, hopeful expression.

He gulped, and took a drink from his cup. “Simply delicious,” he said with a smile, hoping that Elizabeth wouldn’t notice that his smile wavered a bit.

But Elizabeth smiled broadly, and regarded everyone triumphantly. “See?”

Hannah, Jane and Emma, and even Mrs March, looked at Fred a bit skeptically, but Anne smiled and said, “I knew you could do it, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth laughed and sliced a pie for herself as well, blithely holding up a generous serving to her mouth. She took a large bite, and froze.

Fred coloured, staring intently at the tablecloth.

“Simply delicious, my foot!” sputtered Elizabeth, downing her cup in one gulp. “Oh, Hannah, what did I do wrong? It tastes absolutely disgusting.”

“How would I know?” asked Hannah indignantly. “You wouldn’t let me help at all, I’m sure you’ll recall.”

Elizabeth sighed, but smiled valiantly at Fred. “Thank you for being nice and saying it was delicious, anyway.”

Fred bit his lip. “I’m sorry. But it did taste... unique.”

The pie was forgotten as the table burst into laughter, and the rest of the dinner passed pleasantly. Fred and Anne immediately became fast friends; Fred admired the gentle little girl for her soft ways, and from Anne’s gratitude sprung for him a lasting friendly feeling.

Following dinner Anne and Fred sat chatting, Snuffles settling in Freddie’s lap.

“Do you have brothers or sisters, Freddie?” asked Anne kindly, watching as Snuffle lazily stretched out on him.

“A sister. Her name is Sophie, and she is quite younger than me, and lives in an orphanage, you know,” he said.

“But you do visit her often?”

“Not really,” said Fred. “She is quite far away, and I fear she has just about forgotten me.”

“What was she like?” asked Anne, trying to imagine what it would be like if one of her sisters were to go away, and failing.

“She was a very pretty baby, with big brown eyes like – like Miss Lizzy’s, and curly hair. The last time I saw her she was five, and very sad to part from me, but I daresay she wouldn’t know me now,” said Fred, his face taking on a faraway look.

“You miss her, don’t you,” said Anne gently. “I would too.”

“Yes, well,” said Fred, clearing his throat. “It’s been a while.”

The clock struck seven, and Fred stood up to leave, saying that the Brookes expected him to come home before eight. He shyly took his leave, amid the goodnights of the family. Anne held out a pair of mittens for him, saying that she had knitted them for him, and he would need them since it was a cold night; Fred expressed his heartfelt thanks, putting them on carefully. With a wave he strode out the door, and tipped his hat a final time when he reached the gate.

Chapter 8

Posted on Sunday, 1 June 2008

“I do think it was ever so fortunate for you that those children should have the measles just now,” said Emma, eyeing Jane’s outfit spread out on the bed with a little envy.

An invitation issued to “Miss J. March” had arrived a week ago, from Caroline Moffat, asking Jane to come to the ball that would be hosted at her home. Mrs March had allowed her to go, unable to resist the happy expression in her daughter’s eyes when she read the invitation, although she knew that Jane would likely come home more discontented than she left.

“Yes, indeed-y, so very obliging of them to catch it at just the right time.” Elizabeth was saying with a laugh, folding skirts and arranging them into somewhat sloppy piles. Anne sighed as she straightened them to put into Jane’s trunk, regarding the wrinkled skirts mournfully.

“You have plenty of fine things to wear now, Jane,” said Emma, fingering the collar of a blouse.

“I wish you were all going,” said Jane, putting an arm around her shoulder. “But as you can’t, I shall keep my adventures to tell you when I come back. I’m sure it’s the least I can do when you’ve all been so kind, lending me things and helping me get ready.”

“Did Marmee give you anything out of the treasure box?” asked Anne interestedly, referring to the old cedar chest in which Mrs March kept a few relics of past splendour, as gifts for her girls when the proper time came.

“A pair of silk stockings, that pretty blue fan, and a lovely sash to match. I wanted the violet silk, but there isn’t time to make it over, so I must be contented with my old tarlatan.” And Jane sighed regretfully.

“Never mind, you did say that you would be perfectly content if Marmee allowed you to go,” reminded Emma.

“Yes, I did, didn’t I? Marmee’s a dear, and I’m terribly ungrateful, but oh, it was such nice silk,” said Jane, to which Anne patted her hand comfortingly, laying aside the skirts for the moment.

But cheering up, Jane said, “Well, I am happy, and I won’t fret, but it does seem as if the more one gets, the more one wants, doesn’t it? There now, the trays are ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for Marmee to pack.”

The next day was fine, and Jane departed in style for a fortnight of novelty and pleasure. The Moffats received her kindly, Caroline pronouncing herself simply ecstatic to see her “dear friend”. Sallie Gardiner, who had arrived earlier, also came forward and spoke a few friendly words. Jane thanked them shyly, with a pleased smile.

The Moffats were fashionable people, fond of luxury and finery, and Jane was at first overwhelmed by the splendour of the house and the elegance of its occupants. But Jane felt, without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite conceal the ordinary material of which they were made.

It certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her exactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of those about her, to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases, and talk about the fashions as well as she could. The more she saw of Caroline Moffat’s pretty things, the more she envied her and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare and dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt that she was a destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of the new gloves and silk stockings.

She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls were busily employed in “having a good time”. They shopped, walked, rode, and called all day, went to theatres and operas or frolicked at home in the evening, for Caroline had many friends and knew how to entertain them. Her older sister Louisa was a very fine young lady, and was engaged to a Mr Hurst, which circumstance Jane thought was extremely interesting and romantic. Mr Moffat was a plump, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and Mrs Moffat, a plump, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Jane as her daughter had done. Everyone petted her, and Jane was in a fair way to have her head turned.

When the evening for the party came, Jane took out her old tarlatan, looking shabbier than ever next to Sallie’s crisp new one. Jane saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her cheeks began to burn.

No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, Louisa to tie her sash, and Caroline praised her white arms. But Jane fancied that they felt pity for her poverty, and her heart felt heavy as she stood by herself while the others laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies.

Her feeling of resentment was each moment increasing, when the maid brought in a box of flowers. Before she could speak, Caroline had taken it.

“For Louisa of course, Gil always sends her something,” said Caroline, airily opening the lid. Then she said, with a raised brow, “Flowers – and uncommonly fine too, Louisa.”

“They are for Miss March, the man said. And here’s a note,” put in the maid, holding it to Jane.

“What fun! Who are they from? Didn’t know you had a suitor,” cried Sallie, fluttering about Jane in a high state of curiosity and surprise.

“The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Mr Bingley and his grandsons,” said Jane, gratified that they had thought of her.

“Oh, indeed,” said Caroline with a funny look, and glancing meaningfully at her sister. Jane didn’t notice, as she slipped the note into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false pride; for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers cheered her up with their beauty.

Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for her friends, offering them so prettily that Caroline told her she was the “sweetest little thing”, and they looked quite charmed with her small attention. In Caroline’s face there was also the slightest hint of an amused sneer, but Jane saw only complacent pleasure.

She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her heart’s content, and everyone was very kind by way of complimenting her. So altogether she had a very nice time, until she heard a bit of conversation that quite disturbed her, as she sat just inside the conservatory.

She heard a voice ask on the other side of the flowery wall, “Two grandsons, weren’t there?”

“Yes, one who shares his name, and another named George Knightley. Fine boys, both of them, and sixteen or seventeen, I think.”

“It would be a fine thing for one of those girls, wouldn’t it? I heard that they were exceedingly friendly with the family, and the old gentleman quite dotes on the youngest.”

“It shan’t come to that. For they are dreadfully poor and plain,” said a derisive voice, and Jane recognized it as Caroline Moffat’s. She felt sudden tears stinging her eyes.

“Ah, but the Bingley boy – Charles – quite makes a fool of himself over Miss March.”

“Humph! Charles Bingley is decidedly low in his grandfather’s favour, and mark my words will receive little if anything upon old Mr Bingley’s death. His father was a very unsteady type of man, and was entirely disowned when he eloped with an Italian singer, you know.”

“But George Knightley....”

“His mother was quite a favourite of Mr Bingley’s.” And Jane heard a few giggles as the voices lowered conspiratorially.

Jane’s partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and rather agitated. Unhappily deceived in the character of a person whom she had believed to be her friend, Jane was understandably upset; but her pride helped her in hiding her anger and mortification, and she danced and smiled as happily as ever.

If anything, the conversation she overheard gave her much to ponder. She had never really seen Charlie’s actions in such a light as they did – now she recalled every glance, every favour, every blush with startling clarity, and every tender feeling was awakened in her heart towards the boy she had hitherto regarded as only a brother.

That night Jane lay awake in the unfamiliar bed, and shed a few natural tears of hurt and disillusionment, wanting desperately to run home to share her troubles and ask for advice.

On Wednesday the girls were sitting together idly, talking of the ball to be held the next day – by far grander than the first one since Jane came. By and by the conversation steered towards what gowns and jewelry they each would be wearing – hardly surprising, as four females sitting in a room, chattering away about a fast approaching ball, would of course inevitably settle on such a topic.

“I’ve got a nice blue silk that I could lend you. I’ve laid it away for quite some time, and it would be lovely to see it not completely wasted,” Louisa said, thinly concealing the disdain in her voice.

“No thank you, I shan’t mind wearing my dress – if you don’t have any objections to it,” said Jane quietly.

“Of course not,” said Caroline, although her tone rather indicated otherwise. “It’s a very – quaint – sort of thing.”

“Thank you. I think so as well,” said Jane, tossing her head.

“But you must look pretty tonight, Jane!” cried Sallie. “A very special guest was invited.” Here she raised an eyebrow expressively, and waited for Jane to appear as impressed with this galvanizing information as she was.

“Oh? Who?” said Jane nonchalantly, picking up a piece of embroidery.

“George Knightley,” said Louisa, with a dismissive yawn.

“Did you not extend an invitation to Charlie as well?” asked Jane, stiffening a little.

“Yes, but he is inconsequential,” proclaimed Caroline, leaning back on her cushions. Jane didn’t respond, her face the picture of indifference.

“I daresay if he does come he shall feel quite overshadowed – Mr Knightley is excessively handsome and charming,” said Louisa, giggling in a way that would affront her fiancé, if he’d heard.

“I have never found Charlie anything other than agreeable,” said Jane evenly, though underneath her stoic appearance she was fuming silently.

“Indeed,” said Caroline, with a smirk.

The next evening Jane donned her simple dress, her only ornament a cluster of tea roses at her throat. Her attire looked plain beside her friends’ elaborate ones, and Jane felt it keenest; but there was a simplicity about her that was very refreshing.

Taking especial care of their gowns, they sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early guests were assembled.

It was just as Jane had secretly feared: the young ladies took no notice of her at all, leaving her to stand alone against the wall, and the young gentlemen stared at her with what Jane perceived as contempt. The old ladies sitting on the sofa regarded her speculatively, which rather unnerved poor Jane, who turned away from their gazes with a confused blush.

She heard one of them ask who she was, and Mrs Moffat consequently replied, “Jane March, a very sweet creature, I assure you.”

Caroline, passing by, happened to hear this, and sniffed. “But she is very poor, and so I do wish that Ned wasn’t quite so wild about her, for it can’t ever come to anything, you know.”

“Certainly not,” said one old lady sternly. “You scold some sense into that thick-headed son of yours, Clara Moffat.”

“I am sure he means nothing by it,” floundered Mrs Moffat, frowning at her daughter. “It’s only idle interest on his part. You know young men – they always think this type of thing so very amusing, when they have nothing to do, as is the case with Ned.”

Caroline shrugged, and turned to walk away. She saw Jane by the wall in her old dress, her head bent down, and a momentary, sincere feeling of remorse shot into Caroline’s heart; but with another shrug it was gone.

Jane sighed, leaning against the wall wearily. Across the room she saw Ned Moffat making his way towards her. She turned away in disgust, Mrs Moffat’s words sounding in her mind: It’s only idle interest on his part.

Then she brightened, for not a great distance from her she saw a familiar figure standing awkwardly; and walking quickly towards him and away from Ned, she exclaimed impulsively, “Charlie!”

Charlie brightened when he saw her, holding out his hand. “You look very pretty, Jane, and so shall I tell everyone at home.”

Jane blushed, and laughed. “Thank you.”

He glanced nervously at his feet. “I hope you aren’t too disappointed that George didn’t come.”

“I hope he isn’t feeling ill,” said Jane kindly. “And I am very glad to see you, Charlie.”

“Are you?” he said with a happy smile. “And you are looking very well. I like it very much. The others look so fussy - won’t you dance now?”

“I should like to,” said Jane, holding out her hand invitingly. She glanced over her shoulder to see Ned standing alone, frowning at her back, and she quickly led Charlie to the floor.

Also catching sight of Ned, Charlie’s face fell, thinking that Jane was only friendly to fend him off – or sow the seeds of envy in his heart, which art females are much too wont to do, in Charlie's opinion. Jane, catching his woebegone expression, leaned in to whisper, “He’s a nuisance, and such a bother, but I’m so glad I have such a pleasant partner for the evening. Thank you so much for coming, Charlie.”

“My pleasure,” said Charlie gallantly, his happy smile back in place.

The night passed pleasantly for Jane hereafter, and when Charlie left for home she reflected that he was a very charming, handsome sort of young man.

When Saturday came there were tearful exchanges all round as Jane prepared to leave for home. Caroline of course was perfectly devastated, and expressed an ardent wish that she may see her dear friend soon again – perhaps at a mutual acquaintance’s. Jane acknowledged the hint coolly.

As she rounded the corner onto the lane where dear home was situated, Jane’s eyes brightened as she saw Emma and Elizabeth standing just outside the gate. Emma waved primly, while Elizabeth ran to her, her braids windblown and messy as ever.

Jane laughed, and gave her a warm hug. “Dearest Eliza,” she said, teasing her a little. Elizabeth withdrew, wrinkling her nose distastefully.

“She’s been in a high state since this morning, dusting up a storm in our room,” reported Emma with a grin.

Laughing, the three walked into the house, where Mrs March and Hannah greeted them. Anne nestled close to Jane, who hugged her back. “It’s so lovely to be home,” she said.

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Mrs March, looking a little anxious.

“I did have a nice time at Caroline’s,” she said, as her sisters settled her onto a comfortable chair. “But I missed you all so dreadfully. The Moffats were kind enough, though I think they aren’t as happy as we are, in spite of all their clothes and jewelry and fine carriages. And Charlie’s a dear!”

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