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So she sat in her luxurious velvet seat in the travelling barouche, watching the country go by, as her father dozed softly opposite her.This is what it is going to be like, she thought.I am going to be sitting here, watching as everyone leaves.
Everyone I love will leave me.
And it’s all my fault.
…
Back at home, Orchard Hall felt different. Empty.
The bunches of lavender drying upside-down reminded her of Amy. The library smelled like Papa’s tobacco, back when he was well enough to spend the evenings there, the chirping birds by the brook reminded her of how Mama loved walking on the soft grass, and her own room was still filled with silkgowns Meg had lent her in an effort to turn her into a fashionable lady for London. In the attic, their childhood trunks with all their sloppily-sewn theater costumes and Jo’s silly scribblings quietly collected dust.
In the morning parlor, Beth’s old pianoforte stood silent in front of the lace curtains, billowing with gentle spring’s wind.
Jo tried to keep busy enough to stay away from such thoughts. She took care of Papa, wrote, and cried at night.
I will get used to it, she thought.To the solitude.
But she never did.
His lips. His shoulders. His hands. His eyes. His lips.
His lips. His lips.
His lips.
She had to stop thinking about her best friend like that. It was preposterous. She had to stop thinking about that kiss. It was bordering on inappropriate.
His lips his lips his lips.
Stop it right now!
Some days she did stop herself. Most days she couldn’t.
It was a month later when she received the first letters from her sisters. They each wrote about what they were doing, where their travels were taking them, and how happy they were. They all ended with promises that they would soon come to visit.
Nothing from Laurie.
…
Her brother spent most of his time in London, but he would come and visit once or twice a month. No more than that. He’d stay for barely a few hours, then he was off to his favorite pub and heaven knew what else.
Time passed, each month following the other seamlessly, time changing gently from spring into summer then to fall, as it did in the country. Jo learned to be content to write in her room, go for long walks and rides, exchange letters with her sisters and socialize with her friends from the neighboring counties. But Papa’s health was declining, and that gave her worry.
The first week of August, it was as if Papa was his old self again, as he had been before Beth died and Mama got ill.
He and Jo would eat in front of the fireplace, not being waited on by servants, and then he would ask her to come sit by his bed, to read him to sleep. They would talk a little, laugh at past, fond memories, and then he would doze off gently.
One night, he was especially talkative.
“I shall die soon,” Papa said, in his usual, blunt way, “and the boy is not fit.” The ‘boy’ was Justin. “He is not ready to be a viscount. He is a waste and a wastrel, and I wish—”
“Hush, Papa,” Jo said, horrified.
The curtain rustled by the window, a sudden gust of wind making it sway for a moment, but she did not want to get up from her father’s side and close it.
“You are too harsh on Justin, Papa. I’m sure he means well,” she said. “Or he will, eventually. He is just so desperate for your approval.”And your attention, she thought.
“I love him as much as you girls,” Papa replied. “But the expectations are different. He is my son and heir, you see.”
