Page 49 of Rejected
Existing, that was the word.
She existed.
Dear Beth,
It has lasted. The peace has lasted.
Now that I am no longer alone, that Meg and her Sir John are here, I am as content as I had been before—there has been no real difference in my inner world, even though the outward one has changed very much indeed. I enjoy going for long walks with our sister and reading out loud to Sir John by the fire in the evening. But I have discovered this—
I did not need anyone but myself.
And that has made all the difference.
And yet, I observe how they are together. And even though I am at peace with myself for the first time in my life, I have decided that I can no longer stay behind with my beloved ghosts.
Is this existence ever going to be enough for me? Reading, writing, riding, and taking care of other people’s homes? I have been reading Lavinia’s latest mermaid romance, and I have to say, I never could see how she would untangle that mess of a plot in order to give her heroine her happily ever after. But she did. Who will give me mine?
No one but myself.
I cannot merely exist; I have to live.
Love. I need love.
Eternally,
Your sister
twenty
With Meg and the ‘sainted’ John, as Jo started calling him in her head, in the house, they were merry again. They played parlor games after dinner, they rode together, they read Jo’s ridiculous girlish plays to each other out loud in the library. Every day, there was a new scheme, whether it was picking apples and eating them without ceremony, sprawled on the grass, or deciding to spend the day by the river.
Jo was spending more time with her older sister than she ever had in her life, and it was good for her heart. But no matter how peaceful their days were, she could not bring herself to talk to her sister about Laurie’s proposal. She could not face it. Neither that or the kiss.
Kisses.
There had been many.
And their memory was almost as vibrant and delicious as they themselves had been. Jo remembered every second, every movement, every labored breath.
She relived them over and over in her head every night. And every waking hour. She caught herself fantasizing about them more and more frequently, and she tried to keep herself increasingly busy in order to avoid the thoughts.
But they wouldn’t go away, no matter what she did.
Some days she wondered if she had imagined it all—if it had happened in reality. And with every passing day, she could not persuade herself that it had.
Before they went to sleep, Jo had started reluctantly reading to them her new writings. She read them her letters to Beth—and not only the ones that included her news. The other ones. The deep, dark ones, the ones she had written alone, the long ones where she had poured her changing, empty soul out. They sounded sadder and more hopeful at the same time when read out loud. Her sister and her husband listened carefully, but made no comment as yet.
Jo herself found that these were her first writings she did not entirely despise. She wrote more, after the couple had gone to bed. She wrote to Amy as usual, and Amy’s letters turned nostalgic when she read how they were carrying on in Orchard Hall.
It was indeed a happy, busy time. Some nights, Jo was even too busy to write, an unthinkable occurrence until a week ago. She observed her sister: she was blissfully happy. Jo had never seen her like this. She had always thought Margaret to be a naturally beautiful person, both inside and out, but now she has this peace flowing from her. She was glowing, and it was all Sainted John’s doing.
One evening, after dinner, she asked him why they had decided to stay in the country, with her,instead of at their London house, close to their London friends.
“So that you would not be alone,” said he.
Jo had not thought such a man existed outside of books. It made her reconsider her views upon the entirety of humanity.
…
