sixteen
It happened exactly like she feared it would. Well, not exactly.
Worse.
Laurie and her brother were both in exile now. Her sisters kept sending her tearful letters, but even though they at least did not hate her, the result was the same: they had also left.
Autumn would be over in a few short months, and the whole sordid affair would begin all over again: the London season. At least, this time, she would have no sister participating, and she would not be forced back into town. That was a small mercy. But still, she was all alone, apart from a few friends in the village, alone with her thoughts.
She could help it; she kept thinking.
She thought of her Beth, and how her mother would have lived if her sister had. She thought of how differently they would all have grown up, but especially her brother. She thought of him as a child, she thought of his hands, his eyes, the same eyes as her own, now possibly a killer’s eyes.
Of course, her brother had made his decision, had decided on his own path in life. As had her sisters. As had Teddy. They each had to make their own decisions, after all. And those decisions did not include her.
Well, maybe that was childish thinking, but that was the whole point: She wasn’t ready to grow up yet. And, judging by every ‘grown’ human being she had ever known, she did not think she ever would be.
…
Pretty soon, she had barely enough time to write at night; she was too exhausted. There was so much to be done on the estate, so much to arrange in the absence of the new viscount. In spite of the fact that her father had not prepared her for such duties in the least, Jo grew pretty good at managing the property and keeping the house for her brother. He, on the other hand, did not appear to care two straws for it, or for his fortune, and was probably squandering it in the card tables of Europe with every passing day.
She barely had time to be lonely, but loneliness had never been her problem. She enjoyed solitude, enjoyed her own company, her books, her writing. But she soon grew lonely for a specific sort of person. Someone who knew her, understood her. Someone whom she loved.
She missed Papa, she missed Beth, she missed her sisters. She missed Laurie. With every breath. She wondered what he was doing now, and when she would hear news of his engagement to another woman. She, who had never once cared for anything other than this day, was fearful of the future.
I shouldn’t have rejected him, she thought. I couldn’t accept him, but I shouldn’t have rejected him.
And yet, she was the one who felt rejected. Forgotten. Left behind. She never received word from him, not a letter, nothing. It was as if she had never existed for him. As if their bond had evaporated. She missed him as if she were missing a limb, and he did not even care to send her one word.
She picked up her quill to write to him a million times, to beg him to come back. But she would not do it. She always stopped herself at the last minute.
I won’t ask him to come back purely out of fear. I will not make false promises driven by desperation. If he does not wish to see me, then he shall not.
But she had to find some way to live, some other way than this. Some way of life that was not an endless battle against emotional starvation. She had known since she was quite young that finding a husband was not the answer to that question.
Now she merely had to discover for herself what was.
And how to find it.
…
Her brother’s opponent was recovering somewhat, but his condition was still precarious, even after all this time. Jo grew weary of worrying, but there was nothing to do but wait, endlessly wait.
Meg’s letters grew increasingly rare as her extended honeymoon drew to a close. Soon she would be coming back to England and taking residence in Sir John’s London mansion; at least, she would be close enough to visit, even though the journey was a long and unpleasant one. Oh, how Jo hated going into town, but she would do it for Meg as often as she could.
In fact, she started thinking of travelling herself.
Her dreams and hopes of travelling to India and other adventurous places with Aunt March could no longer become a reality, she knew that, but she could go alone. Maybe she would prefer it, after all. Of course, it would be impossible to leave the house unattended—she had not trained her steward or the rest of the servants well enough for that yet—but the loneliness was beginning to suffocate her. She had always longed for adventure, and now that it was finally within reach, it seemed to be slipping further away from her grasp with every passing week that Justin stayed away.
Mama would encourage it, if she had been here—she always pushed her children to taste adventure. Jo could join her aunt and Amy in Paris, at first. And then she could go on alone, as a companion or governess—whatever won her an ounce of freedom. She had money enough, and she would not mind teaching a young spoiled heiress a thing or two. She would teach her Greek and mathematics, even if she was a young lady, by Jove!
She could leave everything behind, just like everyone else had done. She could disappear.
There were other countries apart from England.
She kept thinking about the scheme as it blossomed from an idle thought into something more tangible. She was beginning to think it an actual possibility, when a letter arrived from the viscount.
His first since that fateful duel.
Maybe his first ever.
My dearest Josephine,
I know I have not been much of a brother to you, but the sister of Viscount Vidal SHALL NOT, I repeat, SHALL NOT, wander alone the streets of Paris or Germany with only a maid as a companion, as if she had no protector.
Nor will she become a GOVERNESS, of all things.
If you do not desire a husband, then you have no need to get one. But, by Jove, you shall have protection. If all else fails, I shall come accompany you myself.
Do not mistake my silence for carelessness, sister.
I will not lose you, do you understand? For heaven’s sake, be careful. We have distant relations in most parts of the continent. They are probably insufferable, but, if you desire to travel abroad, reach out to one of them so that you will not be set about by fortune hunters, and get murdered in your sleep.
I mean it Jo.
Furiously yours,
Your unfortunate brother
Justin St. Claire
Viscount of Vidal
Jo was enraged, amused and touched at the same time. She reread the whole thing, swearing like a sailor, and sat down to scribble an answer as quickly as she could.
Dearest brother,
What absolute rot.
I am perfectly capable of keeping myself safe, and much else besides, as you would have discovered if you had spent a moment or two in my company these last seventeen years.
I shall very well do as I please.
PS: How on earth did you find out about this?
Yours,
Jo.
The reply she received was swift and exasperated, exactly as she had hoped. It only took three days to arrive, which told her a lot more about her brother’s whereabouts than his nonexistent returning address did.
Jo,
You are going to give me an apoplexy.
-J
It was unsigned apart from an initial, as if Justin had not been able to wait even for that.
But he sent her a much longer letter full of irate warnings in the coming week. And the letters kept coming for a month or so, angry, panicked, frantic.
After the initial indignation she’d felt at her brother’s high-handed manner, Jo resigned herself to receiving them, and pretty soon, she had a blast reading them. Deep down, she was deeply affected by how much time and effort her brother was spending on her imagined well-being.
Maybe there was hope for him yet. Maybe he could learn how to care for another person—even for his property and servants. Stranger things had happened.
But she grew weary with hope as the leaves started turning orange and then falling from the trees. And nothing, absolutely nothing else changed.
Dear Beth,
I did not want to be alone.
I did not choose this, but here it is anyway: I am alone. It will not be forever, but for now, this is my situation. So I might be alone, but it will be on my own terms. I will make my life what it shall be. I will make my life beautiful on my own.
And, what’s more, I shall be amazing at it.
It came to me as I was out riding, as all the best ideas do.
I thought of you, as I usually do, but this time my thoughts were not full of nostalgia and pain. They were full of admiration. Where did you draw your strength from? How was it that you were so radiant even when you were in so much pain?
You used to admire Mary, who sat at the feet of Jesus, who chose the ‘right part’. She stayed there, at His feet, and that was enough. She stayed. And so did you.
We still have your favorite painting, the one of Mary seated at the feet of the Master. You would stare at it for hours when you were confined to your bed, and you would make Amy paint it for you over and over on the walls of your little room. And Amy was not old enough for such a complex painting, but she tried her best.
It had a message, didn’t it? I never realized it until now. (Grief does strange things to you. Distorts the way you look at reality.)
But I can see it now. I can see you, as you really were. A little girl, suffering, knowing she was soon leaving this earth, and yet you had such strength that would put warriors to shame. Meg with her exquisite manners and Amy with her beauty and talent, and me with my wild ways and my writing… And yet, you were the richest of us all.
This was your strength: Your faith. That was what sustained you. You stayed at the feet of the Master. You endured. You learned. I shall endeavor to do the same, even though I am not as patient as you, or half as clever. Or studious. And my faith is wavering to say the least.
But this is how I want to live. By faith. By staying where I am meant to be, by not fighting, not running away. By not being a coward.
‘That which will not be taken away from her.’
I thought it was people—I thought it was memories. But I see now how life and loss can strip us from everything we hold dear. So what is that which shall not be taken away from me?
It’s faith.
Faith.
I will cling to that, dear Beth, learning from your example. For the past months, I have been thinking that if I could keep myself alive—and sane—without Laurie, at least my writing would survive with me, and, admittedly, that is the better part of me.
Upon arriving back home, with these thoughts in my heart, I found not loneliness, but something much better than anything I have ever known: Myself.
I realized that I had been the best companion I had had in months.
Finally, I have found it.
The light.
Here is not food, but a banquet.
Feast yourself, it said. Be full. You shall not need anyone or anything, because you will be full.
It does not matter who stays or leaves, because here is treasure, here is a feast. Within me. I am here and I am a source of everything wonderful. I have enough—more than enough—inside my heart.
Eternally,
Your sister