Louisa and the Country Bachelor : A Louisa May Alcott Mystery (9781101547564) Read Free Page A

was what a house for the Alcott family must contain: one room with wall-to-wall bookcases for Father, who often forgot to pack his hairbrush but never traveled without at least five trunks of books; a little room with a rented piano for shy Lizzie, who had no ambition other than to master the more difficult Chopin preludes; a mudroom for fifteen-year-old May to contain her paint boxes and smocks; a lady’s room with a desk stocked with writing paper and envelopes for older sister Anna, who had friends in many parts of the country; a sewing room for Abba and myself, since our income often came from that occupation. However, I was on vacation that summer. Flower Fables had earned me forty dollars. Not a fortune, like the fortune that would come many years later, but a goodly sum nonetheless, one that purchased new afternoon dresses for all the Alcott women and allowed me a little more time for my writing.
    So, of course, the new household also contained my writing room—no longer in the attic, as in our Beacon Hill house, but in a little outdoor shed that I shared with a solitary pitchfork and several handsome spiders. My desk was a plank set on two sawhorses; my rug was the graveled floor under my feet. The only decoration was three topsy-turvy umbrellas dangling from the roof to catch the seeping raindrops. The shed was a paradise.
    Out of an empty house I had, with Sylvia’s help and Abba’s unseen guidance, created a home.
    â€œThere was mention of a reward for my labor,” said Sylvia, sitting on the other settee. Her blond hair had escaped its snood and curled around her face in rascal ringlets; there was a smear of dust on her nose and grime under her nails. Her costume was strange, with a high, tight collar and long bell sleeves that had been trailed through mopping buckets and looked much the worse for wear. Sylvia, when she had arrived the week before, had announced she was now a student of Confucius.
    She had quarreled with her mother over her marital status, which remained single despite several proposals; hence her flight to join me in Walpole. She had also become disillusioned with the Roman Catholic faith, abandoned the idea of joining a convent, and now quoted the Chinese philosopher whenever possible.
    This moment seemed to offer such a possibility.
    She folded her arms in those strange long sleeves and tried to rearrange her face in what she thought was a serene expression. How anyone with such unruly curls and such highly arching brows could achieve serenity was beyond me.
    â€œConfucious said: ‘A greater pleasure it is when friends of congenial minds come from afar to seek you because of your attainments.’ That’s me, come up from Boston. Will you grant a wish for greater pleasure?”
    â€œAs you wish.”
    Sylvia’s gaze landed on my dress pocket, from which peeked a corner of white paper. “My reward shall be a reading,” she said. “Is that a new story, Louy?”
    â€œIt is.” I took the papers from my pocket and gave them a caress, for luck. “A story about the true nature of woman.”
    â€œRead on,” ordered Sylvia, resting her feet on an ottoman and making herself quite comfortable.
    I shook out the paper, which had gotten damp from the mopping activities of the morning. “It is barely begun,” I explained. “But there is a young woman, Kate, who has suffered much adversity and learned to be both strong and independent. She herself describes the ideal woman: ‘I would have her strong enough to stand alone and give, not ask, support. Brave enough to think and act as well as feel. Keen-eyed enough to see her own and others’ faults, and wise enough to find a cure for them. I would have her humble; self-reliant; gentle though strong; man’s companion, not his plaything; able and willing to face storm as well as sunshine and share life’s burdens as they come.’ ”
    Sylvia was silent for a