The Orchard House Read online

  “Dear, you needn’t remind me to write—seems I can do little else of late.” She gave me her familiar smile, then picked up her valise from where it sat on the path.

  Mr. Alcott waved his hand at us from the driver’s seat of the Alcott carriage. “Come, Louisa, you will miss your ship!”

  Her jolly expression grew somber, but her eyes remained light, and I could see what this trip—this seeing the world—meant to her. “I can scarce realize that my long-desired dream is coming true! Now, you mustn’t hesitate to write of any problems. And as far as it is within your control, do discourage them from using any sort of credit while I’m gone, lest we have to dress in newspapers and live on potatoes when I return.”

  I nodded, though in truth I hadn’t the slightest idea how she thought anything I could say would sway her strong-minded parents. I was little more than the maid. Why should they listen to me, particularly about such delicate matters as money?

  I grabbed for John’s ring at my neck as I watched Mr. Alcott drive Louisa away. I didn’t turn from the road until the carriage was out of sight, and then I sat on the front stoop of Orchard House, realizing how empty it already felt. I wondered then if I had depended on Louisa too much. If, in trying to find a new adventure and freedom and a place to settle and call my own, I had latched on to her as a means of doing so.

  I released a hefty sigh. I would write Mother a letter tonight. Perhaps a long one. Perhaps for the first time, I would include one of my poems. Louisa had said they were quite good, had encouraged me to keep writing and even submit them to publishers.

  The last thought frightened me witless. It had taken days for me to work up the courage to show a few of my poems to Louisa, but to show them to a publisher, a man who had the power to stomp on my dreams with just a word?

  I had decided to take this year to continue improving my poetry, to work up the pluck to begin submitting to magazines or newspapers. Surely one of them might take an interest, especially if my work improved.

  The clap of a horse’s hooves upon the dirt of the road drew me from my musings. A smart one-horse shay pulled by a gleaming chestnut mare stopped before Orchard House. From the driver’s seat, Mr. Bancroft alighted, tying the reins to the Alcotts’ carriage post.

  I stood as he approached, doffing his hat slightly but not quite enough for me to get a full view of his lustrous locks. I tried to hide a smile. Surely Louisa was mistaken about why he performed the gesture.

  “Miss Suhre, could I interest you in a carriage ride this fine morning? Have you had the pleasure of seeing Walden Pond yet?”

  I hadn’t, though I still wavered. I didn’t know this man but knew Louisa didn’t think much of him. Was it wise to spend time with him and without a chaperone? Mother would forbid it.

  But the thought of a day in the lonely house intimidated. Mrs. Alcott rested upstairs. The laundry and cleaning had been accomplished yesterday with Louisa’s help. Dinner would take little time to prepare—as the simple fare always did in the Alcott home.

  I could accept Mr. Bancroft’s invitation. I was now a woman of my own means . . . a bit like Louisa. Why should I not seize what the day had brought?

  The scent of honeysuckle. The singing of robins and the cooing of doves. A blue sky and summer sun. Now an invitation to the pond, which I had wanted to see for some time, to explore more of this town that had captured my interest. Perhaps it might even spark a stanza or two?

  “I think I should like that very much. Will you excuse me while I fetch my bonnet?”

  Mr. Bancroft nodded, and I ran up the stairs, peeked in on Mrs. Alcott, who dozed soundly, and went to my room—May’s room—to get my bonnet. I’d only met the youngest Alcott once, but I appreciated her gracious ways and debated in my mind how two women raised by the same parents could be so incredibly different and yet so obviously fond of one another.

  I tied my bonnet securely beneath my chin and bounded down the stairs, found Mr. Bancroft waiting for me. He helped me into the shay, and when the nerves in my hand tingled from where he touched my skin, I tried not to pay it more mind than a silly girl should.

  Once I was situated, he tapped the mare’s sides and the carriage lurched forward. My body bumped into his, and I tried to slide away, but there was not so much room in the one-horse shay, and Mr. Bancroft seemed entirely comfortable in taking up more than his share.

  “I must admit I’ve come down my drive every day since we met hoping you might have a stray piece of laundry for me to fetch, and I’ve been disappointed every time.”

  I laughed, and the wind carried the sound in a manner that made me wonder if Mr. Bancroft thought it pleasant. “I am sorry to disappoint you, sir. I’ve kept a good hold of the laundry since that most unfortunate incident.”

  “Was it so unfortunate, now?” He looked at me sideways, and after glancing over at him, I quickly averted my gaze, silently cursed the color rushing to my cheeks.

  “Meeting you wasn’t unfortunate. Chasing one’s laundry into the neighbor’s yard, however . . .”

  His grin was a teasing one. It pulled at the corners of his mouth and cast his features into a flattering display of light and dark beneath his hat. “I’m glad to have that cleared up, then.”

  We rode along in silence, a slight breeze rustling in the trees beyond before approaching to cool my face.

  “How is your employment with the Alcotts getting along?”

  “Quite well. I’m happy with the arrangement.”

  He nodded. “You are a brave woman to have traveled so far from home.”

  “My family’s circumstances were changing. I must admit I was terribly jealous of John, my brother, being able to leave home and do something noble. Though I wish he hadn’t had to leave us so permanently in doing so.” I felt again for his ring at my neck. “After he passed, home wasn’t the same. We were to move in with my brother and his new wife. I felt if I didn’t break free now, I never would.”

  “I’m sorry.” The sincerity in his deep voice caught me off guard.

  I shook my head. “Forgive me. I share too much. You didn’t ask my life story.”

  He chuckled—a pleasant, baritone sound that mingled with the clop of his mare’s hooves on the road. “I’m quite interested, I assure you. What, Miss Suhre, did you feel the need to break free from?”

  I shifted in my seat. Indeed, what was it I longed to break free from? For surely that was what I felt back at home, at least since John had died. Chained. Discontent. As if life was too short and fleeting and flighty for me to simply stay put where I was born and accept the way of things. Accept monotony.

  I thought of Bryant’s question—the one I had never answered. I should have talked to him. But how could I explain that I considered a life with him one of tedium? I could not be as straightforward as Louisa.

  And yet how, in claiming I wanted to break free, could I explain this absurd need to feel as if I belonged? To find my place in this rough-and-tumble world, no matter the costs?

  I chose my next words carefully, unsure of them myself. “I suppose I wanted a say in how my life should go.”

  “It sounds as if I’m tangling with a suffrage supporter.”

  I studied him, unable to discern his tone.

  Not until I’d come to Concord had I given the suffrage of women much thought. My time in Pennsylvania had been one of growing up, of helping Mother after Father’s death, and then of praying for John’s safe return home. With the war among us, women’s suffrage seemed fanciful, unimportant. But in the Alcott home, it was a favorite topic, right alongside the plight of the African. Even Mr. Alcott ardently supported the right of a woman to vote.

  At first, I had simply accepted this passion as another sweet oddity at Orchard House—like their refusing to serve meat at the table and ministering to the many beggars who came to their kitchen door—but all the musings had prompted me to reflect on the subject. Why shouldn’t women have the right to vote?

  “And what would you say if I
were, Mr. Bancroft?”

  “I’d say I’m a proponent of the movement, though I think it will be a long while before it is realized.”

  I blinked. I’d expected resistance. Apparently Massachusetts men thought a bit differently than the men of my own small town. Or perhaps I had not made my way out of my four walls often enough to know what men of my own small town truly thought. What did Bryant think? And why did I care?

  “You are surprised?” Mr. Bancroft asked.

  “Yes, I suppose I am. I hadn’t realized many men supported the notion. I know Mr. Alcott does, but he is . . .”

  “An enigma, that is certain.”

  “A good enigma, I should state, lest you think me ungracious for their hospitality.”

  “Of course not.”

  I tilted my face to the sun, knew it would bring out the splattering of horrid freckles across the bridge of my nose and cheeks, but found myself not caring on such a splendid day, accompanied by what I was coming to think of as splendid company. “So why is it you support a woman’s right to vote, when so many other men do not?”

  “I believe giving women the vote would be to the general good of the people. Women are, as a whole, more righteous and moral than men. Therefore, I think it logical that they be allowed to voice their opinion, so that all of society might profit.”

  I kept silent, weighing whether to let my true views pour forth or keep them to myself. I could stay quiet, let Mr. Bancroft think me the righteous and moral woman he believed me to be, or I could open my mouth, set him quite to rights—and perhaps ruin my good standing in his eyes in the process.

  Louisa would speak.

  But I was not Louisa.

  “You disagree with my logic, Miss Suhre? Come, tell me your beliefs. Am I so intimidating?”

  I granted him a smile, then looked away. Through a thick copse of pine, I glimpsed the blue shimmer of water. “I’m not certain I wish to soil your view of me.”

  He directed the mare toward a carriage post but did not descend to tie her, rather waited until I voiced my response.

  “I suppose I’ve seen enough of both sexes to know that neither are all good or all bad. I think it unfair to say to a woman, ‘You are good just because you are a woman.’ Or to a man, ‘You are morally inferior because you are a man.’ My brother, God rest his soul, was the best person I ever knew—not only because he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the freedom of others, but because he knew compassion and integrity and kindness. I feel his heart was quite a bit purer than mine.”

  Mr. Bancroft stared at me, the curve of one side of his mouth tilted upward. I shifted in my seat, felt suddenly warm, wanted him to get down from the shay and tie his mare. Or perhaps, better yet, take me home.

  “I’ve rendered you speechless, I see. Please feel free to see me back home if you find my company too forward.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Suhre, I find your company fascinating.”

  I stared at the rump of his mare, thought to ask, Do you? but decided that would be coy, and I did not wish to play a coquettish girl.

  He alighted from the shay and held his hand out to me. I took it, permitting him to help me down. When I went to release his hand, he did not allow it. “I am sincere when I say I appreciate your forwardness. For a woman to not only speak her mind but to admit that she possesses as many flaws as her company does my heart good. Very good, in fact.” He released my hand and offered his arm. I slipped my own around the fabric of his coat, tried not to notice the solidity of the muscles beneath.

  “I’m not sure why Louisa doesn’t care for you.”

  He laughed a loud, jolly laugh. “Louisa and I have some history between us.”

  I gave him a sideways glance as we descended a dirt path toward the pond. “Oh?”

  “Nothing half as amusing or romantic as you might think, I assure you, Miss Suhre. Only business. My uncle—and my employer—is a publisher out of Boston. He’s been urging me to find a good editor for his youth magazine, Merry’s Museum. I was quite certain it would benefit both him and Louisa, but I think now I was too confident. Louisa rejected the idea outright, saying she wouldn’t get behind such moral drivel. I’ve yet to accept her rejection, so I take it she thinks me muleheaded, is all.”

  “I see.” That was all? Louisa didn’t care for Mr. Bancroft because he wanted to offer her a job? I knew her to be moody, but this seemed beyond rationale.

  I sighed. Louisa was often beyond rationale, and it was one of the reasons I respected her. She thought differently, was bold, unafraid to share her opinions. Thinking back to my conversation with Mr. Bancroft, I wondered if her ways hadn’t rubbed off on me a bit. It felt good to share my views openly, to be encouraged by them, even.

  We reached the shore of the lake, and I closed my eyes and breathed deeply of pine and water and mud and honeysuckle. When I opened them, I noted how the sunlight danced off the pond, how the wind played a melody on the leaves of the trees, sweeping across the breadth of the water until it reached where I stood with my hand on Mr. Bancroft’s arm, then continued past us.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I have not come enough. This place centers me when I get caught up in the world or my work. I tend to take life too seriously. This helps me see the big picture.”

  I murmured an agreement. “What is the big picture to you, Mr. Bancroft?”

  A small smile again played on his mouth. “That I am but a speck in this big world. That it has gone on long before me and will continue long after me. But although I am a speck, I have a story to live. A journey. A duty to better it, even in a small way.”

  Something stirred within my heart. “That is very noble.”

  “It is, isn’t it? If only what I long for in my heart could translate so perfectly to my life. You are certainly not the only one with flaws, Miss Suhre.”

  “But that is part of the journey, no? Struggling with our moral shortcomings and wrestling with our sin, striving to improve oneself with God’s help and guidance?”

  He looked down at the wet sand at our feet. “Perhaps.” Seeming to shake himself from his thoughts, he gestured toward the right of the pond, to a path within the pines that wound its way along the lake.

  “You work in publishing, then?” I asked.

  “I do. My uncle got me started, but it did not take much persuasion on his part. Books have always been a big part of my life.”

  “Me too. It must be wonderful to have a life’s work with words.”

  “It’s a blessing, that’s certain. Right now, I’m trying to get a boys’ magazine off the ground, something filled with heroic and moral tales, perhaps a few suggestions for a boy’s adventure. What do you think?”

  “It sounds marvelous and should help promote literacy in our youth, which is indeed a favorable thing. With the war over, it is noble to build not only the country, but the minds of our children.”

  He smiled at me again in that way of his that had me thinking he truly did think me fascinating. He truly did enjoy my company.

  The thought caused a thrill of pleasure to swirl through me and for a reason I couldn’t quite name, I felt important—perhaps more so than I had in all my life.

  We walked along the entire body of water, speaking of our favorite books and authors—Dickens and Irving and Brontë and Whitman and Poe, along with Concord’s own Emerson and Thoreau. We looped our way around the pond, and I acknowledged to myself that this was the most perfect day I could have ever imagined.

  When Mr. Bancroft helped me down from the shay and walked me up to the front door of Orchard House, I felt a heaviness in my spirit that our time had come to an end.

  “I’m to leave for Boston tomorrow. I won’t be back until next week. Perhaps I could enjoy more of your company then?”

  My heart ricocheted around my insides. “I would very much like that.”

  He bowed, raised my hand to his lips, where he pressed the slightest of kisses upon it. When he rose, he gave me a bo
ld wink and then was off. I watched him drive up the lane to his house and I did not move until he was out of sight—not because I wanted him to see me staring, but because quite of a sudden, my legs felt no stronger than Mother’s rice pudding.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Places have not much hold on me when the persons who made them dear are gone.

  ~ LMA

  Taylor

  THE BENNETT HOUSE hadn’t changed much, and I found that both comforting and disconcerting all at once. So much had happened in sixteen years—it seemed that should be represented in the home before me. But besides a few extra cracks in the driveway and the boxwood grown in a little too close to the siding, the home which represented the only family I’d ever known looked just about the same.

  In Victoria’s passenger seat, I tucked my hands beneath my thighs to still their quivering. My rental car was still at the inn, and I regretted allowing her to bring me to Paul and Lorraine’s. I could have used a few minutes to gather myself.

  She parked in front of the garage, and I tried to block out the deplorable images of the last time I was there, of Will and Victoria in front of those very same garage doors, of the nervous breakdown I’d had, the honking of the horn, the virulent tears of disbelief washing my face in what would be the beginning of a long grief.

  I swallowed down the memory. “You sure it’s okay that I’m here?”

  Victoria took the key from the ignition. “Of course it is. They’re going to be so happy to see you. You belong here.”

  If that were true, I wondered why I didn’t feel it. If I really did belong, wouldn’t I have made my way back sooner? Wouldn’t it have bothered me more to be so far away for so long?

  I opened the passenger door, clutched the bag I’d just purchased from Orchard House. I followed Victoria into the house.

  The first thing that hit me was the smell of banana oatmeal cookies. It was mixed in with the scents of tomato sauce and garlic bread, but I picked it out right away. It wafted through the air and into my nostrils, where it seemed to tease forth every single pleasant memory that had made up my time at the Bennett home.