Marmee by Sarah Miller

Author:Sarah Miller
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-10-25T00:00:00+00:00

December 22, 1862

To my inexpressible relief, the Weddletons’ customary monthly donation arrived today, just in time to fill the Christmas boxes. One of the maids delivered it to Mrs. King first thing this morning. I recognized her—Frieda. We saw to her mother’s funeral expenses last spring. She gave me a wink as she bobbed her curtsey and turned to go. I folded my lips tight between my teeth—not in anger, but to keep a laugh from bursting out.

“Mrs. March, are you quite all right?” Mrs. Carter asked. “You look flushed.” Only Isobel Carter could ask such a thing in perfect innocence; I spied two other ladies behind her laughing into their sleeves.

The note accompanying the donation sobered us all: Mrs. Adelaide has taken a turn for the worse. From what I saw in July, I know Harriet would not dream of leaving her mother-in-law’s side for an instant. And I in my vanity had the audacity to imagine not only that I was the cause of the delay, but that Harriet Weddleton could be so petty as to deprive the neediest citizens of Concord their holiday comforts because of my temper.

Mrs. King gathered all the ladies together for a prayer for Adelaide, then dispatched three of us straight to the grocer for hams, carrots, potatoes, and apples. With my guilt lifted, I fairly sailed through the streets, despite the weight of the crates of provisions.

Before long, I was humming a carol. The tune was infectious, and we filled the boxes to a chorus of glorias and in excelcis Deos. I felt as buoyant as if I had given the money myself.

Off to the shops I dashed afterward, gleeful at the prospect of giving my girls the Christmas they deserved.

Jo was simple. Books, of course, with Undine and Sintram at the top of the stack. For Amy, a framed engraving of the Madonna and Child, like the one she so admired at Aunt March’s house. My gratitude for Beth’s survival prompted an extravagance in the form of a crimson wrapper knitted of fine merino. And then there was Meg.

In a flight of fancy, I pointed to a bolt of pewter-colored silk and asked Mr. Brown if I could see it. It was the work of an instant to conjure up a picture of Meg bedecked in a dress of such fabric. I could afford no more than the fantasy; what remained in my reticule would have paid for a bodice and sleeve, and little else. Even had I been more sparing with the other girls’ gifts, I could not have stretched that far.

Who should step up beside me just then but Mr. Laurence? “Christmas shopping?” he asked.

“Daydreaming, more like,” I confessed. “Meg has pined for a silk dress since she was a child. Now that she is of an age for one, I have not the means to fulfill that desire.” I signaled for Mr. Brown to put the cloth back up on the shelf again. “Perhaps a silk parasol will make do for now.

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