Free The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott by Kelly O'Connor McNees

the elder Mr. Sutton’s, now that Nora is back home for good, probably. That poor girl.” Anna held the center of the length of wick and dipped the two ends into the tallow, pausing a moment and pulling them back out. She waited for the tallow to harden, then plunged them back into the kettle. “Did you know she was meant to be married to a man from New York City?”
    Louisa shook her head absently.
    “Anyway, Nicholas told me about the house today at the party. Don’t you think that’s interesting?”
    Anna draped the finished candle over the wooden rack to dry and put out her hand to take the next wick. Louisa stared out the window over the sink, thinking of the saturated folds of Joseph’s shirt . . . lies on his back and rolls silently with the heave of the water.
    “Louy?” Anna touched her arm. “Did you hear me?”
    Louisa shook off the reverie. Why on earth was her mind floating off this way? Perhaps there was such a thing as too much poetry. It was making a mess of her thoughts. “I’m sorry, Anna. Yes, I did hear you. Building his own house. Joseph must be so pleased.”
    “Joseph? Louisa, I don’t think you are listening to me. I was talking about Nicholas Sutton, not Joseph.”
    “Of course—Nicholas. That’s what I meant to say. I’m sorry, Nan. I think I had too much sun today.”
    Anna looked curiously at her. “I think it’s who was sitting near you in the sun that’s got you out of sorts,” she simpered. “Miss Lou, I think you have a little crush.”
    Louisa gave her a scandalized stare. “I don’t know to what or whom you are referring, but if it has anything to do with Joseph Singer, you can leave off right there. Even if we were the last two left on earth, I’d still remain a happy spinster.”
    Anna rolled her eyes. “This is all part of it, you know—the defensiveness, insulting him, telling me how he is the last man on earth you’d consider. Come now—I know you have read more romances than I.”
    Louisa shook her head. “Anna, I assure you that Joseph Singer is too much in love with himself to begin to dream of loving anyone else. And if he ever did, I should take pity on the object of his affections. This short life would be unendurably long with him by your side.”
    Anna gave her a skeptical glance, then turned her attention back to the bubbling tallow. She wiped a film of sweat from her forehead. Both of them had grown pale from the smell of the burning fat. “You may be in for trouble, then. He seemed quite taken with you.”
    “Nonsense—have you not noticed that he talks that way to every young lady who crosses his path? Don’t put any stock in it—your sister is safe with you at home, and at home I will stay .”
    “Love will change you,” Anna said.
    Louisa shook her head. “Perhaps you, my dear. But not me. For me it is a disease I am lucky not to catch.”
    She believed what she said, but Anna’s comment needled its way into her mind. Louisa felt a fluttering in her ribs like the pages of a book fanning out in a breeze, a sensation that something was beginning that she wouldn’t be able to stop. She rushed to divert the conversation.
    “And now to more important matters. When shall we begin rehearsing the play?”
     
     
    When the candles hung drying and the supper dishes were washed, Louisa and Anna joined Bronson, Abba, Lizzie, and May in the small parlor off the kitchen. Bronson held his Bible open on his lap—he often read passages to them in the evening and asked for his daughters’ thoughts on the quandaries of Christian theology. Louisa plucked at the front of her dress a few times to cool her damp underarms. The heat from the kitchen had been stifling, and the small parlor window let in only a hint of a breeze.
    “My daughters,” Bronson began, his high forehead gleaming in the light of a candle, “what have you written today about our journey?” Abba turned expectantly to them, her face revealing a bit of sympathy. When would they