Free The Revelation of Louisa May by Michaela MacColl Page B

but the rest of his face was much improved. How had she never noticed his perfectly straight nose?
    â€œCome in, then,” she said, laughing.
    He reached down and collected the flowers and presented them to her. She shook her head with a smile. “You must give them to Beth. She’ll appreciate your fine ways and little attentions.”
    â€œStill the same Louisa, I see,” he teased. “Someday you have to grow up and be a young lady.”
    â€œNot until I absolutely have to,” she retorted. “But Beth is plenty ladylike enough for both of us.”
    â€œDid she get the sheet music I sent her at Christmas?” he asked, following her inside.
    â€œShe did. Marmee said what a clever gift it was because it made us all merry with her piano playing. Now put down that case and sit down.” She gave him a gentle shove into the parlor. “I’ll fetch everyone. Won’t they be surprised!”
    Whirling around, she raced up the stairs, calling “Beth, Beth!” She burst into Beth’s room to find her sister resting in bed. “Come down, come down quick. There’s a surprise in the parlor for you! No, don’t bother to fix your hair. This surprise likes you just as you are!”
    Like a gust of wind, Louisa blew out of the room in search of Father. She found him in the kitchen, sitting with his elbows on the table and his chin resting on his hands. WhenLouisa barged in, she stopped short at the look of misery in his eyes.
    â€œFather!” she gasped. “Are you all right?”
    He stood up suddenly, shoving the table away from him. “Of course I am. Louisa, why are you running around so wild? Haven’t I told you a dozen times that if you carry yourself in a constant tempest, you will never find peace in your mind?”
    â€œOh, Father, not a dozen. You’ve told me that at least a score of times,” Louisa said sourly. Their relations were always like this, she reflected. Every gesture on her part rebuffed. Every concern met with a scold. Nothing about her speech, her appearance, or her manners pleased him.
    In the excitement of Fred’s arrival, she had forgotten that she had a bone to pick with her father. “Father, how could you tell George to go out in the orchard?”
    â€œThe poor man was restless, cooped up in that small room. I thought some physical activity would do him good. And I needed some of that twisted wood for the door I’m designing for Emerson.”
    â€œIt was foolish. There’s a slave catcher after him who will stop at nothing to find him. How long do you think it would take Finch to hear about a black man chopping wood for the Alcotts?”
    â€œThe orchard is on our property, set back from the road. It was perfectly safe,” Bronson defended himself. “And I don’tappreciate your tone. Anyone would think you were the adult here instead of an intemperate child.”
    â€œGeorge is my responsibility, and I’ll thank you not to get him caught because of your recklessness.”
    â€œLouisa, your tone is disrespectful and—and rude,” he spluttered.
    â€œI’m speaking my mind. I thought you valued self-expression, Father,” Louisa said, her words sweet with a touch of acid. “Oh, by the way, we have a visitor in the parlor.” She turned on her heel and left, ignoring his querulous voice asking who it was.
    In the center of the parlor Beth was wrapped in Fred’s embrace, although, mindful of her delicate health, he stooped to keep her feet on the ground. When Bronson finally followed Louisa into the room, he bellowed, “Fred, old fellow, is that you returned to us at last?”
    Placing Beth gently on the sofa, Fred turned and faced Bronson. Ducking his head with respect, he said, “Yes, sir. I’ve come back to you from university.” He stuck out his hand and Bronson shook it heartily.
    â€œI want to hear all the nonsense