"There are roses in the hothouse. Red roses," Laurie said. He'd let his hand rest minutes ago, the dreaded Greek translation impenetrable, worse than any monstrous mythical being it might, but likely did not, mention. It was Plato, Brooke had set it a week ago, and Laurie had not managed even two lines. His tutor was looking at the window now, towards the March house, and Laurie thought it was worth it to take a chance.
"You've finished the translation then?" John said, striving to sound his usual earnest self. Failing, since there was an abstraction in his tone Laurie could not mistake. Was he remembering the glove in his desk drawer? Or the slender hand that had worn it?
"She likes roses best, Jo said. Red would suit her better than white," Laurie went on. His grandfather might bark if he learned what Laurie said, but he wouldn't bite. Not since Beth had come to play the little spinet, since he'd met the girls and blessed them.
"Any rose would suit her," Brooke said swiftly. He could not have remembered who it was he spoke to, he could only be thinking of Meg. Laurie had danced with her, he knew how graceful she was, how she flew if given the chance. Could Brooke give her that? Not with his pocket-book, but the March girls didn't seem to care so much for riches.
"Jo said she'll be in the garden after supper tonight," Laurie offered. He and Jo might go on a ramble through the fields or sequester themselves in her garret; he had a basket of apples to roast and the latest papers to make her shout with laughter, her grey eyes flashing. Perhaps tonight, he might steal a kiss from that sweet mouth, the taste of apple on her lips.
"It's too cold, she should stay inside," Brooke said. He'd yet to even say Meg's name but they both knew who he meant. And how the Plato might crumble away into dust, the dust of dust, for all it was worth to Laurie. And evidently to Brooke as well.
"P'rhaps you might tell her that. After you give her some roses. P'rhaps you'll have a chance to talk while you walk her in to the parlor, where it's warm," Laurie said. Jo would never stand for it but Meg, Meg March was a lover of the most sincere romance, of the gallantry of a hero, and Brooke was capable of both—and probably more.
"I can't think you should be telling me this, Laurie," Brooke said.
"But I have. Only fair to turn the tables sometimes," Laurie said, keeping the glee from his tone. John was so serious, so careful. Perhaps Meg might winkle him out of it, Laurie surely wouldn't.
"You've still got to finish that translation, Laurie. Harvard won't admit you on the promise of roses and advice," John said, smiling, sounding young as he rarely did, happy and hopeful. Another man might sound the same after drinking a bottle of wine, but Laurie knew John could not be any more sober. Or any more intoxicated by Meg—until he gave her the roses and saw her face, her hazel eyes shining, until he held her gloveless hand in his.