Jo March – that is, Jo Bhaer, as she had been for all of nine hours – was spending her first night in the house that she had inherited. It was also her first night as a wife. After a long day of dancing and visiting, it had been a relief to retire to Plumfield. All was quiet in the grand old house. ...Well, almost all.
"Friieedrich," Jo moaned, half-asleep, and wishing she was all the way asleep.
There was a gentle intake of breath and the bed creaked as her husband – still brand new, that title – shifted towards her. "What is it, Jo?"
He sounded tired, too. They were both exhausted. Meg might have warned Jo that weddings were tiresome things, as well as joyous. (Amy had been wise to do the thing quietly in Europe.) Of course, there had been a brief period, when Jo was finally alone with her dear Fritz, that she had not felt tired at all…
No one had warned her though that, when she and her husband did fall asleep, he would breathe like a lumber saw.
Throughout the night she had opened her eyes to look blearily over at him, facing the wall so the sound echoed, until he rolled over and was peaceable again... for a little while at least.
If Jo had done as Marmee had advised and unpacked more of her things, she might have been able to find a suitable pair of earmuffs to wear to stifle the sound. But it was too dark to look for them now among the various trunks and parcels, and her spirits had been far too high before to bring them down to earth enough for the mundane task of housekeeping. For the umpteenth time in her life, Jo had to concede that Marmee was always right.
"You were snoring," she informed him.
"Was I?" he asked apologetically.
She looked at him (ach, with that lift of her brow that could only make him smile, even if he could only just see it in the moonlight that spilled into the room, and even if he had aroused her irritation). "It was not something I could have imagined up."
He gave a low chuckle at himself: it was a silly question. He was not a very young man, or a very small man; it was not so surprising that he snored. But apart from his sister when he was a boy, he had not had a roommate for some time, and he began to worry that he might have a great deal of unbecoming habits without his knowledge. But he could certainly trust Jo to tell him about them!
"I am sorry for waking you, mein Jo." He kissed her temple. For she really was his now – his wife. His frau (though he knew she thought the word, in German, sounded far too much like the English word "frown," when for the past year it seemed they could do little but smile).
Sighing after the kiss, Jo closed her eyes in contentment as she relaxed against the bed. "I suppose I deserve it, anyway, for stealing the covers." She gave him a sheepish smile and draped the quilt over him that she had wrested away completely in her sleep. "I haven't really learned to share yet."
Though she was a sister, she had always had her own way, and she had always wanted her own space. She supposed that was not an impulse that would end entirely with marriage… though she was certainly finding it pleasant to share a room with Friedrich, aside from the snoring.
He smiled at her as he watched her for a moment. "Then we will learn." He touched her cheek. "We haf a life to share together now."
After his Jo gave a soft murmur of assent, Friedrich decided that it was time for both of them to return to sleep. He had settled down again to do so, and had just closed his eyes when the covers began to shake with his wife's laughter.
"You haf a joke, Professorin?" He was smiling, uncertainly.
"I'm sorry," she sputtered, tucking her face against his chest. "You do sound like a bear."
"Ah." The Americans had stumbled over his name at first, thinking it was said like the big growly creature, die bär. And he had not minded it – not when the boys at the boardinghouse had played at being afraid of him in a game, not when the gentlemen at supper teased him for being too gentle to resemble the animal. Only, he did not wish to keep Jo awake with such noises. "For that, I am sorry." He kissed the dear head with its wild hair.
Though she sighed, Jo was not too angry with him, the professor knew. She was quiet for a few moments, and he let his fingers wander languidly into her dark curls, no longer tentative about doing so.
"I did notice something," she said finally.
He stroked her hair, knowing she would continue.
"When you laid on your other side, you didn't snore so much."
"My other side." He gave a thoughtful nod and a soft smile touched his lips. "That is good." After he had dutifully eased onto the mattress in the position that Jo had suggested, he draped his arm over her. Perhaps when he held her that way, she could not squirrel away the covers, either.
With a smile, Jo turned in his embrace, letting her husband hold her close from behind. If he did snore, there would be no escaping the sound – but she did not think he would, based on what she had observed thus far. And it was a risk she was willing to take.
"Now you shan't snore," she murmured, "and I will be warm."
"And we shall be happy."
She closed her eyes, knowing he couldn't see her smile, but hoping he knew it was there all the same. "And we shall be happy."
Jo slept peacefully all the rest of the night.