In which the young Mr. Laurence makes his acquaintance with the March sisters
Parties, fancies Theodore Laurence, are nothing more than a charade performed with the combined purposes of amusing young women as they canter towards adulthood, and torturing young men as they resolutely cling to the last vestiges of boyhood, against a clever backdrop of waltzes and fruit punch. He cultivates this clever theory from behind the curtain that conceals a recess that he imagines must have been designed by some poor soul like himself who craved respite from the unerring decadence of the Gardiners' ballroom; after a mere ten minutes of social niceties, Theodore – or Laurie, as his naturally informal nature insists he be known – had been unable to bear it no longer. The recess has proved a capital retreat, equipped with a table on which to rest his dessert, and an armchair from which he now contentedly watches a succession of young ladies parade by.
His eye is caught first of all by a young lady (although Laurie suspects in this case that is not the correct terminology) who appears as discomforted by the situation as he himself. She is skirting around the edge of the dance floor and while at first he is puzzled by her apparent game for one, it soon becomes clear that she is wilfully avoiding the eye of a red-haired youth who seems set on capturing her for a dance. Laurie is amused by the pursuit for a moment, until his attention is diverted most completely by a young woman executing the polka as expertly as any Swiss maiden. Her grace is but the first virtue he notices; as he watches he becomes aware of her lustrous dark curls, her porcelain skin, her soft full lips (here his mind wanders for a moment away from the ballroom to altogether less refined pursuits), and - oh! – her clear blue eyes, sparkling as she smiles an angel's smile in response to some witticism uttered by her partner. Laurie half rises from his perch: this girl is reason enough to re-join the festivities, he will ask her to dance the moment she becomes available –
- but this thought is interrupted before he can complete it by a figure crashing through the curtain and knocking him bodily back into the chair beneath a scorched (scorched? Did he see that correctly?) gown and a mane of chestnut hair.
'Oh! Please, excuse me – I'll go!' It is the prey of the red-headed youth, and a mixture of surprise and grudging admiration for her avoidance tactics moves Laurie to invite her to stay.
They exchange pleasantries for a few moments and Laurie realises before she confirms it that she is one of the March sisters he has spied in the house door. Jo, it transpires; by day the reluctant companion to an elderly aunt, but in this moment a natural friend and confidant with whom he is soon sharing various truths about his wild European upbringing. Conversation flows easily and soon to the matter of the young women on the dance floor.
'Who were you staring at?' Jo asks the question innocently and Laurie forgets to be cautious in his response.
'Well – I was quite taken with that one'. The angel is conveniently passing as he speaks, her delicate slippers scarcely touching the floor as she dances. Something in Jo's face flickers – recognition perhaps? – and in a bold response to an earlier challenge regarding his fluidity in the French tongue, he asks, 'Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?'
Jo laughs. 'Let me see – "who is the young lady in the pretty slippers?" That's Meg – that's my sister', and Laurie suddenly sees the likeness, although Jo's face, while filled with character and good humour, has none of Meg's beauty. Something in his face must give him away, for Jo asks, 'Do you think she's pretty?'
Laurie hesitates, wondering how best to respond without revealing the infatuation that has developed just this evening. 'Yes', he finally admits, 'she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady.'
Whether this response is satisfactory or not Laurie does not know for Jo merely nods and asserts, 'Well – she's completely bald in front!' and follows this non-sequitur by immediately shifting the conversation to some topic closer to her own interests. For his part, Laurie chats cordially away and gladly accepts her invitation to dance about the recess when the band strikes up a lively tune (an agreement he begins to regret as she steps on his toes for the fourth time, asserting that it is not her fault, that Meg always makes her take the gentleman's part during practice); but his mind is not wholly focused on his companion. No, his thoughts cannot be stopped from drifting back to Meg, and the wish that the aforementioned pretty slippers were the trespassers on his feet.
…
When, some two hours later, his revelry with Jo is halted by the manifestation of Meg reclining, pale, on a couch in the hallway, Laurie wonders if his persistent imaginings have somehow brought her there. A brief exchange between the sisters reveals that this is not the case; that Meg has merely sprained her ankle (ah, the cruelty of the formerly admirable slippers!) and wishes to go home, and Laurie at once does the gentlemanly thing and offers his carriage to relay them all. Jo accepts at once, her response in the affirmative quite drowning Meg's protestations, and the matter is settled. Meg flushes as she stands, saying,
'Please – don't tell Mrs Gardiner. She'll think I've been sampling the punch!'
Laurie smiles – the idea had never entered his head but the shrewish hostess would most certainly make such an assumption – and he hastily withdraws the arm he had offered, lest anyone deduce that Miss March had imbibed too much refreshment to stand unaided. Jo, striding ahead, does not notice the gesture, but for the first time that evening Meg meets his eyes, an unspoken 'thank you' hanging between them. He holds her gaze for longer than he knows to be appropriate, and it is Meg who looks away first, wincing as she hurries to catch her sister. By the time they reach the carriage she is limping considerably, and Laurie's rudimentary scientific education compels him to break the silence.
'Meg – I think we need to attend to that ankle. It's terribly swollen; please, sit down and let me try to cool it some.' He can only think of one way to really help and gathers a handful of snow; Meg, realising his intentions pulls her skirts close and begins to protest, but once again, her sister speaks more loudly,
'An excellent idea my good fellow! Why Meg, you have a personal physician here as well as a chauffeur!' And Jo lifts her sister's unwilling ankle to allow Laurie to pack the snow around it.
Laurie raises his eyes to his patient as he tends to the sprain, resisting the urge to wink (not because he feels it is the right action for such a moment, but because he knows no other way to lighten the mood), finally settling instead for a tentative smile in the hope that Meg might be put at ease. She is mortified, he knows; to have a young man with whom she is but an hour acquainted placing his hands on her stockinged skin must defy a whole manner of debutante rules, but it is doing some good, the ankle already feels less angry, and Meg asserts her gratitude by shyly returning his smile. It is a moment of intimacy that Laurie is certain he will remember for the rest of his days, for with one look, Meg has ignited a flame that he fears he will not be able to easily extinguish.
