"Beth!" Jo's excited whisper pulls me from my dream about old Mr. Laurence next door shaking his cane and shouting at me. "Look under your pillow!"
My fingers touch something soft and cool and I pull out a burgundy copy of Pilgrim's Progress. "Oh Jo! However did Marmee hide it?"
Jo laughs. "She doesn't! I did! Look, she got me one too!" She held up her own copy of the story.
"Jo! Beth!" Amy rush in, with blonde curls still dishevel from her sleep, holding a book much the same. She stops in shock and sniff the air, her eyes growing wider. "Is that sausage?"
We both sit up and Jo leaps to her feet, then grabs her clothing, "I think it is! Hurry Beth! Sausage! I don't hardly remember what that tastes like!"
"'Don't hardly' is unproper grammar." Amy sniffs, but Jo ignores her.
"Improper, Amy." Meg corrects on her way inside the room. She is already dressed and has her hair pinned up.
Jo barks out a laugh as she haphazardly ties my sash and we hurry downstairs toward breakfast.
"There's a regular little feast!" Jo says.
It is true. There are buck cakes and bread and muffins with cream, and in the middle of the table is a small plate with four oranges in it.
"Oranges!" Amy points. "Oh, look Beth! One for each of us!"
I take an orange and breathe deeply, longing for the trees to bloom outside.
"Where's Marmee?" Meg asks.
Hannah, waves her hand toward us, setting the sausages onto the table. "She says to go ahead and eat. She heard about a family near the edge of town – Hummel's their name. Ten children and the father away. Mother's ill and your Ma went straight off to help."
"Ten children is a lot to care for," I say, as Amy settlers herself in the chair beside mine. Ten children. How fun it would be. I try to imagine their sweet little faces gathered around our table. Oh, how I love children.
"No food, or fire either." Hannah's voice interrupts my daydreaming. My smile fades as the image turns bad and the children turns dirty and haggard, staring up at me with longing, hungry eyes.
I glance at the other girls. Jo is shaking her head as she butters a piece of bread and Amy is biting into a muffin, but neither seems overly distraught.
"They're starving?"
My one question seems to make the entire table stop.
"Oh, Beth." Meg starts as my eyes fill with tears because I can't shake off the image of the little children. I feel like I will choke if I take even a bite.
"You can't be upset, Beth." Amy says, stuffing the muffin quickly into her mouth. "People starve every day. You'll starve, too, if you never eat. Besides, Marmee's with them."
"And we should be too." Jo replaces the buttered bread onto the tray.
Amy's shoulders fall, as Meg nods and covers the muffins.
"Do we have to take it all? May we leave the orange? They won't miss one little thing."
No one says anything, and she hides the orange on her chair beneath the table. Poor thing. It's been months since we had fresh fruit or sausage, and now we're giving it all away before she can enjoy it.
I pick up the hot cider drink and hug it close as we step out into the cold air, glad for the warmth, and for something to press against my already fluttering heart.
Mr. Laurence clambers into his carriage, and I step behind Jo as it rolls past. She calls out a greeting but Mr. Laurence glares at us – or perhaps I only imagine that he does.
"Look!" Jo lowers her voice dramatically. "The Captive is with him."
"The Captive" is our name for the new boy. We don't know his real name, because he's only been there for a few days. Mr. McGregor, the postman, told Hannah that he is Mr. Laurence's only grandson. He is handsome, as Meg point out, with a very nice smile – I know because he saw me taking Susan for a stroll in the garden once and smiled at me, before I ran inside.
"Lovely day for a picnic!" Jo calls out, as the boy looks in bewilderment at four girls carrying food through the snow.
The boy laughs, and Mr. Laurence told him to shut the carriage window and not let any draft in.
The Hummel's house is on the far edge of town, and when we get there, the snow has seeped through my boots. I doubt the cider will still be warm.
Jo's breath makes a puff of cloud as she turns to us. "I think it's that one."
She point to a little shack set back in the trees, and I slow as we draw closer. There is only the slightest bit of smoke coming from the chimney, and most of the windows are broken. I stop, feeling my heart beating so hard that I think I will choke.
"Come along, Beth." Jo steps beside me. "You don't want to miss the smiles, when they see us, do you?"
I shake my head, and force my feet to move, thinking only of children and laughter and smiles.
But there are no smiling faces to greet us at the door - only a pile of children, huddle in one bed underneath a threadbare blanket, with white faces, blue lips and large, frighten eyes. The wind blows right through the window and a pile of snow lays on the floor near the wall where it has fallen from the windowsill. The fire is little more than a pile of glowing ashes, and the house is bare and filthy.
"Girls!" Marmee's voice had never sounded as sweet as it did then. "I'm so glad you came!" She sat over with the mother and a tiny baby on the only other bed in the room.
Jo lumbers toward the fireplace and dumps the wood she carries. One girl, about thirteen, pulls back the covers and slips over to help her. She doesn't have any shoes – only a pair of woolen socks that I recognize as ones I knit for father at the camp. Marmee must have brought them today.
Meg takes charge of the children, lining them up and handing out muffins. Once the children see the food, it seems they comes alive, like hungry baby birds, and reach out, calling out words in English and German. Amy takes the only little spot left on the bed and passes out the warm sausage, and I take the cider over to Jo. "We didn't bring any cups."
"We have some." The girl answers, turning and hurrying to the cabinet. She opens it, and I spy five wooden plates, three bowls and two cups. I fill them up and give Jo the cider to reheat.
Mother wraps her shawl tighter around the woman's shoulders and walks to us. "I'm so glad that you thought of firewood, Jo. I didn't think to bring much, and we already used most of it. I sent Ahren out to get some a few hours ago, but he has not returned yet." She slips the baby into my arms. She is cold and dirty but her eyes were bright as she looks up at me. I sink near the fireplace, enamor and horrified at the same time.
"Her name is Gretchen," the girl says. "And I'm Lotchen."
"It's good to meet you, Lotchen!" Jo booms enthusiastically. I smile at her, but I can't tear my eyes from the baby for long. Her hands are so tiny and so cold. I pull off my shawl and wrap it around the infant. Jo hunts for some rags to stuff the windows, and finally ends up using the tray we carried the food on, to block the hole in the window. It looks so funny up there, but she teases Lotchen that she can use it for a mirror.
My stomach growls, but I hardly notice as the baby begins to whimper. I push to my feet and walk around, gently bouncing the baby and quietly singing. I take her to the window near the door, away from the noise of the other children. Just as I notice the puddle of melted snow on the floor, the door swings open with the wind and knocks into my head. I stumble back and slip in the icy water, hitting my shoulder and head against the wall. I cling to the baby and, for a moment, I can't see.
Water seeps into my skirt, but I am so frighten that Gretchen is hurt, that I hardly notice.
"Ahren!" Lotchen screams, hurrying over and taking the squalling baby from me. "Be careful! Look what you did!"
That is the first time that I notice the boy. His hair is light brown and coated with ice and snow. His lashes are frozen and his face is red, but I can't tell if it is from the cold or embarrassment.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He seems mortified and embarrassed and confused all at the same time. His arms were full of wet branches, and a few hunks of wood, and he hobbles to the fireplace to dump them.
I push myself to my feet, embarrassed that I had fallen, but mostly that I embarrass him and caused a problem.
"Are you all right?" Meg asks gently.
Mrs. Hummel sends a torrent of angry German words toward poor Ahren.
"It's all right," Marmee says. "It is the wind that knocks it back so far. No one is hurt."
Ahren sinks down near the fire in a small huddle, and I readjust my best skirt to hide its new tear.
"You'll be warmer if you take off that coat. You don't want to be mistaken for a snowman!" Jo slaps Ahren on the shoulder in a boyish fashion, and he stares at her for a moment, before he mutely unwraps his scarf and fumbles with the buttons to his coat. Chunks of snow fall and his fingers are stiff and blue. I want to help him, but I think that will just embarrass.
Jo pulls off his coat and walks toward me to hang them up by the door with a wink. Ahren wears only one shirt and a pair of breeches, held up by two leather straps that serve for suspenders. The backside of his pants is so threadbare, that I can see the white of his shirt coming through. I blush and grab the orange from the table, and a cup of the cider to carry to him.
He hardly looks at me and, for a moment, I just stand there, holding the cup toward him as a peace offering. Finally, he reaches up and takes the cup, breathing a thank you. I step away, giving him room to drink and recuperate.
Meg is using the warmed water to clean the children's sticky little faces, now that their bellies are full, and probably aching from overeating. I glance back at Ahren, who stares into the fire and hadn't move since I left. I bite my lip, wondering if I hadn't embarrass him so much, if he will be feeling better and eating by now.
I pick up Gretchen again, and use the warm water to gently wipe her face, feeling a smile returning to my own. I sing softly, watching Ahren out of the corner of my eye as he flexes his fingers back and forth.
"Father's working in town," Mary says. "He's coming back in a few days."
Ahren glances up for the first time, and he takes a sip of the cider.
"He's going to bring me a doll," the girl continues.
"Who told you that?" Ahren frowns.
"Lotchen did."
"I say he might," Lotchen adds quickly. "We were just making believe, Mary. Remember?"
Ahren's face darkens for a moment, and he stares into his cup, as though he will find his answer inside of it. He can't be much older than me, though he is so thin, that it looks like a breeze might blow him away.
For the next hour that we were there, I sing to the baby while the others clean up children and dishes. I still haven't given the orange to Ahren, and for some reason, I very much want to. Before it is time to go, I kiss the baby and return her to Mrs. Hummel. The door jams on the hinges, and Ahren throws his weight into it, finally knocking it free. Mother calls out that we will be back next week, Mrs. Hummel says good bye and dabs at her cheeks and the children call after us. I slip the orange into Ahren's hand. I want to say something, but nothing comes, and I blush furiously as he looks at the orange and then at me, as though he can't understand why I would give him such a thing. I duck my head and hurry to Jo's side. No one saw it, and I am glad, for I suddenly feel very foolish.
