Pride and Prejudice, Emma, and Persuasion, combined in a Little Women story. 19th century New England, as Alcott had it.
Disclaimer: names that you recognize from Jane Austen's masterpieces are NOT mine. And lots and lots of the writing is not mine, either. More lines than I care to admit are stolen shamelessly from Louisa May Alcott. Much of the plot is borrowed from her lovely story, too. To surmise, anything that you recognize is NOT MINE.
The March Girls, Chapter Four
"How hard it is to take up our burdens once more and go on," said Jane sadly. The morning after the party was a miserable one, for the week of merrymaking was over. Jane sighed as she straightened her shabby gown and prepared for her return to an ordinary, dreary existence, as she saw it.
Emma yawned and placed the teapot back on its place mat. "Lord, but am I tired! I don't feel like budging at all, let alone walking to that fancily done up shack Uncle calls a shop."
Jane jerked her blue neck ribbon with uncustomary vengeance. It gave way, falling limply into her hand, and she stared at it disconsolately. "What's the use of being pretty, when no one's there to see me except those cross little midgets?"
Mrs March looked up from where she sat composing a letter that must be finished straight away, and bade Jane not to complain; Hannah was grumpy, for being up late didn't suit her, and frowned as she stalked in from the kitchen. She laid three hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. No matter how grumpy she was, she never forgot to make them; they were very comforting to the girls on their walk, for it was long and bleak, and poor Jane and Emma got no other lunch.
"Aren't we all bright and cheery today!" said Elizabeth, her mouth full of muffin, and warming her hands with the pies.
"It's easy for you to say!" cried Jane, in a fiery tone. "You don't have four spoiled children to look after, and Lady Catherine actually employed a governess for you, while I'm trudging away being one."
Elizabeth lowered her head to hide her expression, but Jane saw it nonetheless. Immediately contrite, she flew to her younger sister's side, apologizing tearfully and saying she didn't know what had gotten into her. Emma rolled her eyes exasperatedly, saying that Lizzy needn't be so touchy, nor Jane so melodramatic, and entreated Anne, who was lying on the couch with a headache, to fetch Jane's bonnet – the new one, with the blue bow.
Anne got up slowly, dislodging Snuffles who had nestled within her arms, and got the bonnet, handing it to Jane with a kiss, saying that all would be well pretty soon. Jane smiled wistfully, and said that she hoped so too.
"Don't waste your time with idle wishes," scoffed Emma.
"Don't be such a damper, Emma," rejoined Elizabeth.
"Well, we had better get going," said Jane hastily, standing up and donning her bonnet. She shot Emma a significant glance, seeing that she was still too lazy to get up. Emma pouted as she stood with Elizabeth, and the trio made their way out the door.
"Goodbye, Marmee. Goodbye, Annie!"
"We are a set of rascals this morning. Poor Marmee could hardly write two lines, and Annie had a headache," said Elizabeth sombrely as she closed the gate after them.
"A headache, which could not have been lessened by my crossness, or ordering her about," said Emma, wearing a penitent expression.
When they turned the corner they looked back, for their mother was always at the window to nod and smile, and wave at them. Somehow, the girls couldn't have gotten through the day without that, for a little motherly gesture was sure to affect them like sunshine.
"If Marmee had shaken her fist at us instead of blowing a kiss, it would serve us right!" cried Emma, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the harsh wind and snowy walk.
"More ungrateful wretches than we are were never seen," said Elizabeth.
"Don't use such dreadful expressions," replied Jane from the depths of her veil, in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world.
"It's true, though, and you know Lizzy likes strong words that mean something – sometimes they mean too much," said Emma. "But you're a blighted being, Jane, and decidedly cross today because you can't sit in the lap of luxury all the time."
"Just wait till I make my fortune! Then you shall revel in all the fancy silk dresses, frilly bonnets, and invitations to parties that you can ever want!" said Elizabeth stoutly.
Emma laughed, and pulled her braid affectionately before parting ways with them. Uncle March's shop lay in a different direction than the Kings' place and Rosefield, and Elizabeth waved cheerfully goodbye, before turning and taking Jane's hand, who despite it all was beginning to smile.
Lady Catherine and the Kings were neighbours, so Jane walked with Elizabeth for the remainder of the journey. At Rosefield's gate Jane hugged her little sister, and whispered, "Take care, Lizzy. I'm sorry about this morning. I was angry and cross, and shouldn't have taken it out on you."
Elizabeth hugged her back, and kissed her cheek. "I know."
"Goodbye, Lizzy."
"Goodbye, Jane."
When Mr March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate friend, Jane and Emma begged to do something toward their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, both parents consented, and the two girls fell to work with the hearty good will which in spite of all obstacles must surely succeed at last.
Jane found a place as nursery governess, and felt rich with her small salary. And in spite of all her misgivings, she really was quite fond of the little Kings, hers being a naturally tender disposition; she had a gentle way about her that could not fail to recommend her to small people. Lucy, Paul, Jamie, and Susie were sweet though spoilt, and Jane was their idol. But as she said, Jane was "fond of luxury", and her chief trouble was vanity and poverty. Two such traits simply were not the epitome of compatibility, to put it mildly.
Jane found it harder to bear than the others because she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of ease and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be envious or discontented, but it was natural that a girl of her age and beauty should long for pretty things, friends, accomplishments, and a happy life. At the Kings' she daily saw all she wanted, for Mary King was just out, and she caught frequent glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about theatres, concerts, sleighing-parties, and merrymaking of all kinds, and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to her. Mary King herself put on such airs, which quite disgusted Jane, though she was at the same time fairly envious.
Poor Jane seldom complained, but a sense of injustice pervaded her outlook, and her sweet manner was sometimes made bitter by it. She had not yet learned to know how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy.
Emma also found something to keep her busy, in the form of a position in her Uncle March's clothes shop. She worked at the counter, doggedly wearing a cheerful expression all day, no matter how difficult the customers were. Sometimes she saw Sallie Gardiner or Caroline Moffat, who would look at best ashamed to see her, for they were particular friends of her sister Jane's. Caroline would turn up her nose haughtily more often than not, and look at her in disdain; and Emma took a wicked pleasure in toying with her. Miss Moffat's biting remarks were always foiled or tempered by her.
Though prone to think too highly of herself sometimes, Emma was a kind, loyal girl, with a loving heart; the surest way to rile her was through her family. Her father often said that she was like a flame: slow to burn, but quick to light.
"Miss Raphael", as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and never was as happy as she was when copying or painting in her attic haven by the sunny window. She loved creating her little pieces of visual magic and beauty, as she called them, and could sit for hours on end adding the finishing touches to a portrait or landscape.
If asked what her greatest trial was, Emma would have said, "my ears", for they were rather large, and she always thought mournfully of monkeys whenever she looked in the mirror. Being a handsome girl, despite the ears, she had her share of vanity. But she was good-humoured and possessed the happy art of pleasing without effort, which won her many "friends", even though said "friends" did not usually acknowledge her at Uncle March's shop. Emma was not blind, and she knew that they were at best insincere, but she could never bring herself to be unpleasant to them, though I daresay they deserved it. (The sole exception, of course, was Caroline Moffat.)
As for Elizabeth, she thought she should also be allowed to work, but Mr and Mrs March refused; she was still so young, after all. Elizabeth protested loudly, obstinately saying that she wished to help, too, in a singularly plaintive way, that made her parents smile. But an opportunity for her to "help" did come.
After troubles befell the March family, Lady Catherine (Mrs March's half-sister) had offered to adopt one of the girls, being a childless old widow. The offer was declined, and the old lady was much affronted; and other friends said to the Marches that they lost all chance of being remembered in her will. But the unworldly Marches only said that they couldn't give up any of their girls for a dozen fortunes.
Lady Catherine would not speak to the family for some time, but happening to meet them at a friend's, she took a fancy to Elizabeth. Her vivacity and humour appealed to the old lady, and she proposed to take her for a companion. This did not suit Elizabeth at all, but then hearing that she may help her family this way, she complied. There was also the added incentive of private lessons that Lady Catherine offered, which won the girl, being very determined to succeed, so that when she grew up she may buy her sisters all manner of comfy things. Anne would have a lovely grand piano, music lessons, and never have to do dishes or sweep or mop again; Jane would have the garb and benefits of a rich heiress; and Emma would have all the paints and drawing pencils she could ever desire.
To everyone's surprise, tomboy Lizzy got on famously with stiff, overbearing Lady Catherine. There was an occasional tempest, since two strong wills must inevitably clash, but Lady Catherine always cleared up quickly and sent for Elizabeth with such urgency that she could not refuse. And in her heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.
The main attraction for Elizabeth, however, was the big library, left to dust and spiders since Sir Lewis's death. "Uncle Lew" she remembered as a kind, jolly old man, who bounced her on his knee, let her build trains and tunnels with his big Latin dictionaries and antique chairs, and bought her cards of gingerbread whenever he met her on the street. Rosefield's library was a region of bliss to Elizabeth, whose one great passion was books.
The moment she finished reciting French and doing sums with Miss Jenkinson (and Lady Catherine, who liked to oversee her lessons), and the moment Lady Catherine took her nap, Elizabeth hurried to the library and buried herself in adventures, poetry, and sometimes even romance. But like all joys it must come to an end, and it did, as soon as Lady Catherine called in her shrill voice, "Eliza Roberta!" And she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash Pug, or read Belsham's Essays by the hour.
Elizabeth's ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was she was not yet quite sure, and left if for time to tell. Meanwhile, she found her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn't read, run, and romp as much as she would like. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series of ups and downs both comic and pathetic. But the training she received at Rosefield was just what she needed, and the thought that she was doing something to support herself made her happy, despite the perpetual "Eliza Roberta".
Anne was the baby of the family, and much petted. She would have been in a fair way to be spoiled, had her nature not been what it was. She was quiet, shy, and afraid of strangers, which made it quite impossible to send her to school. It had been tried, but Anne would always come home in tears, begging to have her lessons at home, with Father. Even when Father went away, and Mother was called to devote her skill and energy to Soldiers' Aid Societies, Anne went faithfully on by herself and did the best she could with her sisters' help. She was a housewifely little creature, always helping Hannah to make home neat and comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be loved.
Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely or idle, for Anne's world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed each morning, for she was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever. There was not one that was whole or handsome, since when her sisters outgrew these idols they passed to her. Anne loved them all the more for it, and set up a little hospital for infirm dolls. There was one forlorn, handicapped figure among them, an old toy of Elizabeth's, which having led a tempestuous life, was reduced to little more than a bundle of rags. Having no top on its head, Anne sewed on a neat little cap, and as all limbs were gone, she enfolded it in a blanket to hide these deficiencies. She brought it bits of bouquet, soothed the poor invalid with sweet lullabies, and took it out for fresh air, hiding it in her coat, because Lizzy would laugh.
Anne had her troubles as well as the others, and often sat at the old piano trying to piece together little songs with notes that were out of tune. She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so patiently, that it did seem as if someone (not to hint Lady Catherine) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw Anne wipe the tears off the yellow keys when she was all alone. But she sang like a lark about her work, and never was too tired for Marmee and the girls.
By some strange attraction of opposites gentle Anne was most intimate with harum-scarum Lizzy, confiding in her all her hopes, tribulations, and thoughts. And over Elizabeth she exerted an influence which did the older girl good; some of her recklessness was quelled, and her sharp nature softened. In turn Elizabeth "stuck up" for her everywhere they went. She had been known to give some boys a thrashing once, for teasing Anne at school. When she came home muddied, with her dress in ruins, and a large grin on her dirty face, the family laughed at first. Then Mrs March sat her down, and gave her a scolding, while Jane bemoaned her unladylike behaviour, and Emma tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smirk.
The girls were a companionable set, quarrelling sometimes but always making up. The elder two girls looked out for the younger, "mothering" and guiding them through many of life's trials. Elizabeth, who rebelled against this treatment, saying she should take care of them, since she was the "man of the family", consoled herself with protecting her sole younger sister Anne with a fierceness that was really quite touching.
So the March girls toiled, and strove for that goodness of character which sometimes seems so hard to achieve. Their efforts are sure to be rewarded, in spite of all difficulties; and rewarded not through riches or wealth, but something infinitely dearer.