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Meg was quietly happy and thriving, Jo was finally resting and eating enough, and Sainted John was living up to his name.
And then, things took a turn.
Not for the worse or for the better, but for the absolutely mad.
First came the men.
Literal hordes of gentlemen—well, not hordes, but there were definitely more than two, three even—eligible bachelors that Sainted John kept inviting to dinner in his quiet, unassuming way, trying to see if Jo would be interested in any of them. She had told him time and again that she was not looking for a husband, but he, bless his soul, kept trying.
But she could not find it in her heart to be angry with him—she who was angry with everyone. Because at the same time, he was encouraging her to write, and reading her every letter to Beth once she’d finished it with increasing ardor every evening.
And then, something much worse happened.
…
It was two weeks since the happy couple had established themselves at Orchard Hall, two weeks full of games and laughter and strange gentlemen sitting at the dinner table. One night, after Jo had read them her latest letter to Beth, one that spoke of how loss was the direct result of love, and thus, a treasure, she caught him sniffling.
Upon further inspection, it turned out that he was crying.Crying.
“Is anything the matter?” Jo asked him, alarmed. Her sister had left the room briefly, and suddenly, Jo was anxious for her to return.
“These letters, they have helped me so much,” John said. “I have had a hard time dealing with the loss of my dear mother and one of my siblings a few years ago. I have been carrying it heavily in my heart ever since, and tonight, as you read, was the first time that the weight was lifted. Bless you, Josephine, you have a way with words.”
Jo was struck speechless for a few seconds.
“Thank you, Sir John,” she said at last. “I had not thought that my silly scribblings could help another human soul through the greatest ordeal one has to face on this earth, grief.”
Sainted John was nodding to her every word; Meg reentered the room, and Jo sagged in relief.He shall surely stop crying now, she thought. He didn’t.
“I have been writing to my sister in my loneliness,” Jo went on, when he stayed silent, tearscoursing down his cheeks. She glanced at her sister, she was watching her carefully. “I have been doing it for years. It soothes the pain in some way. It releases all my thoughts.”
John dabbed at his eyes. Jo waited.
“Your words are sharp like a rapier’s blade,” he said eventually. “They strike where it matters. Right to the soul.”
“John, dear, you are being too melodramatic,” Meg said, taking his arm, “we wouldn’t want to give her any airs now.” She turned to Jo. “He is right, of course. That is exactly how your words are, Jo. As if flowers were weapons.”
“That is an awful metaphor,” Jo said. She had never been moved so in her life.
“I am sorry,” Sainted John said, not meeting her eyes.
“Yourmetaphor wasn’t that bad,” Jo turned to him, “what are you sorry for?”
“I was not apologizing for my metaphor…” He appeared to be scrambling for words. “For something else entirely.”
“What now?” Jo asked, sinking into a settee. “More men?”
John bent down his head, something Jo had never seen him do. His cheeks grew red, and sudden fear seized her. What had the man gone and done now?
“Much worse,” he said.
“Nothing could be worse than men,” Jo retorted, but she felt the blood drain from her face.What onearth has the lovable idiot done? He looks as if he wants the earth to swallow him up.
“Tell her, John,” Meg prodded.
Slowly, but surely, Jo was beginning to become entirely enraged. “You are in on it too?” she turned to her sister. “Tell me this instant!”
“Forgive me,” John said again. It appeared that he was crying again.
