#sick!amy

“Amy, it’s patently obvious you cannot hold a ball tonight,” Jo said, attempting to temper her exasperation given Amy’s even more obvious misery. Amy had always been the most conventionally beautiful of the March girls and her station in life as Mrs. Theodore Laurence had only allowed her to enhance her fair loveliness with elegant gowns, jewels, and apparently simple coiffures which required an hour of time from Amy’s skillful French maid Marie-Claudine; today, all anyone would see was a woman suffering from a terrible head-cold, her blue-eyes glassy and blood-shot, a fever blister on her Cupid’s bow mouth. She was pale instead of rosy and her much-lamented nose was red and raw from frequent sneezing and what Jo supposed must pass for ladylike blowing. Amy clutched a sodden, lace-edged handkerchief in her hand and took another sip of China tea from a delicate fluted tea-cup. Jo was fairly certain a rude crockery mug full of Marmee’s best tonic, always bitter despite a liberal dollop of honey, would have done her sister more good but Amy had never liked advice and she was already trying to convince her to postpone her spring ball. She’d learned from Fritz to consider what arguments she must win and those she only wanted to.

“I cannot reschedule a ball, Jo. Even you must see that,” Amy said.

“EvenI? I gather I inhabit the realm of centipedes, trolls and various uncouth creatures who still must grasp, however dimly, that a ball, once announced, cannot be changed,” Jo replied, rolling her eyes. Amy was not ill enough to forgo any expression of derision.

“It will be fine. A bit of rouge, more powder, a dose of Marmee’s tonic—I’ll be fine,” Amy said. She might have been more persuasive if her voice hadn’t been raspy from catarrh and if she hadn’t sneezed explosively between the word moreand powder.

“Amy. My dear. You cannot be serious. You belong in bed, with a hot brick at your feet, a compress on your lily-white brow and Teddy hovering over you with various delicacies you waved away. Not strapped into thirty yards of cerulean watered silk picked to match your eyes. Unfortunately, your eyes are mostly red right now and crimson has never been your favorite,” Jo said.

“They’ll all say I’m a fool. I’m an embarrassment to the Laurence name, that Laurie made a mistake marrying one of those March girls, poor, uncultured, graceless,” Amy muttered.

“No one will say that. Not a Moffat, not a King. Not a blasted Lowell! And even if they did, Teddy will laugh and then go to war to defend his Lady’s impugned honor. You might have to sacrifice a scarf but I believe you have a half-a-dozen,” Jo said patiently. She herself had one woolen scarf, in a bright cherry hue, knitted by Meg for her Christmas gift, and one worn, lace fichu Fritz had given her, his mother’s. She saved it for Sundays and knew she could never repair any rent in the tatting.

“Nine. Laurie thought I hadn’t enough,” Amy said. She wasill, if she admitted to an actual number.

“I’ll get a calendar and you can pick another date. Teddy and I will make sure all your ices and pink lilies and violinists are rescheduled. Your ball can wait. It’s not cancelled, it’s only postponed,” Jo said. All this talk of balls was inspiring her; she’d either write a story about one, a story that might fetch ten dollars and a new pair of shoes each for Emil and Franz. Or convince Fritz to take her in his arms and riot across the nearly empty parlor at Plumfield the way they once had in a tavern in New York. Perhaps, if she convinced Amy soon enough, she might have both, Fritz’s dark whiskers delightfully rough against her cheek as he kissed her at the end of her mad gallop, already breathless before she kissed him back.

“Do you really think it will be all right? I do feel positively dreadful, like an old rug Hannah would beat on the clothesline,” Amy said.

“Yes. I am most exceedingly confident it will be no trouble at all and whatever little frisson there might be is something Teddy will manage most beautifully. He’s a credit to you, Amy,” Jo said.

“He’s not my child, Jo.” Amy sounded fretful, sharp and sour as milk going off. She looked it too. Jo was not above a bit of spitefulness she wouldn’t utter aloud.

“Never you mind. You’re a perfect match and he loves you dearly and now you need your bed, a proper flannel nightgown without a stitch of French lace, and some beef tea.”

“Lace won’t hurt,” Amy said, standing clumsily, but still herself in all the ways that counted.

“I suppose not. Off to bed, now,” Jo answered, putting her arm around her sister’s waist and guiding her from the room. She hadn’t even had to remind Amy of the time she’d insisted on lobster salad and a wagon-lit during a summer rainstorm to win her point. She could most certainly get Fritz to dance with her, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his collar undone. He’d speak to her in German afterward, his voice low, rich, husky. Well beyond admiration. She was finding she understood him that way quite, quite well.