The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott by Kelly O'Connor McNees
By Kelly O'Connor McNees
A richly imagined, remarkably written tale of the girl who created Little Women- and the way love replaced her in methods she by no means anticipated.
Deftly blending truth and fiction, Kelly O'Connor McNees returns to the summer time of 1855, while vivacious Louisa could Alcott is twenty-two and bursting to loose herself from relations and societal constraints and do what she loves so much. caught in small-town New Hampshire, she meets Joseph Singer, and as she opens her center, Louisa reveals herself torn among a love that takes her unexpectedly and her dream of independence as a author in Boston. the alternative she needs to make comes with a steep cost that she is going to pay for the remainder of her lifestyles.
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Additional info for The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott
The publisher had sent her a mere thirty-two dollars for that work, though even this small sum had astonished her at the time. She gave a portion to her father for the good of the household and squirreled the rest away, professing an oath to Anna and her mirror that she would safeguard the money for one express purpose. “I, Louisa Alcott, do swear—” “—do solemnly swear,” Anna offered, her hands cradling the green leather Bible on which Louisa rested her palm. “—do solemnly swear to resist temptations large and small, be they in the form of particularly bewitching bonnets, slippers .
Yours, J. Singer New Englanders spent much of the year shrouding their bodies from winter’s frigid gloom, but August, hot and fragrant, drew them into the open. Out-of-doors became a state of mind as well as a place. In the meadows, vanilla-scented wildflowers the locals called “ joe pye weed” broke into pink feathering blossoms and were soon papered with monarchs. Spicy bergamot edged the woods. In the shadow of the canopy, the crisp scent of teaberry filled the air; beneath its waxy leaves, white flowers draped like a string of pearls.
Louisa had never forgotten that image, the hopelessness of it. Marriage was no kind of freedom. Anna struggled to be patient with her sister, who always seemed to make the simplest things difficult. “It depends on what kind of ‘own life’ you mean, I suppose. I want a husband. I want children. My own home, even if it is a humble little place. ” Louisa was quiet a moment. “Well, I want to be a writer. I am a writer. ” “I’m sure there are plenty,” Anna sighed. “Why should you have to choose, if you find the right sort of husband?