The Revelation of Louisa May Read Online Free PDF Page B

looking down at her from the saddle. “I don’t think I heard your name.”
    â€œThat’s because I didn’t tell you,” she replied, keeping her eyes forward.
    There was a long pause and then he suddenly shook the reins and kicked his horse. Louisa coughed from the dust thrown up by his galloping horse. She scowled after his disappearing figure, wishing she had been even more discourteous.
    Careful to look in both directions, she crossed the road and made quick work of the quarter mile to the Emersons’ house. At the white fence, she paused, looking up at the familiar and beloved house. Mr. Emerson lived in a proper home, with servants and carpeting and stoves that warmed every room without filling them with smoke. Best of all was his library.
    She climbed the steps to the front door and let herself inside. Long ago the family had insisted Louisa treat the house as her own. How she wished it were! The front hall was filled with paintings and statues, with pale flowered paper on the walls. Lidian Emerson, Mr. Emerson’s wife, had delicate tastes, and she ordered the paper from a fancy store in Boston. Louisa loved how the pattern repeated across the walls, never varying, always predictable. She and her sisters had painted designs on their walls, with uneven results.
    Mr. Emerson’s library was to the right and she knocked softly.
    â€œWho is it?” The familiar deep voice sounded wary.
    â€œLouisa,” she answered.
    He responded at once. “Come in.”
    She pushed open the door and stepped into her favorite room, her sanctuary and refuge from the chaos of daily life atthe Alcotts’. Here, she could read as much as she pleased and no one ever bothered her. It was also Mr. Emerson’s office and even as a little girl, she had been one of the few people he tolerated in the room while he was working. Every time she came into the room she glanced at the sofa with the legs shaped like elephants. She smiled, remembering how she used to burrow into its depths, intent on discovering the secrets in the novels of Sir Walter Scott and Charles Dickens.
    In the center of the room, seated at a round mahogany table, Mr. Emerson was writing in his sprawling illegible way, fitting only five or six words to a line. From long practice, she waited until he finished his thought. She admired his profile as he wrote. Not quite fifty, Emerson was an imposing figure of a man who carried himself like a statesman.
    With a flourish, he finished the sentence and pushed away his morocco leather writing pad. His eyes lifted, and he smiled at the sight of her.
    â€œLouisa, my dear, thank goodness it’s you. I thought it might be that Edith Whittaker woman.”
    â€œAh,” she said, understanding his suspicious greeting. “Has she been a frequent visitor?”
    â€œToo frequent. While it is gratifying to be so admired, it can be tiring.” He looked at her slyly, peering down his large nose that somehow fit his face to perfection. “I wager she has not yet worn out her welcome in your father’s study!”
    Louisa didn’t hide her answering grin. “Not yet. At least not with Father. Marmee, however, could do with a little less of Miss Whittaker’s company . . .”
    Emerson chuckled. “And how are you?” he asked. “Have you already finished the book I gave you?”
    â€œNo, sir,” she said. “
Jane Eyre
is so wonderful that I am rationing it. I read a chapter a day, unless I have lost my temper. Then I must wait another day. At this rate, I may never finish.”
    â€œThat’s your father’s preaching,” he chided. “Self-denial is all very well, but not at the expense of your true self. Your temper is part of what makes you a splendid person.”
    Louisa tilted her head to one side. “So you think I should finish the novel?”
    He grinned wickedly and his deep-set eyes glinted with enjoyment.