Part Three

    “The meal was delicious!” Mr. Bridger said, leaning back in his chair and holding his stomach.  “If I had taken another bite I would have exploded!”
    They all laughed, and some groaned in agreement.
    “I think we all overate, thanks to Asia’s marvelous cooking,” Jo said, smiling at Asia as she came in to collect the dishes.
    “Thank you,” Asia said, beaming.  “Doesn’t seem to be much left, at that.”
    They got up from the table and wandered towards the parlor.
    “Tell us about the newspaper business, Mr. Bridger,” Nat requested, sitting down and looking intently toward the guest.
    Mr. Bridger slapped his knee as he sat down.  “Well, it’s going fine.  This town certainly isn’t the dullest I’ve come across,” he said with a grin.  “What with three feisty sisters and a school like this, I’ve got plenty of stories.”  His gaze wandered to Meg.  She was sitting demurely with her hands folded, her eyes lowered.
    Nat blinked and said quietly, “Well, if you ever need any help writing anything—or if they need another columnist or something—maybe I could help.”
    “Thanks, Nat, I’ll keep that in mind,” he smiled.
    “He is a wonderful writer,” Jo said proudly.  “Especially when it comes to stories.”
    “Is that so?  Well, I’ll have to read some of your stories, someday,” Mr. Bridger said to Nat.  “I love a good story.”
    Nat blushed.  “Yeah, I want to be a writer.  Maybe I’ll write a novel, like Jo.”
    “She writes too, huh?” Mr. Bridger said.
    “Yeah, and she’ll get published some day; I know it!” Nat said.
    Mr. Bridger nodded and smiled indulgently.  He turned to Meg, then.  “Meg, will you privilege us by singing a solo now?”
    “A solo?” Meg echoed.  “But I haven’t practiced anything new in months.”
    “What about the song you sang at the church the other week?”
    “You’d want to hear it again?”
    “Of course,” Mr. Bridger smiled.
    “Well—all right.  I’ll have to do it without accompaniment, though, because Jo doesn’t have a piano.”
    “Your voice is too pretty to need accompaniment,” Mr. Bridger said.
    “Thank you,” Meg said with a smile, picking up a hymnal from a table drawer.  She flipped the book open to Holy, Holy, Holy.  Meg glanced at the words, then stood looking upwards, the hymnal resting in one hand.  “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!  Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee . . .”  The notes were as clear and smooth as resonating glass, lifting loud and sliding softly to an end after the four verses had been sung.
    For a moment all was silent.  Then Mr. Bridger started clapping softly, then louder, until everyone in the room was clapping along with him.
    Meg ducked her head, smiling and blushing.

    Meg slipped outdoors in the twilight, feeling rather like a giddy and secretive young schoolgirl.  Mr. Bridger had been bid good evening and the others had gone back to their rooms.  Meg had heard the neighing of Mr. Bridger's horse and impulsively decided she wanted to say goodnight to the newspaper man.
    “Mr. Bridger!” Meg called from the porch, her legs tripping down the stairs.  “Wait, I-I wanted to thank you.”
    Mr. Bridger's hands stilled on the reins.  “For?”
    “For—joining us today and—for inviting me to sing in the party this week.”
    “Well, you're quite welcome,” he smiled.
    “What do you think I should sing?”
    “Anything.  An aria, a folk song, a hymn.  It doesn't matter.”  His eyes were gleaming as he looked at her.  “You have a marvelous voice and I would never tire of it.”
    Meg caught her breath and stared at him.  Quickly, she dropped her gaze and murmured, “Thank you.”
    “I must be on my way,” Mr. Bridger said, abruptly flicking the reins and turning the buggy toward the road.
    “Goodnight,” Meg said, waving.
    “Goodnight, Meg,” he said, turning back for a moment and lifting his hand in a wave.

    Edward stood inside in front of the fire, his expression unreadable, an empty stare.
    “It has to be this way,” Meg said, swallowing.  Somehow she felt guilty as she saw his hands resting on the mantle of the fireplace, his head tilted downward, gazing into the flashing orange flames.
    “I'm sorry, Edward.  You're a good man, but you don't seem to be concerned about my desires.”
    “I am concerned, Meg.  I'm just a busy man.”  He gazed into the crackling flames.
    “Why don't you look at me, Edward?” Meg pressed.  His face turned slightly, and Meg tried to find love in his eyes, but she read only resignation.  “Why did you not even consider staying at Concord?  You just wanted me to pack up and leave in a day.  It wasn't very considerate. . . . And the way you talk about women as if they were inferior to men!  Then, you proposed to me more like I was an object than the woman you loved."  Meg looked down.  "I'm sorry, but, Edward—do you even love me?”
    Edward opened his mouth and tried to get the right words out.  “I—well—I like you.  I mean I . . . ”
    Meg sighed as he trailed off.  “It's all right, Edward.  I thought I loved you, too, but now I believe I was mistaken.  I was lonely.”
    Edward swallowed and looked into the fire, again.  His words came out softly.  “I suppose I was, too.”
    Meg placed her hand on top of his.  “The right woman will come along for you, Edward.  As I believe the right man has come along for me.”
    Edward looked at her.  “Harrison Bridger?”
    Meg raised her eyebrows, wondering how it could be so obvious.  “Yes,” she said softly.
    “Then I suppose I shall have to wish you well and say goodbye now.”
    “Thank you.”  Meg smiled and her eyes were soft in the flickering firelight.  “I wish you well, too, Edward.”
    “Thank you, Meg.”  Edward swallowed.  “And—I am sorry for the way I treated you.  I suppose I was wrong.  I am—too much of a businessman to know how to treat a woman.”
    “I think you'll know, if the time comes for you to marry,” Meg said.
    Edward ducked his head and nodded slightly.  “Well, I should leave now.  Goodbye, friend.”
    “Goodbye, friend,” Meg repeated and waved as he turned to go.

    Meg fastened the jade necklace over her light sea-green gown and studied her reflection in the mirror.  She had pulled her hair into a loose chignon and curled the few wisps of hair that hung loose at the sides of her face.  Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were glowing.  The dress was one of her favorites.  It had a small bustle, off the shoulder, ruffled sleeves, lace, and a green ribbon trim.  It was an almost girlish dress, but sophisticated enough for an afternoon party.
    Meg turned as she heard the door squeak open.  Daisy stood looking in, one little hand resting on the doorframe.  The girl pursed her lips critically and remarked, “You look pretty, Mama. . . . Are you going to marry Mr. Bridger?”
    “Now Daisy,” Meg laughed, “don’t jump to such conclusions!  We’re only friends.”  But Meg turned quickly back to the mirror and saw that her face was crimson.  She patted her hair one last time, then hurried out the door, one gloved hand clasping her daughter’s.
    “Come along, Demi!  You want to go to Aunt Jo’s house, don’t you?” Meg called.  The young boy came trotting along, and they all got into the wagon.
    Meg waved to her children after they later disembarked at Plumfield.  Sighing as the wind tousled her hair, she urged the horses faster in the direction of Mr. Bridger’s party.

Part 4!

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(The photo of Meg and Edward is from Dan's Episode and Schedules page.)