If there'd only been three March sisters, it would have been so much simpler. Meg was a year older, but that was not so very much, not if he was making an effort and if he spoke French to her while they waltzed. He could have called round for tea and brought round a nosegay from the conservatory, lilies forced in the dead of winter, a little box of marchpane from the confectioner's shop, and watched how her cheeks turned pink with the pleasure of it. There might have been duets at the piano, the carriage sent round to fetch her home when the weather turned dank and chill. Margot, he might have whispered, ma petite reine Margot, and watched her eyelashes drop and her hand tremble as he picked it up to kiss it.

Beth might not have fallen ill. Amy might have been spoilt or married Fred Vaughan and settled in London, with a country house in Devon. John Brooke would never have spoken of his hopeless love and Laurie would not have looked too closely in his tutor's dark eyes. Laurie would have been happy enough, his heart never broken, and Meg as well, returned to the luxuries she'd longed for, never forgetting how it had been to go without. A beautiful wife, a beautiful home, a beautiful calm. If only there'd been three March sisters.

If only there had been no Jo March, no pilgrim's progress, no castles in the air.

No Teddy.

No beloved.