Whatever else he was, Theodore Lawrence was not a cheat.

Which was why, the minute he came back from Europe and realised what he had always known - that he was still hopelessly in love with Jo March - he honoured entirely his promise to Amy, and turned steadfastly away from his new sister.

While in Nice, away from Jo and her harrum - scarrum ways and her flyaway apron and her face that was comical one minute and devilish the next, he'd been able to convince himself that she had been nothing but a boyish infatuation, that he could learn to love Amy. After all, she was the embodiment of beauty and housewifeliness, and he'd heard one too many times that 'any man would be lucky to have her'.

But Theodore Lawrence was not just any man, and though in Nice he tried to pretend - and almost believed - that a life with Amy would be similar to the place they were in, he could not shake the idea that a life without Jo would not be one worth living. Amy would make a good wife, no doubt - she would serve him his tea on time, be the pride of his manor and produce heirs to the Lawrence fortune - but she had a fault.

She was not Jo.

Whatever else she was, Josephine March was not an idiot.

Which was why, the minute she received the news of Laurie's and Amy's engagement, she set to work burning all she had ever 'scribbled', as she put it, about him.

Except they were not, as she admitted in her heart of hearts, scribblings, and no one else could make that very part of her body beat as fast as he could. She had refused his proposal of love when it was freshest for fear of his passion fizzling out and breaking her heart in the future, but now she chastised herself for having done so. She had lost him, the only thing she had ever considered hers, to her sister.

When she met Mr. Bhaer, she knew, of course, that he was not dashing and could never make her heart stop as Laurie had done, but he was so kind, and respectable, and like her father, that she felt that he was the only person who could ever replace Laurie in her life.

And even then, not entirely.

Whatever else they were, Theodore Lawrence and Josephine March were not mawkish.

Which was why, when they met at gatherings, each at the head of their own families, they exchanged polite greetings and bantered about the weather, the most recent game, and the conspiracy theories behind Amy's most recent sculpture, but never spoke of their own feelings, of the longing they hid in their hearts, of the love that was shut away.

And then each would turn to their respective spouse, and smile a smile that did not quite reach their eyes, before heading on home.

Because they were Theodore Lawrence and Josephine March, and they thought not of what could have been, but only of what was.