March

Margaret wakes in the cold attic, slightly restored by sleep, and forces herself into the ritual of optimism that has sustained her since their fall into poverty. At the hospital, however, that resolve is quickly tested. March lies soaked in his own waste, feverish and thrashing, with a cold bowl of soup beside him. No nurses are in sight. Realizing no one else is coming to help, Margaret begins to clean him herself. However, she has no linens, water, or rags. Seeking aid, she finds Nurse Flynn, a curt woman who is one of the head nurses. When Margaret pleads for help, Flynn accuses her of interfering. In response, Margaret snaps, and she hurls the untouched soup into the nurse’s face.

Shaking with fury, Margaret flees the scene, only to be gently intercepted by a wounded young soldier named Cephas White. He offers her tea and shelter until Nurse Flynn’s shift ends. In their quiet conversation, he explains that Flynn’s cruelty is well known among the patients and staff, and that her concern for the gravely wounded is largely performative. Cephas promises to either find someone else to care for March—or do it himself, despite his injuries.

While waiting in the kitchen, Margaret is approached by the hospital chaplain, who gives her a small bundle of March’s effects. Inside are a leather folder, a small silk pouch, and a stained piece of cloth. She recognizes the pouch as one she sewed herself and the cloth as Jo’s handiwork, likely one of the donated scarves. But it bears smudged charcoal writing she cannot decipher—and there is also an unfamiliar ambrotype of a dark-haired young woman.

Cephas returns once Flynn is gone and escorts Margaret back to the ward. To her astonishment, the room has been transformed. March now lies supported by clean pillows, washed and dressed, and a tall Black nurse is feeding him broth with remarkable tenderness. Margaret watches from the doorway, overwhelmed with gratitude—until the nurse smooths his hair, glides her hand across his cheek, and trails a finger lightly over his lips. March clasps the nurse’s hand to his mouth and murmurs, “Thank you, Grace, my dear.”

Before Margaret can say anything, the door bursts open and John Brooke step through, having heard March has regained consciousness. Grace slips away with calm efficiency. For months, Margaret had rehearsed the moment of reunion in her mind—imagining only joy, relief, and tearful gratitude. Now that the moment has arrived, she feels something far more complicated. March recognizes her, but she cannot escape the image of his whispered intimacy with Grace.