BY A BEATING HEART AT DANCE-TIME


Dear Wonderful Readers,

If you have found this – thank you. It is my first M endeavour. Not nervous at all!

This hopes to be a collection of short stories connected to and featuring the characters of one of my two current fiction pieces, BETWIXT THE STARS.

All the characters and situations will come out of my main chapters. Although it will work best to be familiar with that story it is also my hope that these interludes, with a little background, will also be enough to stand on their own.

Betwixt the Stars is a modern AU featuring the descendants of Anne and Gilbert in a current day Glen St Mary and Toronto setting – Anne Ford (descendant of Rilla and Ken) and David Blythe (descendant of Jem and Faith) are my main protagonists. They are independent characters but they also have deliberate physical, emotional and spiritual similarities to Anne and Gilbert, in that my premise is they are not only related to but also the reincarnated souls of our very favourite couple.

Still with me?

Hopefully this will not be as outlandish as it reads. These short stories will feature both canon and original characters, and also follow on from some elizasky New Canon interpretations of these characters.

Thank you for spending time with them!

Very best wishes

MrsVonTrapp x


Chapter One

Betwixt Rob and Tessa


In which Rob, father of David Blythe, and Tessa, the mother of Anne Ford, both having lost their partners, decide not to fight their Fate.


This chapter takes place during Chapter Five of 'Betwixt the Stars'; 'My future will not copy fair my past', and fills in the many missing hours when David and Anne's parents go out for the day on a picnic, and are away for a very, very long time…

With eternal gratitude to elizasky for holding my hand throughout this process, and thanks to oz diva for her enthusiastic encouragement.


Rob Blythe wonders, by early afternoon of this second, enchanted day, quite when his luck is going to run out.

It's not that he considers himself so very unlucky in general terms, or that he hasn't been blessed with the terrific son and the good career and the comfortable life and that one, great love. Only that, on measure, this sort of thing doesn't happen to anyone anymore. Least of all a rather mild mannered, late forties, small town Island solicitor going about his day as he had gone about so many other days. Trudging along faithfully, heart remembering quiet, tender longings and rampaging passions alike with the fond remembrance of one who doesn't expect to ever feel them again; knowing that he had waited patiently for his rollercoaster ride, clutching his ticket hopefully, never wasting a moment of the careen and the spin and the dip and the wind buffeting him as Melissa clutched his arm and screamed delightedly in his ear the entire way.

Only occasionally does he linger on his own loneliness; when the sea breeze rattles at the windows like Cathy begging to be let inside, a waif no more, and he thinks he will go mad as Heathcliff did, wanting to dig up the ground with his bleeding hands, howling for her to come back to him. Or when the growling night stretches long and his heart-heaviness presses him into the bed and he can still feel her breath on him, and that low steady murmur of scandalous suggestions she used as torture and torment and tease, and he then of course had to throw down whichever law tome had taken him away from her, covering her with all of himself, till her smiling provocation became pulsating promise, and her murmuring words drifted into the intoxicating incoherence of gasp and gulp and sigh.

So now Rob contemplates Tessa Ford; gorgeous, still, in the way of polished Hollywood beauties, never having quite lost that sheen of actress-y glamour; stretching long, shapely legs out on the picnic blanket; wiggling painted toes to salute the sun; smiling at him in mildly flirtatious encouragement; and wonders when he should pinch himself awake.

"The kids really missed out today," she sighs, looking out into the water; the quiet cove is far enough along from the holiday throng to allow them the fantasy of secret seclusion, and the privacy has already elicited its fair share of reflections and confessions over wine and sandwiches.

"And yet strangely, I haven't missed them," he jokes, already, after only twenty-four hours, seeking those lips upturned in amusement, as if all his worth is tied to the idea of making her happy in whatever small measure.

"I'm never without Anne," she muses, her smile growing wistful. "Although having her with your David back at Ingleside I'm sure she's hardly missing me."

"She's in very safe hands there, Tessa. I assure you."

"Oh, I know!" she nods thoughtfully. "I could tell that straight off. I'm suspecting that you Blythe men are somewhat known for your gallantry."

"The way you say that doesn't make it sound very appealing," his tone is characteristically dry, and his small smile is a little twisted.

"No it is, believe me. I encounter a great many men, Rob, and always have, but very few gentlemen."

"Are we so much of an endangered species?"

She gives her lovely, lilting laugh. "I'm not sure. Maybe it's an Island thing. I might have to conduct a little more research."

"Well, I'd be a very willing test subject," the audacious words blurt themselves as if cannon-fired. He rolls his eyes at himself and contemplates swallowing his own tongue.

Her grin is now very amused. "I'd very much hate the experiment to backfire, Rob."

"No, of course…" he is shamefaced; what had he been thinking?

"I only mean in terms of needing to search out… optimal test conditions."

"Oh?" his face heats.

"Perhaps… somewhere quieter, without the vagaries of the weather. Even… indoors?" she briefly holds his gaze.

She naturally does not mean Ingleside.

He thinks of the bar downstairs of the Harbourside Hotel, and of the brunette beauty with the quick wit and thoughtful smile poised so perfectly on that bar stool. Of how only yesterday he had been on a regular errand on a regular day, not knowing how his life was about to change.

"That idea sounds… of great scientific merit. Only I'm afraid that… with the change in conditions… the aforementioned, er, gallantry and all might well go out the window."

There. He would wake up now. He would see that this was a magical interlude; a fabulous fever dream; a winning hand beaten by a Royal Flush at the last moment. That his luck was never, ever going to hold regarding her.

Tessa gives the warm, starry smile she has bequeathed to her daughter. "I'm actually counting on it."


Inside one of the generous suites of the Glen St Mary Harbourside Hotel the expectant hush is a startling contrast to the teeming summer shore. Rob has never set foot above the ground level of reception area and bar; grateful, so grateful, that he and Mel favourited other establishments in the Glen and elsewhere; if he'd had other memories of the plush open lounge or the claw footed bath or the sun dancing shadows through the half closed drapes onto the king sized bed… well, he may have turned regretfully towards the door, closing it on this moment, let alone the remainder of his life, on the way out.

Instead, there are no ghosts here and he smiles uncertainly at Tessa, and she smiles gamely back, and he remarks that it feels like they have truanted from school.

'O that you and I escape from the rest and go utterly off, free and lawless…' *

His humour steadies the nervous flutter of her pale, slim hands.

"And when did you ever skip school then, Rob Blythe, Mr Honour Roll?" she is relieved to hide behind her teasing.

He grins and quirks a dark brow. "You'd be surprised, you know. There was the time my friend Mike and I hopped the train and ended up in Charlottetown. It took so long we had half an hour to grab a sandwich before we had to turn around and come home again."

She shakes her head, smile delighted, brunette locks swaying. "Grand adventures indeed."

"Or…" he smirks at her jibe, pacing out the steps till he reaches her on the pastel-hued sofa, "the Great Special Cigarettes Down at the Foreshore Escapade. Again, Mike's influence."

"I think I'm going to have to have words with this Michael Meredith of yours."

"I believe he would enjoy that," he flashes.

Tessa chuckles softly as he tests the seat beside her. They smile again towards each other and then look away, absorbed in noting the texture of the plush pile carpet. Rob worries his signet ring and wonders what on earth she sees in him; in this man made prostrate boy, in this father made child again, as if all the years had fallen away to reveal him as he has always been; gormless and gutless. Tessa senses his scowl and turns to catch it before it falls away.

"Did I lose you for a second there?" she questions softly.

He looks to her, and he feels fifteen.

"Sorry?"

"Here…" she reaches out long fingers to touch lightly the lingering frown line between his brows. "I lost you then, right there."

He closes his eyes to her touch. He too well remembers the last time a woman touched him.

"Tessa…" his throat is dry, and his voice cracks on her name.

"And there…" the pads of her fingers move around and down to his cheek, to the muscle that spasms of its own agitated will.

"I don't think that I – "

"And there…" her fingers pause at the frown line by his mouth, hovering.

He turns his face into her hand; takes a halting breath.

"I don't think I can…" his lips slide down her palm and find her wrist, "do this…" they press to her pulse.

Tessa Ford doesn't answer for several beats. "OK, then." Her reply is as soft as the look she gives him when he opens his eyes to her, though the wrinkle of a smile creases her nose, and if he is made boy again she is suddenly made girl.

His chagrined smile can't help itself.

Tentatively, testingly, his nose and then his lips nudge a trail from her wrist slowly up to the crease of her elbow; she bites her bottom lip to waylay her smile.

"Something amuses you, Tessa Ford?" Touching her has eased the tension in him; enough to risk his own tease.

"Not at all… just… mildly… ticklish."

He raises his head. "Well, that's unfortunate. That was my best play, there."

She sighs extravagantly. "Then we are in trouble."

They smile again and they don't look away.

"I do remember something about… experimenting… though," he ventures.

"Yes?"

"But I'd need a lab partner."

"Right…"

"Someone flexible and… er… willing to work long hours…"

Her laugh, the laugh he has fast come to love, is light and long. He joins her, and they shake till the laughter frees the remaining echoes of embarrassment from them.

He notes the rosy flush to her cheeks, highlighting brown eyes made mirthful; he is not used to warm, dark eyes, and their depth fascinates him. He is not used to her hue, either; Mel was a very Meredith golden brown, with hair made ever lighter in the sun; Tessa's tresses are a rich brown, lighter than his or David's; chocolate rather than cocoa, with a glimmer of auburn that calls to mind Anne.

He wonders how her hair would look, fanned against the pillow beside him.

And he is laughing no more; he is moving his own hand up to reach behind her ear, thumb stroking the soft skin behind it, fingers finding her hair that he suspected would be as silk, and her scent that he already knew to be maddeningly sensual.

'This is the press of a bashful hand, this is the float and odor of hair…' **

His lips move to find another pulse; the one below her ear. Her breath is a low hiss.

"Ticklish?" he rumbles into Tessa Ford's throat.

"No…" she asserts, unevenly.

Rob draws back and finds her eyes darker still, and the invitation there, painted on her parted lips. The knowledge of years finds him again, and with it the leap from boy back to man; from shadow back to substance.

'This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning…' **

Her mouth receives his; wonders; warms; welcomes. The force of his feeling propels them both backwards onto the sofa, but it will not hold them for long.


Beyond the wide bedroom windows the afternoon sun beats brightly, but all Rob registers is the pale moon-glow of Tessa's milky skin. His jangling nerves are nothing to her poised self-possession, as he brushes his long fingers over her bared shoulders, his large Blythe hands, usually so sure, are now hesitant and formless. The fabric of her blouse falls away and he is left with a whisper of lace and the choke in his throat.

"I was never very good at this part…" he murmurs into her hair, lips nuzzling her temple.

"I think… you are doing rather well at this part…" Tessa's hands clutch his biceps, and her words carry on her breath.

His still-strong arms encircle her, pressing her to him, but it is not as gesture of what might come but the haunting remembrance of what has been. If he doesn't let go of her he will not have to let go of anything else.

"It's been… quite a while, for me," he admits a little brokenly.

Tessa's own arms have eagerly moved down to his waist, and she rests her cheek on his chest.

"How long?" she asks into his shirt.

His hazel eyes close against the thought of it, and his voice is low.

"Nearly… three years." Two years and nine months. "The last year, Mel was so weak from her treatment and… the operations too. There was no thought of… that."

"I am very, very sorry, Rob."

"I know." His throat throbs.

She lifts her head from him; gives a brittle smile.

"Well, I see you and raise you," she determines. "In fact, I double you."

He looks down on her, and her cheeks flush at his appraisal.

"But…" he is puzzled. "Alex… he died four years ago…"

"Well, the few years before that were… difficult. I'm sure you've read about them. And the rest of the country."

And with that, he has lost her, before ever having gained her. She pulls away from him and wanders backwards, sits down, unseeingly, on the edge of the bed.

And there it is. The actress stripped away, and what's left is the broken wife, held together by pride and pain and nail polish. The incongruity of the image of her is agonizing; her shoulders slumped as her breasts spill forwards; she is both siren calling to him across the water as she sits on the rocks, and abandoned doll, found washed up on the sand.

There are no words to comfort her, and he could not find any if he tried to.

He can only offer himself; faithfully offer whatever of his own shattered pieces Mel left him.

'This hour I tell things in confidence,

I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you…' **

Rob walks to the bed. He is a methodical man; he is steady and reasoned and sure. He is more Blythe than he knows. But this also makes him prone to the torment and the tremor and the throbbing; the acute soul-ache he seeks to arrest in himself, for himself, and for her.

He is on his knees before her; he buries himself in her stomach; the kisses rain upon her as if the flat, creamy expanse had never known a child to grow there. He inhales the scent of salt and sun that lingers on her skin; it is the homespun warmth of the Glen he tastes and what he would give her now, and not the sophisticated chill of Toronto. Will it be enough?

It might well be. Tessa's gasp is timed to her fingers tugging at his hair and bringing his face up to hers. Her kiss nearly rocks him backwards onto his heels, but instead he falls into her, and they fall back onto the bed, and there is a shimmying upwards towards the pillows even as her fingers fumble with buttons and zips and he would help her only his mind is still freefalling from her tongue in his mouth.

There are whispers and mutterings and silent curses regarding the annoying extraneousness of clothing. And then a sigh and a stutter, with only lace and cotton left and two hearts too much beating.

He knew Mel as he knew no one else, but he does not yet know her. He does not know her favourite poem or her middle name or what she will always order for dessert. But he is quick and attentive and very willing to learn. An Honour Roll student after all… And so he would begin to know other things… the flush to her cheeks which reaches all the way down to the three surprising freckles peeking cheekily from between her breasts… the feel of her long limber limbs reaching along the entire length of him… and whether… and whether…

Brown eyes meet his in startled surprise.

"Rob?" Tessa breathes. "You don't… you don't need to try to…"

He carefully reaches down down to whisk away a scrap of lace and replace it with his hand.

"Do or do not. There is no try," he grins for her as much as for himself.

And soon also he will come to know the noise that leaves her that is not wholly whimper and not quite moan when he happens upon a part of her that is not in the least ticklish… and the way she invokes both himself and God together, as interchangeable entities.

Later he would also, surprisingly, know new things about himself… his response to her hands roaming over him, audacious now and unafraid; the pressing of her whole self to him, close and maddeningly closer, until he feels his too too solid flesh would melt *** into her; the perfume of her body tasted on his tongue and given back to her with each deepening kiss… the intoxicating heat of her heavy-lidded gaze as she tries to reform her focus on him.

He wants to offer her poetry; a sonnet interspersed with kisses; a lover's lament. But his mouth and his mind seem unable to operate in tandem, and so his garbled response is limited to her name…. Tessa… and the obvious conclusion… so beautiful… and as she directs his hands over the last of the lace and away with lace and away with cotton too he finds he has no words left at all.

Flesh to flesh, unencumbered, the heat between them makes their bodies slick. Their desperate dance is fluid and frenetic; he had thought, if this ever happened to him again, that it would be a lazy, languid thing, but he is wholly unprepared for the urgent urgings that rise up to batter him, and he has been too long longing to resist the moment her limbs enfold him, answering his strangled question. He thought here, too, that there would be a stop and stutter, an awkward pause, but there is only a surrender to the relentless remembered rhythm, and he lets it take him, and he holds her and brings her with him and it is taking her too, and then he is not in command of anything anymore, least of all himself.

He hears her cry as he tries to process his own; he can do nothing but sink into her as if he has drowned.


The sun is lower through the curtains when he is able to register the world again. He turns his head to see her dark hair on the pillow next to him. He is overcome by the sight of her and all the things he would say; of endearment and question, and the doubt that crowds around him.

"Tessa?" he croaks.

"Rob…" she murmurs with a smile, sidling up to him, dark hair fluttering over his chest. "I thought I lost you for a second there."

He tries to smile, but it feels tight and false against his face.

"Tessa…" He knows so many things… but is still unsure about this thing. "I don't know whether it was… at the end, you know, whether any of it was…"

"Are you asking what I think you're asking?" Her tone and her smile are both bemused and a little broken. "Where you even there?"

"I don't know." He allows a ragged breath. "I think I had an out of body experience."

Her laugh caresses him, as does her hand to his cheek, and her warm kiss on top of kiss do their best to reassure. Though she senses he needs the words, too.

"It was. It so very much was."

"Oh. Well. That's wonderful! That's a relief."

Tessa looks at him for a long moment.

"I think you are adorable, Rob Blythe," she offers slowly.

He gives a flustered smile, propping himself up to look at her. There is a lightness to his hazel eyes where she has helped chase the shadows away.

"Not sexy? Not devastatingly handsome? "

"Those too, naturally. But mostly… adorable."

He takes a moment to take her in. He reaches for her hand; kisses the palm. He would kiss all of her, again, forever, until he falls down exhausted.

"Well, thank you. I'll take that. I might have to add …lucky to that, too."


Chapter Notes

The title Betwixt Rob and Tessa is a reference to my main story title Betwixt the Stars, which is a quote from Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Sonnet 25 of her Sonnets from the Portuguese;

"Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate."

"By a beating heart at dance-time" is also a line from the same sonnet, and the title of this M collection.

*Walt Whitman 'From Pent-Up Aching Rivers', Leaves of Grass (1892)

**all from Walt Whitman 'Song of Myself' (19), Leaves of Grass (1855)

***William Shakespeare Hamlet (Act 1 Sc 2)