Ok, wow! That I was not expecting. The response of my dreams. I have published a few other stories here but I have never ever ever had a reviews like that. It was the best feeling of my writerly life and I thank you all for every single world you wrote. I've read over them carefully, thought about it from every angle -and am incredibly grateful for all the new ideas you shared with me. There's nothing more for me to say except I could never not write RD3 now (and RD4? That will be trickier but what I hope to do is steal the entries about that strange little romance at the end and use it for other purposes -any ideas, please share!) Well, I'd best get on with it then :o)
REDMOND DIARIES -The third year
Chapter XXI -Roses of Yesterday
with love and gratitude to L.M.M. and everyone who has read this story so far, I will try even harder to give you something courageous
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Wednesday, 5th May, 1885 ~Mount Holly, Bolingbroke
Dear Ady,
Don't think badly of me. I can't bear to add you to that growing list, and long for a soft place to fall. You'll be that for me, won't you? I suppose you have been waiting, pages outstretched, to do just that. It is only that I haven't felt much like writing lately. Besides which, Phil won't let me have the tiniest moment to myself. I think she is afraid to let me brood, little understanding that a person needs a good brood now and then. It is those who don't, those who go on as though nothing has happened that become so stretched thin with the effort of it all. I will brood, I will dive into your rose scented pages and envelope myself in deepest melancholy ~though I suspect I shall only be given an hour to do so before I am pulled away for yet another grand escapade.
Mount Holly is magical. The perfect dwelling to produce a child who would one day become that Phil-o-the-wisp I love so well. Like her own nonsensical self this place feels divided in two. Her father's part of the house smells of old leather and fresh tobacco, and is lined with the most remarkable library. Not only his rooms but along endless hallways. And they are endless, Ady ~I believe I could fit two Green Gables within this old pile and still have space for Patty's Place! Where there are no nooks to house books there are endless artworks, photographs and curios smothering the dark tendrilled wallpaper. You sense such history here. Phil could float through any portion of that part of the house and always expect to see her own dimples and curls memorialised in the images of some ancient matron or great-great aunt.
I try to imagine what it would be like to see my own face looking back at me, through the eyes of my granny or my third cousin. But I can't. All I ever see is plain Anne Shirley. Not that I mind being me, Ady. It is only I have the sensation of coming to the end of a sentence and there being nothing else to say. As though every day I am looking at a full-stop, knowing nothing, nothing, will come after it.
You see, I told you I was in a brooding mood. Phil's mother is the brooding sort, not that you could predict that by wandering through her part of the house. It's a dazzling display of the latest and best, the newest textiles, the most modish of furnishings, and such unconventional music. Each morning I awake to the sound of her beating down upon her grand piano ~of course they have more than one. Mrs Gordon's is white. Imagine, Ady, a white piano! And then listen out for the sound of Mr Gordon thumping up the stairs to demand she 'cease that discordant racket!' I wonder what the man would do if he woke one morning and didn't hear it. Oh, he would miss it ~I know he would.
The particular role Phil has defined for herself, as youngest child and only daughter, is to mix up these two worlds as thoroughly as possible. Leaving Mrs Gordon's sheet music in the library, or abandoning one of Mr Gordon's first editions in the gazebo. Yesterday I saw her carrying a malevolent looking orchid into the smoking room. I think she is wanting to leave them reminders of each other. It doesn't occur to the little goose that she is also causing extra work for the servants, who always get called to put everything back.
There is one maidservant, Cora, who I like very much. Phil is mad for her and frequently laments that we cannot squeeze her into some corner of Patty's Place. Where everyone else in Mount Holly seems eternally on ~like all those electric lights~ Cora appears like a flickery sprite. I find myself lingering in corners with her whenever the house is crammed with guests. And that is more often than not. Phil has orchestrated what she describes as a 'jamboree' for my sole delectation, determined to show me such a time. Oh, and I could have adored it. Could have drunk it down to the last top hat and turquoise plume, if only~
I left Phil's address with Jimsie, who has once again decided to stay on at Patty's Place ~for the cats' sake, of course~ in case anyone should want to write to me. But now that I am to leave in three days I suspect any mail will be sent straight to Green Gables. How I miss that little house, miss Avonlea, the Island. I can scarcely believe that at one time I thought I had outgrown her. What a self important little prig I was. When all anyone ever did was feel proud of me.
I suppose I am well thought of in Bolingbroke, too. Phil and her little 'Island Rose' have become the sensation she always said we would be. All her chums ~and all her victims~ are attentive and charming and fun. The infamous Alec and Alonzo especially. You know Ady, I have caught myself wondering more than once what it is they do when they are not wooing that girl. They never have obligations that pull them away, or demands made of their time. They don't seem to want to do anything else but dance attendance upon Philippa Gordon. I can't help but think of other people who are not one tenth as rich and yet manage to cram their lives with so much more. Who burn with ambition, and dedicate themselves to sucking the marrow out of life! Isn't that a delicious phrase, Ady? I found it in a little tome tucked under Mrs Gordon's crystal ashtray. The author seems to know how much beauty lives in the world ~if we only have eyes to see.
I am about to see a place that probably has little beauty for anyone but me. A simple yellow cottage that has lived in my heart my whole life. Tomorrow that house and I will renew our acquaintance once more. Oh, the coach has arrived, I can see one, two, three... six horses attached to it! I must go, Ady, but I promise I shan't be such a stranger to you anymore.
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Thursday 6th May, Home Sweetish Home
The Ochre Notebook
Well if it isn't love, pray tell what is it? Thank goodness Queen Anne is more than one girl, because frankly some of them visiting here have been a bit of a bore. Thankfully the livelier sort make an appearance sooner or later -but really, some days Anne is not half as much fun as I hoped. I am beginning to suspect she made up her mind not to enjoy herself just to prove a point -that nothing in Bolingbroke could ever compare to that blessed Island of hers! Or rather those of the Island.
Wretched little cat rescuer. Gilbert Blythe will likely be pining himself to nothing over her. Yet she would have it that it's only Gilbert's friendship she misses. Friendship! If I felt even a smidge of what Anne feels for one of my victims I should marry him the very next day. I suppose being growed up on P.E.I. she can't help but do things on a grand scale. All that rich, red earth must make for great big sentimental fools as well great big potatoes!
Well, it is all about to become very small, very quickly. We are off to some unheard of part of Bolingbroke this afternoon to visit the little burrow where the poor urchin was orphaned. I can't say I am much looking forward to the prospect. Not only because I happen to know the roads are dreadful in that part of town, but also because I fear it will make Anne even more wistful. Those big grey eyes of hers, so limpid and starry. The amount of handkerchiefs that have been thrust her way -who knew broken hearts were so becoming? If only she would cry. But instead she is on her very best behaviour, determined not to let me down, and I am beginning to hate her for it. That is perhaps too Ochre-ish even for this notebook. The person I really detest is Mr Blythe. Not only for souring the sweetest honey in all the world, but for souring my jamboree.
Why oh why did he have to go and propose now? Then again is not the real mystery how he waited as long as did. The word 'besotted' has been fairly well etched onto his forehead since the first day I met him. I think I will demand that Alec and Alonzo do the same. It would save me the trouble of having to choose either of them then, for I could hardly marry someone with a tattooed face!
The Rose Notebook
Do you know what I really wish is that I could love someone the way Anne does.
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Thursday, 6th May ~Mount Holly, Bolingbroke
I'm not an orphan anymore, Ady. I said goodbye to that girl today.
I am found.
I am found.
I am found.
So why is it I still feel so lost? I believe all this living at Mount Holly is turning me into Phil. Not that I mind, leastways not today. Today she was a perfect little lamb. I knew she had a thousand other things she would rather be doing. But instead she drove me ~by herself, too~ all the way to a little dusty street to find a little dusty house, and it was... Oh, it was a dream come real.
A sunny clapboard cottage with gauzy white curtains and lilacs round the gate. I could see Mother standing there. See her hand raised over her eyes, looking out through empurpled blooms waiting for Father to return each evening. I could see Father jump the picket fence and sweep her up in his arms and twirl her round the lavender beds. Could see him lay kisses on her pregnant belly as she lay kisses on his soft red hair. I heard them, I know I did. And I know I always shall now because I have been given the most miraculous gift.
Letters! A dozen of them. Written to each other ~I could barely speak on the return journey. After twenty years to have such a treasure still waiting for me. I feel beyond rich, Ady. I feel blessed.
You won't scold me, Walter, not you, when I tell you I am writing this by a crimson sun that pours in through our window. How I love the feel of red light on my skin, how it makes me think of you.
Only four more days, my darling, until I can take you in my arms again. I imagine your belly has become so much bigger, was there ever a more satisfying embrace than when I hold you and our child all at once?
I decided on the green sprig muslin after all ~when I was so sure I would choose the blue. But as I walked into the haberdashers I suddenly knew that our baby was meant for green things.
Of course, you may have the choosing of the name if we have a girl ~but I must insist on the e.
Yours till forever, Bertha
Forever yours, Walter
I went to the graveyard soon after and placed my flowers on their grave. Nothing showy or strained, just some lily of the valley, but how right they looked by the headstone. 'These are from Anne', I told them, 'your Anne with an e.' I thought I would say more, Phil had tiptoed to the carriage to wait for me, but the words wouldn't come. Instead I imagined living in that dusty little house on that dusty little street. Imagined brothers and sisters just as freckled and red haired as I was. Imagined my parents growing me on dreams they once had for themselves. And finding myself at Redmond, just as determined, ambitious and foolish as ever. Imagining... imagining... Those words of Phil's taunting me, and I wondered if I had lived this other life would I better understand the mystery of love?
I sat in the long grass, watching the sun cut shadows into their names. The smell of lilies and the memory of lilacs playing inside me like a song, when they spoke to me. Mother and Father, as though they sat close by my side.
You have always known love, they whispered. You were borne of it, you are made of it, and you will go on discovering it.
Suddenly I knew I couldn't wait. I had to go home. Not in two days but the very next morning. I ached for home. For the Island and Green Gables and Marilla. For Rachel and the twins and Diana and ~everyone else. Ached for it as I never had. Home. Home like a heartbeat, like a road.
How I love the feel of red earth under my feet, how it makes me think of you all.
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*Phil's words being that famous phrase, "You don't know love when you see it. You've tricked something out with your imagination that you think love, and you expect the real thing to look like that."
And now it's back to Avonlea, where Mrs Blythe is making Anne helluva uncomfortable, and we find out just which button Fred-Fred and Di-Di are up to...