Author's Note: I must warn you– I portrayed Muriel Stacey in a rather negative light. This is a combination of my personal dislike for her (in Road to Avonlea, NOT in Anne of Green Gables) and my desire to reflect Hetty's perspective. Please don't write any flames because of this (or for any reason). Flames will be deleted, but friendly reviews are welcome! :)
Otherwise, enjoy the story! I know Hetty x Clive is a somewhat rare pairing among RTA fans, but I love it ( I don't dislike Simon Tremayne– I just don't think he's right for Hetty). Lonely Hearts made me feel very frustrated with the writers. As such, I wrote a fix-it fic to show what I wish had happened…

Hetty had prepared herself for this day; she had waited with bated breath to bid on her love. Muriel Stacey would probably win, as she well knew, but she still had a chance. What if Hetty were to win Clive Pettibone's hamper, though, and he did not appreciate her company? It would be better, in that case, if she had not won him at all. These fears gave her a sense of excitement mixed with dread that lasted through the first and longest part of the auction.

Most of the auctioned hampers were sold quickly and calmly enough. There had been little drama, and most had only had one bidder, so there were no obvious rivalries, except in the case of Nat Lester, who had attracted the attention of most of the silly girls in town. That, however, had been expected, so it was of no real consequence, and there were no deep feelings involved. She had allowed herself to laugh when Rachel Lynde had accidentally bought the hamper of Pierre La Pierre for sixty cents; it had been a release of sorts for her nervous excitement. As Clive drew closer to the auctioneer's podium, she beamed, and her heart started to pound.

At last, after an intolerable wait, the moment came.

"All right, ladies, now we have here, prepared by a gentleman of renown, Mr. Clive Pettibone, a splendid hamper for you," Alec's voice rang out. "So, what am I bid? Who'll give me a quarter for this…" Hetty's heart leapt out of her chest when his name was said; her expression was stretched out in an irrepressible grin that she could not make any wider. She was nearly jumping in place; like a little schoolgirl, she frantically took her coin purse out and opened it; she had brought extra coins to pad her chances.

Hetty looked back as Muriel, with her plaster smile, showed her brilliant new quarter and raised her hand.

"Let's hear it… twenty-five cents, twenty-five cents… Twenty-five cents, there is, do I hear thirty…" A flash of fear and weakness came over Hetty. Did she really need to be reminded that many times that her perfect rival had just bid on her love? Did she need to be haunted over and over again, in her mind, with the sly simper on Muriel's face?

But no! I must push through! she thought. She raised her hand and said, "Thirty cents." Her calm voice surprised her; she had expected to shout or squeak with fear. But there was a genuine glee in her announcement– a certain passion that could not be hidden away with skilled acting.

Alec looked taken aback by Hetty's bid; he hesitated for a moment before saying, "...Thirty, thirty it is. Well, do I hear thirty-five…"

Within three seconds of him saying this, Hetty calculated the amount of money she had in her coin purse: eighty-six cents. Decades of teaching children to count money had made her extremely quick when it came to adding by the looks of coins alone. Surely I have enough…

Muriel lifted her head and raised her hand coolly– too coolly. Her face said: Oh, Hetty, you little country spinster! How endearing it is that you brought a little coin purse, too! "Do we have thirty-five…" said Alec. "Thirty-five it is!"

Hetty was now twitching back in forth in excitement and terror. She had completely abandoned her sense of propriety in behavior, and was acting out of unadulterated emotion.

"Thirty-five it is, thirty-five, who'll make that forty? Do I hear forty?"

Muriel raised her hand again. Hetty could tell that she was completely confident in herself, and the smile in her eyes had faded to reveal a look of candied cruelty that would impress any of the adolescent girls who had bid on Nat Lester.

Hetty trembled and looked down at her purse. Perhaps Muriel was better for Clive than she was; perhaps all of Clive's affections toward her had only been meant out of polite friendship. But he had been so warm to her… The kiss on her hand when she first met him, and the times he had said that he loved her characters "because they had some of her in them", and the little warm touches, and the bottle…

She felt two pairs of eyes on her– Muriel's catlike, self-satisfied glare; and Clive's steady gaze, with hints of pain, silently saying, "I know." He glanced at Muriel and turned back to Hetty with a sober countenance.

"Do I hear forty? Going once…" Fury and determination rose up inside of Hetty. She had always been a strong, self-reliant person; why should she fail herself in this moment?

"EIGHTY-SIX CENTS!" she screamed. The crowd fell silent, and a few people gasped. Hetty thought she heard a huff from behind her.

Alec raised both eyebrows and looked around, while Simon Tremayne looked blankly into the distance. Sighing, Hetty looked up at him with a twinge of guilt; although she did not love him, she did not want him to be lonely. But he seemed to be a rather independent person in general, and the deed was already done… If Hetty had bid on his hamper, she would have given the appearance of being interested in him; she already knew how she felt about Clive Pettibone. Simon gave her no unbridled joy, and she did not feel that he truly cared about her. He only wanted her to care about him; he did not bring her any sense of peace or calm.

Finally, her brother the auctioneer spoke. "We have eighty-six cents, eighty-six. Do I hear ninety?"

No answer. Hetty did not know whether she would twirl with delight or burst into tears.

"Going once, going twice… sold for eighty-six cents to Miss Hetty King!"

Hetty thought she would faint.

At that moment, Clive looked directly at Hetty with a warm, unaffected smile that denoted the sanguine pleasure of anticipation. He had always been rather muted about his sentiments, only showing them through subtle intimations, such as when he softened his voice or stood closer to someone. Hetty had been the recipient of these small kindnesses many times, and even when he had showed some to Muriel, he would always show them in greater measure and with more intensity to Hetty herself. She giggled involuntarily and bounced in place, her eyes wide, and fanned herself, for she was growing rather warm from blushing and nervous sweating.

I'm making a fool of myself, she thought. Looking down at herself with embarrassment, she maneuvered her way through the crowd. She needed a place where she could release her emotion in an unrestrained way. When she was on the edge of the group, she took a look back at Muriel's facial expression. It was unreadable.

The auction for Simon Tremayne's hamper had begun, so everyone's attention was now focused on something other than Hetty. When everyone was looking at Muriel, who, after bidding on Simon, had made a little joke about switching places with Hetty (who was, in her mind, "supposed" to bid on Simon), Clive slowly stepped off of the platform and behind the other men.

For a few minutes, Hetty walked calmly along the red-sand road on which the White Sands Hotel was situated. Then, once she felt that she was quite far away, her gait became like that of a girl who had been invited to a school dance by someone she was infatuated with. Laughing and singing "Love's Philosophy," she twirled once as she skipped, her lacy white skirt rippling like the water of a stream.

Then, she heard: "Well, Hetty, is this why you left the auction?" The voice, which was undoubtedly Clive Pettibone's, was fond and amused, but Hetty still blushed a deep red and turned around slowly, covering her eyes with her hat. Her loud expressions of joy died away in an instant.

She did not speak, but let out an ashamed titter and looked down, trying to avoid his gaze.

His next words surprised her. "Why don't we begin our little outing early?" he asked, with a palpable smile in his voice.

Hetty had expected him to laugh at her for acting ridiculous and turn away to go give his hamper to Muriel Stacey instead. After all, Muriel never made any social faux pas. She did not laugh for longer than was considered normal, and she never burst with emotion or did anything solely out of a burning desire to express herself. She did not have a strange, overly excited, knowing smile when she picked up her favorite books; nothing was a thrill too great for Muriel Stacey to not calculate the perfect response on cue.

Hetty, on the other hand, was known for having two qualities at once: cold formality, and uncontrollable sensibility.1 In all interactions, she was either Elinor or Marianne: never moderate, never appropriately warm, never charming. She was embarrassing.

"Why?" It was the only thing she could think of to say.

"My duties at the auction have been fulfilled, so I thought it would be wise not to waste my time there." His response made her smile– it was so characteristic of him to speak in an artless, practical way. She took a deep breath and walked closer, for she already felt calmer.

"Then, in that case, I suppose we shall start now… but where shall we go?"

Clive did not answer, but looked like he had an idea churning in his head. He began to walk in the direction that Hetty had been going in, and Hetty followed him, trusting his judgment. His gently amused expression made her want to see the result of his train of thought.

Having turned inland and walked along a rural dirt road not far from Avonlea, Hetty saw the frame of a dilapidated, but intact, house. She knew this house, but she had not visited it in almost two years.

"Hetty," asked Clive, "do you remember when you and I were here last?"

The only time she had ever come here had been in the dark of night, when she had driven off the road so that she would miss Digger, who had decided to run in front of her wagon. She had been at a loss as to what to do, and she had not wanted to be out at night alone, so she had gone to the abandoned house where Tom Galan had once lived.

She remembered her experience there vividly. There is no one here, she had tried to tell herself. I am perfectly alone, and no one knows I am in this house. Still, she had felt someone else's presence and so had taken great caution. A frying pan had hung on the door, and she had taken it, seeing that it was the only means with which she could defend herself.

As if her imagination had come to fruition in front of her, a shadowed figure had walked down the stairs, carrying a large bag. Without stopping to think, Hetty had swung her frying pan and hit him on the head. It was only the next day that she learned it had been Mr. Clive Pettibone, the new schoolteacher; the two of them had chuckled over the incident when all had been explained.

Lost in thought, she now stared at the house. He tapped her shoulder, which, due to its significance as an action, immediately woke her from her memory.

"Hetty?"

Hetty looked at him sheepishly. "How could I forget?"

They were now making their way inside the house, and the sentiments attached to her memories of this house came flooding back to her. The frying pan, which she had put back on the door hanger, was still there.

She picked it up, feeling whimsical, and twirled it around her hand. "Might you eat your little picnic lunch in this?" she asked.

"I'll be sure to give it a good licking," he said. Remembering their past situation, both began to laugh; neither stopped laughing for at least three whole minutes. Hetty realized that Clive had taken her there because that was where they had first met; it was a place that they both valued.

When they had calmed down, they sat down at a table in the old parlor, which had not seen company in at least twenty years. "This place ought to be the setting for a novel," Hetty said quietly, looking out into the distance.

Clive nodded and took her hand in both of his. "Would the fine Gothic heroine be named Miss Henrietta?"

Hetty, her heart fluttering at this, grinned. "I suppose so… she would be a young and beautiful ingenue." An image came into her head of a lovely version of herself trapped in the tower of a Victorian manor.

"And would she be dramatically saved by a certain Sir Clive?"

Hetty knew what he was referring to– the two of them had had a similar exchange a few weeks after she had hit him with the frying pan. It had been in her doorway, and she would never forget it.

"Y-yes." She knew she was acting like a schoolgirl again, but she didn't care.

He smiled fondly and lifted her hand, kissing it for several seconds; while returning her hand to her, he stroked it softly. "I don't know how much I shall have to imagine regarding the knight's thoughts and feelings," he said. "They have been quite real to me for a very long time."

He kissed her hand again, and the two then sat in silence, each basking in the other's love. Hetty had prepared for every possible outcome but this, and it was more wonderful than all of the scenarios she had imagined– more beautiful than all that her characters had experienced in their lives. No story could be as extraordinary as real life, unless, as Hetty mused, it had been inspired by it.