"Did you see what Kitty Flagg was wearing in church this past Sunday?" said Aunt Nan—actually, gossiped Aunt Nan, one late October day as she and the other aunts concocted part of a marvellous feast in the Ingleside kitchen. Finally, the bout of bad luck at the house had passed, and a great dinner of celebration was being held to rejoice at the return to good health. All the women were working, preparing their own delicacies—Aunt Nan's cream pies, Rilla's cornbread stuffing, and Faith was basting the turkey.
"Do you remember the terrible things we had to eat at the manse before Mother Rosemary came?" she was laughing. Really, Aunt Faith did look so beautiful with her hair in little ringlets from the steam. It was plain to see why Uncle Walter had written sonnets to her, and why Uncle Jem loved her so. "I do so love preparing a big meal now—it reminds me of those days—and the little girl in me wants to stick her fingers in all the puddings, lest they disappear."
But Aunt Rilla was not interested in reminiscing—she was much more interesting in giving things a "talking over," as she and Aunt Nan called it. They never would have dreamed of calling it gossip, though in truth, that's what it was.
"Yes," Aunt Rilla said in horror. "That dress—she might have been wearing nothing at all! And her only sixteen! I would never let Trudy wear something so garish."
Trudy, who had the unglamourous job of mashing the potatoes, wilted visibly. She had thought Kitty Flagg's dress the height of fashion.
Almost everyone in the Glen and Four Winds, and its environs had gotten a tongue lashing from the Ingleside women that day. They were usually genial souls, and would have gone out of their way for any of those they discussed on even their worst day, but they were only human, and subject to all human flaws. Besides, even Grandmother was not averse to a good "talking over."
"I think it's shameful the way that Trix Binnie dresses, too," said Aunt Nan. "I've decided not to let Joy associate with her anymore—you'd be wise to keep Trudy away from her, too, Rilla, and Merry, Faith."
"I don't think there's any danger of our girls associating with Binnies," said Aunt Faith. "But oh, let's leave the young people alone. We were just as vain and stupid and silly at that age. Let's, as someone wise once said, 'pick on someone our own size.' I saw the elder Mrs. Branston, from Three Hills, at the Ladies' Aid the other day, and she looked a true fright. I think there was a bird's nest on her head!"
"She called it a hat—perhaps Jem should check her eyes at her next check-up," said Auntie Rilla, and the aunts had a good laugh.
"So it looks like Eleanor Branston has gotten over her own case of 'pneumonia,'" Aunt Nan went on.
"Hasn't Eleanor been dying by inches for years?" said Rilla archly—though not maliciously.
"Yes—she's always coming down with some deadly disease or another, though Jem says mostly it's something minor or all in her mind. I feel for her, I do—but more than that, I feel sorry for her youngest girl. Eleanor's other girls won't have anything to do with her—they've got sense, at least—so the brunt of it falls on Penelope. She's too dutiful for her own good."
"I saw her at the market a few days ago," said Aunt Di, coming in from the garden with a late harvest of squash. "She looked exhausted."
"Well," sniffed Aunt Nan. "You would be too, with a Mother like that to look after. Poor Pen Branston. She was always such a laughing girl. People thought she would go far—until her—disappointment."
Cecilia, who was rolling the dough for pastry with Merry, perked up her ears.
"Well, I don't feel sorry for her," said Rilla, who had been at school when Miss Branston had been, though they had been many grades apart. "She always seemed to have too highan opinion of herself."
Rilla, who had more than once had the same thing said about her, tossed her head unsympathetically, and unironically.
"They say she was going to study law," said Aunt Di. "The Branstons were always poor as church mice. Tom Branston drank everything a little faster than he made it—and left a family of five and huge debts when he died. Penny Branston put herself through Queens on scholarship—and saved for years to go to Redmond—only to get beat out for that scholarship. Who'd have thought she'd end up teaching? She always hated small fry."
Cecilia, who had been listening with cat's ears, and had often felt the pierce of Miss Branston's barbs in the schoolroom, could well believe it.
"It's better that than a lawyer," remarked Mary Vance, who had come up for the evening. Somehow, they could not leave Mary Vance out of family events. And she had brought one of the striped cakes and some fancy salads from the case at the store—those striped cakes were renowned the world over. "She should have known better than to think a woman could practice law."
"Oh, but why not?" asked Aunt Faith, eyes flashing. "Women can do so many things, Mary."
"Well, don't I know it!" said Mary complacently. "Say, wasn't Bruce quite taken with her once upon a time?"
"Oh," laughed Aunt Nan. "They were chums of course—and ran around together during their Queens days, but I don't think it was all that people said. Anyway, when Bruce won the scholarship instead of her, she went quite off of him. Said he'd stolen it from her—'taken what was rightly hers,' were her words."
"How could she fault him for working just as hard?" Rilla questioned.
"I think he might have let her have it," said Aunt Faith quietly. "Penelope Branston had nothing—and Father could have paid—would have gladly paid to send Bruce to Redmond on his own. But Bruce was too proud to give it up—he said Father's money was for him and Rosemary to live on, not for him to begin with. But I know Bruce—I could see in his eyes that he felt quite terrible about it. He really cared for Penny, I think. She had to go to a Teaching College in Montreal instead—an uncle put her through—and I think he treated her quite badly. And Penny has never forgiven Bruce—she blames him for spoiling all her hopes and dreams. I don't think she's ever given them up."
All of Miss Branston's furious words that afternoon in the library began to make sense to Cecilia. She was overcome by a wave of remorse—she should not have been so cold! And pity—and, yes, anger with Uncle Bruce. It was the first time she had felt that way toward any of her family. He should have let her have it! Oh, why hadn't he? Why did pride make people act so horribly?
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Cecilia was making ready for the Hallowe'en Dance at the harbor when there was a rap on her chamber door. She ignored it at first—it was likely only Trudy—and she still had to figure out what to do with her hair. She had gotten a bunch of pink mums from Sid earlier in the day—but she did so want to wear her red dress, and red and pink looked a fright together. She would have work her yellow—that would have suited the pink—but oh, the red dress! It was like a flame—and make her look alluring in ways that the pink could not.
There was a rap again—and Cecilia sighed. She would just save the mums and go without flowers. Although—she had wanted to wear flowers in her hair, tucked behind her ear. She had seen it in a fashion magazine and it looked so glamourous. Besides, with winter coming on, there would be no flowers for ever so long. She wanted one last, sweet, flowery hurrah.
It was Uncle Bruce, clutching two pristine red roses in his hand.
"I brought these for your adornment," he smiled, looking still-weak but livelier than he had in weeks. "And to thank you for being such a brick. You've done well by your old Uncle these past weeks, Cee. The best nurse I ever had."
"Oh!" Cecilia tucked the flowers in her shining hair. They were just the thing! But where had he found roses this time of year?
"They were the last in the manse garden," Uncle Bruce said, reading her thoughts. "You look thoroughly grown up, Cecilia. You'll knock Sid's socks off tonight, I reckon. Ah, to be young and in love!"
At that word—love—Cecilia stiffened. She had not been able to feel the same toward Uncle Bruce since hearing the story of how he had treated Miss Branston.
"Thank you," she said shortly, and turned away without even a dutiful peck.
"Hey!" Uncle Bruce protested. "You're being awfully cold—was I really such a bad patient as all that?"
"No-oo-o," Cecilia quavered. Then her words came out in a rush. "Oh, Uncle Bruce, don't you think you could have given the scholarship to Miss Branston? Don't you think you should have?"
Bruce Meredith's face darkened. He was not used to being reprimanded—especially not by little chits of girls, who were not yet sixteen.
"So the hens have been clucking, I see," was all he said.
"If you did love her," said Cecilia with spirit, "You wouldn't have acted so cruelly. I don't believe you did love her—or else you did it out of spite. Oh, it was nasty of you, Uncle Bruce!"
"Don't speak of things you know nothing about, child," said Uncle Bruce just as hotly.
Perhaps she did not know the whole story, but Cecilia knew she had struck a vein of truth. The Merediths all had faces that showed their feelings—it was what made Grandfather Meredith and Uncle Jerry such good ministers—Aunt Faith and Uncle Carl such good companions—and Uncle Bruce such a bad liar.
Cecilia did not like being disdained to—and she did not dignify Bruce's protestations with a response. Instead she tore the bloodred flowers he had given her from her hair and crushed them under her heel, then left the room with the cold air of a queen.
Bruce was left standing in the room alone, the sound of voices and laughter downstairs that was near hium but did not touch him. The smell of broken flowers rose up to meet him—and made him think of things that he had almost forgotten—would rather forget.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sid Gardiner found a dear girl in his arms that night, with the same obsidian hair and violet eyes that he had always known, but her eyes were troubled and clouded and her brow was wrinkled. He suspected strongly that though her flame-like body moved with the music and her lips parted to answer his queries and accept his compliments, that Cecilia was not fully there with him at the dance.
"Where are you wandering, Cecilia o'mine?" he asked her, and felt a pang with he saw her lips quivering, and her lashes wet.
"Oh Sid!" she flung her arms around his neck. "You wouldn't ever hurt me, would you? And if I wanted something—you'd do everything you could to help me get it?"
"If you wanted the moon I'd lasso it for you," said Sid glibly. "And of course I'd never hurt you, Cee."
At that time, he really believed he'd rather be thrown in a furnace heated seven times seven times than make her brow furrow with worry as it was now.
"Let's make a pact to never do one wrong thing to one another," Cecilia said passionately. "Not—one—wrong—thing."
They met lips to seal the promise, and it was the easiest pact that Sid Gardiner would ever make.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Does anyone see where I'm going with this? I hope so, or else I'm a terrible writer! Hope you're enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying your stories.
Terreis, you'd better update soon! I'm DYING for more about Chris.
A few months ago, some of you emailed me to tell me about other LMM fanfic forums. Since I've read everything on this one, I'd love it if you could send me those links again! I deleted my email folder by accident, and don't have the links anymore.
"Do you remember the terrible things we had to eat at the manse before Mother Rosemary came?" she was laughing. Really, Aunt Faith did look so beautiful with her hair in little ringlets from the steam. It was plain to see why Uncle Walter had written sonnets to her, and why Uncle Jem loved her so. "I do so love preparing a big meal now—it reminds me of those days—and the little girl in me wants to stick her fingers in all the puddings, lest they disappear."
But Aunt Rilla was not interested in reminiscing—she was much more interesting in giving things a "talking over," as she and Aunt Nan called it. They never would have dreamed of calling it gossip, though in truth, that's what it was.
"Yes," Aunt Rilla said in horror. "That dress—she might have been wearing nothing at all! And her only sixteen! I would never let Trudy wear something so garish."
Trudy, who had the unglamourous job of mashing the potatoes, wilted visibly. She had thought Kitty Flagg's dress the height of fashion.
Almost everyone in the Glen and Four Winds, and its environs had gotten a tongue lashing from the Ingleside women that day. They were usually genial souls, and would have gone out of their way for any of those they discussed on even their worst day, but they were only human, and subject to all human flaws. Besides, even Grandmother was not averse to a good "talking over."
"I think it's shameful the way that Trix Binnie dresses, too," said Aunt Nan. "I've decided not to let Joy associate with her anymore—you'd be wise to keep Trudy away from her, too, Rilla, and Merry, Faith."
"I don't think there's any danger of our girls associating with Binnies," said Aunt Faith. "But oh, let's leave the young people alone. We were just as vain and stupid and silly at that age. Let's, as someone wise once said, 'pick on someone our own size.' I saw the elder Mrs. Branston, from Three Hills, at the Ladies' Aid the other day, and she looked a true fright. I think there was a bird's nest on her head!"
"She called it a hat—perhaps Jem should check her eyes at her next check-up," said Auntie Rilla, and the aunts had a good laugh.
"So it looks like Eleanor Branston has gotten over her own case of 'pneumonia,'" Aunt Nan went on.
"Hasn't Eleanor been dying by inches for years?" said Rilla archly—though not maliciously.
"Yes—she's always coming down with some deadly disease or another, though Jem says mostly it's something minor or all in her mind. I feel for her, I do—but more than that, I feel sorry for her youngest girl. Eleanor's other girls won't have anything to do with her—they've got sense, at least—so the brunt of it falls on Penelope. She's too dutiful for her own good."
"I saw her at the market a few days ago," said Aunt Di, coming in from the garden with a late harvest of squash. "She looked exhausted."
"Well," sniffed Aunt Nan. "You would be too, with a Mother like that to look after. Poor Pen Branston. She was always such a laughing girl. People thought she would go far—until her—disappointment."
Cecilia, who was rolling the dough for pastry with Merry, perked up her ears.
"Well, I don't feel sorry for her," said Rilla, who had been at school when Miss Branston had been, though they had been many grades apart. "She always seemed to have too highan opinion of herself."
Rilla, who had more than once had the same thing said about her, tossed her head unsympathetically, and unironically.
"They say she was going to study law," said Aunt Di. "The Branstons were always poor as church mice. Tom Branston drank everything a little faster than he made it—and left a family of five and huge debts when he died. Penny Branston put herself through Queens on scholarship—and saved for years to go to Redmond—only to get beat out for that scholarship. Who'd have thought she'd end up teaching? She always hated small fry."
Cecilia, who had been listening with cat's ears, and had often felt the pierce of Miss Branston's barbs in the schoolroom, could well believe it.
"It's better that than a lawyer," remarked Mary Vance, who had come up for the evening. Somehow, they could not leave Mary Vance out of family events. And she had brought one of the striped cakes and some fancy salads from the case at the store—those striped cakes were renowned the world over. "She should have known better than to think a woman could practice law."
"Oh, but why not?" asked Aunt Faith, eyes flashing. "Women can do so many things, Mary."
"Well, don't I know it!" said Mary complacently. "Say, wasn't Bruce quite taken with her once upon a time?"
"Oh," laughed Aunt Nan. "They were chums of course—and ran around together during their Queens days, but I don't think it was all that people said. Anyway, when Bruce won the scholarship instead of her, she went quite off of him. Said he'd stolen it from her—'taken what was rightly hers,' were her words."
"How could she fault him for working just as hard?" Rilla questioned.
"I think he might have let her have it," said Aunt Faith quietly. "Penelope Branston had nothing—and Father could have paid—would have gladly paid to send Bruce to Redmond on his own. But Bruce was too proud to give it up—he said Father's money was for him and Rosemary to live on, not for him to begin with. But I know Bruce—I could see in his eyes that he felt quite terrible about it. He really cared for Penny, I think. She had to go to a Teaching College in Montreal instead—an uncle put her through—and I think he treated her quite badly. And Penny has never forgiven Bruce—she blames him for spoiling all her hopes and dreams. I don't think she's ever given them up."
All of Miss Branston's furious words that afternoon in the library began to make sense to Cecilia. She was overcome by a wave of remorse—she should not have been so cold! And pity—and, yes, anger with Uncle Bruce. It was the first time she had felt that way toward any of her family. He should have let her have it! Oh, why hadn't he? Why did pride make people act so horribly?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Cecilia was making ready for the Hallowe'en Dance at the harbor when there was a rap on her chamber door. She ignored it at first—it was likely only Trudy—and she still had to figure out what to do with her hair. She had gotten a bunch of pink mums from Sid earlier in the day—but she did so want to wear her red dress, and red and pink looked a fright together. She would have work her yellow—that would have suited the pink—but oh, the red dress! It was like a flame—and make her look alluring in ways that the pink could not.
There was a rap again—and Cecilia sighed. She would just save the mums and go without flowers. Although—she had wanted to wear flowers in her hair, tucked behind her ear. She had seen it in a fashion magazine and it looked so glamourous. Besides, with winter coming on, there would be no flowers for ever so long. She wanted one last, sweet, flowery hurrah.
It was Uncle Bruce, clutching two pristine red roses in his hand.
"I brought these for your adornment," he smiled, looking still-weak but livelier than he had in weeks. "And to thank you for being such a brick. You've done well by your old Uncle these past weeks, Cee. The best nurse I ever had."
"Oh!" Cecilia tucked the flowers in her shining hair. They were just the thing! But where had he found roses this time of year?
"They were the last in the manse garden," Uncle Bruce said, reading her thoughts. "You look thoroughly grown up, Cecilia. You'll knock Sid's socks off tonight, I reckon. Ah, to be young and in love!"
At that word—love—Cecilia stiffened. She had not been able to feel the same toward Uncle Bruce since hearing the story of how he had treated Miss Branston.
"Thank you," she said shortly, and turned away without even a dutiful peck.
"Hey!" Uncle Bruce protested. "You're being awfully cold—was I really such a bad patient as all that?"
"No-oo-o," Cecilia quavered. Then her words came out in a rush. "Oh, Uncle Bruce, don't you think you could have given the scholarship to Miss Branston? Don't you think you should have?"
Bruce Meredith's face darkened. He was not used to being reprimanded—especially not by little chits of girls, who were not yet sixteen.
"So the hens have been clucking, I see," was all he said.
"If you did love her," said Cecilia with spirit, "You wouldn't have acted so cruelly. I don't believe you did love her—or else you did it out of spite. Oh, it was nasty of you, Uncle Bruce!"
"Don't speak of things you know nothing about, child," said Uncle Bruce just as hotly.
Perhaps she did not know the whole story, but Cecilia knew she had struck a vein of truth. The Merediths all had faces that showed their feelings—it was what made Grandfather Meredith and Uncle Jerry such good ministers—Aunt Faith and Uncle Carl such good companions—and Uncle Bruce such a bad liar.
Cecilia did not like being disdained to—and she did not dignify Bruce's protestations with a response. Instead she tore the bloodred flowers he had given her from her hair and crushed them under her heel, then left the room with the cold air of a queen.
Bruce was left standing in the room alone, the sound of voices and laughter downstairs that was near hium but did not touch him. The smell of broken flowers rose up to meet him—and made him think of things that he had almost forgotten—would rather forget.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sid Gardiner found a dear girl in his arms that night, with the same obsidian hair and violet eyes that he had always known, but her eyes were troubled and clouded and her brow was wrinkled. He suspected strongly that though her flame-like body moved with the music and her lips parted to answer his queries and accept his compliments, that Cecilia was not fully there with him at the dance.
"Where are you wandering, Cecilia o'mine?" he asked her, and felt a pang with he saw her lips quivering, and her lashes wet.
"Oh Sid!" she flung her arms around his neck. "You wouldn't ever hurt me, would you? And if I wanted something—you'd do everything you could to help me get it?"
"If you wanted the moon I'd lasso it for you," said Sid glibly. "And of course I'd never hurt you, Cee."
At that time, he really believed he'd rather be thrown in a furnace heated seven times seven times than make her brow furrow with worry as it was now.
"Let's make a pact to never do one wrong thing to one another," Cecilia said passionately. "Not—one—wrong—thing."
They met lips to seal the promise, and it was the easiest pact that Sid Gardiner would ever make.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Does anyone see where I'm going with this? I hope so, or else I'm a terrible writer! Hope you're enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying your stories.
Terreis, you'd better update soon! I'm DYING for more about Chris.
A few months ago, some of you emailed me to tell me about other LMM fanfic forums. Since I've read everything on this one, I'd love it if you could send me those links again! I deleted my email folder by accident, and don't have the links anymore.