Chapter six

"Where are you off to this time of the morning?" Rose demanded as she trudged down the stairs.

Leslie kept her head down and continued to lace her boots. "For a walk –"

"You think now is the time to go off for a stroll? Our garden's in ruins, and half your clothes, to say nothing of Mrs Lennox's gown. And now my hand is troubling me…" Rose rubbed her thumb along her palm, eliciting a wince as she did so.

"A walk to Dr Dave's," said Leslie, trying to keep her voice even. "I thought if I could catch him before he went on his ten o'clock rounds, he might have time to see you this morning."

"I don't need a doctor," Rose grumbled. Though it would be more accurate to say she didn't need that doctor. He had been next to useless when it came to her poor Frank. Sea air and poultices, what good was that for a dying man? "If you bind my wrist, darling, I'll be good as new. Not that I have much choice in the matter. Mrs Lennox is expecting the gown by the end of the week. It's all a bit hush-hush at the moment, but apparently her granddaughter is being presented to the Premier as part of her coming out. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could do something like that?"

"Balls and garden parties?" Leslie sniffed.

"Don't pretend you wouldn't go if you could. You like a pretty dress just as much as the next girl."

"Not if the girl is Molly Lennox."

Leslie stood up and reached for her hat. It was a leghorn boater trimmed with an emerald green ribbon. If Molly had her way she would have crammed the brim with silk roses and a dozen stuffed birds. She was not known for her subtlety, nor her common sense, and had talked of pearls and crystals, as though Rose had drawers filled with them. Leslie might have laughed about it with her mother, instead she was dismayed when Molly was promised every detail she desired. Battenberg lace, shirring and pintucks, organza overskirts and intricate piping. The lace alone cost Rose the fee Mrs Lennox was paying. She was a well-known pinchpenny, hence the old dress and engaging Rose instead of the tailors in Charlottetown. The lady had already paid the agreed amount. And Rose had already spent it.

"That's so," Rose sighed and sat on the bottom step, nursing her wrist in her hand. "For all her love of fancy things, she couldn't hold a candle to you. It's a good thing I have that enormous crinoline skirt to work with, poor Molly's getting quite pudgy."

"Shame we lost half the train," Leslie added, "you'll need it for all the vents at her waist!"

"Leslie!" Rose pretended to be shocked. "We can't all be as stylish as you."

Very stylish, Rose thought to herself. The jaunty green jacket with the smart brass buttons and the ever-present sash. Her daughter was going to a lot of trouble just to fetch the doctor.

"I might need another roll of gauze," she mentioned, casually, "for this bothersome wrist."

"Mamma, we have plenty. I went to hunt out some for Captain Jim and found rolls and rolls of the stuff."

"Some lace trim then, and some mother-of-pearl buttons, and ivory silk embroidery floss."

"But I'm heading to Glen St Mary and Carter Flagg's doesn't carry them," said Leslie through the hatpin between her lips.

"Well if that's the case," Rose gave her a teasing look, "you'll just have to go to Moore's. Perhaps you can make your peace with Abner – flash him one of your winning smiles?"

Leslie jammed the hatpin into her hat wishing it was Abner's fat head. "Never," she vowed, "I told you before, I will not shop there again."

"Please," her mother wheedled. "Don't make me wrestle with fastenings and boots, I have to rest my hand. There's so much to do by Saturday and Mrs Lennox is expecting my finest work. Now on top of everything else I have scorch marks and burn holes to hide. I really need a kimono day, time to catch my breath…"

Rose faltered, her bottom lip wobbling. Leslie knew she was about to cry. She was thinking of Papa, she must be, whose poor lungs were so full of holes at the end his once broad chest all but caved in.

"Of course," said Leslie, kindly, and bent down to pat her mother's knee. "But no mother-of-pearl, we can't afford it –"

"Oh, don't worry about that," Rose grinned up at her, "just put them on my tab."

Leslie had no idea how much they owed on the tab, and she didn't want to. Still, she couldn't help calculating as she walked down the lane toward the village, how much it might be. The glass beads Mother bought for Mrs Kirk's tie-backs, the yards of chantilly for a sea captain's bride. The satins, the velvets, the organdie from Boston. Abner Moore had to order that especially – and put a tidy charge on top. Make simple things, Leslie would beg her mother, we make more profit from a Sunday suit than a baby's christening gown. But Rose preferred extravagant designs; vests and trousers bored her. She did not have a head for business, though she had a kind heart. Even ol' Simons paid a pittance for their fields – when he paid at all.

Leslie looked up to the fallow fields that Simons refused to plough. Too steep he said, soil's too poor, I'm not paying for what I can't grow. What could Leslie and her mother do? The farm was a bad one, so said Grandmother West. "You'll go to college, won't you Leslie, I can count on you to be the responsible one?" Leslie had dutifully promised her Grandmother, just as she had promised her Papa before. And they had taken the young girl's word, and her promise, to the grave.

Say she paid off the tab, it might be as high as twenty dollars, and found a man to tidy the garden, maybe put some fences on the hill? They could get some goats; Mrs Simons could manage them and it would give them fresh milk and cheese when the prices got too high in winter. Posts, stock, feed, shelter, perhaps another thirty dollars, plus the hired man's pay. That would bring her savings down to… one hundred and twenty? One hundred and fifteen? Minus all the furbelows her mother wanted for the Lennox dress.

Dr Dave had been called away and Carter Flagg didn't carry "natty nonsense" as he called it, just as Leslie suspected. She lingered in his store however, it was such a bright and merry place. Well lit and smelling of sensible things: molasses sugar, mace and beeswax, cardboard and green-wood handles. There was a chair by the stove that warmed coffee for his customers, and gave husbands somewhere to sit while their wives eyed rolls of serviceable fabric. One man was sitting there now reading the complimentary paper, while another sat on the arm and read companionably over his shoulder. There were half a dozen ladies around a clever display of enamel-ware, and children making shadow puppets from the light that streamed through the windows. Moore's never had this many customers, especially on a Tuesday morning, but then Glen St Mary was popular with tourists who preferred a more genteel neighbourhood when they boarded over the summer.

Leslie wished she might induce some of them to board at their farm. The farm house, while shabby, had rooms enough, and their parlour could finally be put to some use. She pictured the children in Carter Flagg's store playing checkers on their window seat and ring o' rosie round the willow. The grown-ups, Leslie could take or leave, but the children, their giggles and games, would bring such life to their house.

It was children that had led her to teaching. The stuffy school board, the endless marking, the over-bearing parents; Leslie could not wait for the summer vacation so that she could get away from all that. But the children, they made it all worthwhile, and she was fairly sure they loved her too.

Leslie brought out her father's old watch and checked the time. The Cove was a good half hour's walk from here, the whole journey would add over an hour. Then again, her mother did say she was having a kimono day and had certainly returned to bed. Leslie decided would splurge on some caramels, that would make up for her lateness and possibly soften her mother's reaction to her purchase of the dog.

She smiled to herself, as she remembered the puppy the Cove girl had placed in her arms. It wouldn't be much of a puppy now, but young enough to train. And while a dog could never play ring o' rosie, it would be lovely to have something lively – something living – in her house again.

Purchase made, she took the Shore Path without even thinking about it. She didn't even sneak a caramel from her pocket to nibble along the journey; somehow, she felt much older than before. Her hand went to her lips and she gazed out at the white capped waves, whispering under her breath.

"The loveliest maid is sitting, high throned in yon blue air, her golden jewels are shining, she combs her golden hair…"

When she approached the dunes, the silence was so total she could hear her heart in her throat. It's only a dog, she told herself, and patted her little purse. The pat turned into a patting down, as she smoothed her lapels and the pockets at her hips; checked her hair was still in place, bit her lips and pinched her cheeks.

Leslie had no reason to think that he might be here, except that her heart told her so. The sandy lane was empty just as it had been before, and she looked out for the rusted roof but there was no smoke coming from it today. She headed toward the tangled fence, her boots sucked into warm sand. For a moment, she thought about taking them off, and her hat, and letting her hair fly loose in the wind. Of course, she didn't, she would never be one of them. But it was a sort of freedom to imagine it, living wild like the girl at the Cove.

She heard a grunt, not the whine of dogs she was expecting. Nor could she see their dark shapes behind the fence. Something was there though, the fence began moving; bending out, then in again. Leslie tiptoed toward the movement, hypnotised by the strange rhythm. She heard another sound, a woman's voice, then saw her fingers wrapped around the bits of brush and rope that made up the fence. It was being pulled in and pushed out at such a pace, Leslie wanted to understand why. She came closer still and through a small chink saw the woman's head bent low, and the figure of a man thrusting behind her.

Leslie drew back swiftly, tripping over her feet and fell to her knees in the sand.

"Who's there!" the woman rasped. "Curtis Mayhew, if that's you, I'll skin your shifty hide!"

The man pushed past her and peered through the brush. Leslie saw one hazel eye and knew he had seen her too. She heard a laugh – but it couldn't be surely, no one could find the sport in this? It had to be a snarl, a cuss word, a warning. She had to get away from here.

Scrambling up, she tore through the dunes, the wind working against her and almost tearing her hat from her hair. The hatpin pulled at her roots and her eyes started streaming. She wasn't crying, it was the stinging wind, she didn't care at all.

Knowing there was nowhere to hide once she was out on the shore, she dashed to the other side of the dune and flopped down on the hot, dry sand. She felt sick, scared, curious, horrified. What sort of man would do such a thing – take a woman out in the open for all the world to see? And she had let Dick Moore touch her, put his dirty great mitts on her hips and his rummy tongue in her mouth!

Leslie lay back and stared up at the sun. Her eyes kept streaming, yet she forced herself to look as though it could bleach out the sin inside her.

"Thought I'd find you here…"

Leslie couldn't see his face, not after staring at the sun like that. Everywhere she looked she saw bright, sharp light, with the shape of the man round the edges. Muscular thighs, knotted calves, perfectly polished boots. A hand shoving his shirt ends into his trousers, and taking a lot of time about it.

"And why should you think that?" Leslie responded, her tongue thick in her mouth.

"Followed your footprints, didn't I."

"I don't know what you mean, I've come from the Glen –"

"You've come from the Cove, don't pretend otherwise, little Loreliar."

"Stop calling me that!" Leslie scooted higher up the dune and drew her knees to her chest. "I – I've been to see the doctor."

She didn't know why she said this, it just sounded like decent thing to say. That's who she was, decent, clean, good. Not like the scoundrel looming over her.

The scoundrel stopped his looming and dropped on the sand beside her, leaning on his elbows with his long legs crossed at the ankle. "Not sickening, are you?" he asked her.

He flopped his head back and closed his eyes, all but inviting the girl beside him to gaze upon his finely made self. One of his suspenders straps was down and he pulled it lazily over his shoulder, and whistled a little tune. It was some time before Leslie realised it was the tune to Spanish Ladies. She thought of the camp fire, the lurking stranger, and wondered now if it might have been him.

"That's none of your business," she said, stiffly.

"You're one to talk," he said. "I know what you saw. Don't worry, I won't tell. I won't ask anythin' for your silence either."

"Why should I tell?" said Leslie, wondering why she was talking to him at all. "I don't care one whit what you do."

He seemed to find this funny and leaned on his elbow again. The blue eye silver, the hazel eye gold.

"I- I'm going home," she stammered, turning from him.

"I'll go with you," said Dick, sitting up. "It happens I'm heading that way, too."

Leslie got up as though she hadn't heard him. Dick stood up as well. He staggered in the drifting sand and grabbed her arm, as if the blood had left his head. It probably had. Leslie was well versed in the evil of fornication, the Elders at her church made sure of that. It made men weak, and now she saw it. Dick wobbled a little and made an awkward smile.

"I don't want your smiles and I don't want your company, I don't want anything from you!"

"Well you're going have to take my advice whether you like it or not. You've got a hill farm, don't you?"

Leslie started. Was he there, could he have lit that fire? She darted away, her pockets jiggling as she went, but she hardly cared what she looked like anymore.

"Quit acting act so skittish," he called, marching after her. "I don't give a damn about your farm. Father does, though. Reckons you're not making the most of your land."

"That's none of his business –"

"Oh, but it is. He holds the deeds. I know all about it."

And just like that he had turned the tables. Leslie's proud head drooped.

"And what's his advice?" she said through clenched teeth.

"Get your tenants to pay their way. He tells me you rent ten acres to the Simons, and they only pay you for two."

Leslie blanched. She'd had similar thoughts this morning, and made similar plans. Still, it hurt her pride to know she had come to the same conclusions as Abner Moore. "Only two of those acres are arable." It was the same excuse that ol' Simons would say.

"Not your problem," Dick shrugged, "but I tell you what is." His boots ground into the boardwalk as he turned to her and paused. "Paying my father the money you owe."

Leslie stalked past him, and he grabbed her arm again. She tried to shake him off but Dick would not let go. "Hasn't he got enough already?"

Dick released her and chucked her under her chin. "You should know by now, little Lorelei, some men can never get enough."

Leslie drew back, her lips in a sneer. "You're not coming to my home, not today, Mother isn't well."

Dick took a step away from her and made a low, sarcastic bow. "As you wish. I'm not going to force it. Tomorrow then, and I'll be wanting lunch. Not some cold fare, a proper bit of meat. After that, I think I'll take a good look around."

Regina: professionalism? Crikey! Thank you very much. I have never experienced a fire like that, though I have lived through wild fires and seen the sky go red. Using dirt to extinguish the flames comes from my slight obsession with the Mann Gulch fire in Montana, 1949, and a fire jumper with the wonderful name of Wag Dodge. If you want to read a story about being tested, look into it, it's a fascinating story. There's also a beautiful folk song, which is how I came to learn about it, called The Cold Missouri Waters.

FKAJ: I'm so glad you like it, J. It always struck me, how so many of Maud's characters are this close to losing their homes: when Matthew failed to get their money out of the bank before it failed, and Thomas died with a mortgage that Rachel couldn't repay. Luckily Marilla had the Barrys to rent her fields, and Anne to stay and help. Luckily Green Gables was big enough for Rachel to move in. Sometimes you don't get those lucky breaks, and sometimes you make decisions that make a bad situation worse. But you're right, they're not alone. Just like in Avonlea, the West women have people who look out for them. I don't think Leslie and Cornelia are best friends yet, but you can see how it would get to that point. Until the coming of Anne, of course! I can't wait for that part :o)

Angela: thank you, I love it when a reader thinks it's getting exciting. I wonder what you made of Dick?

Guest: Miss Russell is a treat. She's probably a mix of Aunt Chatty and Aunt Jimsie. And I liked the ghost line too. It struck me that neither Rose or Jim could forget their first love. It's a beautiful sentiment, but I also like the love story between John Meredith and Rosemary West (she must be related to Frank, don't you think?) who both loved and lost, and then found love again!

Bananifer: Will we ever get to know how Leslie really feels about Dick? I would tell you if I could, but I don't think she has worked it out herself. On the one hand he repulses her, on the other he excites her. That's all she really knows for sure. But I hope you keep reading and find out :o)

ozdiva: I was never quite sure what to make of Cornelia, and I don't know if Maud did either. At the beginning she is written very sympathetically. I think Maud wants us to believe that what Cornelia says about men must be true, because look at how selfless and good she is, despite her tart tongue. Then, in the second half of the book, Maud changes tack. We find out that a lot of the men Cornelia complains about aren't half as bad as she makes out. Shouldn't this make the reader question her opinion about Rose's treatment of Leslie too? It's these sorts of questions that made me want to write this story. As well as untangle exactly what went on between Leslie and Dick.

Thank you so very much for reading. In the next chapter... Dick and Rose finally meet, and the snare pulls even tighter.