Chapter eight

Dick Moore had only been working at the West place for a day and a half before Cornelia Bryant showed up. Leslie expected her long before then, though it wasn't as if the good lady hadn't tried. Mrs Dunbar had gone early with her seventh child and didn't have a stitch to dress the baby in. Consequently, Cornelia had to put her concerns aside to make some clothes for the poor wee mite. Knitting on the front porch where the light was best – and just happened to offer a clear view of the road.

It did not escape her notice that Abner Moore's wayward son had gone to the West's on Tuesday for afternoon tea and had stayed long after supper. On Wednesday, he'd made several journeys back and forth – in his father's wagon, no less. Why, anyone would think he was moving in!

"He was bringing supplies," Leslie found herself explaining, before she'd even had a chance to take Miss Bryant's flower-pot hat.

"For a banquet with the Queen?" quipped Miss Cornelia, noting the cans of oysters and caviar piled high on a shelf as she waltzed into the kitchen.

Leslie gave a dismissive sniff. Once upon a time, she would have counted down the days till she could savour such treats, one a tiny morsel at a time. Now, she wondered if she didn't prefer donating it all to the Dunbars.

"Would you like some to take with you?" said Leslie, in an effort to get her neighbour out the door. Dick would be turning up for his midday meal at any moment, and heaven knew what state of dress (or undress) she would find him in.

Leslie knew his tattoo intimately, by now. Knew there were no shells to protect the modesty of the mermaid's breasts; how her belly was round, and her navel deep. That the shapes beneath her tail were porpoises, etched onto his ribs. They shimmied when he moved, as did her body, flexing and curling with the muscles on his chest…

"Did you hear me, dearie? I said I wouldn't mind a cup of tea."

Leslie busied herself with the kettle, then fussed with the fire in the stove.

"Shouldn't you be getting the lunch on, where is your mother anyway? Oh yes, she'll be finishing up that Lennox gown." Cornelia waited for Leslie's acknowledgement before pinning her with a stare. "Molly Lennox is looking very plump these days."

"I agree," said Leslie smoothly, "Mother's had to alter the measurements twice. Would you like some cream instead of milk, we happen to have some," she added, hastening into the pantry and bringing out the remains of the cold leg of lamb.

"Cream, lamb, caviar, you are going to lot of effort." And some terrible expense, Cornelia thought to herself.

"True," said Dick, strolling in through the back door. His shirt was off and his chest was gleaming from his recent wash-down at the pump. "I haven't eaten this well since I was in Spain."

He turned from the gorgeous girl scowling at him, and gave Cornelia Bryant a wink. "She'll make a good wife," he said, nodding in Leslie's direction.

"She's still a child," Cornelia lobbed back, "with a lot of living ahead of her yet. Our Leslie has plans for herself. Best you cast your line elsewhere."

The kisses Leslie usually reserved for Miss Russell were very nearly given to Miss Bryant, and she sent the woman a grateful smile. Dick merely raised his eyebrows as if he knew better, and dried his hands upon Leslie's apron.

"Can't stay long, little Leslie. Might be better if you make up somethin' that I can take with me. I'm workin' on the Simons place this afternoon."

Leslie backed away from his grasp and retreated to the pantry once more, her ear attuned to the conversation that was bound to go on in her absence. Despite her grumblings there were some benefits to meddlesome neighbours, outspoken ones especially.

"That's mighty good of you, Dick," she heard Cornelia say, "considering the Simons' land belongs to the Simons."

"That's a matter of opinion," Dick retorted. "But I reckon even you'd agree that ol' Simons is no farmer."

Cornelia's wide lips pinched together. It was true, Jacob Simons was next to useless and worked his poor wife like a mule. But oh how it grated to admit such a thing to the likes of Dick Moore!

"Hmmm," she said, reaching for a reply that would put this man in his place, "well, neither are you, come to that."

"No, Miss Bryant." Dick gave her another wink. "I am a man with a plan."

The kettle's whistle shrieked through the air – or was it coming from Cornelia? Leslie thought it might be best to join the fray. She had what she needed to make Dick something he could eat up on the hill, and besides, her curiosity was peaked. It had never occurred to her that a man like Dick Moore had any aspirations.

She came out with an expectant look, one that Dick was quick to deny. He grabbed the loaf from her and the left-over lamb, then without so much as a grateful nod he strode out of the kitchen.

Leslie did not realise she was staring after him, until Cornelia spoke again.

"He's a sailor, not a farmer, Leslie dearie. Take care not to get yourself hooked."

Get hooked? As if she would! How could Miss Bryant think such a thing, Leslie couldn't wait for her to go. She did go too, after two cups of tea, and left Leslie rattling around the house looking for something to do. This was especially aggravating when she knew her mother was upstairs working on the Lennox gown. Her wrist wasn't getting better, but Mother was adamant. Leslie was not allowed to help.

Rose, of course, did not take Cornelia's view that Leslie had a lot of growing up to do, nor did she have any idea of her daughter's plan. A plan that looked like it was getting further and further from Leslie's grasp with each withdrawal from her savings.

Ten dollars for fresh hardware supplies, twenty for additional lumber, and Lord only knew how much the man expected to be paid. Dick impressed her with the fact he was sourcing the supplies for cheap through his contacts, but how could Leslie know for sure. It was no use talking to Mother about it, she was simply glad that someone had come to take the farm in hand. No, not someone. The only one that counted; that handsome, helpful, doting angel, Dick Moore. There was no disabusing Rose of this notion, especially when he was always so charming. Though, even Rose had to laugh when Dick told her he thought she was Leslie's sister.

Yes, she had once been the Rose of the Glen, but those days were long gone. Her sumptuous figure had wasted away with the loss of her husband; she scarcely had an appetite at all. Rather, it had been replaced with a relish for imported satins and Belgian lace. Sometimes, Leslie wondered if the beauty her mother stitched into each creation was subtracting some beauty from her. She vowed to herself that the Lennox gown would be her mother's final fancy. Only serviceable, simple things would be sewed from then on.

That evening Rose entered the kitchen, rubbing her swollen wrist. "But where is Dick," she said by way of greeting, "did he go home early, you've only made soup for supper?"

She looked into the pot of bubbling peas and barley, before flopping into her armchair. Leslie offered her a large mug of tea.

"I planned on making a bone broth, but Mr Moore took all the lamb."

"You're just not used to a man's appetites, Leslie. They can't survive on scraps like we can."

"Mother," Leslie laid a bowl of soup on the settle, "please eat. If you don't like the soup, perhaps I can tempt you with some the treats?"

Rose almost spilled her tea at the surprising suggestion. The red sash Leslie always wore was the only extravagance the girl had ever allowed.

"Goodness, no, I'm saving those –"

"For what?" Leslie was just as surprised.

"For a happy day not too far in the future..." Rose answered, dreamily. "After that, my darling daughter, you can help me with all the wedding dresses you like."

Leslie ignored the insinuation and pulled the mug out of her mother's hands in order to inspect her wrist. It looked to be getting worse. She couldn't button up her cuff anymore.

"How can you hold a needle, let alone make a straight seam? Forget that silly superstition and let me help you, Mamma."

"I don't care a fig for my own hands, not when I could look at yours." Rose gave Leslie a knowing look. "The day you bear a ring on your finger is the day I shall let you work on such a thing, and not a moment before."

She gulped down her tea and returned to the sewing room, leaving her daughter alone once more. In a move half from spite, half from loneliness, Leslie crept into the parlour and resolved to spend the evening there.

Soft light streamed through the dusty windows, the few small roses that had survived her mother's butchering like little butterflies beyond the pane. Leslie went directly to her father's rows of books, not wanting to admit that the book she most wanted was upstairs in her room. No, the book she most wanted was now lost to her forever. Five Hundred Years of Verse. To think she could have bought her own copy ten times over with the money she'd had to spend. It wasn't fair, she had worked and saved all year long, and in the space of one summer it had been frittered away. Perhaps if she told her mother about her dream to go to Redmond, perhaps she might be allowed to go...

Leslie did not pick up one of her father's books, nor look at his portrait on the mantel. But he was the one she was thinking of when she curled up on the sofa.

"I miss you," she murmured, a sob in her throat, "oh I miss you, I miss you so much..."

The next morning Leslie woke to a strange silence instead of the rustling willow. She pulled herself up and immediately noticed the crick in her neck. That's what happened when you forgot to go to bed. She stretched out her long legs and glanced at the stopped clock above the fireplace. What was the time? Where was her watch! From the angle of the sun outside it must be after six by now. Mother would be waiting for her cup of tea, and Leslie did not want to be discovered in the parlour again.

It took more time that she would have liked coaxing the stove to life. Dick still hadn't made good on his promise to clean the chimney, but then he had been very busy. Leslie didn't even hear him go home last night. He always left at seven in the evening and usually arrived some time after ten. It took a good chunk of his morning, he said, to haggle over supplies.

On the way to her mother's bedroom she stopped in at her own, and peered out the window to the driveway. His wagon was still there for everyone to see! He must have stayed the night! Leslie longed to confront him and give him a piece of her mind but she must take care of her mother first.

The door to her bedroom was closed, which was unusual for Mother, who always liked to have it open a crack. Inside Leslie saw her small, almost child-like shape under the coverlet, then heard her a make whimpering sound.

Leslie placed the mug on the washstand without one thought for the ring it would leave, and hastened to her mother's side.

"Les-ley, ohhh Les-ley... is that you?"

Leslie froze, frightened by her eerie voice, this was so unlike Mother's other dreams. Rose was grey-faced, and she pushed herself up awkwardly, before vomiting all over the summer-weight bedspread.

There were too many things to be done before Leslie could ask her what was wrong, let alone what to do about it. After the mess was cleaned up and the nightdress changed for a clean one, Rose settled down to a woozy sleep.

Unsure whether Mother was really sickening or if it was merely an unsettled stomach, Leslie took the soiled linens downstairs. She found Dick in the kitchen helping himself to the last of the bread, which he heaped high with greasy smoked oysters.

"Making yourself at home, I see," Leslie muttered under her breath, as she marched out the backdoor.

She took her time rinsing everything clean, hoping when she returned from the laundry she would find that Dick had moved on. That he had surprised her, as did the evidence that he had gone to some effort to wash up his dishes. A feeling that had nothing to do with gratitude and everything to do with disappointment began to well up inside. Leslie wanted see him. She wanted to tell him he had no right to eat those oysters, and he certainly had no right to stay over! She hated to think what Miss Bryant would say, though now Leslie thought it about it, she was even more intrigued by her mother's response. In her eyes, Dick Moore could do no wrong. At last, she might be sympathetic to Leslie's own feelings towards him.

She tiptoed into her mother's room, then thought better of her tiptoeing and opened the curtains with a sweep.

Her mother moaned softly and raised her hand to her waxy brow. "Thank goodness you came back, I've got the worst head."

Leslie was determined not to be sidetracked until she had said her piece. She leaned in close, as if Dick might hear her, as if he was still lurking about in the house.

"Mother, I have reason to suspect that Mr Moore stayed here last night."

"Hmm? Oh yes, I said that he might. He came in looking for supper, poor thing, while I was making up some coffee. Actually, darling, I could do with some now."

Leslie was hardly about to run errands once she heard this, and resolved to push her point. "You said he could stay – in our house?"

"I think he said he would camp out in the stables with his horse."

"How could you?" Leslie was furious and no longer cared if Dick overheard. "Heaven knows what our neighbours will say!"

"Oh, you do remind me of Grandmother West," Rose said, crossly, "This is my house, Dick is my guest, I can do what I like."

Leslie's blue eyes narrowed. She was about to tell her mother how much she sounded like Dick, when Rose leaned forward and touched her cheek.

"Please, could you bring me some coffee, and a headache powder? I only have one day left to finish the gown and I feel just awful."

She fell back on her pillows after saying this but the smell of her skin remained. Before it had been masked by stench of sick. Now it cloyed the air. It couldn't be true, she wouldn't... Mother would never drink.

Guilty for even thinking such a thing, Leslie realised she had never asked about the source of her mother's complaint. If only she had never asked, because the answer… oh, it changed everything.

Rose told her, quite shamelessly too, that she had spent several hours in Dick's company last night. The dear lad noticed how her poor wrist ached and pressed her to try his cure, one that soothed every pain known to a man. The cure, of course, was rum, which he poured into her coffee mug and they chatted away till the small hours of the morning.

"It worked too, the pain left me completely. I worked on the gown for an hour or so then I had to go to bed. Do you think that's why I was so ill? Miss Russell often says that coffee is very bad for the stomach."

Leslie was incredulous. "Mother, you were drunk!"

"Tush," Rose said, unimpressed. "You can't get drunk if you put rum in coffee. Dick told me so, himself."

Flabbergasted, Leslie dashed to the sewing room and looked upon the Lennox gown. She hadn't had a chance to see it since her mother started working on it. And it was… a disaster. Every crooked seam Rose had sewn she had tried to hide with a bit of lace or a silk rosette. She had ruined the neckline, made the waist shapeless and pouchy. As for the train, she had sewn on a totally different fabric complete with a small insert for the gold fob watch they had yet to find.

Leslie stormed into her bedroom and retrieved her sewing basket, then with a firm and purposeful step to went to her mother's room.

"I've seen what you've done to Molly's gown, why didn't you let me help? Your obsession with this idea that I am going to marry Dick has got to stop!"

"You don't understand –" Rose began. She then saw the look on Leslie's face and shrank into her pillows.

"I am going to fix the mess you made, and don't you dare try to stop me. You may leave a meal outside my door but I don't want to see you, right now."

Rose watched helplessly as the girl turned hard on her heel and shut the door with a slam.

"Darling, I never meant... Leslie, please come back!"

But there was no answer, just a sound of the latch on the sewing room door being locked against her.

...

Thank you to everyone who is giving this story a chance. I realise watching a snare tighten further and further around the hero hardly makes for relaxing reading, but we are almost at the end. The shit is about to hit the fan in the next chapter, then this part of the story will close with chapter ten.

kwak

Catie-girl: Wow, thank you. I have to admit I don't always understand why I am writing this, Leslie is almost the polar opposite of Anne; so hard, so closed off, so lacking in kindred spirits. Rose too, is everything Marilla is not, sentimental and next to useless. I want to shake her, but I also understand why Leslie feels so protective of her. As for Dick, well what can I say. You can almost hear the worry in Cornelia's voice, she knows Leslie is being thrown like a lamb to the wolf. Thanks for reading this, Cate. I really appreciate it :o)

Kim Blythe: Hello, how lovely to hear from you after all this time. Did you see Bright River has finally posted a new chapter to her new story? I am so excited.

Guest: Sorry about the delay. This story seems to need a lot of percolating before I can write. Thanks for waiting!

FKAJ: I'm so happy that readers are responding to Rose, even if just to scream at her. She is so full of contradictions: thinking herself the better person for settling on a poor man, then pretending to be something she is not by spending money she does not have. It doesn't even occur to her that it's LESLIE'S money! Argh! As for Dick, it's kinda fun to write a character who doesn't give a shit, and you can see why Leslie (so burdened with everyone's expectations) would find that appealing. I like the push and pull she feels whenever she is around him; she doesn't want to see him, then she does want to see him, she wishes he would leave, but she can't stop looking at him. I think if she was older she would handle this better. But at sixteen (why Maud, why did you have to make her sixteen!) you know she is already in over her head.

Regina: That's quite the compliment, not caring if our King and Queen never show up! Perish the thought! But it was always important to me to create a story that could stand up on it's own. It does get hard though, when I think of all the years of loneliness that Leslie is going to suffer through before Anne finally turns up. Thanks for your best wishes, Regina, I wish the same for you too :o)