LM Montgomery owns Anne of Green Gables. Margaret Mitchell owns some other characters. I own the characters you don't recognize from any stories you have read. And legal disclaimers are for the birds. Tweet Tweet.

Marybeth sat sideways on the crumbling wall with her feet stretched out in front of her, leaning back on her arms, face tilted towards the sky. It was nearly midnight, her favorite time for jaunts to Rainbow Valley, and she strove to relax enough to make it worth her while to go back to her house and fall asleep.

Her emotions were not altogether unpleasant, but there were many things vying for her attention at that moment. Lanie was due any day now and Marybeth tried to make her rest, but Lanie declared she'd go insane if she weren't able to work at all. Ted had been in a strange mood since the night of the bonfire--quiet and pensive. He wasn't rude or disrespectful, but Marybeth was concerned. She didn't want to intrude on his privacy, but if this kept up much longer she would have to have a talk with him.

On the other hand, something had happened to make her laugh. She was down in the village with the girls when Aunt Kitty MacAllister stopped them in the road. Marybeth mostly disapproved of Aunt Kitty's "second sight"--it was too much like Spiritism in Marybeth's opinion--something she wanted to avoid. But Aunt Kitty insisted that she saw marriage in Marybeth's future.

"You can foresee this, Aunt Kitty?" Marybeth had asked, skeptically.

"Don't be ridiculous," Aunt Kitty retorted. "Anyone can see that you're just the type of woman who needs to be married."

Marybeth had been annoyed at the time, but now it seemed funny to her. She crossed her ankles and sighed.

Her thoughts jolted back to the present when she heard footfalls and turned her head towards the source of the sound. It was without surprise that she saw her neighbor.

"I had a feeling you'd be here tonight," Mr. Douglas greeted her. Marybeth shrugged.

"I'm just observing the stars and the moon..."

"It's made out of green cheese, you know."

Marybeth raised her eyebrow at him. "Don't tease. You know perfectly well it's an enormous rock."

"I'm impressed, you must read a little bit."

"Ha. I happen to read quite a bit."

Mr. Douglas sat on the wall opposite her and made himself comfortable laying back and looking at the stars.

"You read a lot, do you?" He asked. "Care to discuss Darwin?"

"With you? Never. Anyway, I don't want to think tonight. I just want to sit and rest a while."

After a moment's pause, Mr. Douglas said, "Mrs. Hamilton, why are you here?"

"I told you--I wanted to get out of the house and--"

"No. Why are you here in Glen St. Mary? Now. This summer."

Marybeth paused for a moment to think. The conversation was becoming personal in way that made her uncomfortable. "It seemed like a good idea--new scenery--when Anne wrote me and told me about--"

"You knew Mrs. Blythe before you moved here?"

"For somewhere around 10 years, but--"

"Never mind, never mind," he said impatiently. Then he continued, "Mrs. Hamilton, I don't want to imply anything--"

"Then don't," she said, curtly.

"No, hear me out. Glen St. Mary is a very small town. Gossip is terrible. There's a bunch of old biddies who love nothing more than to get their hands on a nice, juicy story."

"Mr. Douglas, if you'll kindly get to the point," Marybeth's patience was wearing thin and her stomach had a tight knot in it.

He turned his head towards her. "Fine. Last week, in my barn, you lost your accent. It changed into something else. Care to explain how a nice Southern belle starts talking like a Yankee? I was going to ask you then, but the doctor arrived."

"You needn't have let that stop you. The Blythes already know. I wasn't born down South. In fact, I never, ever, claimed I was. I lived many years there, but I was born in Pennsylvania. A city called Bethlehem. My parents still live there. My accent is a habit, not what I was born with. But it's not fake. It's acquired." She strove to speak calmly, but he was making her upset. Was she being accused of dishonesty?

"Fine, that's a logical explanation."

"I'm so glad you approve," she said, heavily sarcastic.

"Mrs. Hamilton, don't get mad at me. I don't think anybody else suspects you're actually a Yankee. At least, there hasn't been any gossip about it. But there is another thing, and if people start adding everything up..."

"What."

"The story going around that your late husband fought a duel to the death to marry you."

Marybeth stood up with a cry, her hands curling into fists.

"I told you," he continued. "This is a small town, where people have nothing better to do than gossip."

"And you have nothing better to do than to cast it up in my face!" She cleared the space between them in two steps and stood over him. "You want to know about my life? Fine!" She was furious by now and started hitting him. "I ran away from home when I was fifteen," she gasped and hit him. "Lived on the streets," she hit him again, harder. "Pick pocketed," She took another swing at him, but he caught her wrist and she struggled to free her hand. "Pick pocketed to survive until...until..." He put an arm around her, hard, to immobilize her. "Let go of me!" She was crying now. Still struggling, she kicked him hard on the shin, which made him let go of her, then turned and ran towards home.

He caught up with her easily, picked her up and sat down with her in his lap, holding her tightly until fatigue made her give up struggling. He hadn't imagined she would react so violently. If his late wife had ever shown a fraction of Marybeth's spirit...He grinned at the thought. Then he realized that Marybeth was crying quietly, and shaking from the aftermath of too strong emotions.

"Get your handkerchief," he whispered, and loosened his hold so she could reach it. She dabbed at her face.

"Understand this," he said; "no matter what you have in your past, it won't make me lose esteem for you. I already decided you're a decent sort. But I don't want to see you becoming a subject of gossip for other people."

Marybeth didn't answer him.

He decided to change the subject. "Is it really 'Marybeth', or is it short for something else?"

"Mary Elizabeth," she mumbled.

"Mary," he said, turning her face towards his. "You've struggled quite a bit in your life, haven't you?"

Giving him stare for stare, she said clearly, "Everything that happened to me, I brought on myself. I chose it and I did it. And my name is Mrs. Hamilton."

He pulled her close and sat quietly with her. To his surprise, she didn't fight him, only leaned against him tiredly.

"Why did you run away from home at such a young age?"

Marybeth choked up and couldn't answer him. When he heard her weeping again, he stroked her hair. He was surprised again when he felt her arms entwine around him.