Goodness, the age difference came up already. Let's get this out of the way, because I am aware that it's a thing.
This story is set in the summer of 1919, which is when Rilla of Ingleside ended. Rilla is now twenty, Ken is now twenty-five. Earlier in that story (the summer of 1915) Ken came to see Rilla briefly. She was sixteen and he was not quite twenty-one. They exchanged a brief kiss and a promise and then he went to war.
If Persis' comment about Rilla being fifteen when Ken last saw her confused my reviewer, I can only apologise. It was meant to show that neither she or Ken's parents knew about the kiss and the promise that occurred when Rilla was sixteen.
If the reviewer is unaware of the social norms of that time, then I shall give it my best shot. Sixteen was not considered a child back then. Anne was accepted into college at sixteen, she was in charge of an entire school at sixteen and before Gilbert's offer of Avonlea school was quite prepared to leave home. At fifteen, Rilla was considered old enough to adopt a baby.
Ken kissed Rilla once and lovingly, and she was very glad of that kiss. He might have pressed for another, given his age and circumstances (he was going off to war after all) but he didn't. Given that Rilla's mother was very encouraging of their relationship and given that as readers we have a lot of sympathy for Anne, we can deduce it was perfectly acceptable for Ken to have feelings for Rilla and for Rilla to return those feelings.
As a writer I am more interested in the time they have spent apart and how they might have changed during that time. And also, given their age difference, how little they really know about each other as they wouldn't have spent much time together alone. I am not interested in reviewers ascribing evil motives to Maud's beloved characters. Rilla of Ingleside is an important work historically: the only novel written by a woman about WW1 while the war was still occurring. It was also dedicated her to best friend, Frede, who died of Spanish flu. And you think she wrote Ken Ford as a predator? Be gone with you!
Yes, my stories play with these characters, yes, they behave stupidly, proudly, selfishly, lustfully, but they are also kind, honest, loving and good. Never predatory. If you read that into my stories then it's not me, it's you.
Ok, that's it. I'll address the other comments tomorrow. This chapter is very short. I can only say when I was writing them all, they seemed much longer!
Love, k.
3
Rilla was foremost on Leslie's mind too, but she was used to taking the circuitous route when it came to sharing confidences with her husband. Owen had a writer's mind (not that he did much writing these days) and preferred to suss out every angle and prod it for bias before he would deign to comment.
She was at her dressing table. He was in their bed, watching his wife and slightly mesmerised by the ritual of cold cream application: spirals on her cheeks and long strokes down her neck.
He shifted his hips under the bedclothes. He was in the mood. He was very definitely in the mood.
"Do you have to do that tonight?" He patted her side of the bed. "It's not as if you need it."
She continued her strokes unperturbed. "I only look as though I don't need it because I do need it. That's why I apply it every night and that's why I look as though I don't need it."
"You'd make a good politician, Les. I believe you've just explained why war is the only method for achieving peace."
"Well, it worked, didn't it?" She returned the lid to the jar on her dressing table and rubbed the excess cream into her hands. "It's over, he's home."
"Mmm, yes," Owen patted the mattress once more, "time to celebrate."
Leslie pretended not to notice, or at least not to understand. "I thought we had celebrated. I had no idea we still had that champagne."
"I was saving it till we saw our boy again."
Leslie couldn't pretend anymore. She left her stool and unwrapped her dressing-gown before perching next to her husband. "For all you affect to be some hard-bitten journalist, Owen Ford, you're really just a great big softie."
"Not all of me, I'm not," he baulked.
She laughed and when they made love it had that old time feel to it: the children down the hall, the worry they might hear something, the lights all dimmed in case one of them should come bursting into the room. After, she lay on his shoulder and ran her fingers through his chest hair, and half an hour later the light on his side was on and he was reading through a proof.
"Damn, where's my fountain pen? Ken's only been back five minutes and it's already missing."
"Did he say anything to you about what he plans to do next?"
Leslie Ford could bookmark conversations 'to be continued' in her head.
Owen removed his spectacles, because he understood his wife too, and the meaning behind her question.
"My feeling is we go along with it, Les. If Ken thinks he is engaged, then let us be happy for him and leave it at that. He's had enough fighting, the last thing he needs is for us to dig in our heels. The Blythes are good people and dear friends, if it all turns to custard, they'll know what to do."
"But would Rilla leave her family, leave the Island – for Ken? It doesn't seem like something she would do."
"You did it for me."
"Yes, but I was lonely, broke and lost."
"Were you now, I don't remember it being quite as dire as that."
"Well, I suppose I also loved you."
"Supposing Rilla Blythe loves our son too?"
"Yes, but Owen I don't want to suppose any more. I've had four years of supposing."
He kissed her nose and turned off the light. "You should be very good at it, then."
...