Di frowned thoughtfully, remembering the tension that had emanated from the straight-backed figure of Gertrude Olivier at Ingelside's breakfast table on the morning of their departure for the train. When Alice had boarded the train at Lowbridge station, it looked as if several passers-by at the train station had glared at Dr. Parker as he escorted his daughter onto the train, there were not a peep from Therese Parker, but on the other hand, even Anne hadn't had time to accompany them this time, Di thought, because Cornelia Elliot had rushed to Ingelside almost immediately after breakfast, apparently there had been some kind of malignant turn in the affairs of Glen's Ladies Sewing Society, which Cornelia had told in a low voice to Anne, in the living room, and Susan after glancing at Anne's serious face, she had closed the large double doors of the living room, which were usually open.
Rilla's warm singing had been heard from the garden, it had mingled with Jims laughter, Nan had slipped off in the direction of the bookshelf, to get a few more books for her trunk, the kind of beloved works that were always on loan, even in Redmond, and Di herself, had gone to sit in Walter's room, for a few for precious peaceful moments. The pale curtains had fluttered in the breeze, and Di had looked with curious eyes at her brother's bookshelf, the titles had been in neat rows, and everything was spotlessly clean, courtesy of Anne, who wouldn't let Susan clean here. The room had a slightly holy atmosphere, as if every piece of furniture and book was waiting for Walter to return. Di had sat down on a worn wooden chair, and looked out the window, a panoramic view spread before her eyes, the green garden of Ingelside, a glimpse of the sea, the harmony of nature at its best, and if Di reached out of the window a little to the right she could see the trees of Rainbow Valley looming thickly.
Kingsport glowed with life after the peace of the Glen, or so it seemed, the streets were full of people, as Di crossed the busy intersection, and she was soon near Perennial's office, she walked with expectant, excited steps into Perennial's premises. That office space was filled with promises and possibilities. With a satisfied smile on her face, Di went to her work station, and took out her fountain pen, the correction strips she had been working on in Ingelside. In the middle of the afternoon the swinging doors opened and Dorian walked in cautiously, as always. Di's delighted greeting died on her lips, for Dorian looked awful, with deep shadows under his eyes, and the colorful neckerchief over the collars of his white shirt was carelessly tied, and his dark trousers had deep wrinkles.
And a little confused, Di inquired, "Dorian, what's happened, you look like someone dragged you through a few hedges backwards?" Dorian, took his seat, and glanced in Di's direction, as if weighing something, and then after a moment's silence, he said, "The last few weeks, it's been quite a whirl around here, while you girls of Primrose Hollow have been enjoying the idyllic peace of the Glen. Nan wrote me about your concert. Meanwhile, Papa decided to involve me in various things, and it's quite exhausting, to be honest, this afternoon is the only time, for weeks, that I've had time to come here, and besides, I learned something important, and it's taken a long time to digest it, and the process is still going on, so no wonder if I seem exhausted, but enough of my own worries, how about your script?"
Instead of an answering, Di handed a thick stack of carefully written papers to Dorian and said, "Walter had absolute confidence in your abilities and vision, and although I already have a publishing contract, and have made the necessary corrections, to that, this work is something new, can you read it, and tell your opinion." Extremely interested, Dorian glanced it, and then hours flew by, as if unnoticed, as Dorian was transported by Di´s flowing, delicate way of weaving a plot, and sentences, like a loose prose poem, and after reading the last strip, Dorian looked up, and looked at Di in silence, and then he said , "Utterly marvelous, delicate and sensitive. I especially liked that description of the bluebell forest, where the evening light glowed between the flowers, and the shadows almost danced, in a quiet clearing, while the main characters, sat, and the blackbird sang, it almost seems that the description of the scene was too vivid, almost like a diary entry."
Di fingered her ink pen nervously, hoping that Dorian would change the subject, and luckily he did, as he remarked in his cuttingly witty way, "You're really talented, I don't know whether to cry or cheer at the interpersonal messes of the main characters. Your prose glows with a powerful vitality, and there are twists and turns. enough, the suspense is maintained, and the fascinating thing is that the characters are not all likable, but they are fascinating. And the only other thing that comes to my mind is that this should be published in serial-form and illustrated, perhaps?"
Di shot a sharp look at Dorian, but the young man just smiled at her, in his genuinely charming way, and said, "It was only a suggestion, and I told you I've had a great deal of business thinking shoved down my throat, so it's only natural that it shows up somewhere, for as you know I want to do good, in those areas which I feel are my own, and though I do not write as brilliantly as you, or dear Walter, did, I have several visions, and will soon have a full chance of realizing them when I come of age."
Di, raised her eyebrows inquiringly, and the little gesture seemed to make Dorian blush, for he leaned on his canes, and declared passionately, without his usual pomposity, "I'm quite serious. I'm a new generation Gardiner, and I want things to be better than they have previously been." A startled look spread across Dorian's expressive, strained face, as if his intention wasn't to reveal quite so much, so Di lowered her eyes with a small and fond smile as a slightly troubled silence reigned in the office. Dorian cleared his throat, and said, "Di, can you make some tea, my throat is very dry, and it's almost four o'clock?"
Di shook her red curls and said in her snappy style, "Mr. Gardiner, you can make your own tea, the gas stove is in the corner, as well as the collective store of tea and sugar too, I don't know if there's any milk. I think making tea for yourself is a growth experience for you , a first, one might even say." Dorian looked a little uncertain, but he walked slowly to the corner he was directed to, where soon a light clatter and hiss of gas began to be heard.
The afternoon light shone through the large-paned windows, and it almost seemed to play with the framed portraits of authors and certificates on the walls. Di concentrated on writing out Dorian's suggestions until after a moment Dorian remarked, "Tea is served."
Di walked into a little corner where there were two tea cups on a large tray, and a tea pot, and a small sugar bowl, and cold milk, in a glass, Di noticed that Dorian had put on a plate filled with fragrant cinnamon and sugar bisquits, baked from white flour, and Dorian grinned and said cheerfully, "I happened to have some in my bag, they are excellent with tea."
The teapot was bumpy and the handle was extremely worn, so carefully Dorian poured the tea into two clean but very ugly teacups - they were a bright intense orange shade, and had large gold-edged flowers painted on them, which might have been malvas, tea strainer was worked silver and there was a decorated bird's foot in the handle. Looking at this arrangement of crockery in front of her, Di thought that if Nan were here she might make some witty remark, that this office was the last place one would expect to find Victorian details, in silverware , but Di only held her teacup closer to Dorian, and took a bisquit, and tasted the tea.
A deep silence ensued.
And then Di said, "Dorian, how long did you strain the leaves?" "About five minutes, maybe a little over, how so, isn't that good?" Dorian answered. Di, sighed and with a truly heroic effort of control, didn't rub her temples, but said gently, "You chose basic black tea, and you overbrewed it, and besides, you also put sugar in the teapot, so it's also too sweet. " Dorian grinned, and said, "Di, you were right, this was a lesson. I learned that I really don't know how to make tea, so maybe you can come watch over me, and teach me how to do it in Ingelside way, in that way I could ruin things only once, hopefully."
Twenty minutes later, when Perennial's editor-in-chief arrived, he was surprised to find two of his best writers making tea with great enthusiasm, and taking an excellent biscuit from the plate into his mouth so that the crumbs dripped all over the floors he remarked, " Blythe, these biscuits are excellent, you can bake for us at any time. Perhaps Perennial should have annual biscuit weeks, it might improve the morale of the workers especially in those days when deadlines are looming!"
And before Di could answer anything, in reply to this off-hand query, the editor-in-chief, had slammed the door to his office so that the windows rattled, and Dorian whispered, "I can give you the recipe for these as soon as I can find it out from our family cook." Dorian did not at all understand why Di looked at him with flashing greenish gray eyes, then Di, closed her eyes for a moment, and said in a deceptively calm voice that was a little cool, "That recipe would be lovely, thank you Dorian, but I don't usually bake in Primrose Hollow."
Dorian sighed, a little dejectedly, remembering, one busy afternoon, when Alice had once appeared here at the premises, carrying a box of bisquits, they had been a small piece of heaven on earth. So Dorian inquired, in a low voice, "How are everyone in Primrose Hollow?" "We're all busy and it feels like we're literally drowning in Red Cross work and to-do lists, but that's why we're here and not in the Glen. I got a letter from Persis Ford, her Red Cross office in Toronto has an even faster pace than we do here, and therefore, her correspondences has suffered as a result. The Fords will not be coming to the House of Dreams this summer either." Di, repilied in her swift, way.
"What is the House of Dreams, it sounds like a fairy-tale place, like something Tennyson or Keats concocted in their spare time," Dorian remarked. Di glanced slightly amused at Dorian and said, "The House of Dreams is a house with the most beautiful crimson roses in its garden, and its flower beds are lined with white large shells, and as for its name, Mumsy was in quite a poetic mood when she came up with it."
Dorian listened in silence to Di's account of the wonders of the Four Winds region, and thought anew that even if the Ingelside twins didn't look or act alike, usually, this Di's narration might as well have been Nan's, the only difference being that Nan would have asked counter-questions at times, about Gardiner Hall, what Di didn't, for which Dorian was grateful, for a couple of weeks ago, when he had read his mother's diaries, his relationship with Hall had become slightly difficult. Sometimes in the evenings, as he was sitting in the library, he looked out of the wide windows, at the green and shady grounds, and wondered if perhaps his mother had ever sat on this same green velvet-covered window seat.
Di had returned to her writing, the rap of her ink-pen across paper were very soothing, and Dorian, in half curiously wondered if captivating Persis Ford had already answered his latest letter, if only to be polite.
And about a week later, in the summer-bright, shadowy Primrose Hollow, a carefully written note arrived, which Nan glanced at with the utmost curiosity, and remarked at the morning tea-table, to Di, "What is this?" Di, said cheerfully, "That Nanlet, happens to be the recipe for the world's best bisquits, which Dorian coaxed out of Gardiner Hall's head chef, using his considerable charm."
Nan raised her dark arched eyebrow, and said a little incredulously, "They're hardly that good now, mind you Susan and Mumsy both bake like angels, and for the past few years here we've been enjoying Alice's baking. Alice, what do you think of this?" Nan handed the note to her, and Alice, calmly, glanced at the lines, and without a word slipped into the kitchen, with fae-feet.
Twenty minutes later, the enchanting smell of cinnamon and regulated sugar and fresh bisquits, wafted from the kitchen. And Nan had to admit defeat, as accompanied with freshly brewed tea, the biscuits were unearthly lovely. Di, dripping the biscuit into her tea, told Dorian's tea anecdote. When the merry laughter had died down, Nan, tilted her head, and said thoughtfully, "It would be easier for us, if the men knew how to make tea, so really you did Dorian a favor. I'm almost sure Jerry can at least make tea, for surely, Rosemary Meredith has taught also for boys, at least that much."
Alice remarked "Years ago when we were at my aunt's house, I remember my cousins often asking for Butchy, one day my aunt taught them how to make it, and that's how it started. Plamen in particular was extremely excited, maybe he was drawn to the multi-step simplicity of baking, also to be in a space that didn't usually belong to men." And seeing Di and Nan's confused looks, Alice said, "Butchy is a kind of sweet bun that can be filled with jam, or cottage cheese, and topped with poppy seeds, it's extremely filling and delicious, sweet-journey-cake. I can dig up the recipe, if maybe you want to bake it for Jerry, Nan?"
Nan nodded, and Di glanced gently in Alice's direction, but she had gone to the kitchen, there was the clatter of dishes and light humming, in Czech, those vovels were soft, and clearly resonant.
Later that evening, Di, enquired, in the stillness of Alices room, as she was combing her hair open, "Alice, what song was that you hummed earlier?" Alice glanced half up, propping herself up on her elbow, and remarked, "It was, Dvorak, Dobrú noc, má mila, though it's really a lullaby." And noticing the twinkle of interest in Di's eyes, Alice smiled gently, straightened her posture, and began to sing, her voice rising with a soft, syrupy dark sweetness, filling the space. As the last wistful notes had faded, Di sighed, and said in her sincere and straightforward style, glancing lightly in Alice's direction, "Its even nicer to be here, isn't it?"
Alice, crossing her fingers a little uneasily, thought of Lowbridge's frantically tense mood, and her mother's shadowy eyes, and the almost indescribable relief that had come over her as she once again walked anonymously through the streets of Kingsport, and turning in Di's direction, Alice said softly, "You're right." And with soft fingers, Alice blew out the candle, a bluish gloom filled the room.
And a couple of days later, on a bright greenish-gold afternoon, sitting with Di in the garden at Primrose Hollow, Nan carefully remarked, "Alice seems very busy lately, she hasn't been seen here much." Di, looked up from the script of Dorian's new revisions and said, "Ah, Christine Stuart Dawson, caught Alice, she's had her time with her, she is running Alice almost ragged, or so I think, although Alice hasn't complained."
With the taste of raspberry sorbet lingering on her lips, Christine sat on her peach-colored silken divan, around her the bluish and gilt interior, empire-line furniture glowed, and three steps away stood Alice Parker, in her modest cotton dress. Alice's violet-colored gaze, two degrees lighter than her own, was focused, as she sang, "O Mors," by Earnest Dowson.
Christine tapped her hands together sharply once, and said, "Excellent, remember to keep that shimmering legato line, this is a lament, pause, let the emotion come out, it seems like you're holding back a little." Alice, straightened her back, and began again, and she had not got to the beginning of the second stanza, when Christine interrupted again, and said with a little sharp encouragement, "You're holding back, still, try changing the register, lift." Alice did as requested, a wistful smile creeping across her face, as Delius's notes shimmered in the opulent room, where a framed photograph of the dogs took pride of place.
Afterwards, Christine, turned to Alice, and said, "Create an atmosphere before you start, give the audience time, and remember to lean in, don't be afraid of the notes, play with them. You were memorable when I heard you in that slightly boring recital in Redmond, but under my direction you can become radiantly shimmering, also I believe in incentives." Christine, went to her wardrobe and opened it, pulling out a large lidded box with a pink bow, which she handed to Alice, as she glanced expectantly in Alice's direction. Carefully Alice, opened the box and there was a folded, emerald green hazy light silk dress. And then Christine's voice, came from behind her, and she said softly, "Do put it on, do, there's another room over there that can be used."
After a while there was a rustling of hems and Christine looked up from her correspondence, to see Alice leaning against the doorframe looking a little bothered and she said, "the buttons on the back of this dress won't close properly, they have to be closed, by someone else. I've already tightened the laces of my corset tighter, so that the silhouette of this dress will flow smoothly.
Christine, beckoning Alice to sit in front of her dressing table, and as she passed she glanced at the girl's strained shoulder blades, beneath which the upper edge of the corset was visible, along with lace and ribbon-edged, cotton slip, for the deep-grooved back of the dress was partially open, and with quick warm fingers, Christine closed the small, slippery cloth-covered buttons. Alice's reflection in the large oval-shaped mirror was enchantingly, deliciously fresh, and Christine, with a confident hand, lifted Alice's thick hair to the nape of her neck with pearls studded pins, and said, "Well, now, I knew that shade of color would suit you. Here's a performance outfit that'll do for various occasions, that you don't have to borrow Dorothy's wardrobe, even though that Soeur Callot had been utterly lovely on you, all that light rustle." And as once before, Alice, glanced at her through the mirror, Christine, lowered her gaze, in triumph, for there was almost nothing as pleasurable as a well-planned attack that was going smoothly, as light satisfied sigh was heard in the quiet room.
Later, in the quiet peace of the Primrose Hollow living room, Di inquired of Alice, "How's practice going?" And in silence Alice recalled the feeling of being seen, which had been almost intoxicatingly sharp. Christine Stuart Dawson´s manner had been, exacting, precise and warm, as the light in the hotel suite, had shimmered, almost like scales, and there had been scent of malty tea, in posh tray in the side-board. Alice looked towards Di, as she said, " It is quite intense."
The library of Redmond Musical Association was very quiet, almost sleepy. With trembling hands, Madeleine Dobson stroked the envelope that had arrived a couple of days ago, her pulse was rising as she looked at the handwriting on the envelope and the stamps that had been smudged, apparently during the trip. And with an almost steady hand, Madeleine put the letter down in her desk drawer, and locked it, the click of the lock echoed, a light click that seemed to say, "later, later," and resolutely Madeline glanced at the towering forest of forms around her.
The hours flew by, the light changed, and Madeline's hand ached from writing so much. A ray of light glowed in the jade green teapot, and tiredly, Madeline got up and trudged into the cool, quiet corridors of the library. There were but a few customers in the reading-rooms, and in one corner, where Alice Parker sometimes sat, there was a pile of thick sheet music, and a few librettos of varying contents. Turning on her heels, Madeline walked across the hall towards the concert hall, the door of which was half open, but the hall was deserted, as she stood in the doorway, Madeline smelled the light, rosewater scent, so obviously a customer had been there. In the reservation book was a note written in an upright, confident handwriting, - "Tune the piano again, it's out of tune." And shaking her head, Madeline glanced at her worn wristwatch, and calmly began to usher the last customers out. The shrill whistling of the teapot broke the quiet waiting peace of the study, and wiping her slightly clammy hands on her practical skirt, Madeline poured herself a cup of tea, and cut the envelope open.
M
A crackling gramophone record plays Ravel - Shéhérazade, the streets of Venice hum, and seagulls fly in the blue sky, yes I ended up in Venice, and I know you're probably laughing when you read this, because as you may remember I wasn't particularly fond of being by the water, but I've lived by the canals for several years. That being said, if I could I'd trade it all to spend these years with you, I would do it in less than heartbeat, to be with you in a little attic room, furnished with random furniture we'd borrowed from friends, a real electric mess, it would have been. The autumn storms would have slammed the shutters, and the world around would not have been there. Well, if wishes were horses, but I can promise this. Someday, maybe soon, if circumstances permit I'll be with you, you'll look over your shoulder at the door of your office, and you'll notice a figure, and it's me.
Yours,
C
Madeline wiped away a tear, and as she did so she remembered Claire's light, lofty voice saying with playful seriousness, "Being near water, I always feel a bit vague, but the light is heavenly, and even the darkest days don't feel so pulsating then."
Madeline closed her eyes, and remembered the hours they had walked in the parks, in the summer heat, taking care to walk only on the shady side, Claire had playfully picked a small bouquet of flowers, and with quick, careful gestures, handed it to Madeline, as they approached the Glazebo Claire's steps had become slow, and she had cautiously looked around, like a hare, ready to pounce, but Madeline hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, in the peaceful early evening park scenery.
And then two days had passed and Claire hadn't been seen at their usual meeting places, none of them. And rubbing her temples lightly, Madeline still remembered the piercing, heart-stopping horror she had experienced when she had read, in a newspaper, the lurid headline, "Body of young woman found, near Glazebo, foulplay not suspected." And then a fortnight later, when Claire had appeared pale, serious, but alive, Madeline had been wild with joy, which in the course of that afternoon had turned into subdued caution, it was credo by Madeline had lived ever since. and, with a light sigh, Madeline glanced at her calendar, where a black star glittered on the pale paper, it signified Dorothy's soiree, which would soon take place, the usual summer-do.
The corridors of Gardiner Hall were shadowed as, in the wee hours of the morning, Royal walked up the carpeted stairs, and carefully he opened the door to Dorian's room, a quiet breath was heard, and for a moment Royal glanced at Valentine's painting hanging in a straight line with the opened door. Silently Royal thought, Val, you can be proud of our son, it seems that in the last few months he has perhaps found a new direction for himself. A volume in the baroque fabric of Valentine's diary shimmered on Dorian's bedside table, and for a fleeting moment Roy felt the urge to read his late wife's most secret thoughts, but then the thought passed.
New morning dawned slowly, it brought along, to every home latest headlines of the Battle of Messines, near West Flanders, where the Canadians and II Anzack Corps had been involved with.