Gray Moore house, shaded by willows, and a brook, its lane opened to a reddish upper road that wound its way to the Four Winds. Bright sunny afternoon in late September, Leslie, toiled in her garden, as she was keeping tryst with her old memories.
The back yard of the Moore house opened into a shady garden that had been late Rose Elliott's pride in years past, beautiful, romantic, but impractical flowers had in those days grew there in sping and summer, clusters of wild bluebells, violets, forget-me nots, and bleeding hearts, amid verdant mossy grass, and ferns, when Kenneth´s joyful laugh had ecoed there, before everlasting silence had fallen as her family had begun to slowly fracture.
Beautiful, angelic but impractical Mama, who got tired so easily, with backbreaking farm-work, and mostly retreated to her flowers and crafts. Papa with his mercurial moods, and poor health, always humming old far-off shantys with his uneaven baritone, spinning tales from old books, on good days, until his moods, came more often.
Leslie remembered clearly still, how Doctor David had shaken his head, and muttered, "Frank, you have poor chest, it will take you to your grave, sooner or later." And standing in the shadows of the hall, Leslie had heard Doctor David say, half to himself, in gruff tone. "How does this family live? On potatoes and point. Well, there's proof, not all men are born farmers. Frank West, has always been a dreamer, for all his celverness. And fair Rose, such a woman should not be so exhausted, and stooped from toil. Bad business that with young Kenneth. Cornelia Byrant did what she could, to the lass and Rose, as women do, cook, and help."
Leslie wiped her hands on her modest, but sturdy linen apron and listened, defiantly shaking away those old recollections, they did not make the work any lighter. Yard was quiet, the geese didn't cackle. With a grim look, Leslie knelt in the soil, her arms stained with mulch, as she was inspecting her meager harvest; rows of carrots, beets, onions, and pumpkin beds.
Sighing, Leslie rubbed her back, and as her eyes fell on the late blooming mint and the parsley bed, herb of grace, looming in the shadows. Trembling, Leslie rubbes her arms, where pale star-like burn scars dotted them, in corcusant patterns. Leslie looked down at her hands. They were dainty, mud stained, roughed with work, there were calluses, and peeling burn.
The sound of a horse-drawn carriage could be heard faintly from the road, and cautiously Leslie looked up. It was only a glimpse, of tall broad-shouldered man, with impish hazel eyes. Four Winds village had been buzzing with talk of those Blythes, of keen and clever a young doctor, city trained, with newfangled notions of new procedures, some relation to old David Blythe, his lovely, but queer redheaded wife, who wandered around talking to flowers as if waiting for an answer, occupied Elizabeth Russell's light little house. Of these past four weeks, they had lived there, and the simple social customs of Four Winds precisely defined that especially the nearest neighbors should be welcomed with open arms, but Leslie rebelled, because the thought of meeting newlyweds enamored half-looks, and blossoming love, was too painful, as it was too straining contrast of her own circumstances.
The fence clicked open, in the golden afternoon light, Leslie strained her eyes, as Captain Jim, stepped into the yard, Dick, saltwater stains in his shirt, three steps behind him. In the corner of the garden, in the shade, Carlo, raised his head and growled warningly, as Captain Jim, said soothingly, " Well, met Carlo, it is only us, here. No one will harm your mistress."
Leslie nodded curtly as she stood up and said coolly, "Jim, were you sailing or fishing again?"
Dick, laughed, not his usual mindless titter, which grated on Leslies nerves, and held out with his other hand a little zinc pail containing glistening gutted fishes, as he mumbled, " Fishies for pretty, pretty, my pretty."
Avoiding looking into Captain Jim's blue eyes, for their look of worldess, courteous sympathy, cut Leslie's heart like a burning iron, Leslie bent down to stroke Carlo's black-gray, rough fur. Captain Jim said in his placid way, " Off the sandbars there were quite a school of boats, and we had quite a time there. Sometimes it seems that the sea eases, Dick is not so vague, then, as he makes knots in the nets and enjoys of the wind."
Leslie glanced at Dick, and said briefly, "It is suppertime soon. Stay to eat, Capitain Jim, fish and potatoes, with parsley and late herbs."
Captain Jim, nodded, and said gently, "Dick, come along now."
Afterwards, as Captain Jim's pipe smell no longer lingered in the yard, and Dick's shirt dried on a line. A pot was simmering in the kitchen, the smell of mint, parsley and rue was strong. Leslie stirred, and stirred, and as she stirred she remembered how confident Dick's smile had been, as he had leaned over the counter of Abner Moore's store that spring, as he had said, "Pretty, Leslie, Leslie, cool as a mermaid that roams the land, but fortunately a sailor, like me, knows what to do. There is quite a trill to a chase, dance, it's something to do, while away the time, so shall we go?"
Leslie had snubbed Dick, in no uncertain ways, but the man had only laughed, amused, as Leslie had turned down his attentions, until the day, the pale green gray end of may day, when Rose had come into Leslie's chamber with tearful eyes, and said, with her gossamer deft delicacy, that was effective, as it blended manipulation with that westian stain of steely family loyalty that was inborn of her remaining childs heart, as Rose had cajoled Leslie. " We are trapped because Abner Moore has unpaid debt books left over. Dick wants you, Leslie, you could make a worse marriage deal. Dick Moore, although he has that strange hankering to far-off lands, sea is in his blood. Sailor never settles, not truly. You my dearest one, surely don't want to take me from my home where your father brought me, as a bride, where your brother lived and died? Maybe new happiness can be born from this union, one never knows? I do know that you will be the most beautiful bride that Four Winds have ever seen!"
And what had followed after that, an endless, tearing, burning, intoxicating revulsion that bordered on hatred had kindled in Leslie's heart, hatred for those other people, of oily Abner Moore, gossipy matrons of Four Winds, with the exeption of Cornelia Bryant, all of them, had thrown her, a virgin, into the wolf's mouth, in that one seasonal wedding of the year.
Shivering, Leslie inhaled the scent of the mixture, and as she did so, she remembered how possessively Dick's hands had touched her ankles and calves during the wedding meal, almost ripping the delicate white stockings. A skilled, experienced, wolf, but a wolf all the same.
Dick had stretched lazily, his breath smelling of biting rum, as he had laughed with lazy masculine satisfaction, and remarked, "Well, you look like you can take a few more. I'm not at all tired yet. It's a bit of a shame my cousin couldn't make it to my wedding as George would have taken a shine to you, my pretty. Look, we got these tattoos, on our first trip together, oh, handful years ago now."
Leslie had barely raised her tearful eyes from the pillow and saw for the first time that tattoo that adorned Dick's collarbone, spreading slowly down towards his broad chest. It was a stylized mermaid, or siren, half covered by her hair, ink flowed, delicately rounded body that was half woman and half fish. Tattoo was so erotic that Leslie lowered her eyes in confusion, as she felt again all those aches and pains of her own body had to experienced under Dick, it had been as impossible to resist as the everlasting tide, though Leslie had tried, all eventually ending scarlet blood, running in rivulets, of Leslies split lip, as Dick had rumbled, in her ear, " Be still now."
And Dick had taken her with force, at her wedding night, not gentleness, with tearing, agonizing, flaring pain, which hurt, again, and again. In that lewd, even crude pounding, which was as far as possible from the love scenes of romantic books.
Slowly as Mama had withered towards the grave, that first year, then second year, as Dick's temper always seemed to be hair-trigger away from erupting, it turned out that he did not have farming aptitude either. Only puppy that he had named Carlo could sooth him, as his eagerness to sea only grew.
In time with carefull skill, Leslie covered her welts, scars and blooming bruises, under her dresses and blouses, those marks from Dick´s attentions, as Leslie danced around Dicks moods quite similar way that she had of her beloved Papas.
One morning Dick put his toast on the plate and said, with a certain glint in his multicolored eyes, "Leslie, I'm going on a journey soon, on a ship, The Four Sisters, the journey will last about a year. I have been land-locked far, too long, even though Four Winds is a port village, everything here is so modest, compared to the wonders of the world and the enchantment of the sea. I will put the crops before I leave, so you will be taken care of."
The door creaked in the kitchen, and Leslie turned, all nerves on alert, one hand clutching the ladle tightly. But Carlo just walked into the kitchen. The great hunting dog drank water, calmly, and after drinking settled down on top of an old blanket, as if to say, "everything will be fine as long as I'm here, guarding."
From the back room came Dick's mindless humming, a single note that hardly ever varied. Leslie had often tried to find out what Dick was humming, but there had never been an answer, at least not a clear one. Dick just looked at Leslie, looking confused, like a child lost in the woods. Leslie never had reproached Captain Jim when he had returned Dick, to her, or what was left of him, that shell, everything else had drained away, the desire for adventure, the wild desire for pleasure, the dissatisfaction, and his desire to own, to posses, that a kindling flame that had slowly turned to ash instead of the durable diamond that was love.
Four Winds was shaken by the fierce storms of October. It had rained non-stop, as the sea raged blue-green high waves, they crashed against the reddish rocks. In the twilight of the first clear, beautiful evening, Leslie sat on the rocky shore and looked at the horizon.
Suddenly, the calm of the evening was broken by silvery, bright laughter, as a slim red-haired figure danced wildly, joyfully on the beach. That bright laugh seemed to be calling Leslie silently saying that there could more to life than gray moments, filled with memories and fears, it seemed to glimmer simple joy of life, and the light, intoxicating carefreeness of youth. Slowly the laughter died down, as the red-haired girl, said in a slightly embarrassed voice, with a touch of scarlet on her ivory cheeks, "How thoughtless of me, to dance like this. You must think me a fool, I am Mrs. Blythe."
Anne Blythe, cast mesmerized glance at Leslie Moore as the sunset cast its glow upon her. Slightly despairing, Anne pondered that never before had her kindness, her offer of friendship, been rebuffed so coolly stiffly, not even Katherine had done that, quite, as the twilight had transformed into an October moonlight, as the two girls had exhanged their stilted goodbyes by the shore road.
Later that evening, in Gilbert's arms, Anne found herself thinking of Leslie, there was something in Leslie's being, some compulsion that tickled, as if she could, or wanted to talk, the conversation might be interesting and rewarding, to friends, but there seemed to be restraints, that barred. That half hidden, pleading look and shy tone of her voice, which was such a great contrast to her outward stateliness and golden brilliance, with the flash of crimson, lining her curves.
Gilbert noticed that Anne was restless, and with a sleepy twinkle in his eyes, he teased, "Thinking about our mysterious neighbor, perhaps?"
Anne turned, and in the dappled dodging light of the moonlight, she murmured, "Perhaps I am but surely you can distract me."
A soft baritone laugh echoed from the top floor of the small pale house, as the fragrant garden sparkled in October colors, the moonlight turning everything silver-blue.
In the Moore house, upstairs, shaded by the willows, Leslie looked out of the window, and could hardly see the beautiful poplars that rose up Mrs. Blythe's, from Anne's garden. Leslie rubbed her temples, for that recent encounter had been impressive, she seemed to catch the things Leslie was thinking as she recounted that brief conversation in her mind. Leslie, found that she had not laughed for a long time, but Mrs. Blythe's clear enthusiasm and love for Leslie's home district, towards Miss Cornelia, her witty and perceptive observations had been pleasing, so that laughter had burst forth, thoughtlessly, freely, and without care, as if it had been lured forth from a pair of large grey-green eyes. Carlo sighed, and barked in his sleep, Dick's snoring was heard, it echoed, in the stillness of the night, like the rattle of a chain.