Isaac West's house situated in Over Harbor was almost filled with lingering scents of Christmas food, various traditional recipes, and of fresh spruce needles as Leslie and Dick arrived to celebrate Christmas holidays, as was their custom. Anne Blythe's warm and heartfelt offer, a Christmas lunch with her guests from Avonlea, had been extremely attractive, and for a moment or two Leslie had wavered, as Anne had glanced in Leslie's direction with such friendly openness. But then, the old shadows had risen again, for the thought of Dick among strangers, of not kith and kin, had been too much, Leslie had demurred sweetly.
And here they were again, in this house, at Uncle Isaac's, who reminded so much of Leslie's beloved and lost Papa, but without his quirky quicksilver moods. There were happy and companionable cheers, as Dick was drawn along in merriment, of roasting chestnuts, with some cousins. Few West-relations murmured with side-eye towards Leslie, "Poor, poor Franks lovely lass, sweet Leslie has such a burden to bear. Do you remember how pleasant company Dick Moore used to be, with his ready laugh and that glint of devilment in his eyes. When the Hogmanay dances began, none could compete with them, such strenght, grace and lovelyness twined in. Those were the days, indeed."
Leslie could barely suppress her shudder that those carelessly uttered words caused, but she could, barely. For what she remembered was the gossip and the long glances directed at her as she had nibbled her dinner, for her stomach had been filled with a silent lingering fear of what Dick's temperament might yet become. A charming smile, you couldn't trust it.
A relative had spread peas on Leslie's plate and with a rougish wink at her, said, "Eat up dearest. He is such a strong strapping lad, that one. It must be true what they say about sailors that they're good with their fingers I mean?"
Leslie's general tactic for such curiosities was to smile coolly. Slowly, attention and conversations focused elsewhere, as always.
It was bittersweet to spend Christmas with her West relations, but still, idea of a change was even scarier. Clannish as Wests always were. The worn oak table sagged with food, and many conversations echoed around that table, old stories, old memories, but not a word about Leslie's parents, because Frank and his shameful fate was a sore point to most of Wests, who were as a rule hardworking modest people, with their nets and school of modest boats. Frank West had been the black sheep of his family, even as a boy, a dreamer who had always reached for the moon.
Sparkling beer bubbled in pints and house wines sparkled colorfully in the glasses in the flickering light of the candles as the hours passed one by one. Slowly hoarse voices joined the old Christmas carols, spices smelled alluringly.
Those present were almost speechless with astonishment, as they perceived that Dick Moore was standing straight, a pint of dark ale in his hand, as he was humming in a hoarse baritone well-known refrain of "Joy to the World."
Dark-haired and handsome Ellen West, whispered to one of her cousins quietly and perceptively, "Oh, maybe beautiful Leslie's cousin's husband isn't an idiot after all, even though we've been imagining it for years. Music has wonderful powers, who knows what else might happen."
There were quivering flames of the burnt out candles, as the narrow stairs creaked in that old gray house, in the bay of the frozen snowy bay. Leslie Moore was sitting in a simple guest room, bluish skirts spread on a colorful blanket, as she gazed into the bluish twilight, as Isaac West's wife, Moira West, entered the room, and said kindly, "Dearest lass, there are so many guests here today that the rooms are crowded, so of course you and Dick sleep in the same room."
Moira West didn't notice at all how Leslie stiffened as she hurriedly placed a stack of lavender-scented sheets on the narrow chair and said invitingly, "There are fresh mince pies from the oven soon."
When Moira West's footsteps stopped coming down the stairs, Leslie Moore stood up on trembling knees and opened the window. The pristine mantle of snow, glittered in the starlight, like a shower of diamonds.
A headache throbbed in Leslie's temples, like an iron hoop that seemed to tighten every moment. Leslie scooped the snow into her hand, the coldness felt pleasant, peaceful, safe. Carefully Leslie rubbed the snow into her skin, it left goosebumps behind, and wet spots, on her collar. A gentle breeze made the candle flames dance. Finally, Leslie got up from the open window, lifting her chin to the stars, as she murmured, "I can bear it."
In the parlor there were mince pies and boundless merrymaking. The West cousins, Ellen among them, sat together on a long bench and exchanged confidences and girlish secrets. Dick Moore sat in the corner and smiled in his usual vague way, as if that one moment of clarity had been completely swept away, as Leslie arrived. Several bystanders hurried to tell about what had happened.
Leslie glanced cautiously in Dick's direction, but he was the same as always, soft, mallable, with that everlasting, irritating vagueness of his. When Leslie sat down next to him Dick sighed, as if satisfied, and took something from his pocket, and handed it to Leslie.
The gift was clumsily wrapped.
Cautiously, Leslie opened it. And a red silk ribbon was revealed from the package.
Dumbfounded, Leslie glanced at Dick, who smiled impishly and said, "Red for my Pretty, as she likes Red, so much."
Carefully, Dick touched Leslie's waist, where a red crimson scarf blended with the pleats of her blue skirt, and the elegance of her simple white shirt. Leslie found herself looking for the first time in a long time at Dick's face, without cutting bitterness, as she replied, "I do." And as she answered she thought of Anne Blythe, who perhaps at this very moment sat by the fire of her House of Dreams, like a queen.
And a little later as Leslie sat on the edge of the bed and shivered as nothing she feared came true. Dick had looked at her for a long time, dressed in her nightgown as she was, yards of plain cotton, enveloping in her slender, curvy form.
Dick, blinked, as dazzled as nervous, Leslie plaited her hair. She was waiting, waiting for something to happen, those so cruel and demanding caresses, to ensue, again.
There was sllence, and then emphatic steps, as Dick gently touched Leslie's face, as he rumbled, his usual refrain, "Pretty."
The door closed behind Dick.
Confused and extremely relieved, Leslie's tears soaked the lavender-scented pillow.
It was New Year.
Notes of Captain Jim's violin sparkled and enchanted the audience at the Lighthouse. Marshall Douglas's feet tapped to the beat, quietly and then slowly picking up speed. Anne watched with interest as Marshall Douglas and Lesile danced to the tunes of the old fiddle, as if enchanted, around and around that room.
Leslie's cheeks and eyes glowed and in that moment, she was unbelievably sweet, like some northern legend, come alive again, golden haired northern daughter of North.
Afterwards, with a breathless laugh, Leslie confessed to Anne, "I love to dance, I haven't done it since I was sixteen, when I dance I forget everything except the indescribable pleasure of the music."
Captain Jim laid his fiddle in his lap and said earnestly, "That, my dear friends, was perhaps the most beautiful dance I ever saw, and I have seen many in my travels."
The old year left quietly and as Leslie Moore, walking in the bitter cold towards her home, she thought about what the shadow of Venus seen in the snow earlier in the evening could offer her. Nothing, because nothing would change. That Anne Blythe had strayed to these distant shores was almost too much. Their friendship, it was so precious, like a buried treasure. The light of the moon and stars reflected on the snowy field.
Owen Ford opened the door of his rented room. The view was shabby. Purposefully, he glanced at the small framed photograph on the wall. In it, Alice Selwyn smiled brightly, her large gray eyes shining.
Owen sat down at his typewriter and uttered, vowed, "Mama, this coming summer I'll do it. I'll travel to Prince Edward Island, and try to find the Four Winds. Surely that place isn't as lovely as you told me in my childhood, most places aren't. If I find a subject and a theme, I can get fame and glory, but that's not what i'm looking for. I want love. Mad, all-consuming, love. And beauty, but beauty is nothing without personality. There may be a woman of my dreams somewhere, but I know I won't meet her, except in my dreams and fantasies. Those kinds of dreams they don't come true. "
A snowy wind showered the streets of Montreal as the year changed.
Owen Ford poured a glass of cheap red wine and began to put the finishing touches on his latest column, there were endless deadlines to overcome. Writers workload was never lessened, not even on a New Year.