Ellen glanced at the framed watercolor works of the late Cecilia Meredith that decorated the walls of the Manse as Rosemary was playing mother, as she often did.
The soft honey scent of the aromatic tea flooded the parlor of Manse, where Rosemary's aesthetic taste was visible.
In a thoughtful voice, Ellen inquired, "It seems that the late Mrs. Meredith had a deft hand with colors and shades, of all kinds. These works are beautiful, very fitting. Have Jerry, Faith, Carl or perhaps Una inherited her skill?"
Rosemary glanced over her teacup at Ellen in genuine astonishment, for never before had Ellen shown not particular interest in the fine arts. In a mildly gentle teasing manner, she remarked, "Have you perhaps since the peace come changed your former habit of book devouring to a sketchbook, if so Norman might have some opinions on the matter? But in answer to your question, Carl and Faith do the most drawing and sketching of them."
The soft shadows seemed to deepen Ellen's attentive, introverted gaze, as she murmured, "I have not."
Rosemary's features creased into a small smile, as she added, "Although, now that I think back on it, wasn't your room full of little drawings, I remember that you seemed to treasure them, along with your piles of books, in the same way that my own room was full of piles of sheet music, and needlework, in our girlhood days."
To Rosemary it seemed that Ellen seemed uplifted, as she murmured in a steady voice with a slight tremor, "I, I didn't know you noticed."
Rosemary gave a light girlish laugh, and said, " "They were hardly your work?"
Ellen's gaze seemed to penetrate through Rosemary, and land somewhere far away, perhaps decades ago, as she murmured deliberately lightly, "A certain friend, made them."
Rosemary frowned, because Ellen had always been quite a solitary person, choosy with her affections.
In those days, young Martin Craword had filled Rosemary's thoughts so completely that Rosemary would not have noticed at all if Ellen had suddenly announced in the middle of dinner that she wanted to walk to Montreal.
Rosemary smiled warmly as she replied, "Was that person perhaps at your wedding, most of Glen was?"
Ellen, feeling how that innocent assumption of Rosemary's cut, cut deep, with a steely effort, Ellen forced herself to say habitually, as if the information was not relevant to her, "No, they did not, she did not."
The enchanting melodies of Mozart began to shimmer in the room, as Una, nodding silently to Ellen, began to play patiently, longingly of shimmering melodyline of Porgi amor.
The melancholy, gentle atmosphere created by the music embraced each and everyone in the room.
After Una had finished, Rosemary remarked, "isn't it wonderful that Leslie's son and Rilla are engaged, Una? Why did you practice that Mozart piece, my dear?"
Una glanced over her shoulder, at Rosemary, and at Ellen Douglas, thoughtfully, as she replied, "There's a lot of arranging at a wedding, as usual, but I think Rilla will prevail, for she has a knack of it. As for that Mozart-piece, Irene Howard, needed an accompanist."
Suppressed hilarity sparkled in Rosemary's eyes, as Ellen as before said the thoughts of everyone in the room, "Irene Howard is quite competent in her own way, and style, but Mozart seems to be a bit beyond her."
Ellen carefully observed Una Meredith, and discovered once more that quiet, carefully repressed shadow of loss and sorrow, was carefully concealed beneath her casual efficiency, but there had been many reasons for sorrows in these past years.
Smiling wryly, Ellen, rising from her seat, and flicking her freshly cut hair into order, gently touched Una's cool hand and whispered in passing, "Una, if you ever want to talk about anything, my door is always open. I think that there is even books about music pedagogy in the sagging shelves of Douglas House."
Una blinked her deep blue almond-shaped, startling eyes, as she nodded, faintly, barely perceptibly.
After Ellen had left, Rosemary quietly remarked, "Una dearest, you've been so very quiet in the last few days, is everything alright?"
Una looked down at the shiny keys of the piano, and wondered what she could answer to this simple, sympathetic inquiry, because sitting at Walter's memorial service, after all this time, seemed to tear her loss open again.
Yes, she still was keeping faith. When she had glanced at Blythe pew, there was a throbbing sadness in the faces and eyes of everyone present, but they all had the right and duty to grieve openly, in front of Glen and the world, unlike her, who had hidden her grief and unfulfilled love for Walter in embedded in her heart's secret.
And yet life went on, peace, Faith getting married and Rilla's engagement news were proof of that.
With slightly trembling hands, Una played a discordant chord, in her mind it seemed to be literally pulsing with meanings, but Rosemary's gaze was open and sincere, as always as she murmured, "Beloved Una, you do know that we always support you."
Una nodded, and then suddenly, she blurted, to Rosemary, like once, years, years before, but instead of a marriage proposal, Una whispered, "I think, I think I want to travel, to Europe when it's possible."
The sudden happiness of hearing about Una's plans seemed to turn Rosemary's eyes even more limpid vivid blue than usual, as she whispered, "Where in particular, dear?"
Una's answer came without hesitation, "To the north of France, for start."
Ellen found Norman sitting with his books in the parlor room, his pipe unlit in his hand, as he often did.
His blue eyes were sharp and searching, and his red beard was streaked with gray, as Norman noted, "Well, El, that hair suits you just fine, even though it's a very modern style."
With one glance, Ellen noticed that her old journal was no longer on the small teatable in her reading nook, although the box, in fact it was a dower chest, for linen, was still where Ellen had left it a couple of hours earlier, the key gleaming in the lock.
A slight nervousness tinged with fear, pulsed through Ellen's body, as Norman uncharacteristically seemed to search for words, " El, from the first moment I saw you, back in school, and later, watching you walk with that almost diminutive outsider, red-dressed dark-haired girl in Glen's high summer, I knew that with you I could find a connection that was genuine. Through your sister, I have in-law bond to John, and I value our arguments and our conversations beyond measure, as you know."
Ellen, noted that her hands were shaking a little, as she replied sharply, "There was a notebook on that tea table, where is it now?"
It was so very painful to now know that Norman had even in those old days had been keeping his keen eye on her, and to hear her love referred as that " diminutive outsider" but Sidonie, had been small of stature, and vivid in her dresses.
Norman, surprised, glanced at Ellen. Over the years Ellen had directed her sharp tongue at Norman often, but never, hardly ever had Ellen seemed afraid. She now did.
Carefully, with his gruffly charming, guile Norman replied, sincerely, "I put it in that drawer-chest, because your handwriting is extremely recognizable. Is it full of old memories?"
Ellen, took a deep breath, the cutting relief made her momentarily feel almost faint, as she stepped to the corner cabinet, and poured herself a glass of Norman's excellent home brew, moonshine, as she replied, "Yes, one might say so perhaps."
Norman, chewed on the amber stem of his pipe.
Ellen, choked. Moonshine seared her nostrils, as Norman laughed hilariously, with his usual bombast, as he noted, " Did cat got your tongue, my dear?"
Ellen, glared at Norman helplessly, but she was never helpless very long. With asperity Ellen remarked, " Not at all, your renowed brew, is truly as potent that its reputation suggests."
Felicity, started to purr lightly, as it jumped top of the corner cabinet.
Afterwards, in the stillness of her room, Ellen opened the dower chest again and arranged the letters on the bed. Their thin yellowed envelopes crumbled, like the half-disintegrated leaves of a long-lost autumn, as Ellen opened the thin letters, spread them open with loving gestures, and looked at that clear, rounded handwriting, of Sidonie, as she cast her mind back to those days, ink seemed still fresh.
Between the letters were elaborate, postcard-sized paintings, sketches made with ink, charcoal, with oilpaints, and watercolors, some of them depicting their summer together and the landscapes of the Glen and the Four Winds area, and some of them not. Ellen's gaze stopped at a certain sketch, and a blush flooded her face, for she remembered the moment of making it as if it were yesterday.
Sidonie had playfully brushed a blade of grass away from Ellen's face, and suddenly she had risen to a half-sitting position, and grabbed her sketchbook, and begun to draw, her eyes flickeringly fixed on Ellen, on everything about her. And that hidden, passionate, devotion, that love, of both romantic and carnal variety had blossomed between them, was laid bare, with few intimate lines of ink. Flushed features, disored skirts, half-opened, summery linen blouse.
Sweat had beaded on Sidonie's neck, lending it pearly creamy shimmer, as her high-collared blouse had been carelessly, artfully unbuttoned, so that her corset cover was visible. Ellen remembered how she had leaned closer, within touching distance, and even closer, and gently caressed, Sidonie's neck. Her pulse had drummed under Ellens fingers, as Sidonie had leaned into her, as time had vanished, as it ever did with her.
And when that black-bordered letter had arrived, so close, right after losing Mama, it had announced that Sidonie had passed away from diphtheria. Ellen's world had fallen apart, all their plans had remained unfulfilled, her letters would never receive new answers.
Shivering Ellen remembered anew that black, dark despair that had called, coaxed, beconed her, flirted her even, like a lover might have done, once.
The memories were there, emotional memories, deep within her.
And Norman, their life together, it counted too in its own way.
There was many paths to love, mutual companionship was one of them.
In military cemeteries, poppies were blooming. In the metropolises of Europe, a new kind of music pulsated and art life flourished, and war-torn youth sought their own, new path, everywhere. The future was bright, because the League of Nations existed.
The summer wind ruffled the apple blossoms one bright nooning in 1921 Ellen Douglas watched Di Blythe's bright gray-green eyes follow Persis Ford as she stood resplendent as one of Rilla's bridesmaids. Ellen lowered her eyes, for that wary feeling, she recognized it, as the congregation cheered in Glen's church, as Marilla Bertha Blythe became Rilla Ford.
After the wedding celebrations were over, and Norman was in a middle heated exchange with Owen Ford, Ellen slipped away, nodding faintly at Leslies radiant greeting.
All alone, Ellen was standing on the grass covered with apple and lilac flowers.
That shady little spot, had been theirs.
The enchanting scent of lilacs wafted in the breeze.
Ellen raised her face to the clear summer sky.
Perhaps a new pairs would find it, with time, some day, some sweltering summer season yet to come.
A/N: For Alinya Alehtia.
This little interpretation of Ellen West grew out of a certain errant pondering years ago when I was writing another story centered around the West sisters, "Solemn Decadces."
Now " Once" has finally seen the light of day.
It seems relevant to give this to the readers, to read in these times.
