Glen St. Mary was abuzz, there was a summer bake-sale coming up, all organized by the Glen Ladies Aid, for as Rosemary Meredith had been heard to say, to the newly-returned Una Meredith, after the Over Harbour Douglas wedding, "It is important to raise the spirit of the community, even in times of peace." For days the distinguished ladies of the Glen had been waging a silent war over secret recipe books, and Irene Howard had been heard to declare, "A truly charming woman masters many skills, of course baking is a given, my cream-puffs are extremely delicious."
Mary Vance, passing by, glanced ambiguously at Nan Meredith, who was glowing with the glow of her first pregnancy, as Mary Vance remarked, audibly, "Nan, Irene Howard is delusional if she thinks so, her cream puffs don't even deserve the name. It may have been a coincidence that Amy MacAllister got the trots after eating one of Irene's pastries once during the war, but Minne Clow swore there was no connection, but I have my doubts. Cornelia always says Mrs. Howard uses Rollings-Reliable-Baking Powder, at the House of Howard."
Mary Vance read from the graceful posture of Nan's neck a slight disdain for Irene Howard, or perhaps the gesture was connected with the baking powder as she inquired,
" Nan, if you see Una, tell her that she is always welcome to drop in, even without the pastries or knitted presents for her namesake? She knows this, but a little reminder is never a bad thing, it is the Meredith in her."
Later in nestled in save haven of Jerrys arms, in their own cozy parlor, in a rattan sofa, Nan shook her head thoughtfully, at Mary Vance's most astute words, for they were true.
This summer-season something was different about Una, she seemed lighter, and extremely often she and Carl and sometimes Shirley too walked to Lowbridge, but what they did there, no one knew. And then there was the mysterious guest who had played the piano with extreme skill at the Douglas wedding.
On her latest visit to Ingelside, Nan had happened to overhear Mumsys triftle wistful remark to Rosemary Meredith, as teatable was laid with Marilla Cuthberts rosebud-heirloom-teaservice, the alluring succulent tea had lingered sweetly. " Did you know that when I saw last week Unas Professor Sorel, she stood with Una, in Glens train station, a strange feeling came over me, for her expression so closely resembled Katherine Brooke's, before life had given her a new path, but it was even more chilling, for though everything was on the surface in order, Professor Sorel's appearance, neat, walking dress, incredible vivid burnt orange hat, yet something pricked me, I think her life is not happy."
Rosemary Meredith had stirred her tea.
A moment's silence had fallen in the parlor, and Nan had turned her attention to the letter she had sketched to Di, who had taken up Persis Ford's offer, and was now living with Persis and her friends, one of whom, apparently, was the girl named Terry who had danced with Shirley at Rilla's wedding, in Toronto as there were more opportunities to be had than on the Island, Dis letters had been almost sparking with various sights and soundscape of Torontoian neigbourhoods, of Rosevale, but others too, as she had grabbed her life with both hands, as she had promised to their brothers memory.
Nan's attention was directed again to the tea corner, there were slight clatter of teacups and spoons in counterpoint, as she heard Rosemary say quietly, " Ellen liked her, she said Sorel had interesting things opinions. And I realized, listening to Una and Sorel's discussion of Schubert's use of the liminal sunset, as a inspiration in his certain sonata movement, that perhaps we have all coddled Una too much, as she has a certain calm and unflabbable quality that has only become more pronounced as time has gone by. Sorel was perfectly civil to me, though I do not quite understand Ellen's enthusiasm. Sorel seemed so ordinary, and not at all so severe, as I had heard, as she had been sitting in the Manse salon.
Then she glanced at her narrow wrist-watch with a jerking gesture, and as if it had been mark of somekind, Una started to play, the same Schubert.
And this is difficult to describe in layman's terms, but as you know yourself Anne, that music, listening to it, and literature create emotional states, and that pulsating emotional state, that late June-July afternoon in the Manse parlor was tense. It was full of, pulsating, bubbling sensitivity, and perhaps a slight fury, as Schubert shimmered and sparkled. Afterwards, I chanced to glance in Sorel's direction, I got the impression that only control kept her emotions in check, but only with difficulty, as her fingers trembled, over her dark skirt.
There had been shivery-induced look in her hazel-green eyes, Anne.
Afterwards, I asked Una if Schubert had any special meaning for the Professor, and Una simply said lightly, almost blithely, "Of course it does, as she, Imean Professor Sorel has specialized in his works, and this one is one of her favorites. If you ever heard her opinion when one of us plays Bach too loosely, even the artillery concentration on the Flanders front can be gentler, than the Professor in some of her sarcastic moods."
Nan had hidden her smile, as Mumsy had laughed in her old bright way, and remarked, "That sounds quite like Katherine used to be. I remember several pupils coming to me in my tenure in Summerside, their eyes glistening with unshod tears, waving Katherine's corrections, and suggestions for comments, but somehow I think Professor Sorel doesn't cause her pupils to cry, I hope not at least. An exemplary teacher may have a revolutionary influence, as dear Miss Stacy had for us, and if Una seems content, and has made progress, as you say, we may be satisfied and most happy for her success in dear, ivy-covered hallowed hallways of Redmond."
Later, sitting in the Manses drawing room with a basket of Bruce's socks before her, Rosemary smiled as she remembered what Professor Sorel had said in a low voice that almost forced her to listen, "You are her, then, who has given me my best pupil in years."
Sorel had touched the piano keys, quietly, extremely softly.
Noticing that light gesture, which had something almost absent-minded about it.
Rosemary had said in her sweet way, "You may play, here everyone may, if they wish, especially the guests who have made my dear child so happy, in Redmond."
That slightly veiled gaze had paused for a moment on John's white clerical collars, which were over Rosemary's Elgar sheet music, and a slight tremor, almost a start, had quivered in the slender shoulders, before Sorel's attention had been drawn to the laughing Carl and Una, who had come into the sitting room with a tea tray.
Carl had declared with a hearty smile, "The pianos here are not out of tune," before he had snatched up his fly-net and whistled, then sung clearly in a rising to the tune of "On the Idle Hill of Summer". As tune had slowly shimmered into its natural end.
In instant old shadow of war, the trenches, the loss, the love had gleamed in the parlor.
Then Rosemary roused herself and noted, " Professor Sorel, do you want more tea, perhaps?"
Sorel had been, in almost like supplicant, contenplative posture, that had niggling traces of not quite Anglicanism in it.
Rosemary frowned, as Sorel refused tea, with curt, almost icy gesture, that was nonchalant.
There were shadows, reflected through the windows, through the abundant ivy, to the parlor, distantly Rosemary could hear John's restless steps upstairs, a slight rustle, as he outlined his coming sermon.
Carl exclaimed, "I'm going fishing, as Shirley is planning something ambitious about baking, that is going to shook Glen up, but it is not proper to take bets."
The day of Laidies Aid's summer-bake-sale dawned bright and cheery and cloudless.
It was the first of July.
And all morning the excitement grew as the long table under the big tent was laid with delicacies from almost every house in the Glen.
The jury walked past the rows of cakes and pies, muttering to themselves.
Finally, finally, the results came in.
Norman Doulgas, holding back a broad smile, saw John Meredith's expression, as his slender hands clenched into barely noticeable fists, as the Reverend declared, "By unanimous decision, the jury found the Napoleon cake the most delicious, and this sealed envelope contains the identity of the maker."
There was a long, grating silence.
Mary Vance watched as Irene Howard and Amy MacAllister whispered to each other.
Curiously Mary Vance watched as Cornelia and Susan Baker's expressions tightened as the silence increased.
And then Reverend Meredith's sonorous voice, uttered, "The Napoleon cake has baked person whos initials are SJB."
A stunned silence reigned in the tent.
Slowly quite a commotion increased as Shirley Blythes tanned form strode foward, he was dressed in a plain long-sleeved in a white shirt, with rolled from elbows, and gray trousers, with suspenders tightly stretched as he walked, sleekily, through the tent, and picked up a handsome, delicious-looking cake, with a tray, and walked to Susan Baker's side.
A broad, proud smile spread across Susan Baker's face, as she whispered, "My beloved brown boy, oh, well done."
Shirley just nodded, firmly, and said, "It was time to do this."
The information about the others, second and third places were as follows second place was Susan Baker's renowed strawberry shortcake, third was Mary Vance's raspberry trifle.
There was a scattered applause and audible mutterings of " Baking boys, or men rather quite, quite unnatural It is a womens work."
Shirley smiled, as he murmured, huskily, "Mother Susan, it seems that today is a good day to be an Ingelsidean."
Gilbert noticed that Anne had suddenly stiffened beside him.
And in an amused, loving whisper Gilbert said, "Well, Anne-girl, of course you knew our boy could bake, it can't be a surprise."
A slender lily-white hand gripped Gilbert's arm convulsively.
Now anxious Gilbert glanced at Anne again in the darkness of the tent.
She was pale, her grey-green eyes were luminous, star-like and touched with tears, that silently fell on her cheeks.
Barely audibly Gilbert heard Anne whisper something, but it was pure impossibility what he had heard.
Irene Howard glanced with interest at the slender, fair, handsome man who had entered the tent.
He walked with long, supple steps to Una Meredith, and Carl Meredith, as he said in a clear, tenor voice, "I knew it. Only bake-sales, and church choir rehearsals, Miss Una Meredith. Where's the fun, that's what's at weddings. I hear you might need an accompanist here, and I´m offering my humble services."