Hello there.
Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of my book,
Moonlight at Mastawis.
This is my unofficial,
Fan-written sequel to celebrate 100 years since the publishing of Lucy Maud Montgomery's fantastic 1926 novel.
The Blue Castle.
Montgomery never wrote a sequel to The Blue Castle,
It was a standalone novel,
So.
.
.
A hundred years later,
I wrote one.
I wrote a sequel over the last year and a half and I'm now sharing it here,
I'm delighted to say.
I do hope you've been enjoying the different parts of this book if you've been listening along.
If you haven't already heard the preceding chapters and you'd like to,
You can certainly look for the playlist for Moonlight at Mastawis.
It does make it a lot easier to move from one chapter to the next.
You can also find here a couple of different recordings of mine of the Blue Castle,
Either on the playlist,
Which is every chapter,
Track by track,
Or you can also find an extremely long 13 hour plus sleep track which continually plays throughout the night if that's your kind of a thing.
So before we get further into the story here,
Let's just take a moment to have a nice deep exhale.
Letting go of the day.
Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment.
For right now,
There's nowhere else we have to go,
Nothing else we have to be doing.
So we can just relax,
Get ourselves comfortable,
And enjoy the next installment of Moonlight at Misdarwis.
Chapter 19 dangerous hope.
On a blissfully sunny day in early August,
Barney came back from the mainland with a basket of supplies balanced on one arm and a small bundle of letters in the other.
He dropped the basket on the table,
Kissed for Lancy's cheek in passing,
And set the letters down beside Olive.
Your kingdom's correspondence,
Ladies?
The postmaster says I'm working harder than he is these days.
Balancy barely looked up from tying a neat string around her bundle of lavender.
She was used to Barney arriving with scraps of news from the mainland,
Tucked in among tins of beans and packets of nails.
But Olive,
Sorting through the envelopes,
Suddenly went very still.
Her fingers closed on a square cream one.
The hand.
Unmistakable.
Miss Harrington.
Her old art mistress from Port Lawrence.
The one who had once pressed the Toronto Scholarship.
Into Olive's clammy palm.
Olive's breath caught.
And for a moment,
She didn't speak at all.
Olive sank back onto the window seat.
The envelope unopened,
Her knuckles wiped around it.
It can't be.
She whispered.
Not after all this time.
Barney glanced up from the doorway,
Biting into a ripe peach.
What sort of news?
Looks like it might bite.
Olive's voice shook.
It's.
.
.
About the.
.
.
Scholarship!
It has to be.
I wrote her a little note last month.
Just a passing question,
Really.
I never thought anything would come of it.
I wonder what it says?
The room felt suddenly smaller.
The lancy rose,
And cross to olive,
Lavender stems dropping from her lap.
Open it and find out,
She urged gently.
Olive fumbled.
Broke the seal.
And red.
The words danced before her eyes.
Impossibly alive.
Miss Harrington thought.
There might still be a way to revive the scholarship.
Some provision that had somehow remained unclaimed.
And might perhaps now be extended?
To Olive.
The chance to study in Toronto.
To paint under masters whose very names made her hands itch.
Charcoal and colour.
For a moment.
Cabin swam.
With the dreams of her younger self.
All pressed flowers and sketchbooks.
That she had thought long ago buried.
Her voice came low.
Almost frightened.
She thinks.
They might still take me.
If I want to try for it.
But I'd have to go by mid-September!
She looked up at Barney and Valancy,
Her eyes enormous.
That's just a few weeks away!
No one spoke at first.
The gulls outside cried across the water.
Fierce and free.
Olive pressed the letter to her breast.
Oh.
Oh my,
It's.
.
.
Too much.
Too soon,
Too.
.
.
Late.
She said.
How could I possibly uproot myself like that?
At my age?
What would people say?
My mother would faint dead away.
Yet.
Her lips trembled into a smile that was.
.
.
Half sold.
And yet.
.
.
It would be.
Such an opportunity.
Barney leaned his elbow on the mantle.
Then,
Don't decide today.
Olive stared at him.
You've waited this many years,
He said.
Another day won't hurt.
He's right,
Said Valancy.
I'll live.
Looked down at the letter again.
Toronto.
The words seem to have grown enormous on the page.
The rest of the day,
She carried the letter with her.
Tucked carefully into her pocket.
Sometimes she forgot it was there.
Then she would move and hear the faint crackle of paper.
And her stomach would turn over again.
Barney,
Meanwhile,
Seemed caught by his own quiet flame.
Olive noticed him scribbling in a notebook after supper.
Muttering lines under his breath.
Another John Foster masterpiece,
She asked.
Barney glanced up.
Just testing the engine to see if it still runs.
Valancy smiled.
It still gave her a peculiar little thrill to hear that name attached so casually to the man sitting across from her.
Once.
Before she had known Barney at all.
John Foster's books.
Had opened windows onto a world she had thought she would never be free to enter.
She had loved his words.
Long before she knew the man who wrote them.
And now,
Here he was,
Pencil behind one ear,
Frowning at a sentence and drinking cold tea.
His creative fire seemed to burn more brightly now since their return to Mystawis.
Valency.
Was delighted.
The hazy summer air grew heavy.
Bees buzzing drowsily over the clover.
Melancy woke one morning with her stomach roiling.
A faint.
Sickness that sent her back to bed.
While Barney brewed strong tea.
She laughed it off,
Blaming the heat or a hasty supper.
But a secret flicker of possibility kindled in her heart.
She busied herself with jars and berries,
Yet her thoughts often drifted elsewhere,
Pondering her own blossoming possibilities.
A plan was laid to take a surprise picnic over to Eliza Grey's cottage.
Valancy packed the hamper with almost maternal care.
Fresh bread,
Sliced ham,
Jars of raspberry jam,
Lemonade.
Even a custard tart Barney had coaxed from the oven.
Olive added a basket of peaches and plums,
And after much hesitation,
Slipped her finished,
Framed sketch of the grey cottage into her satchel.
She had worked at it for weeks,
Shading every shingle and shadow with love and care.
The day shone clear and golden when they set out across the bay.
Olive sat in the stern,
Letter tucked inside her pocket like a secret stone.
Her head still spinning with the mingled ache of decision and possibility.
The little propeller boat purred them over the water,
Its wake flashing white against the dark green stillness of the bay.
The August air was thick with the smell of pine warmed in the sun,
And Olive turned her face into the wind,
Letting her hair loosen from its pins.
It seemed absurd that the world could look so unchanged.
While inside her.
Everything had shifted.
Tilting on some unseen axis.
When they pulled up at the dock on the mainland,
Barney steadied the boat while Olive and Valancy stepped ashore with their baskets.
A short drive later,
The car rattled up the sandy track to the grey cottage,
Where Eliza was already in the doorway,
With her youngest clinging to her skirt,
And the others tumbling in the grass.
She waved so vigorously,
The children began to copy her,
A flurry of little hands and sunburnt faces.
Wow!
If this isn't a feast day,
Eliza cried as Barney heaved the hamper out of the car.
I was just saying to myself,
We'd have to make do with porridge again for supper.
And now!
Look at you!
Arriving like a royal procession.
Oh,
It's nothing so grand really,
Valancy laughed,
Her cheeks glowing as she smoothed out a picnic blanket with olive.
But we did think a picnic would taste better in your garden than ours.
The grey children fell upon the blankets with squeals.
Though Olive noticed how politely they waited to eat until their mother nodded.
Hunger had trained them in restraint.
Olive's heart gave a twist at how thin their arms still were,
Though they were certainly filling out compared with the hollow-eyed waifs she had first met a few weeks ago.
Eliza herself seemed changed too.
She spoke with more ease,
Her shoulders less stooped,
Her hands busy with a little pile of shirts she had taken in for mending.
There was colour in her cheeks again.
And a look of pride when she mentioned that neighbours were beginning to send steady work her way.
The children were plainly better clothed,
Their eyes brighter,
Their hair longer.
They're laughter freer.
Two of the older children immediately claimed Barney for a game of catch.
And within minutes he was being soundly defeated in the grass.
Under the lilac bushes,
Where the shade dappled soft on the grass,
Valancy arranged the refreshments with careful delight.
The bread wrapped in a clean cloth,
The lemonade in glass bottles still pleasantly cool,
The tart gleaming golden as a promise.
Olive laid out the stone fruits,
Then hesitated,
With the framed drawing still in her satchel.
You.
She had meant it as a joke.
A delightful surprise,
But.
.
.
Suddenly her confidence wavered.
Would Eliza think it a frivolity?
When what she needed most were sensible things,
Like boots for the children and proper winter blankets.
Yet when the meal was over and the children sprawled full-bellied on the grass,
Olive indeed brought the picture forth.
Don't know if this is of any use,
She said awkwardly.
But.
.
.
I wanted you to have it.
Your cottage.
As it looks when the light falls just so in the afternoon.
Eliza took it in her hands and gas.
Why?
Miss Olive.
It's beautiful.
Look at the way you've caught the ivy Oh,
Children,
Come see.
Isn't this our very own house?
She traced the lines reverently,
Her eyes wet.
Ugh.
You've made it look like a palace,
Miss.
I'll hang it above the mantle,
Where we can all remember.
How it feels.
Here.
Now.
Today.
Faux.
Safe.
Olive coloured fiercely.
Half ashamed of her tears.
For the first time in years,
She felt like she had given something that mattered.
Balansi.
Lent back on her elbow.
Watching Olive.
With a curious pang.
Olive's face was luminous.
Almost girlish in its wonder.
Yet Valancy also saw the lines of strain that spoke of age and of choices deferred too long.
In her own body,
A softer strain was beginning.
That mysterious queasiness.
It seemed she could no longer blame on the weather.
When she saw Eliza's children racing across the grass,
Their hair flying like banners,
Balancy's heart fluttered.
With an A.
That was not envy,
But.
.
.
Something.
Altogether sweeter.
She pressed her palm to her middle finger.
As if to hush a secret too tender to speak now.
Barney dropped beside them at last,
Wiping his brow with exaggerated weariness.
Thoroughly defeated.
I shall require custard tart as consolation.
The children shrieked with laughter,
And Eliza sliced the tart with motherly delight.
Olive laughed until she nearly choked on her lemonade.
The afternoon lingered golden and heavy.
The kind of day that stretches like honey.
They played games with the children.
Olive discovering she could still run if she kicked off her shoes.
Valancy finding her stomach turned at the thought of too much motion.
But cheering all the same.
Eliza sat with Barney,
Talking of winter fuel and whether she might manage to lay in enough potatoes before the frost.
Later,
Olive and Valancy leaned together against a tree,
Watching the children roll down the slopes.
It's strange,
Olive said in a low voice,
To feel both so old.
And so young.
Watching them.
I almost believe.
I could begin.
Again Balancy turned to her.
Perhaps you can.
Olive's hand went to her pocket,
Where the letter burned.
She didn't answer,
But her eyes glistened with a dangerous hope.
The shadows lengthened across the grey cottage garden until the grass turned dusky and cool.
The children,
Sleepy after so much food and play,
Lay sprawled in a tangle at their mother's feet.
Eliza's smile was tender and weary.
The look of a woman who had spent too many years braced against hardship and was only now beginning to believe the worst might be over.
Barney packed the empty jars and bottles back into the hamper,
Whistling softly,
While Valancy brushed crumbs from the quilt.
Eliza touched Olive's arm before they left.
Miss our live.
That picture of the cottage!
Wow.
I want you to know.
It makes this house.
Feel truly ours.
I'll look at it every day.
And think that we can weather.
Anything.
Olive flushed.
Stammering a little.
Oh!
It was nothing.
Just a sketch.
Not to us,
Eliza said firmly.
You all have given my children a home.
To be proud of.
And I will be eternally grateful.
The drive back to the landing was quieter.
The heat of the afternoon lingered in the fields,
The cicadas shrilling so loudly it seemed the air itself might split.
Olive sat in the back seat,
Chin propped on her hand.
The letter crackled faintly in her pocket whenever the motorcar jolted over a rut.
She did not take it out.
Back at Misdarwis,
The evening air felt cooler.
The gulls wheeled over the bay,
Shrieking.
Barney tied the boat,
While Valancy carried the blankets back inside.
Olive,
However.
Lingered at the edge of the water,
Staring across the ripples,
As though the distant shore might hold her answer.
That night,
She tossed restlessly in Wynwood.
Every time her eyes closed,
Images surged.
Canvases luminous with colour,
The red-brick streets of Toronto alive with carriages and bicycles,
The occasional clang of a streetcar,
Rooms full of young students bent over their easels,
But also her mother's stricken face,
The gossipy murmurs of dearwood,
And her own self.
Trembling and out of place among younger,
Braver students.
When sleep finally came.
It was troubled.
And she woke at dawn with her pillow damp.
The next day passed in fits and starts.
Olive wandered the island,
Sketchbook in hand,
But hardly drew a line before staring into the trees with a look that was nearer to panic than inspiration.
Barney sat in Bluebeard's chamber,
Papers scattered around him,
Fountain pen moving furiously.
As he murmured lines under his breath,
Testing the rhythm of each phrase aloud.
Valancy simmered blueberries for jam,
Though her stomach rebelled at the smell.
And she had to step outside more than once.
Breathing in sharp lungfuls of pine.
At dinner,
Olive hardly touched her food.
She pushed the potatoes round her plate.
And finally burst out.
It's absurd.
I can't go.
Imagine me.
Packing up my life in a few weeks.
Leaving?
Miss Star Wars and Dearwood and.
.
.
All I know behind.
I should crumble.
Before I even reached Toronto.
She grimaced,
And her eyes threatened to spill over into tears.
Barney swallowed his mouth full of food.
You needn't solve everything about Toronto tonight,
Olive.
You'll only have to decide whether to.
.
.
Get on the train!
I think.
You'd surprise yourself,
Olive,
Said Valancy.
Olive gave a little moan and hid her face in her hands.
Oh,
Don't encourage me.
You'll make me believe I can do it.
I'll be ruined when I fail.
Neither Barney nor Balancy pressed her.
And before long,
Olive excused herself and made her way outside.
The little house grew quiet.
Together,
Barney and Valancy cleared away the supper dishes in the easy silence that comes of long familiarity.
Oh,
Barney said suddenly.
I nearly forgot.
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out a yellowed envelope.
Found this while I was tidying Bluebeard's chamber.
The lance he took it.
The handwriting caught her at once.
My letter!
For your mother.
To exonerate me if you had indeed dropped dead,
As Dr Trent predicted.
She smiled as she turned it over in her hands.
Remember being so certain.
That she'd be reading this within the year.
Me too.
For a moment.
They stood quietly together.
Barney softly stroking her hair.
Lancey scanned the lines of the stiff old missive.
The words belonged to another Valancy now.
A frightened woman.
Trying very hard to sound brave.
One who had believed every sunrise might be her last.
And who had found the courage to begin living only because.
She believed.
She was dying.
Extraordinary.
She murmured affectionately.
What a remarkable mistake Dr Trent made,
She said at last.
He gave me a death sentence.
Barney's eyes twinkled.
He accidentally gave me a wife.
Balancy laughed softly.
She slipped the letter back into its envelope.
But her hand.
Lingered there.
How strange life was.
The little kitchen seemed suddenly.
.
.
Full of all the years that had followed.
When neither of them had expected.
Three years ago,
She had believed herself to be writing a farewell.
She stood in her own little kitchen on Miss Starwyce.
With Barney beside her.
And deep inside.
So quietly she scarcely dared give the thought words.
She wondered if,
Perhaps,
Another little life had only just begun.
Well,
I don't think I'll send it after all.
Barney chuckled and raised an eyebrow.
Yes,
A trifle late,
She smiled.
Mother might begin to worry.
He laughed aloud and drew her into his arms.
I love you Moonlight Later that evening,
Olive caught sight of Barney writing again by lamplight.
His notebook lay open,
Lines scribbled across the page.
His brow furrowed in concentration.
For a moment,
She almost envied his certainty.
She wanted that same sense of Fire.
That same willingness to leap.
Into words or colour without fear,
Without restraint.
Olive stood a while in the doorway,
Watching Barney's pen move across the page.
The lamplight gilded his hair.
And Valancy sat close by,
Mending a tear in one of his jackets,
Her head bent,
A soft half-smile on her lips.
The quiet between them was alive.
Not empty.
Olive felt as though she had blundered into a little sanctuary that she could only look at from the threshold.
She slipped outside into the night.
Miss Darwis was hushed.
Except for the water lapping the shore and the distant call of a loon.
Stars wield thick and bright above the trees.
For a moment.
She tipped her head back and breathed in the dark,
Cool air,
As if it could steady her.
Could she?
Really.
Do it.
Toronto her paintings.
The risk of.
.
.
Beginning again.
Could she really not do it?
She hugged her arms around herself,
The thoughts tugging at her.
Dangerous and enticing.
Later,
Lying awake on her cot,
Olive listens to the wind shifting through the pines.
She did not know what she would choose.
Or when?
Part.
For once.
The uncertainty.
Did not feel quite so unbearable.
