Chapter 9 - Matthew Cuthbert Arrives in a Buggy
“We must explain to you the Tearoom rules.”
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Even I was surprised by the fierce questions that slipped from my mouth, words intended to wound Aunt Flora, an instinct most unlike me. Where is he? I had asked, referring to her husband, a man I had never met. Why isn’t there a single photo?
While the questions were valid, I regretted at once having sunk so low.
Aunt Flora froze. So long was her silence that I began to wonder if she would storm off. Perhaps, with these questions, I had won the verbal sparring match. However, her eyes flashed, and she replied, her calm and steady tone more unnerving than a shout would have been.
“In life, we must do things we don’t like. Women, in particular, frequently must make choices to survive. Sometimes, it involves marrying men we do not love. That was my lot in life, Rosamund. Don’t you dare judge me.”
I hadn’t expected such a calm, well-measured response. It cowed me into lowering my voice, until it was scarcely more than a whisper. “I won’t judge you, so long as you don’t judge me, either.”
Aunt Flora returned to the topic at hand, that of my leaving. “If you go now—if you make this choice—you’ll never be able to settle. Not in that place.” I frowned, for it sounded as though she knew about the Tearoom.
It sounded as if she knew where I intended to go.
She continued: “I had an unhappy marriage, but at least he left me a house. I have a haven in which to rest.” Pausing, she finished: “It’s not worth sacrificing peace for the adventure.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but was interrupted when I heard a sound from outside of the window—bells, a male voice singing softly into the night. I did not need to look in order to know who it was.
Matthew came early! I thought, turning to the window as hope began to glow in my heart for the first time all night.
I found myself frowning in confusion, for the sounds that reached me were not those of a car. Instead, I heard the clip-clop of hooves. Remembering Matthew’s reaction to cars at the supermarket earlier, I understood.
Of course he would not have come in a car.
“Whoa!” he shouted at the wearer of the bell.
I felt myself smile. I had been reading Anne of Green Gables; Matthew Cuthbert would arrive with a horse and buggy.
“I’m leaving now,” I said to Aunt Flora. “Say hello to Kate for me.”
My aunt did move to stop me as I slipped on my heavy backpack and seized the handle of my suitcase. She allowed me to move past her without attempting to continue our argument. She let me move as if I were a ghost, nothing more.
I did not waste precious time looking around the house I was leaving. It wasn’t worth the time involved; this had never truly been my home.
Opening the door, my heart softened to find Matthew Cuthbert waiting at the doorstep. Behind him, in the light of the moon, I could make out the silhouette of a horse and buggy.
Matthew looked meek as usual, wearing a coat just a tad too large for him, as if he was trying to vanish into it by melting into the sleeves.
“Are ye ready?” he asked, with his awkward smile.
Before I could reply, Aunt Flora spoke over my shoulder.
“I suppose it makes sense,” she said to Matthew, her words stony, “that the man who brought the child here should be the one to take her.”
Matthew didn’t reply at first. When at last he spoke, it was simply to say: “It had to be done.”
“You should leave her alone,” Aunt Flora spat. “She needs a roof over her head, not a fairy tale.”
I listened, baffled. Flora and Matthew were speaking as if they had met before.
My aunt continued: “She’s been safe with me all this time.”
Matthew replied calmly: “She was always meant to go back.” With a tip of his hat, he reached for the handle of my suitcase and turned to me with a kind smile.
“We’re off, then,” he said.
I nodded, watching him carry my suitcase in the direction of the buggy.
“Rosamund,” Aunt Flora said behind me—once, pleadingly, almost affectionately, and how I had longed to hear that affection during my stay here.
“Good-bye,” I said, stepping into the cool air beyond, the weight of my backpack making my movements awkward but determined all the same.
Matthew loaded my suitcase into the buggy. He did so as if it were the most ordinary thing for buggies to be traveling the streets in 2026. He took my heavy backpack and placed it with the suitcase.
From the entrance to the house, I heard Aunt Flora call again, “Rosamund!”
For a moment, I did not move. You could go back, my conscience reminded me. Perhaps it would be different now. Perhaps she would treat you kindly. Perhaps this house would start to feel like a home.
Even as I fantasized about these things, I knew that there was no changing my mind. In one day, Matthew Cuthbert, Cassandra Austen, and Lucy Craven had made it clear that my story was meant to move forward, not back.
“Ready?” Matthew asked, noticing my pause.
“Yes,” I said.
