Alternative ending to L. M. Montgomery's book "Emily's Quest"
Chapter XXVI.XXXIII
I.
It had been weeks since Mrs. Kent’s letter, yet it lingered in Emily’s mind. The winter had stolen away slowly, taking with it its appointed share of crisp, shimmering days, white nights, and many brisk revels through fields dabbled with violet tinted drifts of sun-glazed snow. Emily sat at her desk in the gloam of the spring evening attempting to finish a story by faded light.
She suddenly realized that she had ceased to write, had stopped several minutes ago in fact, and had begun tracing little swirls and loops and flourishes along the left margin of the page. Perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be finished that night, though Mr. Carpenter would have crunched his thick eyebrows together at her lack of concentration. She sighed and laid down her pen, chusing instead to stare at the reflection of the window in the mirror. How very dusty its frame had grown, and how dingy the dust made it seem! Aunt Elizabeth would be quite disappointed if she saw it. Emily sighed again, rose from her chair, and used the inside of the hem of her brown dress to wipe the frame.
Cousin Jimmy’s footstep creaked up the stairs.
“This came for you in the post,” he said, “Sorry I didn’t fetch it to you sooner, kitten, but Aunt Laura had me collect some sorrel and it clean slipped my mind.” He paused, “Hope it’s good news.” He handed her the letter, postmarked New York. Emily smiled.
“I’m sure it is,” she said, as he retreated down the stairs. Cousin Jimmy had been as pleased as anyone when Emily turned Miss Royal down on her offer to move to New York1, and Emily had never regretted her decision—or never that she would admit. But whenever her letters came—as infrequent as they were—Cousin Jimmy couldn’t help but hand them over with a small shudder, like a tree reminded that the bleak of winter might be nigh.
Emily skimmed through the breezy scrawl. There was to be a writer’s conference in June, Miss Royal wrote, a conference in honor of her publishing company’s 150th anniversary, which was “no small feat, after all.” There would be workshops and lectures and awards. There would be music and dancing and food and a grand party on the final eve, of course, and there would also be books on display, some “very old” copies from the company’s early days, illuminated poetry and other paintings from some of the finest artists in the country, and the original manuscripts of several best sellers of all time displayed. All sorts of literary folk would come, agents and editors and poets and authors and various other impressive persons, and—oh, would she please come!
Emily sat at her desk for a long time. She starred at the letter and the wall and the world beyond her own mind. Outside her window the last traces of purplish-blue twilight faded to black, and Vega of the Lyre peered down from among a sea of stars. A delicious little breeze from the Wind Woman rustled through the fir trees that stood guard near Lofty John’s bush.
Then a green light twinkled in the wood. And another. And another. The first fireflies of the season, floating about in fluid constellations like fairies at a ball in the sky. But Emily never saw them. She laid down the letter, changed out of the brown dress, and went to bed. She would tell Aunt Elizabeth and Aunt Laura and Cousin Jimmy in the morning—though no doubt there would be no delight at her decision.
The Alpine Path was rising for her, yet again, and so, this time she must go.
II.
Within a fortnight, all was settled. A new pair of pearl white evening gloves had been purchased; her suitcases packed with her favorite frocks, two stories-in-the-works, and a spare Jimmy book to fill; her room thoroughly dusted and scrubbed—desk covered with white sheet—to await her return. Aunt Laura had cried at the announcement of the intended voyage, Cousin Jimmy had cursed quietly, and been sternly glared at by Aunt Elizabeth, who had assented to the adventure more easily than Emily thought possible—though she remarked that it “seemed an odd thing for a young woman.” All that remained was to say her farewells and depart next morn. She’d catch the ferry to the mainland, and from there take a train to Halifax, and so on, to New York City.
I feel rather silly to be going, wrote Emily, after rejecting Miss Royal all those years ago. Then again, she already agreed that my writing would never have become all that it is had I gone with her. I find a little justice in that. Perhaps now I shall finally meet her beloved Chu-Chin, if he is yet alive. But long live dear old Daff! I shouldn’t bear it if he is no longer here when I return.
That evening she went on a final ramble about her usual haunts, and as the sun set she meandered along the Tomorrow Road back towards where New Moon sat proudly, bathed in gold of light, Aunt Elizabeth’s meticulously washed windows sparkling in an almost blinding brilliance. Scents of pine and rose wafted towards her as a wave of wind swept across the meadow at hand, causing the glowing faces of buttercups and daisies and red clover to nod, and bending the lupines on their purple stalks. Home. How she would miss it!
Just at the top of the road, his back towards her, stood a lean man. He was a bit taller than her, clad in dark pants and pale cotton shirt. Neat. A man gilded by mystery in the fading gold of the sun. Emily felt her heart and footsteps quicken as he turned towards her. Turned and walked, with the unmistakable amble of Dean Priest.
Dean.
Emily stopped. She had prepared her heart a thousand times for this moment. She had practised and considered and rehearsed and rewritten the things she would say to him—the things she could say to him—until she could recite them though half asleep. But when it comes down to it, how does one really greet one whose heart you have broken? Especially one with whom you had intended to intertwine the rest of your life? So Emily said nothing, but her eyes, wide with anguish and wonder, betrayed all her thoughts. Dean stopped and stood there, the little breeze billowing through cotton shirt and ruffling through hair, not more than an arm’s length from her.
“How are you, Star?” He smiled slowly, sadly. Emily opened her mouth, but not a sound would come out. She shook her head and looked at the ground. Why did she suddenly feel like such a little girl? “I’ve read your latest book, you know. I thought it was quite good.” He turned and gazed into the field beside them, eyes following a dragonfly that zipped past. “So I guess it worked out after all.” He chuckled, a little bitterly, Emily thought.
“I hope you’ve been—been well?” Emily asked. She looked at him. How very old he seemed to have become; how many lines traced their little valleys along his face.
“Well enough,” he looked at her. “Though not as happy as I may have been.” She looked away. Those lovely purple eyes—he had missed their depths. “But I didn’t come here about any of that. No, Star, I’m putting it all behind me. I already have,” he said determinedly, thrusting a hand into his pocket. “And I want you to have this.”
Next moment he had caught Emily’s hand with his, and pressed something warm and solid and slightly jagged into her palm. His hands were softer than she remembered, but cold, terribly cold. Then she felt him all about her, the hand he held crushed between them, his other arm wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her into the pale cotton shirt. He smelled just as he always had. He felt safe. And then, as violently as the embrace was begun, it was over. And though he only stood a few paces away, they felt further apart than ever before.
Later that night she cried. Not because she had lost Dean—though she had certainly spent a fair number of tears on that previously—nor from embarrassment of the hug. But because before he turned around, as he stood at the top of the hill in the sunlight, for a moment she had thought—even hoped—that he was Teddy.
Oh Teddy.
But alas, Dean it was. And he had pressed into her hand the other key to the little Disappointed House, the papers of which he had already left at New Moon while she was out walking. There was a note with them briefly explaining that he was giving her the house, “it was always meant for [her],” and he wished her all the best. They might never meet again.
Cousin Jimmy shook his head at the timing of it all. A day later, and Emily would have been spared.
III.
The journey to New York was relatively uneventful. Several storms, fantastic sunsets, and various purposeless flirtations with various sorts or men. Emily found herself astounded by both the beauty and the ugliness of the new bits and pieces of the world she saw, and even experienced her old “flash” once more at Grand Central Terminal in New York when, as she stepped off the train, she stood transfixed by the golden shafts of light that fell in a cascade from its great, half-moon shaped windows. The contrast of the murky swirl of smoke and pale steam and glittery dust as they played within the strong, angled, column of light struck her as quite poetic. Sharp, but delicate. Indeed if she hadn’t been so jounced about by the disembarking crowd she may have writ a line about it right then and there.
But a sharp elbow in her side brought her quickly back to earth, and the smell of unwashed something-or-other made her recall where she was, surrounded by strangers. Alone. She looked around hastily for Miss Royal. There were ever so many people about her. Small, tall, thin, thick, with ruddy cheeks and whiskered chins and blue cotton shirts and grey suspenders and tweed jackets and embroidered frocks and bustling skirts and—Oh! Here she came!
Weaving her way through the crowd, Miss Royal strode up to Emily with cheery smile and wave. The smart violet ribbon on her straw summer hat fluttered as she greeted her.
“Emily! Hello dear Emily! How are you? How was your trip?” Miss Royal smiled, waving a porter forward to grab Emily’s suitcases as she took her arm. “Come, come, let’s get you settled. You must tell me all about it,” she said, and with that, they whisked away.
To be continued.
Author’s note: When I finished the Emily series over the summer I felt the ending was abrupt. For three books I had been growing and learning and experiencing the world with Emily (not to mention pining away for Teddy) and BOOM they sorted it out within like four pages. The audacity.
(thanks for your feedback!) mentioned Montgomery seemed to “exorcise some of her own demons” while writing it, which intrigued me. So I did some research on her background, something I have somehow never thought to do before, and I understand her life a bit better now. However! Emily of New Moon deserves better!Thank you for reading Part 1. Do you think I captured Montgomery’s style well enough? Should Emily have left New Moon? What’s going to happen next?
See Montgomery’s Emily Climbs, the second in the Emily series.