4th June 1895

The sun hung low in the sky, spilling gold and rose-colored light over Avonlea’s fields, the kind of quiet evening when even the wind seemed to pause and listen. But there was no calm in the Loxley household that night. The walls, usually filled with laughter and the scent of your mother’s lavender perfume, felt heavy with tension and shame.

Your mother sat by the window, wringing her lace handkerchief, her lips trembling. “Mon Dieu… Valentina, what have you done?” she whispered, her voice breaking with both worry and disbelief.

You stood in the doorway, your hands clasped tightly before you, unable to look at her. “It was only a kiss, maman,” you murmured. “We’re engaged. It wasn’t wrong—”

But before you could finish, your father’s heavy boots echoed against the wooden floor. His jaw was tight, his eyes blazing beneath the brim of his hat. “Not wrong?” he barked. “You let a boy touch you—before the wedding day? Before he’s even asked my full blessing for such a thing?”

“Mon amour, please—” your mother started softly, trying to calm him. But he was already pulling on his riding gloves, fury in every motion.

“I’ll not have my daughter’s name dragged through the mud of this small town!” he roared, striding toward the stable. The sound of the horse stamping and snorting filled the air as he tightened the saddle straps with rough hands. You followed him out, tears brimming in your eyes.

“Papa, please, you don’t understand—Billy didn’t mean any harm! He loves me!” you cried, stepping into the dusty path as the last light of day fell across his face.

He stopped only for a heartbeat. “Love?” he said, his voice low and trembling with anger. “Love does not take what it has not yet earned.”

And with that, he mounted the horse and rode off, the sound of hooves pounding against the earth echoing through the quiet countryside.

⸻

At the Andrews estate, the scene was quite different. Mr. Andrews had been trimming the rose bushes near the veranda, humming softly, when he noticed your father galloping up the lane. Prissy and Jane were nearby, gathering wildflowers for the parlor vase. They both looked up as the Loxley patriarch pulled the horse to a stop in a spray of dust.

“Mr. Andrews!” your father shouted, voice hard as steel. “Your son has done something very scandalous with my daughter, and I cannot accept that!”

Mr. Andrews blinked, startled, the shears falling from his hand. “Pardon me? What in heaven’s name are you speaking of?”

Your father dismounted, anger practically radiating from him. “Your boy—Billy—he has touched my daughter! In the woods, no less! Before school, like common ruffians hiding from God’s eyes. If he does not mend his ways and act as a gentleman should, there will be no marriage between them!”

Prissy gasped, clutching Jane’s arm, while Jane’s eyes went wide with shock. Mr. Andrews’s face turned pale as he tried to find words. “Touched her? Sir, surely you are mistaken. Billy is—he’s an honest lad!”

“Then you had best make certain he stays that way,” your father said sharply, stepping back toward his horse. “My daughter has been through enough since we left France. I will not see her suffer in her own marriage.”

Mr. Andrews tried to call after him—“Please, Mr. Loxley, let’s speak of this properly!”—but your father only tipped his hat in a cold, final gesture.

“Goodbye,” he said curtly, and with a flick of the reins, he was gone, the sound of hooves fading down the road.

The Andrews sisters stood frozen in the drive, glancing at one another. Prissy spoke first, her voice barely a whisper. “Oh, dear… what will people say?”

Jane looked toward the horizon, where your father’s figure had vanished. “Whatever they say,” she murmured, “I hope Billy knows what storm is coming for him.”

Back at home, the candles had burned low when your father returned. He said nothing as he hung up his coat and sat heavily by the hearth, his face unreadable in the firelight. You stood silently by the doorway, the taste of guilt and fear thick in your throat.