The Romance of Aunt Beatrice

"The Romance of Aunt Beatrice" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a charming novella that follows the life of Beatrice, an unconventional and spirited aunt who navigates the complexities of love and family dynamics. Set against the backdrop of early 20th-century Canada, the story explores themes of romance, individuality, and the societal expectations of women. With Montgomery's signature blend of gentle humor and emotional depth, the novella captures Aunt Beatrice's journey toward self-acceptance and her quest for genuine connections, making it a delightful tale of personal growth and the transformative power of love.

• Short story

								
Margaret always maintains that it was a direct inspiration of
Providence that took her across the street to see Aunt Beatrice that
night. And Aunt Beatrice believes that it was too. But the truth of
the matter is that Margaret was feeling very unhappy, and went over to
talk to Aunt Beatrice as the only alternative to a fit of crying.
Margaret's unhappiness has nothing further to do with this story, so
it may be dismissed with the remark that it did not amount to much, in
spite of Margaret's tragical attitude, and was dissipated at once and
forever by the arrival of a certain missent letter the next day.

Aunt Beatrice was alone. Her brother and his wife had gone to the "at
home" which Mrs. Cunningham was giving that night in honour of the
Honourable John Reynolds, M.P. The children were upstairs in bed, and
Aunt Beatrice was darning their stockings, a big basketful of which
loomed up aggressively on the table beside her. Or, to speak more
correctly, she had been darning them. Just when Margaret was sliding
across the icy street Aunt Beatrice was bent forward in her chair, her
hands over her face, while soft, shrinking little sobs shook her from
head to foot.

When Margaret's imperative knock came at the front door, Aunt Beatrice
started guiltily and wished earnestly that she had waited until she
went to bed before crying, if cry she must. She knew Margaret's knock,
and she did not want her gay young niece, of all people in the world,
to suspect the fact or the cause of her tears.

"I hope she won't notice my eyes," she thought, as she hastily plumped
a big ugly dark-green shade, with an almond-eyed oriental leering from
it, over the lamp, before going out to let Margaret in.

Margaret did not notice at first. She was too deeply absorbed in her
own troubles to think that anyone else in the world could be miserable
too. She curled up in the deep easy-chair by the fire, and clasped her
hands behind her curly head with a sigh of physical comfort and mental
unhappiness, while Aunt Beatrice, warily sitting with her back to the
light, took up her work again.

"You didn't go to Mrs. Cunningham's 'at home,' Auntie," said Margaret
lazily, feeling that she must make some conversation to justify her
appearance. "You were invited, weren't you?"

Aunt Beatrice nodded. The hole she was darning in the knee of Willie
Hayden's stocking must be done very carefully. Mrs. George Hayden was
particular about such matters. Perhaps this was why Aunt Beatrice did
not speak.

"Why didn't you go?" asked Margaret absently, wondering why there had
been no letter for her that morning--and this was the third day too!
Could Gilbert be ill? Or was he flirting with some other girl and
forgetting her? Margaret swallowed a big lump in her throat, and
resolved that she would go home next week--no, she wouldn't,
either--if he was as hateful and fickle as that--what was Aunt
Beatrice saying?

"Well, I'm--I'm not used to going to parties now, my dear. And the
truth is I have no dress fit to wear. At least Bella said so, because
the party was to be a very fashionable affair. She said my old grey
silk wouldn't do at all. Of course she knows. She had to have a new
dress for it, and, we couldn't both have that. George couldn't afford
it these hard times. And, as Bella said, it would be very foolish of
me to get an expensive dress that would be no use to me afterward. But
it doesn't matter. And, of course, somebody had to stay with the
children."

"Of course," assented Margaret dreamily. Mrs. Cunningham's "at home"
was of no particular interest. The guests were all middle-aged people
whom the M.P. had known in his boyhood and Margaret, in her
presumptuous youth, thought it would be a very prosy affair, although
it had made quite a sensation in quiet little Murraybridge, where
people still called an "at home" a party plain and simple.

"I saw Mr. Reynolds in church Sunday afternoon," she went on. "He is
very fine-looking, I think. Did you ever meet him?"

"I used to know him very well long ago," answered Aunt Beatrice,
bowing still lower over her work. "He used to live down in Wentworth,
you know, and he visited his married sister here very often. He was
only a boy at that time. Then--he went out to British Columbia
and--and--we never heard much more about him."

"He's very rich and owns dozens of mines and railroads and things like
that," said Margaret, "and he's a member of the Dominion Parliament,
too. They say he's one of the foremost men in the House and came very
near getting a portfolio in the new cabinet. I like men like that.
They are so interesting. Wouldn't it be awfully nice and complimentary
to have one of them in love with you? Is he married?"

"I--I don't know," said Aunt Beatrice faintly. "I have never heard
that he was."

"There, you've run the needle into your finger," said Margaret
sympathetically.

"It's of no consequence," said Aunt Beatrice hastily.

She wiped away the drop of blood and went on with her work. Margaret
watched her dreamily. What lovely hair Aunt Beatrice had! It was so
thick and glossy, with warm bronze tones where the lamp-light fell on
it under that hideous weird old shade. But Aunt Beatrice wore it in
such an unbecoming way. Margaret idly wondered if she would comb her
hair straight back and prim when she was thirty-five. She thought it
very probable if that letter did not come tomorrow.

From Aunt Beatrice's hair Margaret's eyes fell to Aunt Beatrice's
face. She gave a little jump. Had Aunt Beatrice been crying? Margaret
sat bolt upright.

"Aunt Beatrice, did you want to go to that party?" she demanded
explosively. "Now tell me the truth."

"I did," said Aunt Beatrice weakly. Margaret's sudden attack fairly
startled the truth out of her. "It is very silly of me, I know, but I
did want to go. I didn't care about a new dress. I'd have been quite
willing to wear my grey silk, and I could have fixed the sleeves. What
difference would it have made? Nobody would ever have noticed me, but
Bella thought it wouldn't do."

She paused long enough to give a little sob which she could not
repress. Margaret made use of the opportunity to exclaim violently,
"It's a shame!"

"I suppose you don't understand why I wanted to go to this particular
party so much," went on Aunt Beatrice shyly. "I'll tell you why--if
you won't laugh at me. I wanted to see John Reynolds--not to talk to
him--oh, I dare say he wouldn't remember me--but just to see him.
Long ago--fifteen years ago--we were engaged. And--and--I loved him so
much then, Margaret."

"You poor dear!" said Margaret sympathetically. She reached over and
patted her aunt's hand. She thought that this little bit of romance,
long hidden and unsuspected, blossoming out under her eyes, was

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