PROVING THE WORLD IS ROUND
Fiction
by
Julie Sellers
by
Julie Sellers
Dear Anne,
I’m writing to you from Paris, although that will probably not surprise you as much as some of the other news I’ve to share. When last I wrote, I was in Merry Ol’ England—London, to be precise—after several busy months of globetrotting. Who would have thought that first secretarial position could have led to my current life? No doubt you would have, dearest of Annes, with your flair for imagination and your unshakeable faith in strays such as myself. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Anne—working as the private secretary for a member of Parliament was fascinating, but working for an international businessman is even more so. I only thought my M.P. traveled until he retired and I was employed by Mr. Wallace. This new position has allowed me to truly live my lifelong dream of traveling the globe. As I once told you, I always wanted to know, not just believe, that the world is round.
We journeyed to Agra following Mr. Wallace’s business dealings in London. After several days full of intense negotiations there, Mr. Wallace concluded his business and gave me the entire day to see the sights; he even offered to take care of my little dog while I was out! He really is a kind old soul, despite his bushy white eyebrows and rather gruff appearance. Do you remember how I longed to visit the Taj Mahal? Oh, Anne, it was breathtaking! Words cannot do justice to its beauty. The luster of the white marble glimmering in the sun, the delicate arches, the exquisite carvings—I think even your imagination could not have improved upon it.
Just when I was convinced that the Taj Mahal could have no equal, we journeyed on to our next destination: Egypt. There, we worked for a week before Mr. Wallace announced that his son, Mr. Philip Wallace, had arrived and wondered if I might accompany them the next day on an excursion to see the pyramids. I was anticipating a spoiled young man, given my employer’s financial security and all that must have provided for his only heir, but nothing could have been farther form the truth. I discovered in the younger Mr. Wallace a soft-spoken man only a little older than myself who was generally rather serious, but with a subdued merriness that surfaced every now and then. Philip and I talked of books and art and history even as we climbed to the top of the ancient pyramids, which are quite frankly, beyond any description my mere words could provide. You’ll be pleased to know that your old chum has changed very little from her opinionated self, although it is still often not in my best interests. Oh, don’t worry Anne! I haven’t returned to my biting sarcasm and bitterness of Summerside days; I’ve just lived enough to speak my own mind, especially when faced with someone so smugly self-assured of being right, as I perceived the younger Mr. Wallace to be when he held fast to his own opinion. While I was pontificating on some point on which I did not agree with him, trying to ascend the uneven steps of a pyramid, mind you, I slipped. I’m sure my brains were only saved being dashed upon the stone by his quick reflexes. I was mortified—imagine that, Anne! I was certain the serious young man before me would treat me like a ninny, but he was incredibly gracious, despite our differing opinions. We stood in companionable silence atop that pyramid, gazing out across the incomparable landscape.
As we three journeyed back to Europe later that month, Mr. Wallace explained that he was nearing retirement and that his son would soon be taking over the reins of the company. I was petrified that I might soon be unemployed, especially since the younger Mr. Wallace constantly seemed to be studying me with a grave look. My worry at losing my position in the transition must have been apparent, for he hurriedly assured me that his father had spoken so well of my work that he intended to keep me on. In fact, he insisted that I would be invaluable to the transition. Words cannot describe my relief, Anne, so you’ll just have to imagine it. I fear I’ve become far too accustomed to living out of a trunk, meeting fascinating people, seeing all the corners I can of this old world.
We went first to Spain where we spent two weeks in Madrid meeting with Mr. Wallace’s associates there. And of course, I rambled past well-known monuments, roamed through the Plaza Mayor, sampled delicious foods, and lost myself for hours in the Prado. One Sunday afternoon, I intended to set out to take a row on the pond in Retiro Park, and the younger Mr. Wallace absolutely refused to let me go alone. I was more than a little miffed with him, and when he mis-stepped into the water exiting the boat, an ornery little imp in me grinned. By then, we had concluded Mr. Wallace’s work in Madrid, and he announced that evening that we would next be journeying south to Granada. My confusion must have shown plainly, because that serious, often gruff old man laughed with a gleam in his eye. “Don’t look so concerned, Miss Brooke. I haven’t lost my mind. This will be a purely sight-seeing trip. Philip has never seen the Alhambra, and I don’t believe you have either.”
Oh, Anne! The Alhambra! I had gooseflesh merely thinking about it. I always imagined it when you talked about building castles in the air, and it did not disappoint. The gardens of the Generalife, the Patio of the Lions, the intricately decorated arches, the towers and fountains and gates— it was divine, positively divine! I purchased a copy of Irving’s Tales to reread while there, and then stayed up the better part of the night to indulge in them. The younger Mr. Wallace noticed the shadows under my eyes the next morning, and his frown made me feel like a very silly little goose. I did so wish he might be a mite less serious! I fear I was a bit short with him that morning, but I forgave him when he invited me to return to the gardens that afternoon, and we spent several lovely hours there while I regaled him with the tales I’d lost sleep reading.
From Granada, we journeyed north on the train to Paris. Although I had been here before with my previous employer, I had not seen as much of the City of Lights as I had hoped. Mr. Wallace has his European offices in Paris, so I was hopeful I would be able to enjoy the city more. And so it was. We have been here approximately six weeks, and in this time, I’ve haunted the Louvre, seen the monuments, and drank coffee and eaten scrumptious croissants in several darling cafes. I’ve wandered the wide avenues and narrow streets, often accompanied by the younger Mr. Wallace, at first to my chagrin. Let us just say that I discovered he had the most disagreeable habit of contradicting me. If I wanted to go left down a street, he insisted we go right. If I wanted to sit outside in a café, he would insist on a formal restaurant. Oh, it was infuriating—especially when he was right! You know how loathe I am to be contradicted, Anne, and I dare say Mr. Wallace felt the same.
So, it was with no little surprise to have Mr. Philip Wallace invite me to the Eiffel Tower one evening. I had already been once during the day, but he explained that it was a special event, very exclusive and by invitation only. I wore my red dress—you know the one—and spent a little extra time on my hair. I didn’t want to embarrass my soon-to-be-employer; he is so serious, after all.
We arrived at the Eiffel Tower and were ushered to the very top, where I anticipated finding a small party of some sort. But there was no one else. “Where is everyone?” I asked, confused. My escort looked more earnest than usual and took my elbow to lead me out to gaze upon the view. We stood there silently for a moment, and I repeated my question.
“Isn’t it breathtaking?” he said by way of an answer at last. “Almost…” he turned with a half-smile, “almost as much so as a certain stubborn secretary I know.”
Something about his tone made my breath catch. I simply couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Me?” I squeaked—and you know, Anne, that I have never been one to squeak!
“You.” He took my hands, his eyes two dark pools gazing unwaveringly into mine. “You’re intelligent and clever and yes, a bit hard-headed, although I like the challenge of keeping up with your sharp mind. Like this view, you’re breathtaking, and I’m afraid that I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with you.”
“In love… with me?”
“With you.” He lowered himself to one knee, there at the very top of the Eiffel Tower, with the lights of Paris spread out like so many stars below. “I wondered if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Well, you can imagine my surprise. It was touching, but it was terrifying at the same time. You know how I said I never wanted a man, that I never had been truly jealous of your circlet of pearls. My parents had been so unhappy together that I dreaded the thought of repeating their misery. And there was my hard-won independence to consider, too. But still… Well, my silly heart did some sort of strange little flip-flop, and I was utterly speechless.
“You’re worried I’ll be away too much with the business?” he asked.
“No, I’m worried you won’t take me with you everywhere you go.” There! I’d said it, and let the chips fall where they may.
He laughed, that deep, dear, sonorous laugh of his. “If that’s what you want, you shall accompany me wherever I may go.”
“Even to the remotest corner of the remotest nation?”
“There and beyond.”
“And my dog?”
“Both of you, of course.”
“You’re certain?”
He nodded. “I long to go everywhere with you and nowhere without you.”
Oh, Anne, wasn’t that a romantic thing to say? Of course, you’ll agree it was, and to make a long story short, I am engaged to be married in June and hopelessly happy at the prospect. Surprised? Shocked? Incredulous? Oh, I’m sure you’ll say you always suspected I’d marry someday. And maybe you did. I know that I am still utterly amazed to have found someone who loves me as I am, who is unafraid to challenge me or admit when I am right.
And so, my dear friend, I’ll close for now, with the enclosures of several photographs from my travels and one of me with my betrothed. There will be many more over the years and in Philip’s company, I assure you, for I’ve not yet proven to my satisfaction that the world is round.
Love to you, Gilbert, and little Jem,
Katherine (with a “K”)
I’m writing to you from Paris, although that will probably not surprise you as much as some of the other news I’ve to share. When last I wrote, I was in Merry Ol’ England—London, to be precise—after several busy months of globetrotting. Who would have thought that first secretarial position could have led to my current life? No doubt you would have, dearest of Annes, with your flair for imagination and your unshakeable faith in strays such as myself. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Anne—working as the private secretary for a member of Parliament was fascinating, but working for an international businessman is even more so. I only thought my M.P. traveled until he retired and I was employed by Mr. Wallace. This new position has allowed me to truly live my lifelong dream of traveling the globe. As I once told you, I always wanted to know, not just believe, that the world is round.
We journeyed to Agra following Mr. Wallace’s business dealings in London. After several days full of intense negotiations there, Mr. Wallace concluded his business and gave me the entire day to see the sights; he even offered to take care of my little dog while I was out! He really is a kind old soul, despite his bushy white eyebrows and rather gruff appearance. Do you remember how I longed to visit the Taj Mahal? Oh, Anne, it was breathtaking! Words cannot do justice to its beauty. The luster of the white marble glimmering in the sun, the delicate arches, the exquisite carvings—I think even your imagination could not have improved upon it.
Just when I was convinced that the Taj Mahal could have no equal, we journeyed on to our next destination: Egypt. There, we worked for a week before Mr. Wallace announced that his son, Mr. Philip Wallace, had arrived and wondered if I might accompany them the next day on an excursion to see the pyramids. I was anticipating a spoiled young man, given my employer’s financial security and all that must have provided for his only heir, but nothing could have been farther form the truth. I discovered in the younger Mr. Wallace a soft-spoken man only a little older than myself who was generally rather serious, but with a subdued merriness that surfaced every now and then. Philip and I talked of books and art and history even as we climbed to the top of the ancient pyramids, which are quite frankly, beyond any description my mere words could provide. You’ll be pleased to know that your old chum has changed very little from her opinionated self, although it is still often not in my best interests. Oh, don’t worry Anne! I haven’t returned to my biting sarcasm and bitterness of Summerside days; I’ve just lived enough to speak my own mind, especially when faced with someone so smugly self-assured of being right, as I perceived the younger Mr. Wallace to be when he held fast to his own opinion. While I was pontificating on some point on which I did not agree with him, trying to ascend the uneven steps of a pyramid, mind you, I slipped. I’m sure my brains were only saved being dashed upon the stone by his quick reflexes. I was mortified—imagine that, Anne! I was certain the serious young man before me would treat me like a ninny, but he was incredibly gracious, despite our differing opinions. We stood in companionable silence atop that pyramid, gazing out across the incomparable landscape.
As we three journeyed back to Europe later that month, Mr. Wallace explained that he was nearing retirement and that his son would soon be taking over the reins of the company. I was petrified that I might soon be unemployed, especially since the younger Mr. Wallace constantly seemed to be studying me with a grave look. My worry at losing my position in the transition must have been apparent, for he hurriedly assured me that his father had spoken so well of my work that he intended to keep me on. In fact, he insisted that I would be invaluable to the transition. Words cannot describe my relief, Anne, so you’ll just have to imagine it. I fear I’ve become far too accustomed to living out of a trunk, meeting fascinating people, seeing all the corners I can of this old world.
We went first to Spain where we spent two weeks in Madrid meeting with Mr. Wallace’s associates there. And of course, I rambled past well-known monuments, roamed through the Plaza Mayor, sampled delicious foods, and lost myself for hours in the Prado. One Sunday afternoon, I intended to set out to take a row on the pond in Retiro Park, and the younger Mr. Wallace absolutely refused to let me go alone. I was more than a little miffed with him, and when he mis-stepped into the water exiting the boat, an ornery little imp in me grinned. By then, we had concluded Mr. Wallace’s work in Madrid, and he announced that evening that we would next be journeying south to Granada. My confusion must have shown plainly, because that serious, often gruff old man laughed with a gleam in his eye. “Don’t look so concerned, Miss Brooke. I haven’t lost my mind. This will be a purely sight-seeing trip. Philip has never seen the Alhambra, and I don’t believe you have either.”
Oh, Anne! The Alhambra! I had gooseflesh merely thinking about it. I always imagined it when you talked about building castles in the air, and it did not disappoint. The gardens of the Generalife, the Patio of the Lions, the intricately decorated arches, the towers and fountains and gates— it was divine, positively divine! I purchased a copy of Irving’s Tales to reread while there, and then stayed up the better part of the night to indulge in them. The younger Mr. Wallace noticed the shadows under my eyes the next morning, and his frown made me feel like a very silly little goose. I did so wish he might be a mite less serious! I fear I was a bit short with him that morning, but I forgave him when he invited me to return to the gardens that afternoon, and we spent several lovely hours there while I regaled him with the tales I’d lost sleep reading.
From Granada, we journeyed north on the train to Paris. Although I had been here before with my previous employer, I had not seen as much of the City of Lights as I had hoped. Mr. Wallace has his European offices in Paris, so I was hopeful I would be able to enjoy the city more. And so it was. We have been here approximately six weeks, and in this time, I’ve haunted the Louvre, seen the monuments, and drank coffee and eaten scrumptious croissants in several darling cafes. I’ve wandered the wide avenues and narrow streets, often accompanied by the younger Mr. Wallace, at first to my chagrin. Let us just say that I discovered he had the most disagreeable habit of contradicting me. If I wanted to go left down a street, he insisted we go right. If I wanted to sit outside in a café, he would insist on a formal restaurant. Oh, it was infuriating—especially when he was right! You know how loathe I am to be contradicted, Anne, and I dare say Mr. Wallace felt the same.
So, it was with no little surprise to have Mr. Philip Wallace invite me to the Eiffel Tower one evening. I had already been once during the day, but he explained that it was a special event, very exclusive and by invitation only. I wore my red dress—you know the one—and spent a little extra time on my hair. I didn’t want to embarrass my soon-to-be-employer; he is so serious, after all.
We arrived at the Eiffel Tower and were ushered to the very top, where I anticipated finding a small party of some sort. But there was no one else. “Where is everyone?” I asked, confused. My escort looked more earnest than usual and took my elbow to lead me out to gaze upon the view. We stood there silently for a moment, and I repeated my question.
“Isn’t it breathtaking?” he said by way of an answer at last. “Almost…” he turned with a half-smile, “almost as much so as a certain stubborn secretary I know.”
Something about his tone made my breath catch. I simply couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Me?” I squeaked—and you know, Anne, that I have never been one to squeak!
“You.” He took my hands, his eyes two dark pools gazing unwaveringly into mine. “You’re intelligent and clever and yes, a bit hard-headed, although I like the challenge of keeping up with your sharp mind. Like this view, you’re breathtaking, and I’m afraid that I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with you.”
“In love… with me?”
“With you.” He lowered himself to one knee, there at the very top of the Eiffel Tower, with the lights of Paris spread out like so many stars below. “I wondered if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Well, you can imagine my surprise. It was touching, but it was terrifying at the same time. You know how I said I never wanted a man, that I never had been truly jealous of your circlet of pearls. My parents had been so unhappy together that I dreaded the thought of repeating their misery. And there was my hard-won independence to consider, too. But still… Well, my silly heart did some sort of strange little flip-flop, and I was utterly speechless.
“You’re worried I’ll be away too much with the business?” he asked.
“No, I’m worried you won’t take me with you everywhere you go.” There! I’d said it, and let the chips fall where they may.
He laughed, that deep, dear, sonorous laugh of his. “If that’s what you want, you shall accompany me wherever I may go.”
“Even to the remotest corner of the remotest nation?”
“There and beyond.”
“And my dog?”
“Both of you, of course.”
“You’re certain?”
He nodded. “I long to go everywhere with you and nowhere without you.”
Oh, Anne, wasn’t that a romantic thing to say? Of course, you’ll agree it was, and to make a long story short, I am engaged to be married in June and hopelessly happy at the prospect. Surprised? Shocked? Incredulous? Oh, I’m sure you’ll say you always suspected I’d marry someday. And maybe you did. I know that I am still utterly amazed to have found someone who loves me as I am, who is unafraid to challenge me or admit when I am right.
And so, my dear friend, I’ll close for now, with the enclosures of several photographs from my travels and one of me with my betrothed. There will be many more over the years and in Philip’s company, I assure you, for I’ve not yet proven to my satisfaction that the world is round.
Love to you, Gilbert, and little Jem,
Katherine (with a “K”)
Julie A. Sellers is an Associate Professor of Spanish at Benedictine College in Atchison, Kansas, and she is also a Federally Certified Court Interpreter (English/Spanish). A native of Kansas, Julie has travelled extensively in Latin America and Spain. She has twice been the overall prose winner of the Kansas Voices Contest (2017, 2019). She has published in Wanderlust, The Write Launch, Kansas Time + Place, and Heartland!. Julie's third academic book, The Modern Bachateros: 27 Interviews (McFarland, 2017), received the Kansas Authors Club 2018 It Looks Like A Million Book Award.
Author's statement: Anne of Green Gables was as much of a home to me as Green Gables was to Anne Shirley. That fictional world was a space where I, a bookish, imaginative girl with dreams of being a writer, fit in perfectly. My relationship and understanding of Anne has constantly evolved over the years, and she remains beside me through each stage of life, like a true bosom friend.
