by Sarah McCoy
“St. Catharines isn’t so much different from Avonlea,” assured Izzy. “The older I get, the more I see the truth. Greatness can be found anywhere. It doesn’t need grandeur. There’s greatness in the ordinary. Maybe even more than elsewhere. You remember that, Marilla.”
Izzy exhaled, and Marilla thought it a sad sound. Had Izzy found her greatness in St. Catharines? Or did she wear a wishing rock because she was still seeking it?
Izzy clicked her tongue, and Jericho trotted down the main thoroughfare. Old Mr. Fletcher sold roasted chestnuts in front of the Avonlea post office.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Elizabeth Johnson—I almost mistook ye for Clara!” greeted Mr. Fletcher.
“Not the first or the last time!” Izzy stopped Jericho.
“Welcome home! Have a scoop on me.” Mr. Fletcher handed her a rolled-newspaper cone of nuts.
“Never tasted a sweeter bite.”
Across the street, the five Cotton boys were just coming out of the barbershop, looking like freshly shorn ears of corn.
“Izzy Johnson, is that you?” asked Mrs. Cotton from behind her gaggle.
Mrs. Cotton had been in school with Izzy and Clara. Back when they were girls throwing wishing rocks in Hope River.
“Good to see you, old friend. Clara told me you married a Cotton son.”
Mrs. Cotton nodded and stretched her arms over the five pomaded heads. “They do make ’em fine.”
Izzy handed each boy a steaming chestnut. “Be good for your mother, lads. She helped me learn to spell ‘Armageddon,’ and I won first place in the regional spelling bee on account of it.”
The youngest boy turned to his brother. “Arma-what?”
One of the older boys flicked the middle brother behind the ear, and the eldest told them both to “quiet before I make ya.”
“A-R-M-A-G-E-D-D-O-N,” Mrs. Cotton said loudly to reestablish order. “Oh, the irony!”
Izzy laughed, though Marilla couldn’t understand why. She’d heard the Reverend talk of Armageddon with fiery passion, thumping the pulpit and sending the pigeons out from the rafters. It was obviously a thing to be avoided.
“Good to have you back with us,” said Mrs. Cotton. Her eyes darted to the Blairs’ store for a flicker but returned smiling. She waved good-bye, and her sons followed her, shortest to tallest.
Izzy tied Jericho to the post out front of the Blairs’. It was a small one-room depot that had originally been Mr. and Mrs. Blair’s parlor. They hadn’t meant to go into the mercantile business. They’d started by selling a handful of brooms, soaps, and handkerchiefs—save the local wives the trip to Carmody—but before long the Blairs were taking requests for everything from lace to cinnamon. So Mr. Blair turned the floor level into a little shop, and they lived in the apartment above. They didn’t carry many items, but it was enough to keep their shop bell ringing all hours of the day.
“Well, bless my stars, I’ve seen a ghost,” said Mrs. Blair. She stood atop a stool, fetching a roll of batting down from the shelf for Mrs. Copp.
Mrs. Copp turned to look, then raised an eyebrow high and huffed, “Oh dear. Elizabeth Johnson.”
Unlike the women, Mr. Blair came round from behind the counter, leaving his paying customer standing with the bill in hand. He embraced Izzy as a daughter returned.
“Izzy!”
Mrs. Blair joined him hesitantly. “Hello, Izzy. It’s been a long while since we last saw you. Not since . . . well, who can remember exactly.”
“Indeed, it has been. I’m sorry I hadn’t the opportunity to come back sooner, but I thought it probably for the best.”
“Probably so.” Mrs. Blair pursed her lips.
The space between Izzy and Mrs. Blair felt icy, and Marilla couldn’t hold the winter’s day entirely responsible. While Mrs. Blair was a proper sort, she’d never been one for unfriendliness.
“I’m here to help with Clara’s coming baby,” Izzy explained.
Mr. Blair nodded knowingly. “I’m sure she’s mighty glad to have ya. Did you see where they set up house?”
A welcome change of subject.
“Of course she has. She’s got Marilla with her, don’t she?” said Mrs. Blair.
Mr. Blair went back to tallying the accounts book for his customer, while Mrs. Blair continued.
“It’s so far off the beaten path. Clara was always such a sociable spirit, and now we hardly ever see her since Hugh built that place.”
Marilla’s father had just finished the gables the month before, so Marilla didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Clara was too burdened with child to be in town, and it was winter! The snow and wind kept most everybody by their home fires anyhow.
“It’s a beauty of a croft, though,” Mr. Blair said in defense. “Hugh Cuthbert knew what he was getting when he bought that piece. I always thought it the prettiest place on the island. You can see the forest and the sea, all in one.” He finished his sale.
The customer tipped his hat. “Welcome home, Miss Johnson.”
“Thank you kindly, Hiram. Please tell your mother I’ve missed her butter nut cakes.”
“Will do. She’s moved in with my cousin to help with the lil’uns.”
“Your baby cousin has little ones?” Izzy shook her head. “So many changes since I left. Please give them my hellos.”
The man nodded again, cleared his throat in good-bye to the Blairs, and left.
It seemed Izzy knew just about everybody in Avonlea, and they knew Izzy, even better than Marilla.
“So now, what can we get you? I doubt you came to pay a social call,” said Mrs. Blair.
“We’ve come for a pound of white sugar and to see about some dress material.” Izzy put her arm around Marilla’s shoulders.
Mrs. Blair gestured for them to follow her to where she kept the bolts of muslin and poplins.
“We don’t have all the fancy frippery of the big city,” she warned, “but I try to keep at least a dozen sensible patterns in stock.”
“No flounces necessary. It’s for Marilla’s brother or sister a-coming.”
“Have a particular color in mind?”
“I think yellow,” answered Marilla. “That way it can be worn by a girl or boy.”
Izzy smiled. “A wise choice, my dear.”
“Solid, floral, or tartan?” asked Mrs. Blair.
Marilla ran her fingers over one soft woven cotton: pale yellow dotted with green-leafed ivy. Like a tall pitcher of lemonade and floating mint, the fabric made her mouth water and her skin crave the warmth of summer.
“That’s a beauty,” said Izzy. “Three yards, please, Mrs. Blair. That should be enough for a baby gown and whatever else we might dream up.” She winked at Marilla. “We’ll take some of that ivory muslin too. Collars and cuffs to tea towels—we can make anything from that. So clean and new with possibilities.”
Marilla hadn’t ever stopped to consider colorless muslin as anything but . . . colorless muslin. Assessing it afresh with Izzy made her understand how a homely thing can become quite extraordinary if given the chance to prove itself.
Mr. Blair scooped and weighed the sugar while Mrs. Blair measured and cut the material. Together, the couple packaged everything in brown paper tied with twine.
“I haven’t any new Godey’s magazine stories, but I promise to set them aside for you when I do,” Mr. Blair whispered when Mrs. Blair had moved on to a lady customer debating milled rye or oats. The oats were a half-cent cheaper, but she wasn’t sure they would bake up the same.
“I just don’t know. I’d hate to ruin my brown bread. But that’s such a pleasing price for oats . . .” she muttered.
Marilla never could understand folks who said whatever was on their mind to whoever might be present in whatever location. The woman spoke as if she were the only one in the room and thus begged the question: just whom did she think she was speaking to? Hugh called it the malady of indiscretion. Some people couldn’t help themselves any more than they could help a fever. They were
sick with it. Involuntary or not, such unconscious ramblings made Marilla uncomfortable. So she turned her attention away to the jar of peppermints on the counter. She had fancied peppermint since her first bite. It wasn’t an herb that grew in their garden, which made it even more prized.
Seeing her stare, Izzy opened the jar, handed Marilla a candy, and took another for herself.
“Don’t mind if we do,” she said. “Peppermint is such a wholesome treat. I close my eyes when I’m enjoying a piece. Makes you feel bright, like you’ve swallowed a winter star. Don’t you think, Marilla?”
Marilla had never thought such a thing. But now she closed her eyes with the mint on her tongue and found that Izzy was right. She could’ve sworn she saw starbursts in the darkness.
“You can add those to our bill.”
“No charge,” said Mr. Blair. “Mrs. Blair makes them twice a week. William’s favorite, you know.” His voice caught on itself, and he shuffled paper wrappings nearby to conceal it.
Izzy fumbled with the clasp of her purse and cleared her throat. “How is William?”
Mr. Blair looked to his wife, engaged across the room, then replied quietly. “He’s well. Married up now, you know. Lottie is her name. Came over from Scotland. They’re moving to Carmody in the spring and expecting their first child any day.”
With a click of coin on the counter, Izzy finished counting out the payment. “It seems children are as ubiquitous as snowflakes in Avonlea.” She gave a strained grin. Her dimple, which usually made itself apparent, stayed hidden. “Please pass along my congratulations to William and Lottie. I heard she is a woman of remarkable kindness.”
“A bonny girl, that she is.” He put a reassuring hand on Izzy’s. “All things work together for the good.”
From Romans, Marilla recognized. It was one of Hugh’s favorite Bible verses to read to them.
Mr. Blair gave Marilla the sugar bag and Izzy the wrapped parcel of fabrics.
“If you and Clara be of a sewing mind,” he continued, “they’ve just inaugurated the Avonlea Ladies’ Sewing Circle. Isn’t it so, Mrs. Blair?” he called out to where Mrs. Blair was weighing the sale oats.
“What’s that?”
“Telling Izzy and Marilla about the ladies’ sewing circle meeting once a week at the Whites’ place.”
Mrs. Blair gave a mouselike sneeze at the oat dust. “Can’t say that I know the particulars. It’s mostly younger women and wives. The rest of us haven’t the time for such diversions. But by the increase in thimble and thread purchases, I expect it’s the latest fad cut straight from the pages of one of those frivolous ladies’ magazines, no doubt.”
Mr. Blair waved her off. “Mrs. White was just in here yesterday asking me to spread the word. Can’t have a ladies’ sewing circle without a circle of ladies. Then it’d just be a sewing line.”
“Well, I don’t know . . .” Izzy began, but Mr. Blair persisted.
“Reckon you’d be doing them a favor, teaching them the newest stitchery from the city. The Whites moved here from East Grafton and are still getting to know folks.” He winked.
“It would be nice to practice,” conceded Izzy. “I aim to teach Marilla all my best tricks.”
While Marilla had mastered her crocheting needles, she was a far cry from adept enough to join a formal ladies’ sewing circle.
“The Whites’ girl Rachel is about Marilla’s age,” Mrs. Blair chimed in, “and she’s already doing French knots, so I’m told.”
Marilla cringed. She didn’t even know what a French knot was.
“I’ll write to Mrs. White promptly then,” said Izzy. “Thank you, Mr. Blair. I’m sure Clara will join us if she’s feeling well enough.”
Marilla knew her mother was even worse with the needle and thread. She worried over it all the way home until finally resolving that she’d have to face the circle. There was no way out. She was so caught up in her own thoughts, it wasn’t until they unhitched the harness from the sled that she remembered, “We forgot the sugar lump for Jericho!”
Izzy pulled the peppermint from her pocket. “He can have mine.”
In a single chomp, Jericho swallowed the candy and gave a whinny of satisfaction. It made Marilla wonder if animals too dreamed of winter stars and things greater than themselves.
V.
Introducing Rachel White
The following Tuesday, Matthew dropped Marilla and Izzy at the Whites’ house on his way to Carmody to buy a new cheese press. Their old wooden one had split down the base, and Clara claimed the baby had a mighty hankering for cheese. After a week without, she’d begun dreaming of cheese mountains, pillows of curds, and streams of sweet creams, while the baby kicked her voraciously. She was convinced that she could not last another day without a new cheese press. So Matthew was dispatched.
That same morning, Clara awoke with a touch of a cough. “I couldn’t trouble the ladies. I’d shake all the needles to wobbly stitches.”
Izzy had offered to stay home with her, but Clara insisted, “I want Marilla to go. She’s been holed up in this house too long. A young lady needs to get out in the world. Show her. Please, Sister.”
So they packed up their sewing circulars, colored threads, and some of the red currant wine. They’d just rolled the wine bottles a half-turn clockwise.
“One must always bring a gift for the hostess,” explained Izzy. She nestled the bottle carefully in her hamper, reminding Marilla of the biblical baby Moses about to float down the Nile.
Marilla was nervous as a bumblebee on a honeycomb when Matthew helped her down from the sleigh.
“You’ll do fine, Marilla,” he whispered in her ear. “Just take a deep breath and go on in there with your head held high. Look for good things and good things is what you’ll find, right?”
It was from the proverb Hugh had read them the night before: “He who seeks good will surely find it.”
She nodded to Matthew. Hard to argue with Gospel. Still, it frightened her to be under the critical eye of these women. She wanted to impress them. Matthew pulled away down the lane, and Izzy waited for her at the front gate.
“Come on, girl. They’ll start without us.”
The Whites lived in a shingled house with painted peach shutters and a giant hollyhock growing beside the drainpipe like Jack’s beanstalk. So near to the center of town was it that when the church bells rang the hour, the porch swing swayed.
“How do you do, Miss Johnson, Miss Cuthbert,” greeted Mrs. White at their knock. “So glad you could join us.” She opened the door wide, and the smell of baked vanilla spilled out. “The ladies are just having tea and cake before we begin.”
Despite her dainty lace and pearls, Mrs. White was a buxom woman with large brown eyes, solid hands, and a no-nonsense air to everything she did. “Let me take your coats. Go on in. Our maid Ella will pour you a cup. Wouldn’t want a wet chill to get in the lungs. Keep hoping I’ll wake up and spring will finally have the gumption to arrive.” She led them into the parlor room, where eight women sat in a circle of ten chairs, all eating frosted wedges of cake off glass plates.
“Miss Elizabeth Johnson and Miss Marilla Cuthbert,” she announced to the maid as she passed to put their things in the closet beneath the staircase.
Ella was a young French girl not much older than Marilla. “Can I get you something to eat or drink, mademoiselles?”
Marilla had never been in a house with a maid before. It was strange to imagine someone unfamiliar living under her roof. She didn’t think she’d like it much. She could barely tolerate Izzy, and she was blood kin. A maid would be privy to all their family’s comings and goings, all of their talk, all of their secrets. What would stop such a person from gossiping or stealing or any other kind of mischief?
No, Marilla would not like it one bit. Not even if the maid darned all the socks in the house and baked a hundred cakes. She’d just as soon do it herself.
“Sounds delicious! Have you ever seen so many sugar whippets on a confecti
on? I do say, whoever made this is an artist,” crowed Izzy while Ella blushed and gracefully presented the slice sideways so the layers of strawberry jam showed pink.
“The first one’s for you, Marilla,” Izzy insisted.
Marilla took her plate and stood uncomfortably to the side, not knowing if the seats were designated or not. Everyone was paired up, chatting merrily between forkfuls of vanilla frosting. Mrs. White returned with a managerial clap.
“Ladies, now that we are in full attendance, welcome to the official assembly of the Avonlea Ladies’ Sewing Circle!”
Forks jangled against plates in attempted applause.
“Fill up on sustenance, and we’ll take up our sewing at a quarter past the hour.”
Mrs. White ran the meeting and her home like clockwork, without a moment’s dillydallying. She immediately circled round to Marilla.
“Come here, child, you must meet my Rachel.”
Though she didn’t dare disobey, Marilla’s feet were anchored to the ground. Izzy gave her a gentle push.
Under a grand fern with arms stretched wide as an eagle’s wings, Rachel sat with her needle already threaded and stuck in the center of her circular. She was pretty in a fair and fashionable way. Braids of her flaxen hair looped back behind her ears with little curls dangling from her neck like lily of the valley blossoms. Her cheeks and arms were far more soft and plump than Marilla’s. In that regard, she looked almost doll-like in her posture.
“Marilla, this is my girl Rachel. Rachel, this is Marilla Cuthbert, Miss Johnson’s niece.”
Rachel curtsied. “How do you do?”
They felt like two fish in a bowl, all eyes watching to see who swam away first.
“Just fine and you?”
“As well as one can be with a stomach full of cake and no ice cream to settle it down with,” said Rachel.
Mrs. White exhaled loudly. “Next time you can forgo the cake altogether. There’s prudence in abstinence, dear.”
Rachel’s plate was scraped clean. It was obvious she had a sweet tooth.
