by Sarah McCoy
“I don’t need to see the sidewalk. I’ll follow your hats. When I see a nun’s habit, I’ll know we’ve arrived.”
The Sisters of Charity received poor orphans from across the provinces and even America. The building was a modest redbrick without cornices or columns, and casement windows stared down on the street like pairs of eyes. Violet smoke rose from the chimney, and Marilla smelled cabbage in the air. Someone in the kitchen was making a stew. The gravel front yard was encircled by an iron-post fence and swept clean of little footprints. A vegetable garden had been planted to the right and two saplings to the left. Red maples, Marilla recognized. Good shade trees for the children. They’d bring color in the fall. Marilla was glad for it. The place needed some cheer.
“Welcome, dear ones.” The Reverend Mother greeted them at the door. Her bright face peeked through her white wimple like Marilla’s breakfast egg yolk.
“We’re honored to be here on behalf of Avonlea,” said Mrs. White.
“We’re honored to receive you, Mrs. White.” The Reverend Mother nodded. “Whom have you brought along to us?”
“My daughter Rachel and Miss Marilla Cuthbert,” Mrs. White said, presenting the girls. They curtsied.
“Such beauties.” The Reverend Mother pointed behind them. “And who might that walking stack of parcels be?”
“Oh! John Blythe,” said Mrs. White. “A young Avonlea gentleman who has graciously served as our porter.”
“A pleasure!” John called from behind the packages. “I would take off my cap, but that might mean relinquishing these fine goods to the street dogs, and I sincerely doubt they’ll have much use for fanciful shawls.”
The Reverend Mother got a good chuckle out of that. “Indeed not, lad! Do come in and put down your heavy burden.”
The orphanage had been the home of a wealthy widow who befriended the nuns on their arrival in Hopetown. Having no heirs, she’d bequeathed all her possessions to the Sisters of Charity. The sisters had turned the home into a residence of many beds. What had once been the living room now contained rows of cots, neatly made with a single toy at the foot of each: a stuffed rabbit here, a yo-yo there, balls and jacks, enough rag poppets to form an army—all waiting quietly for their someone’s return. The dining room had been remade into the classroom, with rows of desks and a slate board propped up at the front. The children were presently outside for lunch. There were so many, they had to take turns at the long picnic tables. Half the children ate their cabbage soup while the other half played hopscotch and jump rope in the courtyard. The nuns were just ringing the bell for the children to swap when the group of Avonlea visitors arrived.
Like schools of fish colliding, the children mixed and separated again, full bellies to play and empty ones to table. Little boys wore knee pants. Little girls wore pinafores. They raced round in all colors of fabric and face: French and British, Métis and black, Canadian and American, orphans all.
“So many,” Marilla whispered.
“Yes,” said John.
Marilla hadn’t realized he was beside her. The brim of her bonnet had blocked her vision.
“Hard to imagine growing up without knowing from where you come.”
Marilla agreed. She was born in Avonlea and had no apprehensions about dying there someday. It was where she belonged. She wouldn’t be Marilla Cuthbert from anywhere else.
Seeing them watching, a little boy whispered to his tablemates, and all ten turned to look at Marilla and John.
“They think you’re a couple come to adopt,” said the Reverend Mother.
Marilla’s heart beat fast. The word spread across the play yard until nearly all of the children were staring, each one imagining what their life might be tomorrow if they were chosen today. Marilla took a step away from John. It wasn’t fair—to the children.
The Reverend Mother ushered them down the hall to her office, where a Lilliputian desk stood in the far corner to make space for the shelves of orphan documents. It was so small a room, only two people could fit comfortably at a time. So Marilla, Rachel, and John waited outside while Mrs. White unveiled their gifts.
A handful of girls, not much younger than themselves, came down the hall. One carried a hymnal, another a weathered guitar, while the remaining two chatted excitedly over which song the Reverend Mother would most like them to perform for the littler ones at bedtime. They quieted as they came closer and stopped outside the office to wait their turn. Silence bore down.
Finally, unable to stand the awkward hush, Rachel pushed back her bonnet’s lace netting. “We sing from that same hymnal.” She pointed to the book the girl carried. “‘Amazing Grace’ is my favorite.” She cleared her throat and gave an off-key hum. “‘Amazing grace, how sweet the sound’ . . .”
Marilla held her breath. Rachel’s pitch was shrill as Skunk’s meows. The orphans stood, unflinching.
“. . . ‘that saved a wretch like me.’” Rachel paused to inhale. “Well, you know how it goes.”
“That was very pretty,” said the girl with the guitar. “Maybe you can sing with us if you’re staying.”
Rachel put a hand to her throat. “Oh, I wish I could, but we’re not staying long. We have dinner plans with my father.” Catching herself, she smiled and pulled the netting back down.
“I like your hat,” another said to Marilla.
The girl’s skin was a cinnamon hue. Her hair was the color of mahogany and plaited back thickly. An unnatural scar slashed her freckled cheek.
“We’ve just got them today,” Rachel answered. “Aren’t they lovely?”
The girl nodded with a gaze so earnest that before Marilla could think twice, she pulled loose the bow at her throat.
“Would you like to try mine on?”
Rachel turned abruptly, but Marilla kept her eyes on the orphan.
“I’d like it ever so much, if you would.” Marilla held out her velvet bonnet.
The girl cautiously accepted and placed it on her head.
“You tie it to the side. Here, let me.” Marilla looped the ribbons as the shop assistant had done for her.
The girl looked to the window. A gossamer reflection smiled back, and she turned side to side to see all angles, just as Marilla had done in the shop mirror.
Mrs. White and the Reverend Mother came out then.
“The shawls are beautiful. Our girls will love them. What gracious friends we have on Prince Edward Island.”
Believing it to be Marilla in the red bonnet, Mrs. White put one arm around the girl and another around Rachel. “Indeed, the ladies of Avonlea will eternally support the orphaned and widowed, so sayeth the scriptures.”
The girl turned and Mrs. White saw her mistake.
“Oh! I thought you were Marilla.”
“Please, ma’am, I didn’t meant to . . .” She fumbled with the ribbons, tears brimming.
“No, no,” said Marilla. She took the girl’s hand, soft and pink as a begonia bloom. “Mrs. White, I know you bestowed this gift on me, but I would now like to give it to—”
They hadn’t even had an introduction.
“Juniper, but most calls me Junie,” she whispered with head hung so low that her voice was nearly lost to the wooden floor.
“To Junie,” said Marilla. “With your blessing, of course.”
“I—I—” Mrs. White fidgeted with her gloves. “Well, of course. If the Reverend Mother approves.”
“A charitable heart is the truest reflection of our Heavenly Father. Our Avonlea friends are a continual blessing.” She bowed. “Thank you, Miss Cuthbert.”
Junie curtsied. “Thank you, Miss Cuthbert,” she echoed. “I’s will cherish it for all my life.”
Marilla felt something in her chest expand and release. She wasn’t sure if it was joy for Junie or sorrow for herself. She liked to think it was the former but worried it was a little of the latter. One couldn’t hide a fickle heart from God. Nonetheless, she was glad she’d given the beautiful hat away. She already had so many t
hings: a home, family, people who belonged to her and she to them. There would be new hats for Marilla, but perhaps only this one for Junie.
Rachel pulled her lace creation off. “Here.” She handed it to the girl holding the hymnal. “Since I can’t sing with you . . .”
“I thank you greatly, miss,” said the hymnal girl. She held the hat like a delicate bird that might fly off at any moment. Her friends ogled it.
Mrs. White kept her bonnet firmly on her head. “Well now, such a day of blessing! To the givers and the receivers as our Lord Christ exemplified.”
The Reverend Mother crossed herself, as did all four of the orphans. Mrs. White did a kind of half-cross, moving her hand shoulder to shoulder and mumbled amen, which Marilla found strange. It was not Presbyterian.
“Now that our duties here are complete, we won’t take up another minute of your time. There are the children to attend to,” said Mrs. White.
“Please come again. We welcome you always.”
“Indeed we shall. The ladies of Avonlea will promptly start on our next batch of shawls.”
Rachel gave a groan that only Marilla heard.
“Come, Rachel.” Mrs. White ushered her daughter forward.
While Mrs. White chattered her way to the exit, Marilla and John followed a few steps behind.
“That was a good thing you did back there,” said John.
“I didn’t mean to cause a fuss. She seemed like she needed something that was all hers.”
“I’m sure that’s true. Did you see her face?”
Marilla nodded. “A terrible scar.”
“It’s a slave master’s mark,” said John.
Marilla stopped in the hallway and looked behind her. The orphans were clumped together, staring after them. John took her arm and led her onward.
“I’ve seen it before—on the runaways from America. The slave masters disfigure them so if they attempt it again, they can be identified.”
Marilla leaned in. “Do you think she was a slave?”
“You mean, is a slave. Too young to have paid off her master. Wouldn’t have a scar if she was born free.”
“Where are her parents?”
John tilted his head close so that his words remained between them. “Adults can’t be hidden in an orphanage, Marilla. If she still has parents, they’d do well to leave her with the Sisters of Charity. They can find a safe home for her. There are others. Did you see them at the tables?”
There were many African families in the Maritimes. Prince Edward Island had abolished the practice of slavery when Marilla was but a year old. Then in 1834, Parliament issued the Abolition Act, banishing slavery across the British colonies. Hopetown had an African chapel on one side of town and the Royal Acadian School on the other. So while she had seen the black orphans, she hadn’t assumed they were American runaways.
The Presbyterian Church was firm in its opinion that owning another man, by reason of moral turpitude, undermined the laws of God. Being that most everyone in Avonlea was a congregation member, it was widely agreed that slavery was as wicked a sin as there was. But off the island was a different world. There were many Canadians who maintained an attitude of tolerance and, worse, support for their slaveholding counterparts. It was because of them that bounty hunters scavenged the provinces, taking whom they pleased back to America. The newspaper ads were full of descriptions of runaways that could fit nearly any African on the street, both the runaway slaves and the truly free. And the courts were governed by the elite, who looked the other way so long as the county coffers were full. They still viewed slavery as a business, not a moral transaction. But here Marilla saw its actuality: these people, orphans of heart and land, belonged to no one. The nuns were providing far more than appearances revealed.
“I can’t thank you enough for everything.” The Reverend Mother unbolted the front doors. “You’ll never know how much your gifts mean to these children.”
She smiled at Marilla.
“The outfitting of your little lambs is my new calling,” Mrs. White declared. “We will be in touch again soon.”
“Blessings on you and safe travels home.” The Reverend Mother waved, then closed the door and slid the metal bolt through again with a solid thunk.
“Well . . .” Mrs. White exhaled and looked to Marilla curiously. “Perhaps our Ladies’ Sewing Circle should take on the knitting of bonnet caps to complement the shawls. A wonderful idea, Marilla.” Then off she went, pulling Rachel down the sidewalk beside her. “We mustn’t keep Mr. White waiting, and I’m sure Mr. Blythe would like his son returned to him.”
Marilla and John walked beside each other. Their arms brushed one another’s. When a puddle stretched across their path, Mrs. White and Rachel circumvented it in a wide arc, but John didn’t waver in his course. He took Marilla’s elbow to help her over. His grip there felt like a buttress for all they’d just seen and all she couldn’t put into words. When the Majesty Inn came into view, a new anxiety budded: she didn’t want him to leave. Silly, she chastised herself, when they were leaving to arrive at the same place.
XI.
The May Picnic
The annual May Picnic celebrated spring in all its glory. The sun had nearly melted away every drop of cold. Now the marbled blue-green sea on the horizon was banked by emerald green forests and broad fields of pink and purple lupines. Wild lady’s slippers yawned their mouths open to drink in the light. The happy ivy and crossvines crawled another few inches up, up, while the apple and cherry trees made every turn a delight of white promise.
Mrs. White was diverted from assigning new tasks to the sewing circle and the Sunday school until after all the women of Avonlea had finished their picnic dresses. It was tradition for everyone to wear something new and as bright as the island.
Marilla woke each morning expecting to welcome her new baby sibling. Clara was due to deliver at any moment, and they were all glad for it. Her belly had grown round and hard as a melon, and she had disappeared beneath it, white as a ghost and weak as a blade of seagrass. Izzy had finished her yellow chair and moved it to Clara’s bedside, where she read and sewed at all hours. The only time she left Clara was to help Marilla cook meals, but she ate beside Clara, often sharing a bowl. One spoonful for Clara, one spoonful for herself. Marilla watched and wondered what it would be like to love and care for someone that much. Guilt pricked her conscience. Truth be told, she was glad she wasn’t the one sitting in that chair day after day. She worried that made her wicked deep down and prayed for forgiveness if so.
Rachel and Marilla finished their amaryllis sleeves. The stitching was delicate as the petals it depicted. A finer pair Marilla had never seen. To her surprise, Rachel insisted Marilla have them.
“Put them on your May Picnic dress,” she urged. “Then we can prove to all the Avonlea School girls that we’re official members of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle, not just looping on childish circulars like the rest. Besides, Mother is having my picnic dress made from new chintz on special order—these wouldn’t match at all.”
That said, Rachel admired the sleeves with a sigh, and Marilla knew how hard it was for her to give up things she was keen on. It made the giving more meaningful.
“Exquisite. Did you make these?” Izzy marveled when Marilla brought the embroidery home.
“I did one and Rachel did the other.”
Izzy inspected each. “They’re both so smart. I can’t tell them apart. Look at your daughter’s hand.”
Clara smiled weakly from beneath the bed quilt and hovered her thin fingers over the stitching, following the amaryllis tendrils, leaf to flower. “Beautiful.”
Marilla beamed. “I thought . . . well, I hoped I might put them on my May Picnic dress. That is, with your help, being that I’ve never made one before.”
A request for a dress seemed trivial. Izzy was busy caring for Marilla’s mother. But still, she hoped . . .
“Of course!” Izzy agreed. “We just finished reading Ivanhoe, and we need
another project to keep us occupied until the baby arrives. Isn’t that right, Clara?”
Clara nodded and grasped Marilla’s hand. “We’ll make you the most beguiling dress, my dear.”
“I have just the material to match,” Izzy said. “A Spitalfields brocade that I’ve been saving for something special. I brought it with me.” She winked. “I had an inkling that something special might be here. It’s in my trunk—interlacing cream and red ribbons on a pale blue background.” She marched to her room, carrying the amaryllis sleeves.
“Come sit with me a minute,” Clara beckoned. “My girl, all grown up. Tell me again about the coast.”
It had taken Marilla two full days to tell Clara everything about her trip to Nova Scotia. Her mother had closed her eyes as she listened so she could picture it in her mind. She hadn’t been to Hopetown since she was a new bride buying pewter spoons and forks to last a lifetime. Marilla left out the parts about the fancy hats and the slave girl named Juniper. Instead, she described the land and sea and the goings between.
Unlike the departure from the island, on the return Mr. White convinced Mrs. White to let the girls venture out on the ship’s bow, given the day was clear with hardly a whitecap. The sailing was Clara’s favorite part of Marilla’s story. The Cuthberts might’ve been farmers, but Clara’s people, the Johnsons, had been Scottish sailors. Marilla understood now how the sea could lure a spirit. So she told it again: how the wind whistled a note sharper than the clear sky. How the water seemed to crackle as they glided through. How they bought hot cocoas from the ferry vendor, and he dropped a peppermint in their cups for good luck. And how when she breathed in, she could smell the tides. Marilla found that each time she told the story, she knew more and saw more than when she first lived it. The memory became its own rainbow arcing from the past to the present.
