by Sarah McCoy
“You aren’t.” She gestured for him to come in. “Please.”
Time had taught her to siphon emotion: hold back the hard and let through the soft. Curiosity was as much as she allowed herself to feel. Anything more and she’d have to feel it all again.
“May I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you kindly.” He stood in the parlor.
The November light filtered through the windows like pond water after a storm. Dust that she hadn’t noticed before eddied at random.
“I’ve just come from visiting the new baby at the Lyndes’.”
“A healthy boy.”
“Yes, and Rachel well too.”
Marilla nodded. “Thank God.”
“Yes.” He looked down at his hat in his hand. Clara’s memory filled up the space between them.
Marilla smoothed her skirt and had a sudden pang of longing. Not for her mother—no, she’d long ago learned to dam that stream—but for their old, cranky cat Skunk, who’d had an instinct for making his presence known at just the right time to turn an awkward conversation. She’d never had the heart to bring in another cat. She would’ve, she told herself, but they’d never had another feral kitten come around the Gables. Skunk had been gone some nine years now. He’d died the year after John’s parents. Mrs. Blythe passed away, and less than a month later Mr. Blythe followed. Everyone said it was the pull of the soul after its other half. She’d wondered if such things were true. Moreover, what happened if your soul never had another half?
That was the last time she’d been this close to John—at Mr. Blythe’s funeral. He’d barely looked up to nod when she’d paid her respects. So lost in the loss. She understood that more than she understood love. It had softened her to him, and she’d told herself that if he ever returned to Green Gables, she wouldn’t hold the past against him. Little did she know it would be ten years before this day—on the occasion of the birth of the tenth living Lynde child. 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 = 10. The tetraktys. It had been a geometric favorite of hers. Ten was the number of completion.
“Rachel and Thomas tell me that you named the child.”
Marilla nodded. “After my father.”
“Yes.” He frowned. “I meant to send my condolences.”
Hugh had requested a quiet private burial, as was his nature. It had been only Marilla, Matthew, and the new minister, Reverend Bentley, round the newly engraved tombstone. The smell of chiseled stone had salted the air:
In Affectionate Remembrance of
Matthew Hugh Cuthbert
and Beloved Wife
Clara Johnson Cuthbert
They’d laid Hugh’s coffin atop Clara’s. Seeing the warped wood against the new, the deadened heartache returned with the gnawing desire to touch her mother’s hand. Marilla had balled her fists against the pain and taken comfort in knowing her parents would rest together, lulled by the murmur of the sea and reunited with the babies they had lost.
Back at the Gables, she had immersed herself so deeply in the day-to-day chores of grieving that she’d barely stopped to think on who had or hadn’t offered words of sympathy. Avonlea had always been good to her father, and her father to Avonlea. That was more than enough.
“Very kind,” she told John.
“Had I been here, I would’ve come immediately.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers. While his coloring might’ve dulled with age, his eyes had not lost one ounce of luster. “I was in Rupert’s Land.”
“Oh?”
Marilla recalled the rumors. She hadn’t dared to inquire, not even of Matthew. Whether John was away on business in Charlottetown or off in the Canadian wilds, it didn’t change anything. He was absent and she was present, and there was no meet in the middle of that equation.
“Yes, your mother’s family is there. Your Uncle Nick and cousins, correct? You once told me of them. Were you there to visit again?”
“Yes.” He grinned, pleased at her mention of their old talks. “And to take in fresh air.”
She pictured him in the midst of great mountain peaks and glacial lakes and had to turn her cheek away to hide her own wistfulness. In all these years, she’d not ventured to the west. How could she without thinking of him?
“Did you get your fill?”
“I didn’t.”
She looked up, surprised by his candor. He smiled.
“But I’m glad to be back. Mr. Bell was good enough to look after the farm for me. I wasn’t sure if I’d return. My Uncle Nick had hoped that I’d stay on to join the family trapping business, settle down with someone, and make a home nearby.”
This was news to Marilla. She frowned. She couldn’t imagine anyone abandoning the land and livestock they’d grown up tending.
“Make a home? But you have one here.”
Matthew came through the foyer from the kitchen.
“Is that my old friend John Blythe I hear?”
“Is that my old friend Matthew Cuthbert I see?”
The two shook hands of welcome.
“You’ve gone silver as December—only without the holly berries and bows.”
Matthew gave a laugh and stroked his beard. “And you disappeared like a hibernating bear, so I guess we’re both of a wintering season. How’s everything?”
John shrugged. His eyes moved from Marilla to Matthew. “Better than before. Not as good as the old days. But no complaints, which is wholesome ground to grow in, right?”
“Can’t argue with that. How long have you been back?”
“Three days. I’ve just come from the Lyndes’ and seen the new boy, Hughie.” He cleared his throat. “But Rachel was bent on filling me in on all of Avonlea, more than on the child. She mentioned that in the wake of Mr. Cuthbert’s passing, you were looking for some extra hands.”
Matthew scratched his neck beneath his beard. “Reckon so. Father did most of the buying and selling. I do all right at the farmers’ junctions, but then, if I go, who’d be here to keep up? Marilla’s got enough with the house . . .” Matthew looked to Marilla.
“Thought about getting a local boy to work for barter when Matthew goes off.” She cleared her throat. “But a farm boy would need looking after. Hiring on a full-time runs a pretty penny, and that isn’t a purse we’ve got at the moment.”
Money talk always felt like putting her hands in a bucket of tallow. No matter how many times she washed after, her fingers stayed too greasy to be comfortable.
“Yes, that’s about what Rachel told me.”
The muscle between Marilla’s shoulder blades twinged. After all these years, Rachel’s capacity for speaking as if she knew what she did not had only matured from bad habit to stubborn constitution.
“Well, being that you seem to know all the details, might you have a suggestion for us?”
“In fact, I do,” said John. “I offer myself.”
Matthew gave a shy smile and stroked his beard to hide it. Marilla’s heart fluttered, and it took all her composure to keep her breath steady.
“Yourself?”
“Yes. Now that I’ve returned, I plan to resume all of my family’s dealings. Our dairy cow stock continues to profit. I’ve been able to take on a couple of Mr. Bell’s seasonal laborers for permanent work while I conduct the trades. I’d be happy to be of service on your behalf in that way too. Matthew can stay on the farm and you in the Gables.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Matthew grinned. “Mighty good of you, John. Mighty good.”
Marilla was less quick to accept the offer.
“So you would speak on our behalf at the farmers’ meetings in Carmody and negotiate our seed and sell prices. How would we know you were doing right by us? The fate of our livelihood would be on your word.”
He stood straight, chin raised, and eyes locked on hers.
“You may not have liked some of the things I’ve said in the past, but I have never done wrongly by you. Not one day of my life.”
Marilla’s throat closed up with shame. She swallowed over and ov
er, but could not find air to reply. Thankfully, Matthew did.
“Certainly we trust you, John. You’re like the brother I never had.”
His words hung in the air between the three of them.
Matthew patted him on the back. “Have a smoke with me?”
They went out to their old haunt on the back porch.
“Dr. Spencer says you oughtn’t smoke,” Marilla whispered, but only her parlor window reflection heard.
* * *
When Marilla returned from the evening milking, Matthew was seated alone in the kitchen, oiling his leather horse tack.
She tied on her apron and pulled down a dried ham hock from the pantry. “John leave? I would’ve offered him some pork and pea soup for his troubles.”
Matthew set aside his cleaning rag. “You don’t exactly have a hospitable air, you know.”
“In fact, I don’t know. I would’ve offered him supper. That’s as hospitable as it gets!”
Matthew sighed. “You and he have let too long go by. It’s got to a point where you don’t even remember what it’s like to not act affronted.”
She filled the pot with water and tossed in the ham with a plunk.
“I know exactly why I act the way I do toward John Blythe, and so do you.”
“No, I don’t. Not anymore. Mother is gone. Father is gone. The past is past. Can’t bring any of the old back. So let go of what was and put a kindly hand out to what’s right in front of you, Marilla.”
She picked up a wooden spoon.
“I’m not mad at John Blythe. We simply don’t see eye to eye.”
“You don’t got to see eye to eye with people to love them.”
She looked over her shoulder with a scowl, and he held up his hands in defense.
“I’m just quoting scripture—love your enemies, it says.”
She had never said John was her enemy. She went back to stirring her pot.
Matthew continued. “No matter what your difference of opinion may be, we can agree that it’s a testimony to John’s character that he’d step in to help like he is without one advantage for himself.”
“Oh, you don’t think there are advantages?”
Matthew tossed his harness on the table. “Tarnation, Marilla . . . when did you become such a cynic?”
She put down her spoon and turned to him. “All right, yes. John Blythe is a good friend to us. We’re beholden to him.”
Matthew shook his head. “Got nothing to do with beholden. You’re looking at the thing all topsy-turvy.”
“Care to put me straight then?”
He hesitated, taking stock of Marilla. Coming to the conclusion that what he had to say was worth her temper, he nodded. “All right. Been on my mind for years. John’s not a young bull anymore. He should’ve married a long time ago. But he didn’t, and hasn’t, and I know you’re wised up to the feelings between men and women. You’re lying to yourself if you won’t acknowledge the obvious between you and John. I’ve held my tongue on the matter. God knows, I haven’t the experience or business to speak on such things. But Marilla, as your older brother, it’s high time you stop looking at a table and calling it an elephant.”
“You mean the elephant in the room?”
“I mean, recognize what is!”
Matthew hardly ever raised his voice, and never at her. Instead of inflaming her anger, the truth shushed her. She wiped damp hands on her apron. The cold had turned her fingers purple-blue at the nail beds.
“Don’t you think I pray every night for John to find a nice young woman to marry and give him sons and daughters to carry on the farm? Don’t you think I know how good a man he is?” Don’t you think I know what love is? She balled her fists. “I do.”
Matthew said nothing, leaving Marilla with her own words echoing back in the silence. They ate separately. He left his empty dish on the table. A dusty rose light bled out from beneath his bedroom door. She didn’t bother with the parlor hearth. Instead, she took a bed warmer full of hot water up to her room, but it did little to thaw the chill.
The next day Matthew rigged up the buggy to drive Marilla to her Ladies’ Aid Society meeting at Mrs. Irving’s. After Marilla served as president for nearly ten years, the baton had been passed to Mrs. Irving. Rachel had been vice president for a short year but had to resign to take over for her mother in running the Sunday school and the Foreign Missions Auxiliary, in addition to the sewing circle, the Avonlea School committee, and her own farmhouse of nine, now ten. Marilla thought it best to do one thing and do it well, so she continued on as a board member of the Ladies’ Aid Society.
Women trickled through the picketed front gate as Matthew put the carriage wheels to park. Marilla straightened her hat and the fur collar of her coat.
“We won’t be but a couple of hours.” It was the first time she’d spoken to him since the night before.
“All right. I’ll be here to fetch you.”
She gave him a conciliatory grin. He was the last person she wanted strife with.
“Thank you, Matthew.”
He held her hand to help her down. When her boot hit the ground, she felt his hand stiffen. Turning, she came face to face with Johanna Knox and her sisters coming across the sidewalk.
“Well, hello, Miss Cuthbert.” Johanna pushed back the feathers of her cap and nodded up to Matthew in the buggy.
“Mrs. Knox, what a surprise,” Marilla greeted. “I’ll see you later, Matthew.”
Thank goodness for Matthew’s beard, which hid the majority of his face from the former Miss Andrews. Marilla alone noticed the reddening of his nose tip. He gave the reins a joggle and off the horse went.
Marilla turned back to the ladies. “What’s brought you back to town, Mrs. Knox?”
Johanna had gone to White Sands and married the son of the First Savings and Loan president, Mr. Joseph Knox. It was whispered across Avonlea social circles that she’d always had her heart set on marrying up.
Marilla thought Johanna awfully pretentious. A man ought to be judged by the richness of his heart, not his pockets. Despite Johanna’s rebuff and marriage to Joseph Knox, Matthew refused to speak one harsh word against her. But he still winced whenever the old wound was grazed. Seeing her face to face was like having salt rubbed in that wound. Marilla wasn’t sure whom to be most frustrated with: Johanna for showing up unexpectedly, or Matthew for continuing to pine for her.
She understood her brother well enough to know he wasn’t covetous. He didn’t yearn for the married woman Johanna was now, but for the girl she had been. That person was fixed in the broken mirror of his memory, and Marilla was hard-pressed to make him see the present-day reflection.
“My husband has business in Avonlea. I came along to see my sisters.” Johanna’s speech had taken on a strange British lilt. Marilla could only assume it was her new Mrs. Knox of White Sands voice. “Franny mentioned the society meeting, and I thought I might join you. See if I can aid somehow.” She ran her hand over the beaded purse dangling at her elbow. “Funds in a provincial place like this can be difficult to procure. I’d like to do my part—give back to the community that raised me.”
There were few things that rankled Marilla as much as backhanded goodwill.
“The return of the prodigal,” she said. “We welcome you with open arms.”
She didn’t wait for Johanna’s reply. Instead, she moved out of the cold and into Mrs. Irving’s warm tearoom smelling of baked sugar shortbread and maple creams.
XXVIII.
A Christmas Party
All anyone could talk about going into December was the Blairs. After having their shop for as long as Marilla could recall, they decided to close up the one-room depot in Avonlea and allow their son William to expand the business to a larger, bona-fide store in Carmody. The roads had been vastly improved since Marilla’s childhood, making it a far faster and easier journey than before. She could harness up the buggy and ride into Carmody in under an hour. Besides, the Blairs were too old to
be carrying parcels and climbing stools for products in the store. William had joined the family merchant business with two grown daughters, a son, and three grandchildren.
“Blairs’ General Store in Avonlea Closing” read the notice on the post office bulletin board. It caused quite a stir with a number of Avonlea’s older set, moving some nearly to tears as they wondered where in the world they’d get their lye soap, paraffins, and milled oats. The following week the report was amended: “New, Bigger Store Opening in Carmody under the Management of William J. Blair.” So while they grumbled at not being able to walk to the shop, they were relieved that the Blair family would continue on in their trade.
To celebrate the occasion of the Blairs’ townhouse being restored to a home, Mr. and Mrs. Blair were hosting a holiday party on the first Saturday of December. A passing of the torch: William and his family would be there to toast his parents’ legacy and pledge fidelity to the Blairs’ loyal patrons at the new Carmody site.
The announcement made Marilla think of Izzy. She’d become a prosperous dressmaker running one of the Underground Railroad’s safe houses in St. Catharines. At over sixty years old, she was doing much more than most women her age, and that would never have been possible had she wed William J. Blair. Izzy was happy, and so was Marilla . . . and Matthew, the Sisters of Charity, and Queen Elizabeth I of England. History held plenty more examples of the unmarried being happy. Who said a man or a woman had to be a husband or a wife? Maybe they could simply be, unto themselves. Besides, there were bigger issues in the world than love doves and wedding bells.
At that week’s Ladies’ Aid Society meeting, they were set to vote on what product to sell at the Avonlea Christmas market—fruit jams versus needlepoint handkerchiefs—when Mrs. Sloane brought up the subject of colored thread prices.
“Exorbitant!” she bemoaned. “The highest I’ve ever seen. They might as well be spun of silk not cotton.”
“It’s the trouble in America,” explained Mrs. Barry. “Cotton’s gone sky high, from thread to fabric.”
“I hope their President Lincoln does something about it.”
