by Sarah McCoy
Dedication
To my mother, Dr. Eleane Norat McCoy,
for being beside me on the journey, start to finish, apple seed to fruit
Epigraph
The spring was abroad in the land and Marilla’s sober, middle- aged step was lighter and swifter because of its deep, primal gladness.
Her eyes dwelt affectionately on Green Gables, peering through its network of trees and reflecting the sunlight back from its win-dows in several little coruscations of glory.
L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables, Chapter XXVII
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One: Marilla of Green Gables I. A Guest Is Coming
II. Aunt Izzy Is a Surprise
III. A Family Recipe
IV. Learning Aunt Izzy’s History
V. Introducing Rachel White
VI. Introducing John Blythe
VII. Aunt Izzy Gives a Lesson
VIII. Marilla Entertains a Caller
IX. Marilla and Rachel Go to Nova Scotia
X. The Hopetown Orphanage
XI. The May Picnic
XII. The Amethyst Brooch
XIII. Tragedy at the Gables
XIV. Green Gables Is Named
Part Two: Marilla of Avonlea XV. Rebellion
XVI. Two to Study
XVII. John Blythe Suggests a Walk
XVIII. An Exam, a Letter, and Mayflower Regrets
XIX. Avonlea Makes a Proclamation
XX. First Vote of the Ladies’ Aid Society
XXI. Raspberry Cordial Secrets
XXII. An Auction of Unforeseen Consequences
XXIII. A Return to Hopetown
XXIV. Safe Havens and Letters
XXV. Apologetic Unforgiveness
Part Three: Marilla’s House of Dreams XXVI. A Child Is Born
XXVII. A Congratulation, an Offer, and a Wish
XXVIII. A Christmas Party
XXIX. A Telegram
XXX. Aunt Izzy and the Three Magi
XXXI. A Green Gables Christmas
XXXII. Introducing Mrs. John Blythe
XXXIII. Fugitive Slave Hunt
XXXIV. A Friend Closer Than a Brother
XXXV. Morning Revelation
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Also by Sarah McCoy
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
1876
It’d been a rain-chilled May that felt more winter than spring. The apple, cherry, and plum trees were far less jubilant than usual. Their blossoms confetti-ed the pitched roof and washed down the eaves of Green Gables without anybody noticing. Marilla and Matthew worked side by side like blinder-clad horses, plowing ahead as they’d always done. The steady momentum they shared carried them toward the future. The farm chores needed doing, a lost button needed sewing, a batch of bread dough needed kneading: today was full. Tomorrow would come unpredictably, as was predictable. No use worrying until it was staring you in the face.
On this day, that face happened to be one of a red fox.
“Must’ve been trying to find a warm spot out of the rains,” said Matthew.
Marilla huffed and dabbed the split in his forehead with witch hazel. He winced at the sting. Matthew was too forgiving. That fox wasn’t looking for a nap. It was looking for her chickens and would’ve gobbled them up tooth and claw had Matthew not come upon it. She told him so.
“We had a mink in our coop last month,” agreed old Dr. Spencer. “It killed all but one of our laying hens.”
“Scared the milkers,” Matthew continued.
He was in his bed now. Marilla had found him knocked out cold on the barn floor, dairy cows milling around like prissy church ladies.
“Scared me half to death is what it did.”
She’d had to leave Matthew slumped over in the stable while she ran to the Lyndes’ farm for Thomas, who then rode to fetch Dr. Spencer in town. Such a process. It’d taken her nearly an hour to send word for help. In her youth, she’d had quick legs, but they had changed. When she returned, Matthew was tottering around the barn, head bleeding, but otherwise alive. What if it hadn’t been so? Time was of the essence when it came to life and death. She’d learned that well enough by now.
“Hit my head against the beam. Could’ve happened to anyone.”
“Could’ve . . . but it happened to you.” Marilla put the damp rag in the basin.
The wound clotted in a crimson streak across his brow.
“Glad there’s nothing broken. A hearty contusion, though.” Dr. Spencer leaned over Marilla to pull one of Matthew’s eyes wide. “Don’t see any dilation. You’re just scuffed up and needing rest.”
Marilla rose to throw out the pink water. The men’s voices carried down the hall to the kitchen.
“You aren’t the young man you used to be, Matthew. Sixty is a hard age to run a farm by yourself. This is coming from a friend who’s got some years on you. Trust me, it only gets harder. Ever think about hiring someone as a live-in?”
There was a long pause. Marilla stopped pouring the water to listen closer.
“I couldn’t have another man living here,” Matthew said finally. “Not with an unmarried sister. Wouldn’t do.”
“No, you’re right, not a man. A farm boy? There are plenty of orphans in Nova Scotia looking to work for their keep. My daughter-in-law is going over next week to bring one back for herself. ’Twould be easy to bring two.”
“I’d have to speak to Marilla about it first.”
Marilla alighted on an old hope buried so deep that she’d almost convinced herself it had been a dream. Laughing little boys over checkerboards. A Christmas tree strung with berries. Mittens by the fire. Cocoa and gingersnaps. The smile of true love. Red Abegweit. Wishing stones and Izzy—dear Aunt Izzy.
Her eyes turned watery from the memory. She wiped them clear and finished washing out the basin.
Dr. Spencer came from Matthew’s room.
“He’s going to be fine, Marilla.”
“Grateful it wasn’t worse, like you said.”
He nodded. “Keep him off his feet. After a night’s sleep, he should be back to his old self.”
She gave Dr. Spencer the angel cake she’d baked that morning and one of their last bottles of red currant wine. The new minister disapproved of fermenting spirits. All the Sunday school members had clucked in agreement. Marilla wondered if they’d have been so reproachful of Christ turning water into wine. Probably so, given Rachel’s temperament these days. Marilla had stopped making her batches, but Dr. Spencer had been around too long to capitulate to the growing temperance. He’d been the young doctor at her mother’s bedside and attended to their every bruise and cough for the last forty years. The Cuthbert wine was his favorite. It was the least she could do to pay him for the house call.
She could barely wait long enough to wish Dr. Spencer good-evening before taking up the subject with Matthew.
“I overheard Dr. Spencer.”
He looked momentarily puzzled, then realized what she meant.
“Aye, so what’s your opinion on the matter?”
“Dr. Spencer is a wise man and a friend.” She crossed her arms with certainty. “A boy would be a great help. I wouldn’t have to worry so much about you working out there alone. We’d have someone to help with the farm chores. Run errands. Chase away foxes, if need be.”
He exhaled and gave a little grin. “I hoped you’d say that. Been too long since . . .”
She nodded quickly. “I’ll bake Mother’s biscuits. Sweet butter with a little pres
erves.”
A Cuthbert welcome. The wishes made were finally coming true.
Part One
Marilla of Green Gables
I.
A Guest Is Coming
February 1837
The sun and moon shine alike during snowstorms. They cast similar shadows, soft-edged, like dandelion clocks in the breeze. Marilla noticed that when she saw the silhouette of her father’s sleigh coming down their snowy lane. The Farmer’s Almanac had forecasted a mild winter. But it was late February, and the snowbanks continued to grow, leaving thirteen-year-old Marilla to wonder if spring would ever return. It was hard to imagine the apple orchard alive and green under this blanket of white and shadows.
She was looking out the new parlor window. The biggest room in the house, it had previously been the bedroom for all four Cuthberts: Marilla, her mother Clara, father Hugh, and older brother Matthew, plus a skittish white cat with a black streak named Skunk. Clara had found him in a burlap sack on the bank of the brook that whirled through the woods behind their barn. Someone had tried to do away with the poor thing. But Marilla and Clara had nursed him with warm milk and sardines until his fur was shiny as ice. He was still distrustful of strangers, but then, Marilla couldn’t blame him.
Just before the snows came, her father finished the last addition to their farmhouse: the gabled bedrooms and the hired hand’s quarters on the second floor, though they had no hands to hire as of yet. At twenty-one, Matthew had worked for their father every day since before Marilla could recall. Since it was not much more than fields, a barn, and a one-room cabin, most folks in Avonlea simply referred to it as “that Cuthbert place down yonder.” But all that was going to change when spring came and they saw the completed Gables—if they could see it.
Hugh had laid the foundations nearly a quarter-mile off the main road of Avonlea, much to Clara’s chagrin.
“So we have ample time to bolt the door when any of the Pye clan comes to call,” he’d teased. That had even earned a chuckle from Matthew, who was bashful to laugh on account of a crooked front tooth.
The Pyes were “proudly cantankerous,” Marilla had overheard one of the church ladies say. Personally, she’d never seen more than old Widow Pye’s cloak flapping behind her like a crow’s wings. She was left to assume the worst.
“But what if I need to borrow a spool of thread or a jar of preserves?” Clara had fretted. “I’ll have to walk a fair bit to reach a friend.”
“Aye, best not to run out then.”
Hugh was painfully shy, with strict religious beliefs. His home was a private sanctuary. He kept the Bible on the table in the parlor and read one verse aloud to the family every night before Clara brought him his tea and whiskey. He went to church begrudgingly—not because of the sermon, which he quite enjoyed, but because of the parishioners who gathered between him and his buggy afterward. Matthew took after his father in that regard, and the two had become comrades in disappearing during the fellowship hour. But that was Clara’s favorite part.
Marilla enjoyed standing beside her mother, quietly listening to the women gossip over the weekly comings and goings. It was nearly as interesting as the Godey’s Lady’s Book stories that Mr. Blair who owned the general store gave her and she hid under her mattress. Her parents didn’t abide idle time, and reading was idle in their estimation. If ever Marilla had a spare minute, Clara told her she ought to knit another pair of mittens—one could never have too many sets—or work on one of the prayer shawls that their Sunday school class sent annually to the orphans of Nova Scotia. “‘That their hearts might be comforted, being knit together in love,’” Clara would quote, and Marilla couldn’t argue with the biblical Colossians.
But sometimes Marilla didn’t want to knit beside her mother or follow her brother to their garden by the pasture field. Sometimes, as sinful as she knew it was, Marilla wanted to idle the day away however she pleased. When she could steal time, she’d take to the balsam woods with her Godey’s magazine leaflets and follow the brook until it cascaded to a little pool split in half by a maple growing right up through the center. She’d sit there on her island with the water bubbling around and read until the sun slanted thinly through the trees. Then she’d walk home, being sure to collect a basket of sorrel for soup on her way.
“Always tough to find a good patch,” Marilla told her mother. Not untrue. The rabbits nibbled away most of it in the fields.
Now, thinking of the fresh lemony tang of herbs made her mouth water. They’d been eating cellar turnips and pickled vegetables for weeks.
The clouds gathered low, making noon look like midnight. Hugh’s horse and sleigh trudged sluggishly against the wind.
“Mother,” Marilla called. “Father’s bringing her down the lane.”
Clara was in the kitchen baking a pan of choux buns to welcome their guest. Hearing the news, she wiped the flour off her chin but had a hard time reaching around her prominent belly to untie the apron strings.
“Don’t know how I got this on in the first place,” she muttered, lumbering left and right in an attempt to grasp one of the strings. “Marilla!” she finally relented. “Come and help your mother untangle?”
Clara leaned herself against the kitchen window frame. The chill was a relief. Tiny beads of sweat had formed on her forehead from the effort. Dr. Spencer had warned her to be cautious. Before Marilla was born, she’d miscarried two—then another before this one took. The babies had gone so early in their development that they hadn’t anything to bury but flowers of the season, always spring. Reverend Patterson said that God saw every heart, even the ones they didn’t. So they’d planted memorial crosses behind the barn on a knoll that gave a glimpse of the sea. Dr. Spencer was a man of modern medicine. He had advised her to listen to her body—that perhaps two children was all it could do and that was two more blessings than came to many women he knew. But Clara remembered well when she and Hugh were courting. He said he’d like at least half as many sons as the biblical Abraham to work the farm. They’d been young and naive then, but dreams carried a lifetime. She felt a disappointment for delivering so much less. Hugh never said as much, but he was a man of few words.
Marilla was at her back in a flash, untying and then folding the apron neatly away.
Lightly toasted butter scented the air. The puffs were a minute away from crisping too far. Clara opened her mouth to say so, but Marilla was already at the stove, pulling the iron baking pan from the fire with the strength of a grown woman. It made Clara touch her swollen belly. How fast they grew.
“Should I fill these with plum or crab apple preserves?” asked Marilla.
It was the first time she’d met her Aunt Elizabeth—Izzy, as her mother called her. Or at least, it was the first time she could recall. Izzy had moved to Upper Canada when Marilla was four years old and hadn’t set a boot heel on Prince Edward Island since. When Marilla asked why not, Clara had shrugged. “Everybody got busy doing life, I suppose.” It seemed as honest a reason as any.
But now, with the baby on the way, Izzy was coming to help her sister through the birth. She’d done the same for the births of Matthew and Marilla.
“Just sweet butter,” said Clara. “Your aunt appreciates a simple pastry done up right.”
Marilla frowned to herself. What was a puff without some kind of fruit filling? An empty puff! She set the butter crock beside the plum preserves on a starched napkin. She was excited to meet Izzy, but nervous too. Blood kin or not, Izzy was a guest and a stranger.
“Do her children and husband mind that she’s going to be away so long?” asked Marilla.
The Cuthberts hadn’t discussed their coming guest much. Hugh and Clara were well familiar with her, and Matthew had grown up with his aunt until the year Izzy went to Upper Canada. So it seemed the topic needn’t be talked over. Everyone already knew everything that needed knowing—except Marilla.
“She hasn’t any husband or children. Remember, dear?”
That was right. C
lara had told her once before. Still, Marilla had a hard time imagining any grown woman alone. She didn’t know a woman her mother’s age with no husband or children in all of Avonlea. Even the widows had children, and the childless had husbands. To not have either made her wonder if Izzy wasn’t somehow defective.
“She’s a very successful dressmaker in St. Catharines.” Clara tugged at the gingham hanging askew over her shoulders. “Maybe she can help us make new ones for spring.”
Clara’s hand with the needle and thread left much to be desired. Marilla would never say as much. She took the dresses Clara made, rehemmed the skirts, rethreaded the buttonholes, and wore sashes to cinch the waists. Easy fixes and a small price to pay in comparison to hurting her mother’s feelings.
Marilla imagined that if her mother were a part of nature, she’d be a butterfly, merrily going about its affable business in the fields, light and pretty. But the smallest hand could crush it. Marilla imagined herself as a caterpillar, long and thin and steadily in motion. Her father and Matthew would be apple trees. Strong providers, silently bearing the weight of each season. These were the daydreams she found herself giving in to more and more.
Her schoolteacher, Mr. Murdock, said an indulgent mind was a wicked one. But then, she’d once heard her father tell her mother in private that Mr. Murdock came from a hoity-toity academy in York and considered everyone in Avonlea beneath him. Hugh spoke so little. When he did, Marilla remembered well. She never entirely trusted Mr. Murdock after that. She wouldn’t believe his 2 + 2 = 4 until she’d proved it herself.
Just then, the kitchen door leading to the back porch opened. A bluster of snow raced in, hit the warmth, and melted straight to the floor.
“Father and Jericho are coming down the lane.” Matthew carried an armful of dry wood. He stomped the frost off his boots. “Figured it was best to stoke the fire before I get Jericho stabled. Mighty cold out.”