Marilla of Green Gables

by Sarah McCoy

  “Thank you, son.” Clara stretched her back and pressed a hand to the side of her belly.

  “The pains again?” Marilla asked. Though her mother wore a placid expression, Marilla could see the darkness in her eyes.

  “Little twinge. It’s the cold. I guess the baby doesn’t like it.”

  Marilla bolted the door closed and stuck a poker in the stove to turn the coals bright. She’d make some black tea to go with the un-plum puffs. It was only half past noon, but on days like this, teatime could be any hour. One could hardly tell by the light.

  “Sit by the parlor fire,” she told her mother. “I’ll make the tea.” Then she wondered aloud: “Does Aunt Izzy approve of tea?”

  Mr. Murdock said that some people living on the Lower Canadian border of the U.S. had permanently given up the drink after the Boston Tea Party in America: 342 tea chests thrown into the harbor. Three hundred and forty-two—Marilla had a mind for figures. Tea had three letters in it, and so Marilla made up the mnemonic: tea for two. It helped her remember 342 when Mr. Murdock questioned them on their American history studies. She’d been going to school since she was seven years old, but now she was on home study. After the baby came, she hoped to return and finish. She only had two grades to go before taking the exit exam.

  “Of course she approves of tea!” Clara laughed. “Marilla, you mustn’t worry so much about perfectly pleasing people. Aunt Izzy loves you, and she’ll love you even more once she sees how fine you’ve grown.” She kissed Marilla’s forehead, leaving a milky sweet smell behind.

  Marilla hadn’t meant to be perfectly pleasing. She’d only meant not to offend.

  She filled the kettle from the kitchen cistern and set it on the stovetop with a slight clang. Clara looked over her shoulder at the sound but then continued into the parlor.

  Alone with her thoughts, Marilla was unnerved that those closest to her knew this outsider better than she did. And now Izzy was coming into their home to live for months. They’d never had a guest that long. In fact, they’d never had a guest at all. The gable rooms had just been built. Only farmhands had ever stayed overnight, and only in the barn loft. Izzy was the first official non-Cuthbert to sleep under their roof, and Marilla seemed the only one not entirely thrilled about it.

  II.

  Aunt Izzy Is a Surprise

  Marilla heard the jingle of Jericho’s harness bells a full minute before the door opened. That gave her just enough time to pour the steaming water over the tea leaves and set the pot on the tray to brew. From the kitchen, she heard her aunt before she saw her.

  “Clara! Sister! Oh, look at you—round as a pumpkin!” The voice was loud with a jaunty clip, different from anything Marilla had ever heard and nothing like Avonlea people.

  Clara laughed and muttered, “More like fat as a sow in mud!”

  Marilla frowned to herself. A sow in mud was the last thing her mother resembled. Clara’s arms and legs were so thin, they looked like stems off an acorn, and just as easily snapped.

  “I’m so happy you’re here, Iz.”

  “It took an eternity. The stagecoach was dreadful. I was stuck between a man who had a slug of cod liver oil every three hours and a woman with two babes in nappies. Imagine the stink of it all? By the time I reached the ferry for the island, the sea air was better than a bottle of Floris London perfume. If only this snowstorm had waited one more day. I felt awful that Hugh had to drive out in it.”

  “No trouble,” said Hugh. “Glad to do it. Clara’s been lonesome for a kinswoman. Gone a long while, Izzy.”

  Marilla was still standing in the kitchen, somehow unable to bring herself to interrupt the reunion. For the first time, she felt like the stranger.

  “Too long.” Izzy gave a sigh. A bit theatrical in Marilla’s opinion. “But I’m here now. So where are my niece and nephew?”

  At the mention, Marilla’s face went hot. She smoothed the pleats of her dress and made sure the strands of her hair were smoothed back off her forehead.

  But before she took a step forward, Izzy cooed, “My sweet little Matthew! Not so little anymore. A grown man and handsome as the devil!”

  Fiddlesticks. Marilla may have never left Prince Edward Island before, but there were enough boys around for her to clearly see that her brother Matthew was neither handsome nor the devil. He was sensible-looking and went to church every Sunday just like the rest of them.

  “Marilla?” The gentle lilt of her mother called. “Marilla dear, come here and let your Aunt Izzy have a look.”

  A look? What was she—a circus monkey? Not that she’d ever seen a circus monkey, but Mr. Murdock brought in as many newspapers as he could, including the London Standard, which once featured the Bartholomew Fair. They had dancing monkeys, wild beasts, men who walked on their hands, women who danced underwater, and real gaslights—inside too! Marilla thought it all terrifying and wonderful. She heard there were such things on every street in St. Catharines, so close to the fashionable American resort at Niagara Falls. Perhaps Izzy was accustomed to spectacles.

  Marilla made up her mind right then to prove to her aunt that the girls of Prince Edward Island were as well mannered as the princesses of England. She pushed her shoulders back, held her head high, cupped her hands neatly at her waist, and strode forward as confidently as she dared.

  The room that had comfortably held the four of them suddenly felt crowded. The hearth fire blazed to a roar, sending up a little too much smoke and making the parlor hazy.

  “This is our Marilla,” Clara said in welcome, then stepped aside to reveal Izzy, still wearing her bright blue cape. Seeing her niece, she pulled the hood off her head with a smile.

  Marilla shrieked and jumped back, clutching her chest and accidentally kicking over the box of yarn where Skunk had been sleeping. He leapt away from her boot with a hiss and darted down the hall to an unoffending corner. Marilla wanted to follow him.

  Clara frowned. “Marilla. Child, what’s gotten into you?” She took Izzy’s hand in solidarity. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at Marilla.

  Though Izzy’s hair held a touch more butterscotch, and she wore it in a cascade of coils, her face was the mirror of Clara’s—identical, if it weren’t for the rouge and powder where her mother wore none.

  Marilla lifted a finger, tick-tocked it between the two. “You—you.”

  The sisters looked at each other, scowling the same scowl, which made Marilla want to cry for terror.

  Thankfully, Matthew cleared his throat. “Well now, I dunno if Marilla ever seen twins before.”

  No, in fact, she had not. Marilla had heard about twins. Mrs. Barry had a cousin in Kingsport with a set of twins. She wasn’t a country bumpkin. Had someone told her that her mother was a twin, she would’ve been prepared for this moment.

  Izzy and Clara simultaneously broke into laughter. Both eyes squinting bright and shining. Marilla might’ve taken the moment with indignation had she not noticed that while her mother’s cheeks remained smooth, Izzy had a prominent right dimple that pulled inward when she laughed. It gave her great relief to find that one distinction.

  “I suppose I never mentioned it. I assumed everyone knew!” said Clara.

  Izzy tossed back a ringlet gone lopsided at her temple. “Poor thing. Quite a shock.”

  Marilla composed herself as best she could. Embarrassment flamed her cheeks.

  Hugh nodded to Matthew. “Let’s get Jericho into the barn. Reckon this snow will keep to piling. You ladies settle in.”

  “Tea and nibbles are waiting when you finish,” said Clara.

  Hugh winked at her, and it made Marilla blush. It was his way of loving.

  With that, the men left.

  “Take this off—you’re staying a while.” Clara peeled her sister’s wet cloak away and hung it to dry by the fire.

  Izzy wore a calico dress of a purple pansy pattern. Finely sewn, the bodice had cream gauze from the elbow to the wrist and a similar swath around the shoulders. Unli
ke Marilla’s housedress, the gown was tailored to Izzy’s petite waist and pleated down the back in a respectable bustle. It wasn’t audacious or frivolous. Quite the contrary. Its seams were so geometrically executed that it reminded Marilla of a church steeple. Not one ounce of wasted fabric. Every bit had a purpose in the overall construction. By comparison, her mother’s dress seemed an incredible excess of haphazard material. Granted, she was with child, so it had to allow for expansion.

  “Are you hungry from the trip?” asked Clara.

  “Famished.”

  “Oh good, because Marilla made you cream puffs.”

  Not entirely true. Marilla had dropped the dough for her mother, then put them in the oven and taken them out. That was all.

  “Choux à la crème!” Izzy clapped.

  “Made with sweet butter. From Avonlea’s finest—our cow Darling.” Clara went to the kitchen.

  Marilla opened her mouth to say that she put the crock and teapot on the tray, so her mother needn’t lift a finger. But her tongue was tied, alone in the company of this new person.

  Izzy stretched her arms wide in front of the fire with a dainty yawn. “Is Darling the cow you wrote me about three springs ago? The one you got from the Blythes? Their stock really is the best on the island. Even back when we were children. Just goes to show, fruit takes after seed, seed takes after fruit.”

  Marilla hadn’t a clue what Izzy was talking about—seed and fruit piffle. These were cows, not crops. Maybe she’d been in the city so long that she’d forgotten how nature worked. But the fact that she knew about Darling and the Blythes made Marilla wonder how much else her mother had told Izzy about their lives. Meanwhile, Marilla hadn’t even known her mother was part of a matching pair!

  Izzy spun round then.

  “Mari-lla.” She trilled the l’s, birdlike. “You turned out pretty. Tall and elegant. I swore to your mother—didn’t I, Clara?” She yelled past Marilla’s ear at a pitch no Cuthbert had used indoors and hardly out. “I said, ‘Sister, don’t you fret. She might be a dark, homely little thing now, but all babies are.’ You should’ve seen Matthew! ‘Just you wait,’ I said. ‘I can tell by the glint in this one’s eye, she’s going to be lovely.’ And that’s when your mother asked me what we ought to name you, and I said, ‘Marilla.’ It comes from Amaryllis, you know. A beguiling, bold flower.”

  It stung Marilla to be called a homely baby, but what shocked her more was that her aunt had named her. Beguiling? Certainly not. Everyone knew Marilla was a derivative of the holy mother Mary. Bold? The Cuthberts prided themselves on being faithful members of the “blessed are the meek” church. Presbyterian.

  Izzy sat down on the sofa and patted the seat beside her. Marilla obeyed in quiet defiance of the beguiling, bold comment about her name. So close to her aunt, she could smell the powders on Izzy’s skin. Lilac with a touch of copper from the cold.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

  “No one told me you and Mother were twins.” Marilla spoke coherently for the first time and made sure her voice didn’t waver a fraction.

  “Your mother is the sweeter and more gracious, always has been.” Izzy winked. “You take after her.”

  Then, out of nowhere, Izzy kissed her cheek. Marilla stayed as still as possible during and after, afraid Izzy’s lip rouge might smear on her and stain her skin.

  A spoon fell in the kitchen. “Marilla!” Clara called.

  Marilla jumped to her feet with Izzy beside. In the kitchen, they found Clara gently laughing as she tried to look around her belly to see where the spoon had dropped. She took two steps forward, then two steps back, leaned right and left, then circled round again like she was dancing the Scotch Reel. The spoon stayed expertly in her blind spot.

  “I thought I could . . .” Clara started, then ran out of breath and leaned on Marilla while Izzy curtsied to retrieve the spoon.

  “What was this for anyhow? You know I don’t take sugar or milk in my tea. Just pour into a cup and drink.”

  “I know, but I thought you might’ve changed,” said Clara.

  “Not me, Sister. My wheres and hows may change, but my whos and whats are as constant as the seasons.”

  She pulled a puff off the baking tin, light as a cloud, and split the bottom from the top. Using the fallen spoon, she heaped butter into the hollow and popped it in her mouth.

  “Delicious.”

  She did the same to another and handed it to Marilla. Then a third to Clara.

  “I’m not a guest in this house, so don’t handle me with kid gloves. I’m family and here to take care of you.”

  She pointed her finger at them, a bit of butter on the tip. Seeing it, she licked it clean, then went back to the tray.

  “Tea for three?”

  Clara had shifted more of her weight onto Marilla’s shoulder, pinching her breastbone, but Marilla didn’t move away.

  “We’re glad you’re here.” Clara exhaled and ate her butter puff.

  Marilla nodded and did the same. She still didn’t think it as good as a full plum puff, and she still wasn’t sure about Izzy as a person. But she was glad to have the extra set of hands. Her mother struggled more and more each day, and secretly Marilla was terrified of what came next. Birth was not something the church ladies discussed. Not something in her magazine stories either. The only thing she knew about it was from helping her father deliver one of Darling’s calves the prior spring, and that was only because Matthew was away in the field.

  The newborn beast had been far too large for its mother. Its front feet were extended out of the womb, but the head could not make a way. To save both, Hugh had reached inside and pulled the thing into the world. Marilla was tasked with keeping Darling steady. She’d stroked her head and whispered lullaby songs as best she could, but even she was sent retching into the hay when she saw her father covered hands to waist in blood and tacky fluids. It didn’t seem to bother him, though. The calf was out and healthy. Darling was happy and resting. The only one left ill was Marilla. Clara had chastised Hugh for showing Marilla nature’s way too soon. But Hugh had no choice.

  Nearly a year later, Marilla worried that someone would have to reach inside her mother and pull her baby sibling free. It was not an undertaking she desired, and she was glad Izzy was here to do the task if necessary.

  III.

  A Family Recipe

  The next morning, the sun stretched sleepy flaxen arms over the Gulf of St. Lawrence and stirred Marilla alongside the sound of laughter and pots being banged as if gypsy minstrels had taken over the Gables. The Cuthberts were quiet people, especially in the mornings. Her father didn’t speak in more than a whisper before noon, and her brother could go clear through supper without a peep.

  Outside her window, Matthew was already leading the milking cows from the barn to pasture. She’d overslept. Her mother had not woken her to help prepare breakfast for the men. Alarmed by the disruption in their Cuthbert routine, Marilla kicked her bedcovers to the ground. With her nightgown twisted round her like a rose, she hurried down to the kitchen.

  “Marilla,” greeted Clara. “Good morning, love.”

  Still wearing her house robe, Clara sipped a cup of tea at the little wooden kitchen table that they used for chopping vegetables. At her elbow was the sack of dried red currants that they’d picked in July and left on a yard of cheesecloth under the sun until the whole batch wizened to a cure. They’d been saving them for Easter scones, but it seemed Marilla’s aunt had other plans.

  Izzy whirled about the kitchen in a housedress striped like a candy cane. Her hair was done in a bouffant of symmetrical curls circling her face. The likeness between the sisters was still strange, but there was no confusing the two. Clara was the soft moon while Izzy was the glaring sun.

  Seeing her niece, Izzy lifted the iron pot in her hand and struck it with a wooden spoon. It rang like a bell and started a headache in Marilla.

  “My pretty flower!”

  Pretty flower, my foot, Mar
illa thought and stomped her own. Barefoot, it did little more than pat the cold floor. She found pet names patronizing. Her name was plain Marilla, and she was a girl, not a flower. So she respectfully ignored her aunt and went to Clara’s side.

  “Good morning, Mother.” Marilla kissed her cheek. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “We thought you deserved the extra rest.”

  We who? And why would she need any more than every other morning?

  “I always make Father and Matthew breakfast . . .”

  There wasn’t a day in her memory when she hadn’t cracked an egg into the skillet before dawn.

  “Your aunt is here to help now. She made the most delicious porridge with maple syrup. We saved the best bowl for you.”

  Izzy smiled and bowed at the compliment. Marilla didn’t think it all too impressive. She would’ve made them porridge too if ever they had asked her.

  “A young girl needs as much time to dream as possible,” said Izzy. “Soon enough you’ll be all grown up and there will be no time but the doing.”

  Marilla frowned. So far, Izzy was proving to be a person of rhymes, riddles, and fanciful poppycock. It made Marilla’s headache sharpen, and she feared she might lose her mind completely by the time the baby came and her aunt left.

  “I like doing,” said Marilla.

  Izzy put down the pot and smiled. “Well then, why are you standing there? Get dressed and come back ready for the doing.”

  She turned without waiting for Marilla to reply and filled the pot from the water cistern.

  Clara patted Marilla’s hand. “Do as your auntie says.”

  It smarted to have to obey a woman she’d only just met and who had seemingly crowned herself the new queen of their gables. But Marilla vowed to herself to be better than whatever lowly expectations her aunt might’ve had. So she squared her shoulders, righted the cuffs of her nightgown, and marched back up to her bedroom. There she washed her face with cold water and put on her cleanest frock. She’d sternly ironed it herself so that the arms shunted out from her shoulders like ridgepoles. She twisted her hair, which she might’ve left down on a normal day, up high in a bun and secured it with her wedged horn comb. The pull at her temples helped to alleviate her head’s throbbing.