by Sarah McCoy
“Well . . . maybe some tea for digestion,” she relented.
“A wise idea,” said her mother. “Why don’t you and Marilla fetch yourselves some before we begin? Marilla, set your plate down beside Rachel’s. That seat is for you.”
Marilla had assumed she’d be next to Izzy. She’d hoped then that no one would notice her loose knots and crooked lines. Not knowing what else to do, she obeyed Mrs. White. Rachel took her by the crook of the arm and led her back across the room to the tea table.
“Mother would have us all drinking tonics and eating carrots if she had her way. My Uncle Theodore took my Aunt Luanne to the thermal baths in Vichy—that’s in France, in case you didn’t know—and she came back looking like Lady Godiva. She said they put her on a strict diet of tonic water and vegetables to improve feminine circulation. Can you imagine? That sounds like torture, but Mother’s been on a kick. She didn’t have a bite of the cake Ella slaved all yesterday making. Father told her that Aunt Luanne’s transformation had everything to do with the thermal baths and clean air, but Mother is convinced otherwise.” She tsked and took a breath. “Do you ever feel like you are the only one in the world who sees plain as day what others cannot?”
Too often Marilla felt quite the other way around: others seemed to see plain as day what she did not. She made no reply, but Rachel didn’t seem to mind.
“The Cuthberts sit fourth row to the left at church,” she continued. “My family sits seventh row to the right, so you can see how we’d miss each other. Unless you were turned around.”
The numerical calculation appealed to Marilla. She was flattered that Rachel had noticed her.
“And you haven’t seen me at Avonlea School. I came down with a grievous case of the chicken pox two winters ago. It put me dreadfully behind the rest of my grade. So Mother thought it best if I studied with a tutor until I caught up.”
“And you haven’t yet?”
Rachel poured the last bit of tea out of the pot, being careful to avoid the floating leaves. “I have a hard time with my letters. Sometimes”—she cleared her throat—“they get sort of mixed up between the page and my eyes. Dr. Spencer says I need reading spectacles, but I never saw anybody our age wearing spectacles. Lawful heart, no! Those are for old maids. If I start wearing them now, I might never get a husband. Here—” She handed the tea to Marilla. “You can have the last cup.”
Marilla smiled. “Very kind.” She was parched from just listening. Rachel could talk an ear off. It had to be the sugar in the cake, she decided.
The sewing circle ladies finished their nibbles and gathered in the center of the room to show off their projects and discuss new ones. There was a collective gasp when Izzy pulled her stitching out of the hamper.
“It’s Venetian Gros Point for a dress collar,” she explained.
“Such fancy needlework over in St. Catharines.”
“It’s ever so lovely.”
“Can you teach us?”
They clucked one after the other.
“So your aunt has come back,” Rachel whispered as Marilla sipped. “I overheard some of the Sunday school ladies saying that she’s only able to set a toe back on the island because Mr. William Blair is married now. They were engaged, you know, but before you could say Jack Robinson, she changed her mind and was on a train for St. Catharines without an explanation to anybody. Audacious without remorse! But Mrs. Blair told Mrs. Barry who told my mother that, while shocking, Mrs. Blair hadn’t been surprised. Of the two Johnson girls, they could see plain as day that your mother was the more reliable. Elizabeth had a wild oat to sow, and Mrs. Blair had warned William from the beginning that she’d not settle into wifehood like her sister. So it was really for the good that she left sooner rather than later. William found a better marriage match for it, so they say.”
Marilla sputtered on her tea and recalled what Izzy had told her before they went to the Blairs’. She realized now that Izzy had meant much more in the more that she spoke of. In Marilla’s estimation, it took great courage to become engaged and even greater courage to dissolve an engagement. Izzy was already proving to be greater than Marilla had originally thought.
“Gracious, are you all right?” Rachel handed Marilla a napkin with concern. “Please don’t die when we’re just getting to be friends . . .”
Friends. Marilla hadn’t any friends. She didn’t want Rachel to know that, so she gulped down the knot in her throat and pressed the napkin to her lips.
“I—I hadn’t heard about Aunt Izzy and Mr. Blair.”
Rachel’s countenance softened. “I’m sorry. Please, you mustn’t mind me. Mother says I’m too outspoken a person. Maybe it’s because I don’t have much of anybody to talk to around here. So when I do, whatever’s on my mind pops out. I shouldn’t have said that about your aunt.”
“She came back to help with the baby.”
Rachel nodded. “A’course she did. I don’t believe a word of those old crows’ gossiping.”
Mrs. White clapped again to gain the room’s attention. “To your seats, ladies! The time is nigh!”
Rachel led Marilla back to their chairs. “I’m so glad to have someone my age to talk to while we stitch. I’ve got a box of threads—all colors of the rainbow—you can use them too. I may not be so good at reading letters, but my eyes are just fine for sewing. Aunt Luanne gave me a pattern book from France. There’s one I’ve been dying to try. A spray of red amaryllis. It could go on a bodice or a sleeve. But then we’d need to make two so the right and left sides were alike. Maybe you could make one and I could make the other. Or are you working on something already?”
“I’m making a baby gown with Aunt Izzy, but we haven’t started yet. We just bought the fabric from Mrs. Blair.”
Marilla thought of the peppermints and Mr. Blair’s mention of William. How strange to think Izzy might’ve been part of their family: Izzy Blair. Marilla frowned. It sounded like something an apothecary would treat.
“Might you be able to do both? We can take turns wearing the dress when it’s finished.” Rachel wrung her hands in earnest. “I’d greatly appreciate the help and company.”
Marilla was more than glad to do it. She liked Rachel. It was refreshing to be around someone who didn’t make you guess their mind. For better or for worse, Marilla appreciated that.
“Yes, but I warn you, I’m not very good. One sleeve might come out a blossomed branch and the other a battered limb.”
Rachel laughed and threw herself down in her chair, forgetting that her sewing circular was placed just so on the cushion. Her giddiness swiftly turned to pain. She jumped up with a yowl, clasping her backside with both hands.
“Laws!”
The eye of the offending point glimmered. Everyone in the room stared with alarm.
“What in heaven’s name are you shouting about, Rachel?” asked Mrs. White.
Rachel released her skirts and mumbled under her breath, which seemed to vex Mrs. White more than the outburst.
“Speak up, girl! I can’t stand muttering.”
Quickly, Marilla came to her new friend’s aid. “I think she’s been stung by something.”
It wasn’t a lie. A needle was a stinger of sorts.
Mrs. White softened. “Oh dear, how awful!”
The ladies all began to waggle and shake their skirts.
“Was it a wasp? A bee?”
“Wherever did it come from?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Gillis had to tear down their shed because of a hive of carpenter bees wintering in the walls.”
“I have chills at the thought—carpenter bees!”
The chatter produced a panic. They all pulled at their collars, shirked away from the walls, and buzzed like a poked hive.
“Ladies, please, please . . .” Mrs. White tried to calm them, while she, too, nervously eyed the cornices, and Ella took up her broom for protection.
In the midst of the chaos, it was only Rachel and Marilla who stood still, not daring to look at
each other for fear of bursting into laughter.
“Perhaps we should reconvene after Mr. White has had the place inspected?” Izzy waved a hand over her head, batting away an invisible swarm.
“An excellent idea, Miss Johnson. My poor Rachel has been stung. I’d hate for anyone else to be next. Ella, the ladies’ things please!”
Ella returned under a mound of coats and knitted things. The women leapt on her, pulling on whatever item fell into their palms, and rushed toward the door.
“An infestation of carpenter bees in the Whites’ house!”
Izzy and Marilla were the last ones to leave.
“We brought this for you.” Izzy gave Mrs. White the bottle of red currant wine. “It’s got to turn a few more months before it’s ready to drink. But if you need it to get you through . . .” She buttoned the top of her coat and studied the walls suspiciously. “Open as you please.”
Mrs. White took the bottle. “I may just!”
Izzy waited outside for Marilla. The girls were finally alone in the foyer.
“We can’t ever tell them . . .” Rachel began, then looked over her shoulder to her mother, who’d swapped the wine for Ella’s broom and was vigorously swatting the ceiling. “It’s got to be our secret.”
Marilla smiled. She’d never had a secret with a friend.
Rachel covered her mouth to laugh, then held her hand out. “Do you vow to never tell a soul so long as you live and breathe?”
Marilla took it in hers and thought it the loveliest hand she’d ever held besides her mother’s. “So long as I live and breathe.”
Rachel tightened her grip, then released. “I must help Mother. She’s in a terrible state. Will you come over again—so we can work on the amaryllis sleeves?”
Marilla nodded.
“Rachel!” called Mrs. White. “Were you stung near this chair?” She batted the seat with the broom until it fell sideways.
Rachel giggled. “See you.”
“See you,” said Marilla.
The sun was shining. The snow melted quietly in the unseen nooks of the eaves and the trees, but the ground remained hard as ice, which Marilla was grateful for as they walked the lane home.
“It looks like you made a friend today,” said Izzy.
“I believe so,” said Marilla.
Izzy winked and took Marilla’s hand. It made her think of the vow she made to Rachel and the vows Izzy would not make to Mr. William Blair. Marilla still found it hard to believe that Izzy had nearly been Mrs. Blair, daughter-in-law of the general store. It seemed there were many things she didn’t know about her family and her town.
VI.
Introducing John Blythe
Marilla and Rachel were halfway done with their two amaryllis sleeves by April. The process had been slower than anticipated because Mrs. White said they could only work on the design after they did at least ten rows each on the Avonlea Ladies’ Sewing Circle project: prayer shawls for the Hopetown orphans of Nova Scotia. Seven of the ten ladies also belonged to the Presbyterian Sunday school class, so they had held the majority vote. The circle had reconvened after the county inspector found not one wasp, bee, horsefly, or the like on the Whites’ premises. The inspector said it would’ve perished soon after losing its stinger anyhow, presumably in Rachel’s bottom.
“Mrs. White, your home is pristine,” the inspector had determined after checking all the boxes on his inspection list.
Prior to his arrival, Mrs. White and Ella had scrubbed from floor to ceiling, making Mrs. White even prouder of the result, which she quoted to all who passed over her threshold: “‘Pristine,’ said the inspector. Officially.”
The snows had melted and the rains had come, making everything and everyone in Avonlea sticky. Water seemed to come from every direction, even up from the ground where the drops splashed in puddles. You couldn’t walk a yard without being soaked through.
Marilla had run over to Rachel’s while one storm was moving off to Newfoundland and another was approaching from New Brunswick. She had barely made it to the Whites’ when the clouds broke open again. From the shelter of their porch, she turned to look out over Avonlea: the gulf in the distance roared; the wind was scented with melted icecaps and blew the trees like stalks of kelp; the rain fell faster and faster until it looked as if a veil had been drawn over the island, tinting everything wet gray. She hardly recognized Avonlea as home. From someone else’s front door, it looked so different.
“Come on, before you’re drenched!” Rachel pulled her inside. “I’ve done it! See here—I’ve perfected the rosette. Every bridal pattern from Paris to London is using it. They say Princess Victoria will have at least ten thousand rosettes on her coronation gown. I can’t even imagine!”
Rachel proudly held up her circular for admiration. The rosette chain didn’t look terribly different from the standard cable stitch, but Marilla kept silent.
“It’s exceedingly difficult. I can teach you,” Rachel offered. “But don’t be disheartened if you don’t pick it up as quickly as I did. It takes some people years if they haven’t the God-given knack.”
Rachel had determined on their second meeting that Marilla didn’t share her “God-given knack,” but her work showed potential, Rachel thought, if Marilla diligently applied herself.
“I’d be very glad to learn,” said Marilla.
“Let’s get our prayer shawl stitching done first. Mother counted my rows before she and father left for Four Winds.” Rachel pulled the skein of thick, fleecy yarn from her hamper. “They took my cousins some of Ella’s cooking. Poor dears. It’s the chicken pox. All five children broke out at the same time.” She started to loop her crochet needle around and through, around and through. Marilla joined her, working her crochet hook through her own shawl.
“The pox is the most wicked illness,” Rachel continued with a maternal air. “Mother wrapped my fingers in cotton so I couldn’t scratch. Her mother did the same to her. You could scar your face for life if you aren’t cautious. Afterward, I healed without a single blemish. I once read a magazine serial about a beautiful girl with a pock perfectly placed on her forehead so that it looked like she’d been anointed with a holy wound. That’s how it was described in the installment: anointed with a holy wound. I thought it the loveliest thing I’d ever heard. I started drawing a little scar on my forehead with a dab of crushed carmine petals. When Mother forced me to confess what on earth I was doing with her rouge, she said it was wicked foolishness. She took me down to see one of the little French boys living on the wharf row—sorrowful child was pockmarked from ear to ear! A face like a corncob. I was so ashamed. I never wished for such a thing again.” She shook her head. “Have you had the pox?”
Marilla nodded. “When Matthew was nine and I was one year old. Mother said I was the sickest she’s ever seen. I was too young to remember the fever or itching, but Matthew and I have matching scars, so I know it must’ve been.”
“Do you really have a scar?” Rachel set down her crocheting.
Marilla thought it strange that Rachel would have such a morbid fascination. It was a chicken pox scar, as common as a freckle and unsightly as a mole. She couldn’t understand why Rachel would romanticize it. But then, Rachel was an only child and Marilla understood how an imagination left to its own could make the unknown a grand and beastly thing. So in this way, she knew something Rachel didn’t.
“It’s right here.” She rolled up her left sleeve cuff to reveal the inner crook of her elbow, white and soft from hiding. There, in the bony divot between flesh and bone was a teardrop hollow, no bigger than one of the rosettes on Rachel’s circular.
“Yours is the prettiest pock I’ve ever seen! If it’s any consolation,” said Rachel.
“Matthew has one on his right elbow,” Marilla explained. “Mother says it’s often that way with siblings. The pain that one feels, the other does too. When you’ve shared the same womb, it naturally follows that you share your lives.”
Rachel’s e
yes softened to a glassy stare. “What if you haven’t siblings?”
Marilla rolled down her sleeve. She’d hurt Rachel, though she hadn’t meant to. “Well, I suppose that’s why God gave us friends.”
Rachel blinked hard and smiled. “Yes. Reverend Patterson gave a right nice sermon on that very subject last week. It’s a proverb: ‘A man with many friends comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother’—or sister in our case, right?”
Marilla nodded.
“Maybe I don’t have a scar on my elbow like you, but I have one right in the middle of my you-know-where after sitting on that stinger last month!” She giggled. “You saved me from eternal humiliation, Marilla Cuthbert. I’m forever grateful.”
Marilla didn’t see the accident or what she’d said as anything worthy of humiliation or gratitude. But again, she was fast learning that how she saw the world and how another did could be entirely dissimilar.
Ella interrupted their sewing. “Mademoiselle Rachel, Monsieur Blythe has come about a barter?”
Rachel tilted her head and frowned. “Mother and Father didn’t mention anything to me.”
“Nor to me. It’s Monsieur John Blythe,” Ella clarified. “Says he’s come on his father’s request regarding a gun.”
“A gun?” Rachel wrapped the yarn she was using back around the skein. “Father must’ve spoken to Mr. Blythe at the town hall meeting on Monday.” She put the sewing things back in the hamper. “Tell him that they aren’t home and to come back later.”
Ella nodded half-heartedly. “I suppose so . . . but he came all the way over in the downpour. Do you think we might offer him a warm drink? A chance to dry some? Seems the charitable thing to do, oui?”
Rachel looked to Marilla, who shrugged. She’d never met John Blythe, but she’d felt the force of the rain. It was enough to cut your nose off. Letting the worst of it pass before sending him back seemed sensible.
“All right then.” Rachel rose, smoothed her skirts, and pinched her cheeks.
Marilla thought that odd. She’d long ago given up on her appearance. She had Hugh’s angular cheekbones that caught the sun too much and so were never the alabaster of fashion but tanned like deerskin. Rouges and pinching only made her look a-splotched. She was just as she was. It didn’t bother her to be plain. Besides, it was only the dairy farmer’s son.