Marilla of Green Gables

by Sarah McCoy

  John Blythe sat two grades up from her at the Avonlea School. There weren’t any girls in his grade eight class. Most had left to help raise their younger siblings and do house chores. If anything, they home-studied like she did. So John Blythe had been little more than one of the rumpled dark heads in the crowd of older boys. However, there was a notable difference in Rachel as Ella brought him through the kitchen door. He seemed to have an effect on Ella too. Her tone changed. A jingle under its usual flat inflection.

  “S’il vous plaît, come in, Monsieur Blythe. You must be chilled to the bone. Here, let me hang your coat to dry by the stove. I’ll make a tasse de thé. Mademoiselle Rachel and her company are waiting for you in the parlor.”

  “Very kind of you,” he said.

  Marilla thought it a pleasant voice.

  Rachel moved a ringlet forward onto her forehead at his footsteps down the hall. Marilla scratched her neck.

  The toe of his boot came out of the shadows first, followed by the rest of him. He was tall and muscular. The rain had plastered his shirt to his body like a second skin, revealing the outlines of his chest and arms and back. His wet, dark curls hung low on his forehead, making his hazel eyes look nearly golden in the parlor light. When he changed his gaze, from Rachel to Marilla and back, it was like being in the shine and then in shade.

  “Hello, Rachel.”

  “Why hello, John Blythe,” said Rachel. “This is my friend, Marilla Cuthbert.”

  He nodded. “I know your brother Matthew. We schooled together before he went to work for your father. Nice to meet you.” He smiled, and his eyes gleamed brighter.

  Marilla had to look away. It nearly pained her. Like staring into the sun. “Nice to meet you.”

  “As Ella informed you,” said Rachel with one hand on the curve of her hip, “my parents are not at home. They’ve gone over to visit my cousins at Four Winds. Was there some pressing business you needed?”

  A drip of water fell from his temple to the parlor carpet. John pushed his hair back, and Marilla nearly gasped at the little pockmark nestled in his left temple. So small a thing. It would’ve gone unnoticed by everyone except . . . they were just speaking of their scars. Anointed, Rachel had said. Chills ran the length of Marilla’s body.

  “My apologies for intruding. We didn’t know they were gone today,” explained John. “We arranged a barter. One of our Jersey cows for a Ferguson that Mr. White purchased from a London exporter last year. My father sent me over to appraise the condition of the rifle before we bring over the heifer.”

  Rachel cocked her head. “I remember that gun. Father said it was a waste of money. He’s never so much as loaded the thing. Not much to shoot at but bunnies and birds in Avonlea. Father hasn’t the time or bloodthirst for such diversions.”

  John nodded. “He said as much to my father.”

  “Well, feel free to have a look. He keeps it right over here.” She led them to the hall closet and pointed to the top shelf. “Practically new. Still in the box.”

  “May I?” asked John.

  “Have at it. I’d hate to think you came across town in a storm for nothing.”

  John pulled the box down. His arms flexed beneath the damp cotton. The three found themselves standing too close together in the confinement of the narrow hallway. Marilla could smell the ripeness of wet leather and sea salt on his skin. He opened the box, and they gazed inside at the long, polished wooden barrel.

  “I forgot how pretty it looks.” Rachel ran her fingers over the shiny metal trigger. “Almost like a royal scepter.”

  “A dangerous one, perhaps,” said John.

  Rachel lifted her chin. “Depends on how it’s used. If the aimer hits nothing but blue sky, it might as well be a scepter.” She laughed, a tinny sound that echoed down the tiled foyer.

  Marilla had never seen a gun up close. She wasn’t even sure her father owned one. The gunpowder alone was too expensive, never mind the rifle. And as Mr. White had pointed out, there was no use for such a weapon in Avonlea. It was a civilized town on a civilized island. There were no dangers larger than an occasional vermin provoking their livestock, and for that a pitchfork did the job just as well as anything else. Mr. White had obviously bought it on a lark. But now, John had been told to trade a pricey cow for this fancy firearm, and Marilla was curious why.

  “What would the Blythes need of a rifle like this?” asked Marilla.

  John turned his face to her and her cheeks burned. “For protection.”

  “Protection?” scoffed Rachel.

  “We haven’t any enemies here,” insisted Marilla. “No wolves or bears. It’s an island.”

  “‘No man is an island, entire of itself. Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.’”

  Mr. Murdock had read that to them once. The author’s name danced on the tip of her tongue . . .

  “John Donne,” she said, having come to it.

  John smiled at her. “You’re a smart one.”

  Marilla felt something pull inside her like sands to the tide.

  “Of course it’s an island,” Rachel huffed. “You think you’re so clever because your father lets you study all day. But my mother said there’s more to life than books.” She closed the lid on the rifle box. “You’ve seen it. Now you can go home and say so.”

  John’s mouth twitched with a smile. “I’m obliged to you for letting me do the business I was tasked. I am but a lowly farmhand, Mademoiselle White.” He bowed like a liege man.

  “Don’t try to sweet-talk me. I’m immune to highbrow hooey.” Rachel flipped her skirt and went back to the parlor.

  Marilla turned to follow, but John stood directly in her path.

  “There’s rumor of an insurrection,” he said.

  Marilla’s heart quickened to a gallop.

  “By whom?”

  “Canadian farmers, townsfolk, and tradesmen against the corrupt aristocracy—the Châteaux Clique and the Family Compact.”

  Marilla knew of the Americans’ domestic warring, but such conflict had not been Canadian. Canadians were peaceable with their countrymen—or at least, so she’d believed. Seeing her unsettled, John put a hand on her elbow; his fingers wrapped round to the very spot she’d uncovered to Rachel the hour before. She could nearly feel his skin through the muslin sleeve.

  “Don’t worry, Marilla. You’ll be safe.”

  Marilla dared to meet his stare.

  “I will?”

  “Of course. I’m sure Matthew and your father are taking precautionary measures. Everyone is. Well”—he looked away to the parlor where Rachel had returned to her sewing—“most everyone. Mr. White told my father that the only reason he’d trade this rifle is because he’s already purchased another. A musket, more suited for targets at a close distance.”

  Marilla’s palms went clammy, the danger suddenly close, too.

  “Tea?” Ella carried the tray.

  John released Marilla’s arm. “Thank you, but I better get going.”

  Ella didn’t hide her chagrin. She slumped her way back to the kitchen.

  “I’ll be sure to tell my father the rifle is in excellent condition,” John called to Rachel. “I’m sorry for interrupting your afternoon, Mademoiselle White. I hope you can resume your rousing stitchery upon my departure.”

  “You are insufferable, Mr. Blythe!” said Rachel, but Marilla heard the giggle in it. So did John.

  “Good day, Rachel.”

  Rachel gave a mouse huff in reply.

  “Good day, Marilla.”

  He winked, and she thought it an awfully bold thing to do on their first meeting. Even bolder than taking her by the elbow. “Tell your brother Matthew that I said hello. It’s been too long since I came down to the Cuthbert place. Maybe I should.”

  All three of the girls watched John trot away, his horse’s hooves splashing through fresh puddles. The rains had cleared, and the sky had opened up to a shimmering pink sunset.

  Ella sighed. “He’s
as handsome as the devil.”

  Rachel twisted a curl around her finger. “I’ve seen handsomer. Besides, it seems the only one he’s interested in being civil toward is Marilla.”

  Marilla shook her head. “Only because he’s friendly with Matthew.”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows high. “Surely you would’ve met already if he and your brother were so close.”

  Matthew had little time for friends. He and Father were too busy on the farm. And after the drunk fire, he hardly went out socially again. She wondered if John had been at the party that night. Probably not, she decided. Matthew was twenty-one to John’s sixteen. Too far apart in age to share schoolmates. So why then was John so terribly interested in visiting her brother now?

  Rachel finished the crocheted row on her prayer shawl. “He’s not my type, but he’s mighty nice to look at. Don’t you agree, Marilla?”

  “Handsome is as handsome does. What a person says and thinks are what count.”

  It was getting late. Mother and Izzy would have supper waiting, so she packed up her sewing notions. Ella lit the oil lamps while Rachel walked Marilla out to the porch. The air was fresh-scented of earth and mineral with the approach of night.

  “So tell me this in truth, Marilla. What would you do if John Blythe showed up at your gable door?”

  “I’d welcome him. Just as I would to you or any Avonlea friend.”

  Rachel nodded. “Be careful walking. The light’s going quick, and I’d hate for you to fall into a mud hole.”

  The whole way home, Marilla thought about the pock scar at John’s temple. It was hard to imagine his face born without it. Such a small feature. A flaw, by most opinions, and yet, to her, it was one of the interesting parts of him. It carried a story, and she understood why Rachel found the idea of a holy wound desirable.

  VII.

  Aunt Izzy Gives a Lesson

  The merchants and farmers were gathering in Carmody to discuss the skyrocketing price of spring oilseed. Winter had been harsh across Canada, and the economic crisis had crippled the mainland farms. The meetings would take three days, so Matthew was to stay behind to run the farm while Izzy looked after Clara. Still, Hugh was worried about going. The baby was due in less than a month, and Clara had begun having pains whenever she stood. Dr. Spencer insisted she remain in bed.

  “You must go, or we won’t have a harvest to feed any of us,” Clara argued. “It’s only a few days. This child still has a few weeks of growing to do. Plus, I’ll have Izzy, Matthew, and Marilla with me. I’m more worried about you on the road by yourself. You could be attacked by rebel thieves!”

  “The only rebel thieves on the island are chipmunks stealing our costly seed,” Hugh grumbled. “What if the baby comes early?”

  “Then you’ll miss the hollering,” teased Clara. “I won’t give one push without you by my side. This baby will see no face but its father’s first. I promise you.”

  He kissed her hand.

  Marilla and Matthew stood outside the bedroom. In the wake of John’s warning, the idea of anarchy seemed more real than ever.

  “He’ll be safe on the road, won’t he, Matthew?”

  Matthew furrowed his brow. “A’course he will. Why do you ask?”

  Marilla shrugged. “There’s been talk.”

  “By who?”

  She wondered if she ought to say the name. But this was Matthew. She’d never before had a reason to hide anything from him.

  “John Blythe. He came over to Rachel’s house on an errand for his father—a bartered rifle. John said it was for protection. He said common folk might take up arms in rebellion.”

  Matthew pursed his lips and looked away to their mother telling their father to pack an extra undershirt. There was a chill to the wind.

  “Is it true?” Marilla pressed.

  His gaze fell back on her, studying her a moment. “Aye, suppose so.”

  Anxiety fluttered in Marilla’s throat.

  Matthew put a hand on her shoulder. “Needn’t worry. No danger will come to the Gables. We’ll keep you safe.”

  “That’s what John Blythe said too.”

  Matthew nodded. “He’s a good fellow. Ought to listen to him.”

  “I’d rather listen to you.”

  Matthew grinned. “I’d best hitch up Jericho for Father now. He needs to be heading out.”

  He went down, and Hugh followed directly with his overnight case. “Take care of your mother,” he said to Marilla and kissed the crown of her head as he passed.

  Alone, Marilla entered her parents’ bedroom.

  “Come lie with me a minute,” Clara beckoned.

  Marilla climbed into bed, relishing the familiarity of her mother. Clara was doughy and smelled of milk and honey. She wrapped an arm around Marilla, and Marilla wished for time to go on as it pleased while they stayed right as they were.

  “When you were little, I used to lie in bed for hours and hours holding you like this, telling you stories about my day.” When Clara breathed, her rounded belly rose and fell dramatically. “It’s not so bad when you’ve got company, but when you’re alone, it can drag on awful long.”

  “Then I won’t let you be alone,” said Marilla.

  “My sweet Marilla, as much joy as it would bring me, you can’t stay here forever—you’ve got to grow up and live on your own.”

  Marilla pressed her face closer to her mother’s side and breathed in deeply. Quiet guilt made her ache: as much as she wanted to stay the same, she also wanted to be all grown up. She hated that her heart was divided.

  Clara stroked her hair. “Childhood goes by too quickly. You’ll see. One minute a babe is a tender young bud, and the next she’s bloomed tall and beautiful in the world.”

  “I’m not so tall or beautiful,” whispered Marilla.

  Clara tilted Marilla’s chin up so that their eyes met. “Oh, but you are! And soon enough you’ll find a young man who thinks so too. You’ll fall in love and marry and start your own family.”

  Marilla pulled her chin away and buried it back down in the comfort of Clara’s embrace. “How did you know that you were in love with Father?”

  Clara inhaled and held it a beat before continuing. “I knew because we’d grown up side by side, but I didn’t notice him until just the right time. Then it was like he was the newest shiny thing in all the world. That’s when you know it’s love . . . when you can’t deny destiny.”

  Marilla felt John Blythe’s stare in her mind. It brought on a burning in her chest, not altogether uncomfortable. But it was too early for her to be in love. She was nothing but Matthew’s little sister to John. Somehow that gave her solace. She could lie in her mother’s arms a while longer. A bud wrapped up tight.

  * * *

  True to Clara’s prediction, winter made its last stand that night. An April snow brought Marilla and Matthew together by the parlor fire. Izzy had just finished taking Clara a bowl of creamy neep soup and was washing up in the kitchen. Matthew read the Royal Gazette while Marilla finished the seams of the baby gown that she and Izzy had cut from the yellow cloth with ivy. Marilla was proud of how it’d turned out. She might not have had the knack for artful embroidery like Rachel, but she had a fine hand for tailoring like her aunt. The gown was masterfully constructed with stitches that would last a hundred years. Function over frippery. Sensible was just how she liked it.

  She looked up from her work and saw the headline of Matthew’s newspaper: “Black Canadians Are Now Voting Canadians.”

  “I thought everybody already had a vote.”

  “Not the case,” said Matthew. “This is a good thing. You women will have the ballot next too.”

  “We don’t?” That came as a surprise. It wasn’t that Marilla thought women had the vote. She just hadn’t thought they didn’t.

  Matthew shook his head. “Same rules apply as in courting. A woman can’t walk into a room and pick the fellow she wants to dance with. She’s got to wait for him to ask her.”

 
Marilla frowned. “Well, that’s the daftest thing I ever heard. Why ever not?”

  “’Cause it’s the rule.” Matthew chuckled to himself. “Not saying I agree with it. That’s just how things are done.”

  Marilla thought a long minute before venturing to ask, “Have you ever been courting?”

  “Well, I dunno that I have.”

  Marilla finished the seam, knotted the thread, and cut it with her teeth. “It seems a person would know if he had or hadn’t.”

  Matthew folded up the newspaper. “I guess I haven’t then, but that don’t mean I don’t know the rules.”

  Marilla laughed. “You’re full of hot air, Matthew Cuthbert. Telling me if’n I’m at a barn dance and want to do the Scotch Reel, I can’t just pick a partner and dance?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  Marilla shook her head. “Fiddlesticks.”

  Hearing their talk, Izzy came from the kitchen with Skunk purring steadily in her arms. He never let a soul handle him that way but Izzy. Marilla reckoned it was because Izzy fed him smoked sardines when nobody was paying him any mind. Clara had bought a bunch from a fancy peddler some time ago, but none of them could stomach the smell, never mind a bite.

  “Fiddlesticks to what?” she asked.

  “To Matthew. He’s trying to tell me the rules of courting when he hasn’t even done it himself.”

  Matthew blushed under his shadow beard.

  “You’ve never had a sweetheart, Matthew? Tell the truth. You’ll get extra blisters in hell for lying to a relation.” Izzy winked. “No shame. We’re blood kin.”

  Matthew mustered up the gumption while clearing his throat. “I haven’t had the time or predilection.”

  Izzy took a seat in the cane-back chair. “Not having the time, I can believe. But not having the predilection . . .” She stroked Skunk. “Seems to me I saw you watching one of those Andrews girls mighty close during fellowship hour at church last week.”