by Sarah McCoy
Matthew’s cheeks went full rosy. He opened his mouth as if to deny what his aunt said, but then closed it.
“Which one?” Marilla piped in.
“Ask your brother to speak his peace.”
They looked to Matthew with knowing smiles until he finally conceded by throwing the paper down and standing. “Fine! Johanna.”
Izzy gave a hoot.
“She’s the prettiest of them all,” Marilla agreed.
There were four Andrews girls: Catherine, Eliza, Franny, and Johanna. All were comely, but Johanna had ebony hair, pink peppercorn lips, and a slight smattering of freckles on her nose, which made her stand out from her fairer sisters.
“She don’t even know I’m alive,” said Matthew.
“Well, make her know,” Izzy insisted.
“But how?”
Izzy set Skunk down on the ground, and he sulked around her heels.
“This is probably something your father and mother should be telling you, but given the present situation . . .” She exhaled. “I suppose coming from family is better than from someone else.”
Matthew sat down beside Marilla again, his interest renewed.
“In my limited experience . . .” Izzy cleared her throat. “Well, it’s quite simple really . . .” she began and stopped again.
The fire log crackled, and she got up to stoke it with the poker. Once it burned bright, she turned back to them.
“All right, let’s start with the basics. Matthew, you fancy Johanna, right?”
Matthew gave a shy grin.
“Right. Marilla, imagine you take a shine to a boy someday.”
She thought of John Blythe, for the sake of having a tangible example to learn from.
“Now, stand up, both of you,” instructed Izzy.
They obeyed.
“So say you ask this amour to walk with you. It doesn’t have to be long or far. Anywhere would do. But it must be just you and the other on the stroll. When you do, Matthew, that’s your cue to take the young woman’s arm and place it in the crook of yours. Like this.” She moved his hand to take Marilla’s and gently threaded it through his elbow.
“And Marilla, you let the gentleman take your hand and do as such. Then just leave it be. See?”
Marilla nodded.
“Then what?” asked Matthew.
“Well then, you put one foot in front of the other and walk. Go on!” Izzy commanded. “Stroll the parlor.”
Marilla giggled. It seemed silly, but Matthew led her forward, and they walked to the hallway and back.
“Perfect!” clapped Izzy. “But you mustn’t forget to talk. You can’t just walk around mute. That won’t do at all. This is your opportunity to partake in intimate conversation.”
At that, Matthew dropped Marilla’s arm. “Inti—what? Conversation? I dunno . . .”
Matthew was so shy. He could bolster the courage to do the actions, but ask him to add communication and it became an insurmountable feat.
“It’s easy,” said Marilla, trying to help.
She took his arm back. “Mr. Cuthbert, how are your family’s crops this year?”
“Just fine,” he grumbled.
“Ask me after my family’s,” Marilla whispered.
“But you are my family,” Matthew whispered back.
Marilla shook her head. “Play the game. Pretend I’m Johanna, and I’ll pretend you’re . . . well, you’re you for right now.”
She gulped. She’d almost said John’s name.
“Ask me things you’d ask Johanna.”
“Marilla’s right,” Izzy coaxed.
Matthew exhaled and cleared his throat. “I heard your father bought a carriage from Charlottetown.”
“That’s good—that’s good!” said Marilla before recovering herself in her part as Johanna. “Why, yes, he did. It’s a fine carriage.”
Matthew began to stammer, not knowing what to say next.
“Ask me what it looks like.”
Matthew threw up his hands. “Aw, I ain’t no good at this!”
“That’s why we’re practicing,” Izzy said consolingly. “There aren’t any rules to it. Don’t think of it as something to be good or bad at. Courting isn’t anything more than getting to know a person. So every time you step out with them, you’re discovering something new.”
“Like a newspaper story—telling what’s the news with each edition, right?” offered Marilla.
“Exactly,” said Izzy. “Like you’re curious to read the happenings, be curious about the person you’re courting.”
It made sense to Marilla, but Matthew still seemed perplexed.
“I dunno,” he said again.
“That’s the marvel of it, Matthew. You don’t have to know from the start. You can’t help falling in love any more than you can help breathing. It’ll come naturally enough.” Izzy smiled.
Marilla wondered if Izzy had been courted by William Blair and, if so, what had made her change her mind about loving him. Or maybe falling in love and falling out worked instinctively the same. It didn’t seem a thing to ask, however.
“Even old Skunk has a sweetheart,” said Izzy. “Found himself a Molly in the barn. She’s a wild thing, though. Doubt she’ll stay through summer—too many chases to be had out in the world.”
Marilla scooped up Skunk and nestled him in the crook of her neck, ignoring his mews of protest. “Maybe if we give your girl some warm milk and sardines, she’ll stick around.”
“See now, that’s courting, Marilla!”
“Dunno if milk and sardines will work on Johanna,” said Matthew.
They laughed so hard together that Clara awoke upstairs in her bed and smiled.
That Sunday, after Reverend Patterson finished his sermon and the congregation sang the Psalms, they funneled out to the gravel churchyard, where groups of three and four gathered for the fellowship hour. To Marilla’s surprise, Matthew walked straight over to the Andrews family. He shook Mr. Andrews’s hand, nodded hello to Mrs. Andrews, then said a few words that made Johanna’s eyes blink quick as a spring chick’s. She stepped forward from her sisters, and Matthew took her hand into his arm, just as Izzy had shown them. When the pair turned, there was a slight color to Matthew’s cheek, but his gait was sure and his mouth twitched on the verge of speaking.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Izzy beside Marilla.
The two looked at each other with grins that could not be repressed for a thousand tries.
“Go on, Matthew,” said Marilla as her brother strolled Johanna toward the church picnic area, where the sugar maples budded chartreuse leaves. She hoped to know the secrets of such a walk—and hoped it would come far sooner than it had for Matthew.
It’s been too long since I came down to the Cuthbert place. Maybe I should, John had said. At that moment, Marilla prayed to God that he would.
VIII.
Marilla Entertains a Caller
Marilla was just finishing up her prayer shawl for the Ladies’ Sewing Circle project. The Sunday school had a total of fifty shawls. Hers and Rachel’s made fifty-two. Mrs. White said that any number over fifty was substantial enough that the shawls could now be presented to the Hopetown orphanage. So Marilla had it in mind to take hers over to the Whites’ house, where she’d been invited to dinner. But suddenly there came the trot and whinny of a horse outside.
Matthew and Hugh were bailing hay in the stables. Clara was resting, and Izzy was on the back porch holding a gummy paintbrush, flecks of yellow on her cheeks. She’d decided that the wooden chair in which she sat to read to Clara ought to be painted yellow: “Bring a little spring sunshine into your mother’s room.” So she’d gotten a bucket of paint from Mr. Blair and set up a paint shop off the kitchen.
“Somebody’s calling,” she hollered through the open window.
“I hear ’em,” said Marilla.
“Probably Mrs. Sloane. The woman cornered me in church about bringing over their family copy of Rules of Good Deportment—as if we
needed the refresher. Those Sloanes never change . . .” Izzy shook her head. “Would you mind being my angel and collecting the book? Tell her I’m presently indisposed. Shouldn’t take but a minute.”
Marilla agreed. But when she opened the door, it was not Mrs. Sloane but John Blythe.
“Why, hello again, Marilla.”
“H-Hello, J-John,” she stuttered.
Her hair lay in waves around her shoulders. The ribbon that had once secured it had fallen out earlier, and she hadn’t bothered retying. What did it matter to Skunk and her skeins of yarn? But now she felt exposed and feverish under his gaze.
“I’ve come to see your brother Matthew.”
John wore a linen day suit, not the farmer’s togs of their last meeting. All dressed up like Sunday on an ordinary Tuesday.
“Please, come in,” invited Marilla. “Matthew is in the barn with Father. I can fetch him for you.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Marilla turned to go, but he stopped her. “Could I trouble you for a drink first? Spring’s a fickle friend. One day freezing and the next the sun would like to bake a man.”
Sweat stippled his forehead.
“Of course, I should’ve offered from the start.”
“I should’ve sent word that I was coming.”
They both exhaled and exchanged smiles.
Marilla fetched him a glass of water from the kitchen. Seeing her through the open window, Izzy leaned in with raised eyebrows.
“It’s not Mrs. Sloane,” Marilla whispered. “It’s John Blythe come to see Matthew.”
Izzy cocked her head. “The dairy farmer’s son?”
Marilla nodded.
“So why are we whispering?”
Marilla cleared her throat without answering and returned to the parlor.
John took the glass and gulped. “Thank you kindly.” His lips glinted wet when he spoke.
“Did you get your rifle from Mr. White?”
Marilla thought of Izzy’s lesson regarding being alone with a boy. It was as good a time as any to practice partaking in intimate conversation, as her aunt had suggested. Even if this wasn’t officially courting. Or at least, she didn’t think it was, but she’d never done it, so she couldn’t be entirely sure.
“I did.” He seemed relieved by the drink and the question. “My father was pleased. The Whites got our best heifer in the deal, so all around excellent. And how is your sewing with Miss White going?”
“Very well, thank you. I’ve finished the shawl I was making for the Hopetown orphans.” She pointed to the settee, where the finished garment lay neatly folded.
“In Nova Scotia, yes. I believe my mother made one of those too.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Mrs. White leads up the Sunday school. I think she has all of Avonlea making prayer shawls.”
“Lucky orphans.”
“Not so lucky.” Marilla frowned. “An orphan hasn’t any home or kin.”
“Of course not. ‘Lucky’ was the wrong word.” John studied his glass. Crystal clear. Marilla had strained the well water through the finest sieve so not a dust fleck remained.
“Glad,” he said after a long beat. “That’s what I meant. Glad orphans—to have so many loving people that they don’t even know.”
Marilla hadn’t meant to be contrary, just truthful. She’d always felt uneasy with the niceties of small talk. How do you do? Well, and you? Lovely weather we’re having. Indeed, God giveth the sun and God taketh away. How is your mother? Agreeable in spirit, and yours? Fine, fine, so kind of you to ask. And so forth. Two people could go back and forth for hours and by the end know absolutely nothing more of consequence than when they started. Others might think that an intimate tête-à-tête, but Marilla found it taxing and boring. She’d much prefer a person to say something of earnest interest or say nothing at all.
“Mrs. White is taking the shawls over to Nova Scotia before the end of the month.”
“Yes, my father and Mr. White were discussing purchasing gunpowder while in Hopetown. Mr. Murdock brought in the latest headlines from Lower Canada. Reformer Louis-Joseph Papineau has led a number of protest assemblies across the country. He’s gaining support among the people. Mr. Murdock believes royal troops will soon be dispatched to keep us all in line.”
Marilla wondered what Hugh would say—if her father already knew of the political grumblings. Matthew was careful not to leave his newspapers lying around.
“May I ask why you left school?” John asked.
She was flattered that he’d noticed and grateful for the change to a pleasanter subject.
“My mother’s going to have a baby. She needs my help.”
He nodded. “But your aunt from St. Catharines is here now, correct?”
Once again, she wondered how he knew so much about her and her family while she knew so little about him and his.
“I hope to return to school again this fall.”
“I hope so too. It’s my final year before I take the exit exams. Father insists that I have a full education before I begin working in the trade.”
“I didn’t realize dairy cows required geometry.”
She’d meant it teasingly. She hated geometry. All those smeared diagrams on her chalkboard. He shifted his stance.
“Well, no, not directly.” John frowned. “But Father believes it’s better to have knowledge than to have not—in most every situation.”
“Your father is sensible,” said Marilla. “From what I’ve known, to be a have-not is usually the less admired position.”
“Indeed.” He gulped the last of his water, then set the glass down on the tea table. “That’s why I took the liberty of bringing over the clippings from the schoolhouse. Mr. Murdock gave me his permission, since we’d read them already. I thought you—and Matthew and Mr. Cuthbert—might like to see.”
He pulled a parcel of newspaper pages from within his waistcoat.
“Very thoughtful of you.”
When Marilla reached out to take the pages, the first finger of her hand accidentally grazed the first finger of his. An unexpected heat shot up her arm, and she pulled away as quickly as she could.
Whether John noticed, she couldn’t say. She’d turned her face down to stare at the inky letters of the newspaper: “Rebel farmers battle elite politicos raising property taxes and tariffs. Tories look to the monarchy as Reformers cry for a new republic. Make no mistake, change is nigh!”
Marilla folded the newspapers neatly. “I’m sure Matthew and my father will appreciate reading the headlines from the greater province. Thank you, John Blythe.”
“No trouble at all. I don’t mind bringing over other readings from class, if you like.”
She looked up to his kind gaze and dared to speak for herself. “I’d like that very much.”
Out back on the porch Izzy dropped her paintbrush, and the noise caught Marilla’s attention. “I’ll run and get Matthew.”
“No.”
John put his hand out as if to touch hers, stopping less than an inch away. The space between them was hardly even the breadth of a seam.
“He’s busy. You have what I came to give.” He smiled. “Tell Matthew I’ll look for him at Avonlea’s next farmers’ meeting. If you come along, maybe we can talk about the headlines together.”
She didn’t see why she’d be there. Only Hugh and Matthew attended the farmers’ meetings. But maybe she would go to town for more red thread from Mrs. Blair. Now that the prayer shawls were complete, she and Rachel could finish their amaryllis sleeves. If she happened to bump into John Blythe, well, that’d be fine.
After she’d wished John good-day and closed the door, Izzy came in, still wearing her painting smock.
“What did the young Mr. Blythe come about?”
Marilla pointed to the papers on the tea table. “Some of the readings I missed at school. He thought Matthew and Father might like to see them too.”
Izzy lifted the top page. “Hmm . . . a shake-up in the co
lony? Well, this is far more interesting than Mrs. Sloane’s Rules of Good Deportment, wouldn’t you say?”
Marilla smiled and took John’s empty glass back to the kitchen, where she hesitated a moment before washing away the smudge left by his lips.
IX.
Marilla and Rachel Go to Nova Scotia
“Oh, Marilla, I’m so glad you’re here. I have the most sensational news!” exclaimed Rachel when Marilla came over for dinner.
An invitation had arrived on Mrs. White’s good bone-ivory stationery: Miss Marilla Cuthbert is cordially invited to dinner at the home of the White family this Tuesday at five o’clock in the evening. Marilla had never received a formal invitation before and found it terribly grown-up. Clara and Hugh had given their blessing, of course. Although Marilla was at the Whites’ house often, this would be her first tabled meal with the family. Quite an honor. They only hosted tabled meals for adult company.
Izzy helped her cinch her best gingham dress at the waist with a blue satin ribbon. The one modification transformed the entire ensemble, and Marilla thought she’d never seen herself look better. True, the cuff of one sleeve had a tear on the underside, and the collar had to be pinned to hold it evenly in place, but so long as Marilla kept her hands clasped before her and didn’t turn her shoulders, no one would be the wiser.
It proved a harder task than Marilla anticipated with Rachel pouncing on her from hello.
“Mother wants to tell you first, but I can’t stand to keep the secret!”
She pulled Marilla into the china pantry leading to the kitchen. Ella paid them no mind, continuing to take serving plates from the shelves above their heads.
“Now promise that when Mother tells you, you will act surprised. Can you act surprised even when you aren’t?”
Marilla frowned. She was not versed in theatrics, nor did she wish to be.
“It’s easy,” said Rachel.
She opened her eyes so wide that Marilla thought they might fall out and roll across the floor like marbles. Then she put a hand to her cheek. “Oh my word!”
When she was convinced that Marilla had assimilated the lesson, Rachel dropped her hand to her lap and her eyes recessed back into a natural countenance. “See how?”