by Sarah McCoy
Marilla nodded. “But you haven’t told me anything, so I haven’t anything to pretend to be surprised by.”
Rachel took both Marilla’s hands in hers and pulsed them with corresponding squeals. “We are to go to Hopetown together!”
“Hopetown? In Nova Scotia?”
Marilla had never left Prince Edward Island. Though Avonlea people traveled off the island every day, this would be her first time. Instead of feeling excited, she was overcome with a kind of landlocked seasickness, a roiling fret.
“I don’t know if I should go . . . with my mother about to have the baby and . . .”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Rachel. “Mother has it all worked out. She’s already spoken to your parents, and they’ve given their approval. After all, it’s not like we’re going alone. We’ll be with Mother and Father, and they plan to formally invite you during dinner—well, dessert. Ella has made the most delicious toffee puddings especially for the occasion!”
Marilla’s collar had popped up and the pin was sticking her in the neck. She put her thumb between it and the poke. “Hopetown is so far away. Such a big city.”
Rachel nodded. “Yes, we’ll be gone three days. Father has business there, and we are to help Mother deliver the Avonlea prayer shawls to the Hopetown orphanage.”
Three whole days. It seemed an eternity. She’d never been away from her family a night. Even when her parents were in Charlottetown, Matthew was with her on the farm. She didn’t own a carpetbag, or a traveling coat for that matter, though she assumed Izzy might lend hers. She’d have to patch up the soles of her boots first. They’d never do on cobblestone streets. And she’d certainly need a proper hat. No one went into the city without a hat.
“When are we to go?”
“The day after tomorrow!” Rachel clapped.
The collar pin slipped from Marilla’s hold and pricked her good. She pulled it out and left the piece to dangle off-kilter as it pleased.
“Rachel! Marilla!” Mrs. White called from the dining room. “Where are you girls? It’s suppertime.”
“Come on.” Rachel took Marilla’s hand and led her to the dining room.
Just before entering, Marilla smoothed her collar straight as best she could. Rachel pinched her cheeks. It was habitual, Marilla had come to learn.
“Remember to act surprised,” Rachel whispered.
Then, hand in hand, they entered the Whites’ candelabra-lit dining room, with roasted guinea hens and spring bean succotash on the table. Marilla wished she could’ve enjoyed the dinner with Mr. and Mrs. White, but the whole time she was anticipating the toffee pudding and her role as surprised guest. When it finally arrived, she gave her best performance, but by the look of Mr. and Mrs. White, they sooner thought she was choking on her sponge cake.
Mrs. White stared with alarm. Mr. White lifted an eyebrow high. Rachel’s head tick-tocked around the table.
“Marilla is very surprised! Isn’t that right, Marilla?”
Marilla gave up the pretense with a quiet nod. “I’m grateful for the invitation—both to your table and to Nova Scotia.”
At that Mrs. White exhaled. “Well, good. We could use the extra set of hands with all of these shawls. Plus, of course, Rachel is besotted by your company.”
“Father has booked us rooms at the Majesty Inn right in the heart of the city,” Rachel continued, while spooning saucy pudding into her mouth. “It’s the most splendid place you ever dreamed!”
Marilla had never dreamed of what an inn might look like. The idea of not staying in a home with friends or family had never even crossed her mind before.
“It’s the most respectable establishment and equidistant between your father’s enterprises and the orphanage,” Mrs. White explained. “The Majesty Inn is practical, Rachel. But it just so happens to be splendid too.”
Mr. White cleared his throat as if to speak, but Mrs. White interceded.
“We’re very happy to have you along on the trip, Marilla. We’ll come Thursday morning to fetch you in our carriage. So make sure you’ve had your breakfast. The journey is not short, and once we get going I prefer not to stop until we’ve reached our destination.”
Two days later, Marilla said good-bye to her family wearing Izzy’s blue traveling cape and carrying a borrowed carpetbag.
“I wish I were going too,” Izzy cheered.
“Bring me back lots of stories about the city.” Clara kissed Marilla’s cheeks.
“Be mindful of the street carriages. They never look where they’re going,” warned Hugh.
“Just try to have some fun, old girl,” said Matthew.
Marilla’s heart was racing by the time the Whites arrived. Hugh, Matthew, and Izzy stood on the Gables’ front porch, waving them off. Marilla had to gulp down the urge to cry. She’d only been on the staying side of good-byes, never on the going side.
“We’ll take good care of her!” called Mrs. White. “Back by Saturday eve.”
While she’d been in a number of dories and fishing dinghies growing up, this was Marilla’s first voyage across Northumberland Strait. The ferryboat was as large as a whale and equally terrifying. Mrs. White heightened the girls’ anxiety by telling them of a whole family swept overboard by a rogue wave: “Drowned. All seven. Just like that.” She advised that they’d best keep to the passenger cabin and avoid the deck. So Marilla and Rachel remained indoors, anchored safely between Mr. and Mrs. White, as the ship cut through the thick morning fog. The crossing took less time than Marilla anticipated, and soon the purser cried, “Coming to port!” She’d hardly seen a ripple, let alone a perilous wave.
A carriage waited for them harborside, and one-two-three-four, they climbed aboard and began the daylong ride across Nova Scotia. The unending clip-clop of horses down muddy roads had Marilla lulled half asleep when suddenly Hopetown rose on the horizon.
Marilla had never seen anything like it: a thicket of buildings breathing tunnels of smoke. At a distance, there was a buzz like the drone of a hive. The closer they came the louder it grew, until it was not a symmetric hum but an erratic symphony of clanking, street vendors and newsboys shouting, whistles and hammers, while people and horses moved in every direction, the smell of leather, soot, and mud both close and far. Only when she brought Izzy’s cape to her nose and closed her eyes could Marilla find the peace of Avonlea again.
“Isn’t it wonderful!” Rachel shouted. “Father says they’re building a new bank over there. And an opera house over there. And oh! Look—there’s a man selling wafer candies. I just love wafer candies! Mother, can we have some wafer candies?”
“We aren’t stopping until we reach the Majesty Inn,” Mrs. White grumbled. “I’ve got a headache.”
Marilla had one too, but Rachel seemed energized by the chaos. She leaned halfway out the carriage window as the driver brought the horses to the inn’s side drive.
They checked in at the front desk, and the porter took Marilla’s carpetbag along with the Whites’ luggage up to their rooms. The lobby of the Majesty Inn was just as Rachel had claimed. Dark wooden walls were carved with floral branches and decorative loops like the feathered chain stitches Rachel had perfected. Jasmine incense burned in genie lamps so that as soon as Marilla stepped through the doors, she could almost imagine herself in a peculiar spring garden tamped into a perfume bottle. Bright candles winked at every turn; day or night, everything shimmered. Most notable was the grand ceiling painted like the heavens. Pink and blue cherubs flew through a vast span of celestial sunbursts. The lobby guests, gazing up at the fresco, bumped into each other without pardons.
And so Marilla didn’t notice when someone, hovering near, touched her elbow.
“It tricks the eye, doesn’t it?” came a familiar voice.
Turning too quickly, Marilla spilled sideways as her boot caught on the hem of her cape.
John caught her. Marilla’s chin rested against his chest, the comforting smell of Avonlea all around.
“Falling o
ver yourself to see me again, Miss Cuthbert?” He winked and set her stable on two feet.
She threw the edge of the cape up around her shoulder so as not to be tripped again. “Mr. Blythe, what are you doing here?”
The Whites were busy at the front desk while Rachel asked if the kitchen might have a tin of sugar wafers for guests.
“I’m here with my father,” said John. “When I was at your house the other day, I think I mentioned—he and Mr. White are business colleagues.”
She nodded, vaguely recalling something about gunpowder.
“And you’re staying here too?”
John grinned. “The Majesty Inn is the only place that offers a bed without undesirable roommates—vermin,” he whispered close. “But then, some might argue their traveling companions are pests enough.”
Mrs. White held her handkerchief to her head and moaned while climbing the stairs. Mr. White followed begrudgingly.
Marilla bit her bottom lip to keep off the laugh. “You’re wicked, John Blythe.”
“Marilla! Wafers!” came Rachel with a plate of treats. “Oh—hello, John Blythe.”
“Glad to see you too, Miss White.”
She delicately crunched the end of her cookie. “Well, there aren’t enough for three.”
John stood tall and spoke loudly. “I would never pillage a beautiful woman’s desserts on hello.”
Rachel nearly choked, then looked round to make sure none of the other guests had heard. “John Blythe, you are villainously indecorous!” She grabbed Marilla’s hand and turned them sharply toward the stairs. “If you see us enjoying our supper in the dining room, be ever so kind as to leave us alone. The gall of that one,” she seethed to Marilla.
“Oh, but didn’t you know,” John called after them, “our families are to see quite a lot of each other on this trip. In fact, your father has just asked me to accompany you and your mother to the orphanage tomorrow.”
“Lawful heart,” Rachel hissed to Marilla, “that John drives me to sinful thought! And now we’ve got to have him around all day tomorrow?”
Marilla turned her face away from Rachel to hide her smile and caught eyes with John watching them from the bottom landing. He tipped his head at her and the bang of his hair fell above the pockmark at his temple. Marilla crossed her arms and pressed the scar at her elbow. She didn’t want to be disloyal to Rachel, but . . . she was glad he was here.
X.
The Hopetown Orphanage
Over a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs, cheese curds, and apple slices the next morning, Mrs. White laid out their day’s itinerary. Mr. White had already gone to meet Mr. Blythe at the artillery battery down by the wharf.
“We have an appointment with the Sisters of Charity at half past noon to present the prayer shawls on behalf of the Christian ladies of Avonlea. That leaves us this morning to do as we wish. So I have a surprise for you girls.” She cleared her throat and paused until she had their full attention.
Rachel swallowed her apple wedge. Marilla set down the spoon she was using to scoop the egg out of its shell.
“We are stopping in at Madame Stéphanie’s Hat Boutique!”
Rachel stuck another fruit in her mouth. “Hats?” she muttered through the tart chew, then turned to Marilla. “Mother has a penchant for hats.”
“You should be grateful that you have a mother who keeps au courant with fashion.” Mrs. White’s eyes darted from Rachel to Marilla, then down to her tea, which she ceremoniously picked up and sipped.
Marilla’s cheeks burned, and she returned to swirling the gloppy yolk round the shell.
“I never met a bonnet I liked,” said Rachel. “They pinch under my chin and make it impossible to see anything past my nose. Nothing so lonely as being stuck inside a bonnet.”
“Rubbish,” said Mrs. White. “You just haven’t found the right one yet. Marilla, you like hats, don’t you?”
The straw hat Marilla had worn was a touch lopsided from overuse. But it had done the job of keeping the whirling dirt out of her face. She never understood why anyone would need a hat of silk and feathers. One carriage ride and it was ruined. That said . . .
“I do like hats, Mrs. White.” She couldn’t deny it. “I think they provide a person with private space even in the middle of a crowd.”
Rachel looked at her as if she were Judas, then pushed her apple seeds to the side of her plate.
“We’ll try on hats from London and Paris!” said Mrs. White. “I think I’d like something in emerald—I hear emeralds are à la mode this season.”
“Might there be an ice cream peddler by the shop?” asked Rachel.
Mrs. White ignored her daughter. “Yes, an emerald hat to go with my mother’s emerald pendant . . .” She was lost in parlay with herself.
“Well, I’ll enjoy anything à la mode,” said Rachel, feigning a French accent, “especially if it’s with my dearest friend. Oui, Mademoiselle Cuthbert?”
Marilla had to laugh. “Oui, Mademoiselle White.”
Half an hour later, they were walking into Madame Stéphanie’s Hat Boutique. On a white shelf in the shop window stood a line of bonnets festooned with ivory egret feathers and sparkling sequins beside simpler cottons trimmed with lace, silk flowers, and embroidered smocking. Marilla knew Izzy would approve of the craftsmanship. The seams were immaculate. The stitches of the folds were the tiniest she’d ever seen, even smaller than Izzy’s.
Most of the bonnets were opulent creations compared to her straw hats at home, but Marilla wasn’t the sort to feel comfortable in flamboyance. Only one stood out to her: a burgundy wine bonnet made of velvet, neatly pleated about the face with satin ties, and lined with silk so as not to offend a lady’s styled hair. It was exquisite but not ostentatious.
Mrs. White whisked by with the shopgirl holding two hats already. Seeing the one in Marilla’s hand, she stopped.
“How lovely. You must try it on, Marilla!”
Marilla set it back on the stand. “Oh no, Mrs. White. I couldn’t afford such a thing.”
“Well, I didn’t ask if you could afford it.” While the shopgirl arranged the mirrors, Mrs. White leaned in close to Marilla. “Do you think I can afford that motmot-feathered cap? Of course not. Mr. White would hang me first. But there’s no commandment against appreciating finery. Admiration and indulgence are not to be confused, child.”
Mrs. White took the burgundy bonnet off the stand. “Marilla will be trying this on,” she announced. “Rachel, have you found one? Preferably something that elongates your short forehead.”
Rachel was at the counter helping herself to Madame Stéphanie’s jar of sugar comfits. Seeing as she would not be able to leave the shop without something, she acquiesced to her mother’s bidding and chose a sumptuous, wide-brimmed hat adorned with so much lace, it looked as if a sofa antimacassar had fallen on top of it.
“Venetian Gros Point!” she chirped.
Mrs. White eyed it dubiously but was not about to argue with Rachel’s one choice.
In front of the mirrors, all three put on their hats.
“It’s like walking in an Italian dream,” sang Rachel. The ends of her braided hair stuck out beneath the lace veil.
Mrs. White swiveled her chin side to side so that the motmot feathers flittered bright aqua through the air. After a few minutes of admiring, she took it off.
“These feathers hang off my face like a pair of stockings drying on the line.”
She put on a more affordable one: woven pink flowers against a prudent gray.
The shopgirl helped Marilla with hers. “You tie it to the side, like this,” she said and made a bow under Marilla’s cheek. “See?”
Marilla almost didn’t recognize herself in the reflection. A refined woman stared back, not the farm girl she’d seen in the vanity that morning. In a flash of a hat, she’d grown up. She’d been waiting for it so long and now here it was, blinking back at her from beneath burgundy velvet.
“Beautiful. It suits you,” sai
d Mrs. White.
Marilla beamed from within the pleated frame.
“I’ll take that hat plus this gray one and . . .” She paused with a frown at Rachel.
“Oh, Mother, please!” begged Rachel.
“I thought you disliked hats.”
“You said I simply hadn’t found the right one—now I have!”
Mrs. White waved a hand of surrender. “Fine, but Madame, would you be so kind as to lessen the frippery. I assume that would cut the cost too, correct?”
“Oui,” said Madame Stéphanie. “We will make it perfect for Mademoiselle.” And off she went with her shears.
“Please don’t take away the frill over the eyes. That’s my favorite part,” Rachel called after her.
Marilla quietly set her hat back on the stand. “Thank you, Mrs. White, but I couldn’t accept such an expensive gift. I’m already on this trip by your generosity.”
Mrs. White put a finger under Marilla’s chin and lifted it so their eyes met. “Nonsense. That hat is meant for you, Marilla.”
And so they left the shop wearing Madame Stéphanie’s couture hats. Marilla had never felt so grand. Her satin ribbons shone in the afternoon sun, and everyone who passed the trio paused a moment to look upon them.
John waited in the Majesty Inn’s lobby. With the women’s faces hidden beneath the bonnet brims, he didn’t recognize them immediately but turned like the rest to marvel. Then his eyes caught on Izzy’s borrowed bright blue cloak. His jaw dropped, and his eyes met Marilla’s with a smile.
Mrs. White broke the spell: “The concierge has been kind enough to hold our shawl parcels in their coatroom. Would you be a good boy and fetch them for us, John?”
“It seems I’m accompanying the fanciest ladies in Nova Scotia.” He bowed, then proceeded to the front desk, whispering, “I like that color red on you,” as he passed Marilla.
Thank goodness for the pleats around her face or he might’ve seen her cheeks flaming.
The orphanage was a few blocks away—too short a distance to take a fly carriage through the street traffic. It was faster to walk. So Marilla, Rachel, and Mrs. White each took a parcel of shawls and then stacked the remaining four so high in John’s arms that he could only blindly put one foot in front of the other.