by Sarah McCoy
“Tell me about the red beaches . . .” Clara’s eyelids fluttered on the edge of sleep.
Unlike the oyster shores of Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island was ringed red like the skin of a cut apple.
“I never knew our island was different from the others.”
“Abegweit,” Clara murmured. “That’s the native Micmac name. They say the god Glooscap made our island by mixing all the colors of the earth and stroking the ocean with his paintbrush. Abegweit means ‘cradle on the waves.’” She put her hand on her belly. “It’s a pretty name, isn’t it?”
Marilla nodded, though she couldn’t say she knew anyone named Abegweit. It sounded like a fairy name—something from a make-believe kingdom—so perhaps it was rightful in her story. Clara’s breathing turned over to a gentle purr.
“Abegweit,” Marilla whispered. She kissed her mother’s warm forehead and then tiptoed out.
Izzy was in her room with the brocade fabric rolled out across her bed. She’d laid one of her own party dresses on top as the pattern, pinning the amaryllis sleeves neatly in place. “We’re nearly the same height, but I can hem the skirt if it’s too long. Do you like the brocade?”
Marilla ran her fingers over the meticulous weaving. “It’s the finest I’ve ever seen.”
Downstairs came the thud of men’s boots followed by the low tenor of Matthew’s voice. It was midday. The men were never inside at this hour.
Izzy stuck her sewing pin back into the cushion. “Does Matthew have company? Your father took Jericho down to pick potatoes. Wouldn’t be back already.”
“One of the sheep herders might’ve stopped for water,” said Marilla. “I can fetch it.”
But her assistance proved unnecessary. Matthew and his companion had moved out onto the back porch. Sitting on the kitchen table was a basket of asparagus so piercing green that they hurt her eyes to look at. The smell of tobacco drifted through the air.
“It’s true. Tides are turning . . .” Matthew was saying as she came out. “Marilla.” He took the pipe out of his mouth. “Look who’s here?”
John was in the same day suit he’d worn on his first visit to the Gables, only this time he’d left off the jacket. His sleeves were cuffed neatly to the elbow revealing muscular forearms, already tanned from hours of spring sowing.
“Good to see you again, Marilla.” He smiled. “I brought over some of our asparagus.”
“I saw, thank you. Mother will be pleased. She loves asparagus soup. I don’t know how you get yours to grow so nicely. Ours looks like seaweed.”
“It’s the cows. Dung does wonders for the crops.”
Matthew cleared his throat and tapped out his pipe’s ash. “I best get back to work. Let you do what you come for. Good talking with you. Come again, and we’ll have another smoke.”
“That’s a promise,” said John.
Marilla took a step back in confusion. She’d assumed John had come to see Matthew.
“What have you come for?” she asked forthright.
Matthew gave a little chuckle under his breath. John waited for Matthew to walk a piece farther toward the barn.
“I’ve come to ask you a question, Miss Cuthbert.”
She crossed her arms at his use of her formal name. She wasn’t in the mood for games. There was supper to start on, and she wanted to help Izzy begin cutting her new dress.
“Don’t just stand there asking to ask. Speak your mind.”
“The Avonlea May Picnic is in a couple of weeks. My father offered to let me use his chaise if I wished to take someone, which I do. You. Care to escort me?”
So unexpected was the invitation that Marilla hadn’t the time to kindle flattery or fear. Ride alone to the picnic in John Blythe’s carriage? But the Cuthberts went together. Who would hold their pie hamper steady in the wagon, which she had done for all the years she could remember?
“I always go with my family.”
He nodded. “Well, seeing as Matthew is asking Johanna Andrews to ride with him, and your father and aunt said they wouldn’t leave your mother behind at home . . .”
She didn’t know what ruffled her more—that he’d already spoken to her kin or that he was telling her things she didn’t know. And so, for the first time, she stopped wondering what she ought to do as a daughter-sister-niece and asked herself what she wanted to do as Marilla.
“I think that would be nice, John. Very nice.”
It wasn’t like they were secreting off alone. They were riding openly to a prominent town affair. Everybody would be there, and it wouldn’t really matter who came in whose buggy. Nonetheless, her stomach pinwheeled.
John threaded his fingers through his hair and only then did she see the light sweat sheen on his brow.
“I’ll come for you then.”
XII.
The Amethyst Brooch
Two weeks later on the picnic day, Izzy helped Marilla lace up the girdle and slip on the brocaded gown. The sisters had worked ceaselessly on the dress. Izzy did most of the heavy tailoring, with Clara working the button eyelets with such tender determination that when fastened, Marilla swore she could feel her mother’s hands across her back. For her part, Marilla had ensured that the seams and hem were stitched to perfection. Her fingers were dotted with needle pricks. She counted every one worth the sting. The dress was the most exquisite that she owned—the most exquisite she had ever seen. After she’d dressed, Izzy plaited Marilla’s hair in two loops that joined together at her crown, mimicking the serpentine pattern of the amaryllis embroidery, then applied beeswax to her lips and lashes so that Marilla’s face shimmered like honey.
Clara gasped when Marilla entered her bedroom.
“My darling child . . .” She fought against her belly to raise herself upright. “You’re a grand lady!” Tears ebbed. “I was just about your age when I started stepping out with your father.”
Marilla turned her cheek down. “We’re only riding together, Mother.”
“Yes, of course, but soon enough you’ll fall in love with someone and move on to greener pastures.”
A knot formed beneath Marilla’s ribs. The girdle was too tight. She didn’t want to move on to greener pastures. Theirs were just the shade of green that suited her.
“I’ll always be your Marilla.”
Clara smiled and beckoned for Izzy to fetch the little velvet satchel on the nightstand. “I have something for you.”
Turning her daughter’s palm up, she poured out the contents. An oval brooch rimmed in the purplest gems, like the petals of a flower.
“Amethyst. A present from a seafaring uncle. He said he got it from a holy woman who claimed the stones were blessed with protection. It’s yours now, Marilla.”
Marilla ran her thumb over it. The amethysts sparkled. She had seen her mother wear the brooch on Easter and religious holidays. The rest of the time she kept it safely tucked away in her steamer trunk alongside her wedding dress, locks of ribboned baby hair, and other keepsakes.
“It will be her crowning jewel,” said Izzy.
Clara cupped Marilla’s cheek. “Now go and have the most marvelous time at the picnic. I’m sorry to miss it and everyone there. Give my love to Avonlea.”
“I will.” Marilla kissed her mother’s hand. “Thank you.”
Hugh nodded approvingly when she came down the steps of the Gables.
“Best take a shawl. The wind has a bite, could mean weather coming on.”
She did as her father said and pinned the brooch over her heart.
Outside, Matthew sat in his buggy with Johanna Andrews primly beside him. He smiled when he saw her come down the porch steps.
Waiting beside his chaise was John, scrubbed fresh as a Sunday reverend. He reached out to her, but she hesitated, looking back to Hugh and Izzy on the front porch. Accepting his hand felt too significant a thing. Once taken, she could never go back. So instead, she picked up her skirts and helped herself into the chaise. John settled beside her in the seat.
/> “Hold on,” he whispered, then cracked the reins and his horse took off in a bolt.
Marilla had no choice but to lean close and hold on to his arm to keep from tumbling out.
“Apologies,” said John once the horse calmed to an even trot and the Gables looked like a portrait miniature behind them. “The horse is young—too much bottled vigor.”
Marilla nodded. She hadn’t much experience with colts. Jericho was an old gelding that followed them reliably with Matthew and Johanna.
Like waves crashing on the shore, they heard the roar of the picnic crowd before they crested the knoll. The lawn was teeming with Avonlea folk sitting on picnic blankets and dawdling between gingham-covered tables of fruit juice and cordials, cucumber boats, pickled eggs, frosted cakes, and puddings. Reverend Patterson stood beneath the outstretched arms of the sugar maple, giving instructions to the band arranged in a semicircle of chairs beneath. A Maypole had been constructed where the meadow grass had been flattened by treading. It was festooned with colorful ribbons, daffodils, crocuses, lupines, and ivy greens like a garden rainbow.
To the far left was the picnic’s showstopper: the carousel, owned by the Clarences, a family of circus workers who had sailed over from Bristol to start anew in Avonlea. Marilla had never seen such a thing. The wooden horses were carved with giddy expressions, their manes painted coral and cobalt, their tails lilac and lemon. Mirrors hung between every pole so that when the crank turned the horses, the colors blurred and multiplied. The force of the spin made the charges fly without touching the ground. Marilla thought it the closest thing to magic. Avonleaers of all ages stood in a long line, waiting their turn on the merry-go-round, and Marilla hoped to get her chance too.
Mrs. White had signed up to run a tent for the Sunday school, selling ornamental shells painted in flashy colors: the Sunday school’s spring project. Seeing Marilla and John ride into the gravel yard, her mouth dropped open, and she turned to murmur something to the Reverend’s wife. They both smiled at Marilla, which only made her raise her chin higher. There was nothing to hide. Their relationship was one of respectable chastity. But then, once again, John felt compelled to fly in the face of convention.
Instead of helping her down as he would any other woman, he grabbed her by the waist, lifted her over the foot guard, and set her on the ground with his arms around her for all to gape at. She knew she ought to put a hand between them and push him away, but she didn’t . . . because the sun was shining bright and the air smelled of roasted kettle corn and crushed grass. Because the band started a cheery tune at just that moment. And because the breeze blew the curls of John’s hair free, the curls of hers too. Why change a thing? He was a boy helping a girl out of a carriage on a perfect May day.
“You look lovely,” said John.
“My mother and Aunt Izzy helped make the dress. Rachel and I sewed the sleeves—see?” She let the shawl drop to her elbows and turned her shoulders so he could look upon their needlework.
“I’ve never seen a prettier thing.”
Matthew cleared his throat. “I’ll tie your buggy beside ours so they can share an oat bucket.”
Johanna Andrews’s sisters had seen them arrive and surrounded her to ask how the drive alone had been. None of them had been asked to court yet.
Matthew needed something to do to pass the time until they dispersed. Communal groups like this made him nervous. Groups of girls made him doubly so.
“Much obliged, Matthew,” said John. “I’m going to take Marilla over to get a drink and then maybe a spin on the carousel. Care to join us when Johanna is ready?”
Relief washed over Matthew. He had a plan for what to do now and what to do next. The Cuthberts were people of planning. Spontaneity was not in their marrow. Marilla was grateful to John for understanding them without explanation.
He took her arm in his, and she rested her hand in the crook of it as they walked onto the picnic grounds.
“Hello there, Marilla! Hello there, John Blythe!” called Mrs. White. “Fine day for a pair of turtledoves, eh?”
“‘Let the bird of loudest lay, on the sole Arabian tree, herald sad and trumpet be, to whose sound chaste wings obey,’” recited John, which left Mrs. White standing in a scowl of confusion.
“That’s Shakespeare, Mrs. White. ‘The Phoenix and the Turtle.’”
“Never heard of it,” sniffed Mrs. White. “But I’m selling seashells in support of the Presbyterian Church. If you’re in a mood for quoting verses, perhaps you ought to invest in biblical ones.”
“You’re terrible,” Marilla chided him when they were out of earshot. “Mrs. White is sure to tell your mother.”
“Aw, my mother is the one who read me the poem in the first place. She values a sound mind.”
“I haven’t read much Shakespeare. Only the sonnets in our school primer. But I think I’d like to read more after hearing that performance.”
“And so you will when you return.”
She nodded. “My parents would like me to finish schooling.”
Marilla had thought it through. If she pushed herself hard enough in home study, she might even be ahead of her fellow students in the fall. Rachel said she wasn’t going to study another minute. She was content having schooled up to grade six, but Marilla wanted to finish grade eight. She was determined to be the first in her family to do so. Matthew had never been one for books. The maths required to do farm business came naturally to him, so he’d stopped going to the schoolhouse as soon as he was old enough to drive a plow.
“It’ll be nice to have you back.”
“Marilla!” Rachel called from the picnic table. She stood with a handful of flouncy girls from the Sunday school.
Marilla knew them by their mothers: Mrs. Gillis’s girl Clemmie, Mrs. Sloane’s girl Olivia, Mrs. Gray’s girl Nellie, and so forth.
“Hello—hello—hello—hello,” they parroted in turn.
“I was just telling them about my chintz.” Rachel swished the skirt of her dress. “We had to drive all the way over to Carmody to buy it—it’s a toile de Jouy from France.” Then she saw Marilla’s sleeves. “Oh!” She ran her hands over them. “We made these! And where did you get the skirt material? It matches perfectly!”
“Aunt Izzy brought it from St. Catharines.”
The girls circled round to ooh and aah. Marilla thought she might suffocate under their pawing. John came to her rescue holding two cups of cordial.
“Excuse me, ladies, I thought I might have company on the carousel.”
All fell silent. Three of the girls looked like they might like to drink John Blythe. But it was Marilla to whom he handed the cup.
Rachel’s eyes were wide as goose eggs. She gave a priggish smile. “Be careful, Marilla. Mr. Blythe told my father that John too often lets the reins get away from him.”
“Aw,” John raised an eyebrow. “To the unknowing eye it may appear, but to the horseman, it’s an impassioned dash without restraint.”
Mrs. Sloane’s girl gave a swoon-sigh, and Mrs. Spencer’s girl elbowed her steady.
Rachel harrumphed. “I was speaking to Marilla, not to you, John.”
“Thank you,” Marilla interceded. “Lucky for us, the carousel has toy horses,” she reminded her friend. “If I fall off, it’ll be my own doing and I’ll deserve the trampling.”
“I won’t let you fall,” said John.
“Humph,” said Rachel. “I think I’d rather play croquet. Leave the carousel for the children. Come on.” The girls followed her like ducklings.
“You really shouldn’t irritate her so,” Marilla chastised after they’d gone. “Why do you?”
John laughed before seeing her sincerity. “It’s just—teasing. I don’t mean harm.”
“Teasing is like a nettle. You play in a patch of it long enough and somebody’s going to get pained.”
“If you want me to stop, I will.”
Marilla would never ask a man to do anything on her request, but now she did
.
“Yes. Please. Rachel’s my friend.”
He lifted his cup in solemn oath. “I promise.” He gulped, then looked into his cup. “What is this anyhow?”
“Ginger cordial. Reverend Patterson’s wife read an article about ginger keeping away the spring sneezes. Better for Avonlea’s health, so she claims.”
“I like the berry better.”
Marilla agreed. So they put their cups aside and went to watch the three-legged race, the ring-toss, and a game of John Bull. Then they rode the carousel until Marilla was breathless from laughter and the fervor of the flying spin. Afterward, they picnicked on pickled eggs with creamed mustard and shared a wedge of angel cake that they pulled apart with their fingers. About the time when the first of the fireflies began to wink, Reverend Patterson gave a call:
“To the Maypole! All eligible men and women—to the Maypole!”
Marilla had been dancing round the pole since she was old enough to stand. The children would have their turn, but the first dance always belonged to the unmarried young people of Avonlea. So Marilla and John took their places in the circle. Across from them were Matthew and Johanna.
“Even number now,” directed Reverend Patterson. “Everybody got a ribbon? If you don’t, then you’ll have to wait for the next round. Remember, women go clockwise, men counter. Right-left, right-left, over-under, over-under. Ready? Set? And away we go!”
The band played a melody led by two fiddles.
Marilla took a purple ribbon. She raised her ribbon high, then brought it down low. The circles moved round like the gears of a clock. The colors braided the pole, and when they reached the bottom, everyone released the ties and grabbed the hands closest for the final reel. John was beside her. He threaded his fingers through hers and hers through his. A seamless fit. The fiddles went faster, as did their feet. Marilla was dizzy on the rainbow pinwheel. When it was done, the whole town erupted in whistles and shouts.
No one saw the pair dash hand in hand out of the Maypole circlet, past the mighty maple with the band beneath and the row of poplars guarding the church cemetery, down to the far quiet corner of the meadow where the sea holly and cornflowers were so thick a person could drown in them. They sat together under a canopy of meadow grasses and a sky of spun sugar. Marilla’s heart still beat fast from the dance. John’s did too. She felt the pulse in his fingertips. From the magazines she’d read, she thought she’d feel embarrassed or ashamed to be holding a boy’s hand. The same way she felt holding the pages of the romance quarterlies. But she didn’t. She only felt John: simple, solid, and true. That she understood. What she didn’t understand was why he had led her to this spot.