by Sarah McCoy
Her pulse beat fast. She’d mentioned to him that when she was crossing the street from the post office, a young African woman in a red bonnet had ridden by. Her stomach had leapt into her throat. She knew it wasn’t Junie, but the bonnet concealed the face, leaving her mind to wonder.
“The Reverend Mother told her that we are from Avonlea, so she knows she has friends here if she needs us.”
“Friends?” John smiled. “You’ve got a liberal heart, Marilla.”
Marilla frowned. “Conservatives are just as much against slavery as liberals. On that issue we are in complete agreement. Why must everything come down to politics with you, John? There’s a whole world out there that doesn’t give a grasshopper hair about the Tories or the Reformers. We’re all God’s creatures.” She tried to pull her hand free, but he held it firmly.
“That’s a liberal opinion too. And exactly what we must remind our government. Noble titles alone shouldn’t control the populace.”
Marilla sighed. She agreed, but she couldn’t agree. Didn’t he understand? A person couldn’t always act on feelings. They had to consider all the factors of influence and consequence. The monarchy represented God. If sovereign rule was removed, what would keep the people from an apocalyptic end? Without a predominant government, they’d be left to the whims of individual desire and greed. All they need do was look south to America for warning—their people were running to Canada for sanctuary.
“What I’m saying is that if Junie, or anyone like her, came here, I would help. It’s the Christian thing to do.”
“You advocate for equality in that regard. Again, very liberal of you.”
“John Blythe!”
Her temper flared but hadn’t time to reach a flame before John’s lips were on hers in a kiss. She forgot . . . everything. For the moment. She couldn’t pull away. The magnetism between them was too strong. His hands slipped round her neck and hers went to his arms. Then she heard the ring of a cowbell from the barn, and she reared back. They weren’t at a picnic or in the woods. This was her home, Green Gables. Her father or Matthew could walk up at any moment—or worse, someone from town paying a call. What would they think?
She looked straight at John but suddenly couldn’t see him. The barn and gables rimmed his face and the midday sun cast a dark shadow.
John’s bound to ask you to marry him, and then you’ll move over to the Blythes’ farm, Rachel had said.
She wanted to kiss John, but she knew if she kissed him again, she’d want to kiss him for the rest of her life. How could she without agreeing to marry him and leave Green Gables? John was the only son of the Blythe household. His parents were old and expected him and his future wife to take over the farm. They couldn’t live in two places. Only if Matthew married could she be free to do as she wished. Until then, she’d made a vow to her mother.
Marilla stood.
“I can’t sit here lollygagging. I’ve got to start on supper.”
“I’m sorry about the political talk. I was only joking.” John stood too and tried to take her hand back.
She balled her fists. “I’ve got to go.”
“Marilla . . .”
She didn’t stay to hear the rest. “Thank your mother and father for the berries!” she called over her shoulder and raced back to the house, leaving him with two half-drunk bottles in hand.
From the kitchen she watched him kick the grass, then start down the lane toward the log bridge. She ached to think he was angry, but better that than the alternative. If he loved her, as Rachel claimed, then he’d be back. She wanted him to come back as desperately as she wanted to stay at Green Gables.
“That John Blythe?”
Hugh startled her.
“Yes.”
He sucked the stem of his pipe in response, then went out on the porch. Marilla took the leftover chicken from the cold closet and warmed it in a pan. To make a sauce, she added a glug of the red currant wine that she, Clara, and Izzy had bottled together. It seemed a lifetime ago. The bittersweet vapors reminded her of all that was at stake.
XXII.
An Auction of Unforeseen Consequences
The summer flew by, but August stuck like honey.
“Laws, this heat is wretched,” Rachel complained. “Anything we cook will spoil in less time than it takes to eat it.”
She’d come to get Marilla’s biscuit recipe.
The Ladies’ Aid Society had gone one further. On the suggestion of Mrs. White, they were hosting a supper hamper auction. Every woman old enough to hold a skillet was invited to participate. The proceeds went toward the collective check for the Hopetown orphans. The rules were simple: each hamper entered had to include a main, a side, and a sweet. The members could team up in pairs or households.
Mrs. White and Rachel were preparing stewed oysters and biscuits with lemon pudding for dessert. Ella was helping Mrs. White with the oysters and pudding, which left Rachel in charge of the biscuits.
“Father broke a molar on Mother’s biscuits once,” Rachel confessed. “He didn’t tell her, of course. Just spit the broken bit into his napkin when she wasn’t looking. The problem with that was she kept on making them the same. Ella offered to mix the dough, but she insists on doing it according to her own measurements.” Rachel shook her head. “Whoever puts down good coin for our supper hamper will want his money back—if it doesn’t kill him first!”
Marilla saw the peril. It could very well be Matthew or Hugh with a wicked toothache on account of a bad White biscuit. For once, both men were coming to the event and planned to bid. The summer orchard and field crops had been good. The farmers’ meetings in Carmody had raised the price of seed to market, putting extra coin in every family’s pocket. Having Matthew and Hugh at the auction galvanized Marilla to make it successful. She wanted each bidder to feel that the hamper he or she won was the best of all. And no broken teeth.
“Here’s our recipe.” Marilla handed over the card with her mother’s handwriting scribbled across. “Softest biscuits you ever did see. Just be sure not to overbake them.”
Rachel took it gratefully. “Mother can never know!”
Rachel rushed out with the weight of the afternoon sun throwing a heavy slant to her shadow. Her Thomas Lynde from Spencervale was coming to the auction. Rachel was keen on introducing Marilla and impressing Avonlea folks with her suitor.
“Rachel gone?” Matthew peeked his head around the corner from his bedroom.
Marilla nodded. “She’d not be happy knowing you were eavesdropping a wall away.”
He came into the kitchen. Skunk followed. “Hard not to. That girl’s louder than a gull after bait.”
She laughed. “Well, you should bid on her hamper no matter. It would mean a lot to her.”
“I’ll bid,” he said and rubbed his jaw. “But I won’t aim to win.”
“That’ll do.”
He went to Marilla’s basket on the wooden table. She’d already packed it full and just needed to dress up the outside with ribbon. He lifted the lid.
“Mmm, jelly chicken, pickled cucumbers, cherry tarts—is that a jar of your plum preserves too?”
“It is,” said Marilla proudly. “That reminds me. I’m putting a bottle of red currant wine in. I’m not sure if the other hampers will have a beverage, but in hot times like these, a sip can be more nourishing than a sup.”
She pulled a bottle from the pantry and gave the remaining five a half-turn clockwise while she was there.
“John will be sorry he missed this,” said Matthew.
Marilla pursed her lips. “I don’t know why it would matter more to him than any other hungry belly.”
The Blythes had gone to visit John’s uncle, Dr. David Blythe, in Glen St. Mary. Marilla was glad that he wouldn’t be at the auction. She didn’t have to worry about the whispers and askance looks of the Sunday school ladies. Town talk about the two had escalated. In whispers, people were discussing everything from secret engagements to bridal veils, making her av
oid the social circles even more than usual.
“It’s a mighty good meal is all. The man who takes it home will be a lucky fellow.”
“Or woman,” she added. “Women are encouraged to bid too. I have my eye on Mrs. Blair’s hamper. It’s rumored that she ordered a box of chocolates from London, just to up the auction price. I wouldn’t mind a taste of those. I can’t say I’ve ever eaten chocolates from London. Have you?”
Matthew shook his head. “You know me. I’m not fond of anything too sweet, too salty, or too sour.”
“A man of moderation. That’s a virtue.”
He shrugged. “A man can’t change his tastes any more than he can change his name.”
But a woman could? Rachel Lynde. Nice ring or not, it brought on an aching to think that her best friend would become a new person simply by saying “I do.” Marilla liked who Rachel was just fine.
“Hand me that magenta ribbon,” she told Matthew. With it, she tied the hamper lid down with a solid bow.
The next day Matthew, Hugh, and Marilla rode together to the Presbyterian churchyard, where the auction was taking place. Reverend and Mrs. Patterson had given them the use of the same booths, tables, and chairs as for the annual May Picnic. The wicker hampers were arranged in a line across the longest table. An even dozen. Marilla took the count as an auspicious sign: twelve months in a year, twelve hours in a day, twelve disciples, twelve days of Christmas, twelve Avonlea suppers to be got.
She was helping Mrs. Blair situate the cash drawer when Rachel arrived, dragging a bashful young man by the arm.
“Marilla! This is my Mr. Lynde.”
Thomas turned with his chin down and didn’t meet Marilla’s eyes. “Nice to meet you, Miss Cuthbert.”
He wasn’t terribly handsome or homely. Not too thin or stout, not tall or short, fair or dark. In fact, he was so perfectly undistinguishable that he nearly blended into the background. Like a tree branch or a blade of grass. In that way, Marilla found him pleasant.
“Rachel has spoken highly of you, Mr. Lynde.”
He grinned without showing his teeth.
“Do you see this exquisite tortoiseshell comb?” Rachel turned her head aside. “It belongs to Thomas’s mother. An heirloom piece. I’m only borrowing it today, but . . .” She leaned into his side with a giggle.
“It’s beautiful,” said Marilla.
“Thomas, go save two chairs for us. I’d hate to have to stand the entire auction,” Rachel directed, and he did her bidding. “Isn’t he a dream?” she said in his wake.
Marilla cleared her throat. “How did the biscuits turn out?”
Rachel pulled her in close to whisper. “Perfectly light! Of course Mother noticed . . . I told her we bought fresh baking powder and that made the difference. A small lie, but I’d rather ask the Lord for forgiveness than a disgruntled neighbor!”
“Probably easier to gain absolution too.”
Rachel bugged out her eyes with a nod. “That’s the Gospel truth.”
Marilla was a stickler for timeliness, so the auction began on the stroke of the hour. Mr. Blair took the role of auctioneer, and they led off with Mrs. Patterson’s “Divine Dinner” hamper: a ham and mushroom pasty with sweet almond gingerbread. It fetched a good price from one of the Pyes who they all knew had many a reason to earn his way back into the church’s good graces. Then came Mrs. Lewis and her daughter Lavender: their basket was festooned with ribbons and bows and lavender buds stuck between every cane of the basket’s weave. Marilla wondered how anyone could eat the food within without thinking he’d swallowed a soap bar. It was the prettiest on the table, she had to give it that. One of the Irving boys won it and turned Lavender’s head too. The Whites’, the Blairs’, and the Phillipses’ suppers all sold for nice prices. Marilla’s basket was up next. She’d purposely placed it in the middle so as not to claim a noteworthy first or last position as Aid Society president. Matthew and Hugh bid first in a show of support, followed by Mrs. Bell, but Mr. Murdock ultimately won the hamper in a surprise turnabout.
“Every Christmas the Cuthberts’ Plum Preserves were a favorite. I was sorry to see them go when you left Avonlea School,” he said when she handed him his prize.
It warmed her to him. Suddenly, he wasn’t the stern, wrinkled headmaster thwacking his pointer against the board, but an elderly gentleman with a kind spirit deep down. She wondered when he had changed . . . or when she had.
“There’s a bottle of my mother’s red currant wine too,” she whispered.
“Another favorite,” he confessed. “Thank you.”
Next came the Andrewses’ hamper: beef olives, potato balls, cottage loaf, figs, and a jar of sweetmeats. A solid feast, but not surprising given that there were so many cooks in their household. The bidding began with Mr. White, who despite raising his hand on every basket had yet to win. Mr. Bell outbid him and was then outbid by none other than Matthew.
Marilla’s gaze, and all of Avonlea’s, went directly to Johanna. She turned away to her sister with a frown. Mr. White countered good-naturedly. The baskets were dwindling, and if he left without any, Mrs. White would be fit to be tied. Matthew upped the price by five pence. Johanna fumed in her seat. Whatever squabble had befallen them was obviously not repaired.
Mr. Barry bid five over. Matthew bid again. Marilla knew it was their total funds.
“Going once, going twice,” said Mr. Blair.
At the count, Johanna rose from her seat piqued to inflammation and stormed off. Seeing the upset, the banker, Mr. Abbey, lifted a hand.
“Two shillings.”
It was twice as much as Matthew had in hand. Mr. Abbey had meant to help alleviate Johanna Andrews’s obvious discomfort, but the result was Matthew’s mortification. He hadn’t a penny more to spend, never mind a whole shilling, and everybody in Avonlea knew it. So he stood and followed in the same direction as Johanna while the rest held their breaths with suffocating determination not to let their neighbor see.
Marilla went after Matthew. No one else could without causing a scene. Mr. Blair continued in the auction.
“Now, now . . . Mr. Abbey has won the Andrewses’ supper. Let’s move along. Mrs. MacPherson’s is next, and I’m willing to bet she’s got some of her raisin Bath buns in there.”
Marilla went round the church to the cemetery, where she heard Johanna before she saw her.
“Why must you make me say it?”
“B-But . . .” Matthew stuttered.
“But nothing! I’m not your sweetheart or anything else, Matthew Cuthbert. I’d rather die than be a farmer’s wife. I tried to tell you kindly at Green Gables, but you didn’t seem to hear me. So now I’ve told you forthright, and I feel wretched for saying it.” She began to cry, then ran off.
Marilla had never heard anything so callous in all her life, and from the look on Matthew’s face, neither had he. He took a step to follow, then stopped and stood wringing his cap in his hand. His humiliated silence pained her even more deeply. She knew she ought to turn and leave him be, but she couldn’t tear herself away. His wound was her wound. That was family.
His shoulders shook, and she went to him. Saying nothing, she put a hand on his back. He didn’t turn, and she didn’t force him. She stood there, pressing her palm into the growing heat beneath her touch. She didn’t see him cry, but she felt it, trembling through his bones and into hers like a tuning fork until her own cheeks were wet with tears.
She went home with him that minute, leaving Hugh to ride back with Mr. Bell while Mrs. Blair counted the monies in the till, the Ladies’ Aid Society members picked up the picnic grounds, and the families of Avonlea commented on everything under the sun except for what they were all thinking: Johanna Andrews had broken Matthew Cuthbert’s heart. And for such a man as Matthew, there was no undoing the damage.
XXIII.
A Return to Hopetown
1839
Winter came early. The first snow blustered in from the Arctic that October, completely deprivi
ng the island of its usual pageantry. The red maples and yellow birches had just begun to turn when their leaves frosted over and dropped off the boughs. The island was prematurely darkened with a sky as gray as a bucket of laundry water. By Christmas and the New Year, everyone in Avonlea was stir-crazy with no thaw to come for another four months. Suddenly, the Ladies’ Aid Society visit to Hopetown became as meaningful as a pilgrimage to Zion. But it wasn’t until February that the Northumberland Strait had thawed enough for the ferryboats to run.
Mrs. Spencer had a distant cousin in Hopetown who offered up her spare room to the Ladies’ Aid Society delegate. Although Mrs. White had been the spokeswoman since the society’s inauguration, her health recently had not been the best. She feared catching pneumonia by traveling and recommended that Mrs. Blair go in her place. But Mrs. Blair couldn’t leave Mr. Blair to run the shop alone, so Mrs. Barry was nominated. Then, not a week before the scheduled departure, Mrs. Barry’s husband got the gout. And so Marilla and Rachel volunteered.
“My cousin will be there to receive them,” Mrs. Spencer assured Hugh. “I was two years younger than they when I first traveled to Nova Scotia alone. It’s quite safe so long as they’re sensible enough not to fall overboard.”
Crossing the Northumberland Strait in winter was a dreary business. No fear of rogue waves. It was too cold for that. The water was just a degree above turning back to ice. They crammed inside the heated passenger cabin, where they couldn’t see a thing through the salt-frosted windows. Reaching land, they rode to Hopetown in an enclosed stagecoach with the flaps pulled down to keep the winds from chilling them through. Marilla would occasionally peel back the corner of a flap to see where they might be on the journey, but all she saw was barren road to barren field to barren sky. The minutes ticked by slowly in the dark. Even Rachel ran out of things to say, which didn’t bother Marilla. Silence had always been a Cuthbert comfort.