by Sarah McCoy
“I’m afraid he may be the cause. The states are on the verge of mutiny.”
“Maybe it’ll do them good—like our rebellions. Look at Canada now? United!”
The women erupted in chatter, ignoring all of Mrs. Irving’s calls for order. She finally gave up trying to steer the discussion back to jam and hankies and joined their debate.
“I have a third cousin down in Wilmington,” she told Marilla. “She says it’s even more severe than the papers report. The slaves are rising up, murdering, thieving, and running off north. Madness. She put her thirteen-year-old son Heyward on a boat and sent him to relations in Scotland. They’re after blood in the southern states. I just pray it doesn’t come to that.”
Mrs. Irving went on about her distraught cousin in North Carolina, but Marilla’s mind was adrift. She worried over Izzy and those she sheltered.
At home that night, Marilla wrote to her. They’d kept up their correspondence through the years. The letters arrived in spurts, more in the colder months when they were both locked indoors. They’d developed their own kind of code regarding the runaways. The slaves were called “distinguished guests” who visited Izzy’s dress shop in search of “modified costuming” for their “specific line of work” or “special occasion.” On those pretenses, Izzy wrote of the nervous girls who gained confidence in a well-tailored dress. The cook who said she felt like a queen under a bright peony bonnet. The mothers who grinned with pride at their children dressed in new petticoats and pantalets. It did her heart good, Izzy wrote, to service such appreciative clients.
Marilla knew it was much more than that. Their costumes were their salvation, transformative as Cinderella on the night of the ball, and Izzy was their fairy godmother. Izzy hadn’t returned to Green Gables since Clara’s death, but somehow it felt like she’d always been there. Magically. If one could be of practical mind and believe in such.
* * *
On the eve of the Blair Christmas party, their cow Bonny-D, Darling’s granddaughter, caught a nail in her hoof.
“I can’t leave her,” Matthew argued. “Got to make sure the wound doesn’t fester.”
Despite Matthew’s pretense of regret, Marilla saw his relief. His preference for avoiding group gatherings had grown ever more pronounced as the years went on. She hardly blinked when he said he wasn’t going to the party and realized that she’d known all along something would prevent him from attending. Matthew’s ways were set and she accepted them, just as he accepted hers.
The temperature had risen above freezing. While the roads were dry, the wet of unseen snow lingered lightly on the breeze, smelling of pine and winter sea.
“I think I’ll walk to the party,” she told Matthew. “Won’t be very many days like this left. There’s roast beef and turnips on the stove. I’ll give your apologies to everyone.”
And off she went with a crock of marmalade and a bottle of red currant wine tied up in colored tissue paper. She reached the Blairs’ as the last shard of blue daylight turned plummy. What had been the old storefront window was now lit with candles. A woolly fir tree stood tall in the middle, its needled boughs drooping ever so slightly under the weight of twinkling glass ornaments, candy canes, and small pears balanced on top of them. An army of guests’ presents, in every color of paper and ribbon, had been stacked beneath. One of the little Pye boys stole a peppermint off the tree and raced to the corner to devour it. A fiddle and a fife trilled out carols, and from the sway of the crowd inside, Marilla knew they were already dancing.
She took in the night: home and friends and all that she cherished. She wished she could stay right where she was, comfortably watching the festivities unfold like a storybook. The problem was, the minute she entered the page would turn.
“Marilla?” said Mr. Blair from the door. “Come in, dear. Mrs. Blair has been asking after you—is that there a bottle of Cuthbert wine?”
She pulled the gifts from her basket. “Wine and fruit. Spirits and sweetness to celebrate William’s new business in Carmody and your home restored.”
He patted the door frame like a living thing. “What was old is new again. Life’s seasons never cease evolving. Makes a person want for two lives to spend, eh?”
She smiled. If only.
She entered the party, gave her apologies for Matthew’s absence, and took a cup of rum punch. On Mrs. Blair’s insistence, she sang half a dozen carols, played a game of Lookabout, and did a jig with Reverend Bentley—who stepped on her foot thrice—before retiring to the side with a slice of fruitcake. Only then did she see John, gallant as ever: he wore a dark vested suit, his hair was slicked back, and the wisps of silver at his temples winked at her under the gas-lit sconces. Age had only refined him. He caught her stare and grinned while Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Sloane buzzed around him. Maybe it was the punch or the heat of the fire, the fiddler’s bow or the season at large, but she let herself feel loving toward him.
As quickly as the fondness lit, she snuffed it out.
“I must get home,” she told Mrs. Blair.
“Must you?”
“Yes, Matthew will be waiting up for me.”
“Thank you again for the gifts.” Old Mrs. Blair had softened too with age. She embraced Marilla. “You and your brother don’t be strangers. The store might be closed, but our door’s always open.”
Marilla promised. Then, feeling John’s gaze burning across the room, Marilla slipped quickly through the crowd and out. The cool night sobered her senses, and she was glad for it. In a short walk, the main road gave way to pastureland. The town lamplight dwindled, and the starless night cast a violet shade. In the distance were the gulf’s crashing waves. The wind blew in one steady gust, and then held its breath to allow a single white speck to drift. Marilla put out her mitten to catch it, but it disappeared before landing. Another followed. Then another. And all at once the air was a latticework of falling snow. She leaned her head back and let it knit across her eyelashes, nose, and lips. Beautiful, but by the velocity of descent, she reckoned it could be a foot high by the time she reached Green Gables. She picked up her pace while the roads were still solid to the boot.
There came the vibration of the horse hooves before she saw the carriage behind her.
“Whoa now!” called the driver.
Marilla could only make out his silhouette. The snow had accumulated around the carriage top like the brim of a fur hat.
She shielded her eyes from the snow as she would from the sun. “Who’s there?”
John leaned out of the shadow with his hand extended to her. “Save your feet from freezing . . . that is, if you don’t mind riding with an old Grit like me.”
She hadn’t time to wince at the quip; her heart was too busy pounding up her throat and out as a laugh. She was more surprised by it than John. Therein lay the nub of their friction. He’d always been able to vex her.
The snow picked up even more. She could hardly see six inches in front of her face, never mind the quarter of a mile to Green Gables. It would’ve been foolish to continue on foot, so she took his hand and climbed into the warm seat beside him. He pulled the coverlet over both of their laps and gave the reins a flick. The horse took to a trot, and she had to hold on to John’s arm to stay clear of the snowdrift.
“It was a nice party,” said John.
“Very.”
“I must admit, I’ve never been to a place with indoor gas lighting. I felt like a bumpkin staring at those flickering flames. Bright as day in the middle of the night.”
Marilla had thought the same when the Blairs put in the lights, but that was over six months ago, when the store was still open. “You’ve been gone a while.”
“First time the Blythe fields hadn’t brought seed to harvest.” He frowned. “Didn’t feel right.”
Marilla understood. No seedtime, no harvest; empty fields, empty cellar. She shuddered to imagine. “Must’ve been hard to go.”
“Even harder to come back.”
“Rupert’s
Land must be some kind of wonder—to make a man leave his farm, his town, and all.”
He cleared his throat. “Remember when I told you I’d take you there?”
How could she forget? She looked down at the reins in his hand. He always smelled faintly of leather straps and pinewood. She let herself lean in closer. Not enough to be noticed, but enough.
“I do.”
He put one cautious hand on hers beneath the coverlet.
“I did a lot of thinking while I was away, Marilla. I—I wondered if we might make amends.”
Finally. She loved John, even when she couldn’t say it, even when they were parted by discord.
“I’ve done my share of thinking too.”
He let the reins slacken in his left hand and tightened his grip on hers with his right. The horse slowed to a clip-clop.
She’d kept her promise to care for her father, her brother, Green Gables . . . maybe it was time to let someone care for her. They could make it work: the Blythe farm on one side of town, Green Gables on the other. Nothing was impossible if they put their two heads together. She remembered the steady click of chalk sticks against their school slates and the warmth of John’s embrace those many years ago. It had been spring when they first met. Spring when they first kissed. Spring. As Reverend Bentley preached: so long as the earth endured, there would be day and night, cold and heat, winter and spring. Sometimes one winter could last longer than another. She’d been in a wintering way for twenty years. John’s return could be her turn of season. Her spring.
Softness blossomed in her chest even as the snow blustered between them. His gaze was a fire of hope. A happy chill went through her.
“I think we can,” she said.
John nodded. “This thing between us has gone on long enough.”
“Indeed.” It was exhausting to be perpetually defensive. Like a boat anchored against the pull of the tide.
“I’m glad we are to be friends again,” he said with a wink.
Oh that devilish wink, how she’d missed it! She wanted to kiss him right then but didn’t know how. Her lips burned for him even as he let go of her hand to take up the reins. The road banks were beginning to pile up with snow. He gave the horse a double-snap to move along.
They sat for a short while in silence, and for one of the first times in her life, she wished desperately for conversation: to tell him all the things he’d missed over the years, to hear all that she’d missed in his travels, to know him again, and for him to know her, so that not one scar would remain hidden. They would know all.
“Marilla?” She turned eagerly at his call.
“Yes, John?” How good it felt to say his name again without bitterness or guilt or remorse.
“I wanted to talk to you about something else too.”
His Adam’s apple bobbled, and she smiled at the old trait—glad to see it hadn’t gone away.
“There’s a girl—well, a woman—the daughter of a veterinarian I met out west.”
It came out of nowhere and jolted her so fiercely that she nearly fell out of the moving buggy. She’d prayed for such a thing, said it time and time again, but to have it come to fruition now . . . her heart broke all over again. The rest of the ride home, she counted out her breaths: one-two-three-four in, one-two-three-four out, one-two-three-four in, one-two-three-four out.
Green Gables was a beacon in a sea of white by the time they reached the front yard.
“I’m glad we talked,” said John. “I needed to right things between us.”
She smiled through the salty snowflakes in her eyes. It was all she could do. She hid her crumpled face beneath her bonnet and raced up to her room before Matthew could ask how the party had gone. As quietly as possible, she emptied herself of tears, and then berated herself for being an emotional ninny. He’d merely mentioned the other woman, and she was far off in Rupert’s Land. He couldn’t foster a relationship at such a distance, could he? She’d never experienced a traditional courtship, so she couldn’t say for sure. All she knew of love was him.
XXIX.
A Telegram
When Marilla went to pick up the Monday mails, she was surprised to find a telegram:
THE MONTREAL TELEGRAPH COMPANY
TO MISS AND MR. CUTHBERT
RECEIVED AT AVONLEA, P.E.I.
FROM MISS ELIZABETH JOHNSON, ST. CATHARINES, CANADA WEST
MY DEARS, IT’S BEEN TOO LONG SINCE I VISITED. CHRISTMAS SEEMS THE PERFECT TIME TO BE IN THE SAFEKEEPING OF FAMILY. I’LL BE ARRIVING DECEMBER 24 WITH MR. MEACHUM, MY BUTLER, AND TWO HOUSEBOY SERVANTS. I KNOW GREEN GABLES WILL WELCOME DISTINGUISHED GUESTS. MY LOVE, AUNT IZZY
* * *
“A butler and houseboys?” asked Matthew while moving two pallets up to the hired hand’s room.
Marilla was tying tartan bows on the pine garlands she’d threaded through the stair balusters.
“A person slows down quite a piece by her age. If you don’t have family nearby to help you along, then you’d have to bring help in from somewhere, right?” She straightened the loopy ears of the bow.
“Suppose so,” said Matthew from the upper landing. “Age and health do change a person. Izzy’s made a big name for herself in St. Catharines. Perhaps it’s the way of the well-to-do.”
Marilla stuck a pin in the bow to hold it in place, wishing she had one for her nerves as well. Their code was clear: “distinguished guests” meant that Izzy was coming with runaways. What she didn’t know was who exactly they might be—Mr. Meachum, the servants, or unmentioned others. She’d read the telegram backward and forward to decipher it but still couldn’t say for sure. So she funneled all her energy into decorating the Gables.
They didn’t usually do this much. Marilla set a balsam wreath on the table to bring in the scent, with a candle in the center to shed light. She would also make a batch of gingersnaps, and they’d have cups of mulled currant wine. A church service on Christmas Eve would be followed by quiet reflection on Christmas morn. That’s how they’d done it for the past too many years to count. But that wouldn’t do with guests of any sort, and certainly not when two of them were children. Family, servants, or escaping slaves, children were children. And if on no other day of the year, impartiality should be celebrated at Christmas.
She’d gone over to William Blair’s new store at Carmody to pick up the tartan ribbon, ginger, cinnamon, coffee, a store-bought holiday card for Izzy, the new Harper’s Weekly for Matthew, and peppermint candies for the little ones. They’d stopped bringing in a tree years ago. Such a cumbersome chore. Marilla hated cleaning up the dry needles. But now, with company coming, a tree was essential. It’d be un-Christian to go without!
“On my way home from William Blair’s, I drove the sleigh the back way,” she called up to Matthew. “Spotted a nice five-foot fir along the wood line. I don’t want anything taller. Too hard to decorate.”
“Aye,” said Matthew. “I’ll take my ax out as soon as I’m done with these sleepers. Where do you want ’em?”
“Under the bed for now. Mr. Meachum can pull them out at night for the lads.”
She listened to the tick mattresses being pushed across the floorboards overhead. She hated keeping a secret this big from Matthew, but she’d been keeping it for so long that she hadn’t a notion of where to even start.
“Do you think I ought to get Mr. Meachum and the houseboys gifts for Christmas?” she fretted. “I reckon they’re being paid for their time, but I feel poorly not offering something.” She stood at the bottom of the stairs inspecting her cascade of banister ribbons. “We’ve never had house staff here. What does one do with a butler and servants in another’s home anyhow?” She pulled the tail of a bow so that it sat straighter.
Matthew put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re giving them the gift of hospitality—you’re giving us all that, Marilla.” He looked up the stairs with a smile. “The Gables haven’t looked so well since Mother was alive.”
“I probably should’ve done more to mak
e it special all these years.” She leaned into his side. “It feels good to make a home so pleasing.”
“You’ve always made it pleasing. Just by being here.” He kissed the crown of her head then pushed off toward the kitchen, where his ax lay inside the wood box.
“I’ll have hot potatoes and curds for supper when you get back.”
He put on his coat and cap, slung the ax over his shoulder, and inhaled sharply at the chill of the open door. Marilla put the potatoes in the stove, then went around setting lantern candles in each window so that the Gables winked brightness into the night. Soon enough, Matthew returned with a pert blue-green fir strapped to his pull sleigh, not a breath over five feet.
“It’s perfect.”
While Matthew ate his supper, Marilla spread the bristled branches in the parlor and decorated the boughs with fat walnuts, candied fruits, colorful bits of broken glass and seashells, tartan ribbon, and strings of cranberries that she’d needle-threaded herself. On the top, she placed a star of Bethlehem made of copper. It glistened in the candlelight. She couldn’t remember a prettier tree.
Matthew was no musician, but William Blair had sold him a harmonica, calling it the “newest instrumental rage of the century.” Matthew had learned to play a handful of tunes. Marilla was a proponent of anything that kept his hands off the tobacco pipe. His heart was already an issue, with his lungs not far behind. Dr. Spencer said Matthew needed to exercise them more regularly, so she considered the French harp medicinal.
Seeing the parlor Christmas tree, Matthew sat down in the winged-back chair and put the little instrument to his lips. Slowly, he played “Silent Night,” a longtime favorite of Marilla’s. She took a seat across from him on the divan and leaned her head back to rest a moment.
Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon virgin, mother and child,
Holy infant so tender and mild.
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace . . .