Marilla of Green Gables

by Sarah McCoy

  “And then Martin received word of his own kin,” said Izzy.

  “My daughter in South Carolina tried to run. Her master caught her and cut off the toes of her right foot so she couldn’t escape again—she can hardly walk now. When the South Carolina General Assembly stated its intention to secede last month, she knew it was then or never to get her boys out. She’d learned that I was in St. Catharines, and so she gave over her children to an Underground Railroad conductor bound for the border. The day I received word of their impending arrival, your aunt sent you the telegram. Izzy’s is a safe house, but not a permanent stop. Every slave-catcher from America searches our city. We provide the resources to keep moving to delivery locations, but this was the first time that we were that location.”

  “To protect the boys and our operations, we had to get out of St. Catharines as quickly as possible,” Izzy explained. “Thus, my hasty telegram. I apologize for that. But the safest and most plausible place for us to journey without suspicion was Green Gables.”

  “Christmas with family,” said Marilla. “No apologies or explanation needed.”

  Izzy smiled. “I knew we could trust you.”

  Marilla had long been aware that a quiet but powerful force was at work between Canada and America. She’d seen a glimpse of it as a girl and watched it grow over the years, but she’d never discussed it with Matthew. She looked to him now to gauge his reaction. He puffed on his pipe. The smoke wreathed his head. He sucked once, twice, then a third time before taking it out of his mouth.

  “These boys brought you home and we’re grateful. You’re our family. So as I reckon, if you call Mr. Meachum family, then he and his are ours too.”

  Marilla palmed the table in agreement, and the coffee in all four cups rippled dark.

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need,” she said.

  Izzy leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Bold and beguiling. As always.”

  Mr. Meachum shook Matthew’s hand, then took Izzy’s again, and there passed between them a gaze that Marilla could only describe as love. It gave her hope that a person could find it anywhere and at any time. The heart was a limitless territory if one was willing to risk it all.

  * * *

  Three days after Christmas, Rachel came for a visit.

  “When I heard Miss Izzy Johnson was in town, I told Robert to hitch up the sleigh and take me over to Green Gables so I could show off the Cuthberts’ godchild.”

  Mr. Meachum and the boys were helping Matthew with the barn chores. Robert had taken the horse there to keep dry and warm away from the snow while the women did the same by the kitchen stove. Izzy held the sleeping baby Hughie.

  “He’s perfect.”

  “He takes after his namesake. The quietest of all my children. I’ve only heard him cry but the once, and that was on account of his sister dropping a shoe on his face.” Rachel ran her finger over his cheek. “He’s a sweetheart, this one.”

  “Well, I’m honored to meet him, and I can say with all certainty that Hugh would’ve loved him too.”

  “He’s lucky number twelve.”

  “Like the apostles,” said Izzy.

  “Ten living children plus me and Thomas, that does add up to an evangelical dozen.” Rachel beamed. “It’s good to have you back with us, Miss Izzy.”

  “Please tell your mother hello for me. It’s been too long. How is she?”

  “Oh, you know Mother. Since Father’s passing, she’s done nothing but dote on the grandchildren . . . and clean up after they visit!” Rachel laughed.

  “Mrs. White hasn’t changed a day,” said Marilla. “Ella is still working for her too.”

  “How’s that sweet girl?”

  “Mighty fine. Got five little ones of her own now,” replied Rachel.

  “My, my . . . a gracious plenty.” Izzy gently rocked Hughie. “We’ll move over to the parlor so you girls can have your tea talk without waking him.”

  “Oh, no worries. That child sleeps through nine brothers and sisters jumping rope. A little kettle whistle won’t be a thing.”

  “Just the same. We’ll go settle in by the Christmas tree. Something about a Christmas tree and a sleeping babe rejuvenates the spirit.” And off she went before anyone could argue.

  “She’s going to the cushioned sofa,” said Marilla. “Her bones ache her.”

  “Is it the arthritis?”

  Marilla nodded. “I think so. Of course, she never would mention it, but I’ve seen the way she bears down when she moves.”

  Rachel shook her head. “The body is a fair-weather friend. Loves you when you’re too young and stupid to appreciate it, then grows ever more petulant with each passing year until finally”—she threw up her hands—“the gears halt, whether you’re ready or not.”

  Marilla set the leftover Christmas biscuits on a plate and put the water kettle on the stove. “Rachel Lynde, I never thought you to be one of those fire-and-brimstone, death-is-coming sorts.”

  “Well the end is coming, isn’t it? We spend our entire lives running from it. No speaking of it allowed. Fearing it for our loved ones.” She shook her head and folded the burp cloth in her hand. “But after all we’ve seen of the world, I decided I’ll get more joy out of the days I have left if I just acknowledge that death is part of life. The leaves on an apple tree blossom yield and fall. No use fretting over the sweetness of the fruit. Got to pick it when it looks ripe and move on. It’s the fool who’s forlorn over what he imagines he’s lost. I’m sure that’s in the Gospel somewhere.”

  Even if it wasn’t, Rachel would amend the text to her liking. The Word according to Rachel, as some complained. Not Marilla, of course. Rachel was her closest friend, so she kept quiet, in Cuthbert fashion. He that hath knowledge spareth his words—that was from the Proverbs, and underlined by Hugh in their family Bible. She exercised that restraint now, not knowing exactly where her friend was going with this sermon. Sometimes Rachel got off on a relatively everyday idea and wouldn’t stop until she’d turned it into a homily. A change of subject would nip it in the bud.

  “Lucky for us, we have a generous orchard and more in our harvest baskets than we know what to do with. The cellar is full up on jammed fruits. Might your young’uns like some jars of applesauce or plums to start the New Year? We got plenty for the eating.” The kettle whistled, and Marilla poured the water over a batch of black Assam leaves in the teapot.

  “Best orchard on the island is here at Green Gables. Thomas is partial to your famous blue plums.”

  Rachel too, Marilla was well aware. She started in the direction of the pantry.

  “I’ll fetch a few jars.”

  Rachel put a hand on her wrist to stop her.

  “Marilla, I got something I need to get off my chest. It’s been hounding me. I’ve barely slept for it.”

  A hot flash of concern: had their secret about the boys gotten out? Avonlea was a little town. But none of them had left Green Gables since their arrival. The snow had kept on, only stopping the night before. Rachel was the first person she’d seen on the road, and only because she lived so near.

  “Whatever it is, please unburden yourself. I hate to think you’re losing rest on my account.”

  Rachel gave a sad sort of face. “I said to Thomas, I know it don’t matter, but I know it do matter. He said I ought to bring it up after Christmas. As soon as I could get you alone from your company. I didn’t want it to come as a surprise from someone else and . . .” She shrugged.

  “You’re starting to frighten me, Rachel.”

  Steam rose from the teapot spout on the table.

  “All right. I won’t sugarcoat it.” Rachel gave a resolved nod. “John Blythe married a girl. She’s not from these parts. A veterinarian’s daughter, so I hear. It was a modest ceremony with only John, the bride, and her parents. No friends at all invited. They exchanged vows in the Charlottetown preacher’s living room. Guess it happened after the Blairs’ party. They’ve spent the holiday in Boston as
a kind of honeymoon.” Rachel shook her head but did not meet Marilla’s gaze. “Scandalous. A girl from Rupert’s Land? A honeymoon in Boston? America is on the verge of war, and there they are, romancing through the streets!”

  The room swayed. Marilla steadied herself against the ledge of the table.

  Sensing upset, Rachel babbled on: “She’s ten years his junior, mind you. Appalling! What does that make her—thirty? Well, I suppose that is rather long in the tooth. But an impromptu wedding over a fortnight ago with no invitations sent out, no wedding march, no formalities at all? They probably didn’t even have a cake—good heavens! Hardly a real nuptial at all. I wonder if the preacher was even ordained.”

  A shrill ringing began in Marilla’s left ear. She pulled at her earlobe to try to make it stop, but it continued, piercing into her neck and up the side of her cheek.

  Rachel’s hands moved nervously. She gave them the task of pouring the tea Marilla had neglected.

  “Here. Drink this, Marilla. You’re pale as a gilled mushroom.”

  “I haven’t eaten much today,” she lied, immediately feeling guilty for it.

  She should be happy for John. But years of righteous sentiment had vanished in a blink. All she felt was regret. Marilla was not the kind to spend a long time musing on her feelings, but now she was incapable of thinking of anything else. Rachel was wrong. A person was a fool, not for being forlorn, but for not having the good sense to take a bite when the fruit was in her hand. The problem was, she hadn’t realized until now that she was starving.

  She ate a biscuit without tasting a thing and washed it down with her tea. That momentarily pacified her nausea.

  “I’m glad you told me, Rachel. I’m glad for John. I . . .” She got up. “Let me get those plum preserves.”

  In the pantry, with only the army of jarred fruits and vegetables to witness, she covered her eyes with a hand. It was all she could do against the bedlam within.

  Footsteps thudded the floorboards from the back kitchen door.

  “Marilla?”

  Matthew with young Robert and Mr. Meachum.

  She swallowed hard, pulled the jams from the shelf, and turned with as untroubled a countenance as she could manufacture. She’d think about John tomorrow. There was enough for today. My cup, she thought, runneth over.

  XXXII.

  Introducing Mrs. John Blythe

  A leg of mutton was to be supper for Hogmanay—New Year’s Eve. Early that morning Marilla took up her shopping hamper and started out across the fields to the butcher’s.

  The sky was a glaze of bright blue, with not a cloud and the sun so bright, she might’ve thought it was June if not for her frostbitten nose. The warmth on her shoulders and the steady push of her feet through the snow were comforts. Nature cleared her mind.

  Entering the butcher’s shop, she saw only shadow figures. Her pupils were slow to release their contraction from the light. For a long minute, she thought one of the hanging ham hocks was a set of eyes and grinning mouth. She might have said good-day to it if Theo Houston hadn’t come out from the back carrying two plucked chickens that very moment.

  “Miss Cuthbert, happy Hogmanay to ya!”

  She widened her eyes so that the shadows fled and her vision returned to normal.

  “The same to you, Theo. I’ve come for a leg of mutton for our New Year’s roast.”

  “Lucky you, only one left! Everything else has been sold. Busy during the holidays.” He hung the chickens upside down on hooks, then wiped his hands clean on his apron. “I hear you got company over at Green Gables.”

  “My Aunt Izzy.” She nodded. “You were still in pantalets when she last visited. Doubt you remember her.”

  “Lots of new faces these days. Town’s full up on folks.”

  “And I guess they all have a taste for mutton.”

  He laughed. “So it seems. Let me grab the last for you.”

  He went back through the curtain, and the bell over the front door jingled. Voices spilled in.

  She gave a glance over her shoulder to a couple silhouetted against the light. The man quickly took off his hat and turned to the woman. Marilla’s eyes alighted on a little shadow indent just below the peppered hairline.

  “John?” She hadn’t meant to speak; it’d been a thought that slipped over her lips.

  On his arm was a woman with doe eyes, peach cheeks, and a smile as wide as the day’s sky. She looked far younger than Marilla had at thirty years of age. One could always tell those who’d grown up in the Maritimes and those who had not. The island winds left their mark on a face, raw and unmistakable. This woman had hardly been kissed by a breeze.

  “Marilla—I—that is . . .” John’s tongue knotted. “I’ve been meaning to call on you and Matthew—to make introductions—but I heard you had family in town and we’re just back from America.”

  His breath gave out. His Adam’s apple bobbled on the intake.

  “This is Katherine. Katherine Blythe.”

  Marilla looked to his wife, an unknown, friendly face that carried no memories in its fresh curves.

  “Marilla Cuthbert.” She held out her hand.

  The woman let go of John’s arm and stepped closer. “Please call me Kitty.” She took Marilla’s hand. “I’ve heard so many good things about you, Miss Cuthbert. John says the Cuthberts are practically family. So I’d be honored if you’d do me the kindness of calling me family too. I have much to learn about Avonlea. All I know are the stories John’s told me.”

  “Marilla. Just call me plain Marilla. The ‘Miss’ makes me feel . . . old.” She did her best to smile.

  “Marilla,” Kitty repeated, and it did sound a soothing tone coming from her.

  Kitty’s nut-brown hair was gathered in dainty coils held at the back of her neck with a comb. When she turned her head, the light caught the gems in it, winking violet.

  For want of something neutral to say, Marilla ventured, “Your comb is lovely. Amethyst is my favorite.”

  Kitty put a delicate hand to her head. “John bought this for me in Boston. A honeymoon present.” She looked to him admiringly, and the comb glimmers danced across Marilla’s cheek. “I like colored stones more than diamonds. They’re so much more interesting, don’t you think?”

  Before Marilla could reply, John intervened: “We came to see about Theo’s mutton.”

  “So many sheep here,” said Kitty. “John says the livestock is the best in the Maritimes. Something about the soil?”

  “It’s iron-rich,” explained Marilla. “The animals graze on the grass, so the meat is more nutritious.”

  Kitty blinked her long dark lashes. “How wonderful.”

  Hearing his name, Theo came from the back carrying the leg.

  “Mr. Blythe and . . .” He looked to Kitty curiously.

  “The new Mrs. Blythe,” said Marilla. “She’s just come to Avonlea. You’ll be seeing a lot of her.” She turned to Kitty. “This is Theo Houston, our butcher.”

  Theo’s eyes darted between the three. “Yes, of course! I heard of your recent nuptials, Mr. Blythe. Congratulations and a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Blythe.”

  “You too, Mr. Houston.” Her eyes registered the leg he carried. “Is that mutton?”

  “It is. The last bit in the shop.”

  “However did you know—you must be a prophetic butcher!” She clapped.

  Theo frowned with confusion, and Marilla thought it best if she stepped in to keep the awkwardness at bay.

  “Indeed, he has a gift for intuition.” She gave him a solid look. “Now, Theo, you go on and wrap up that leg for Mrs. Blythe. I think I’ll take some of your smoked ham.”

  Theo nodded slowly. “Whatever you say, Miss Cuthbert.”

  She turned to Kitty. “That mutton would be excellent with a little garlic, rosemary, salt, and pepper if you have it.”

  “I believe so,” said Kitty.

  “A leg that size, I’d roast it over the hearth slowly for two hours. A little long
er if needed. Until the juices run clear. Should be enough to feed you both for a few suppers.”

  “Oh, thank you! John tells me you’re a famous cook, so I’m ever so beholden to you for sharing your secret recipes.”

  Marilla shook her head. “Nothing secret about a recipe. It’s how you put it together that makes it yours.”

  “Well, I hope I do you proud, Miss—Marilla.”

  A sweet girl, gracious and genuinely pleasing: Marilla understood the attraction. John had chosen wisely, and so long as she kept her eyes on Kitty, she could tolerate the heartache. Every time he started to edge into her vision, she busied her mind with just what to do with the ham tomorrow. She’d already picked out all the sides for the mutton.

  “John and I will have to come calling on you soon.”

  Maybe a brown sugar and vinegar dressing.

  “Yes, that’d be fine.”

  “After your company has gone, of course. Wouldn’t want to be imposing ourselves, though I am envious of your hospitality. I bet they’re eating like royals!”

  Side of green peas. Two jars in the pantry.

  “We’re eating simple and good like Avonlea folk do.”

  “Well, I’m of a mind to learn to cook like you. John can’t talk enough about your baking.”

  Nothing too sweet for dessert. It wouldn’t digest well with the ham. Tart apple turnovers.

  Theo finally handed Kitty the wrapped mutton leg, and John paid him.

  “Thank you again, Marilla. It was a true delight meeting you. I know we’re to be good friends.”

  Marilla nodded. “Good luck with the mutton roast.”

  “Who needs luck when I have the blessing of Marilla Cuthbert!”

  John steered Kitty toward the door, and Marilla turned away so that she only heard him say, “Good-bye, Marilla.”

  She walked home with her bundle of ham, not remembering a tree or stone. Matthew was in the kitchen cleaning his harness bridles.

  “I got ham for supper instead.”