until the day comes dawning

by spilled_notes

Summary:

Anne’s report about her visit to Aunt Jo’s for her soiree makes Marilla realise something about herself, something she perhaps should have realised decades ago. And then Muriel Stacy arrives in Avonlea, and in her Marilla unexpectedly finds a friend, the best friend she’s ever had. But as the seasons turn and their friendship blossoms and deepens, just how long will it take Marilla to join the dots?

Notes:

• For kitnkabootle.

I've been working on this fic for almost 9 months and it's still not finished, but it's time for it to be out in the world! I would never have watched Anne with an A were it not for kitnkabootle's beautiful 'if I could but know her heart', which made me fall in love with them so much I just had to watch it, so really this had to be for her.

Title from Kate Rusby's Until Morning.

There will be a Spotify playlist for this story, once I get my act together...

Chapter 1

‘How can there be anything wrong with a life if it’s spent with a person you love?’

Anne’s words echo around in Marilla’s mind long after Green Gables falls silent that night. She’s exhausted – these headaches always leave her so drained – but sleep remains elusive, because of what Anne told her about Josephine and Gertrude, about how wonderful it was to see the evidence of the love and life they’d shared, despite the greatness of Josephine’s loss.

Rebecca.

Marilla hasn’t thought of her in years, but as soon as Anne said that – as soon as Marilla realised Josephine Barry spent her life with another woman, loved another woman – she sprang fully formed into her mind, just as she’d looked the last time Marilla saw her, decades ago, the day she left Avonlea and Marilla’s heart felt like it had been torn in two, so much worse than she had felt when John Blythe left.

I loved her.

It comes unbidden from nowhere, but somehow Marilla knows that it’s right. Tears spring to her eyes at the memory of losing her dearest friend, gone off to the mainland to start a new life with her husband, leaving Marilla far behind. Even then she’d known Rebecca’s leaving had hurt too much, had known to hide it from Rachel, even if she hadn’t known why.

Marilla’s certain it should be a shock to realise this about herself. Rachel would no doubt be shocked – scandalised, even. But she just feels as though something has slotted into place, some stubborn piece that has been slightly out of alignment her entire life finally sitting where it belongs. It’s not unlike when she wakes after a headache and the world returns to full focus, her eyes and ears and mind clear again.

I loved her, she thinks again, imagining Rebecca’s warm brown eyes and chestnut hair, and knows in her soul that it’s true.

When Marilla opens her eyes the following day her head is clear, vision and hearing and thought restored to normal. She gazes out across the snowy fields, takes a deep breath of air chilled by the window glass and smiles.

Her head is clear, and so is her heart.

I loved her, she thinks, and it still feels just as right in the bright light of morning as it did in the darkness last night.

*          *          *

Rebecca sneaks into Marilla’s mind again the instant she steps into the schoolroom behind Anne. For a moment, the children chattering around her are replaced by herself, Rachel, John Blythe, Thomas Lynde, Rebecca.

‘Miss Cuthbert. This is a surprise.’

At Miss Stacy’s voice the memory vanishes, and Marilla finds both the teacher and Anne looking at her expectantly.

‘Yes, well Anne has quite the story to report regarding her essay, and was concerned you wouldn’t believe her. I know I wouldn’t, had I not seen the evidence with my own eyes.’

‘Anne?’

As Anne tells the tale of her missing essay, with much flourishing but never actually straying from the truth, Marilla looks around the room and sees how unlike the schoolroom of her childhood it is – so different it hardly looks like a schoolroom at all. Gone are the rows of desks and chairs, all moved to the sides of the room under the windows, the children gathering to sit on the floor in the empty space surrounding the stove instead. In the corner in front of the blackboard hangs a skeleton and Marilla peers at it, wonders if it’s real, wonders if Anne is going to develop a fascination with the inner workings of the body and if her kitchen is destined to become an anatomy room.

And, of course, there’s Miss Stacy herself, about as far from old Mr Isaacs at it’s possible to get. Marilla glances surreptitiously at the teacher as together they sweep the charred remains of Anne’s essay off her desk and into the wastepaper basket. She knows she ought, like Rachel, to be outraged by her lack of corset, but instead she finds she admires the woman’s defiance, her prizing of comfort over propriety. Not that she could countenance it herself, not at her age – even if she does have a skeleton all of her own holding her up. But Avonlea was far overdue change when Anne arrived, and Marilla finds herself already eager to see how Miss Stacy is going to continue what the girl has started, intrigued to see more of a woman so different to anyone she’s ever known, whose better acquaintance she already wants to make.

‘Would you care to stay and observe?’

All Marilla’s plans for the day, all the jobs waiting for her at home, disappear at Miss Stacy’s question. Marilla studies her face, sees not a mask of politeness hiding a wish for her to decline but rather a genuine desire for her presence. There hasn’t been much space for curiosity in Marilla’s life since Michael died: she’s not about to let this opportunity to learn something new – something undoubtedly more interesting than Mr Isaacs ever taught them – pass her by.

‘Why thank you, I believe I would,’ she smiles, pleased when the teacher smiles in return.

It is, indeed, nothing like Marilla’s school lessons. Miss Stacy is so animated, so passionate, and there’s so much life in her voice as she explains electricity to the children. Marilla can’t help getting to her feet to watch over their shoulders, drawn by the lure of seeing something she’d considered before this morning to be an impossibility: a light powered by a potato. She finds the whole thing quite – well, quite illuminating. She looks at the excited, astonished faces of the children and the wide smile on Miss Stacy’s face and is convinced that, whatever the objections of the surprisingly conservative Progressive Mothers, this is the teacher she wants for Anne – and she’s not afraid to say so.

That day, she offers to walk Miss Stacy home because she doesn’t want to say goodbye just yet, doesn’t want to lose the company of this bright, intriguing woman just yet. And then, when Rachel tells her about the vote to remove Miss Stacy – a conversation that turns into the biggest argument they’ve had in a long while – Marilla cannot fathom parting from her permanently, cannot let the narrow and unfair thinking of the Progressive Mothers and the Board of Trustees drive her away when she has so much to offer their children and their community. Cannot fathom losing a woman she already feels an affinity with, despite all their differences.

No, Marilla thinks as she walks determinedly to Miss Stacy’s house. I will not allow this to happen. Not without a fight, at least.

*

‘I believe you’ll be good for this community,’ Marilla says as they walk towards both of their homes after the vote, Muriel pushing her bicycle along.

‘I hope so,’ Muriel replies. ‘Especially after all the faith you’ve very publicly placed in me. I would so hate to let you down.’

Muriel feels exhilarated, and somewhat incredulous about what just happened, half expects to wake up in the morning and find that it’s all been a dream, and in fact she’s been giving her marching orders.

‘Change isn’t easy. And there has been precious little change in Avonlea for many years,’ Marilla smiles, glancing behind them to where Anne is excitedly explaining potato-based electricity to an infinitely patient Michael for what must be at least the fourth time, the light bulb a bright spot among the dark trees.

Muriel smiles too, can only imagine that Anne’s arrival must have been akin to a whirlwind tearing through the Cuthberts’ quiet lives. ‘She’s lucky to have you.’

‘We’re the lucky ones,’ Marilla corrects her.

Muriel looks at the love shining in Marilla’s eyes, bright enough to rival the light bulb, and feels an ache of envy, can only hope she might be lucky enough to find even a tenth of the belonging here as Anne has.

‘Thank you for supporting me,’ she says to Marilla when they reach the point where their paths diverge. ‘And for persuading me to defend myself tonight.’

‘I’m glad you listened. Anne deserves a better education – and a better chance for her future – than I had.’

‘I hope I don’t disappoint.’

‘I’m sure you won’t,’ Marilla smiles, gently touching Muriel’s arm and only drawing her hand away when Anne joins them.

‘Oh Miss Stacy, hasn’t it been the most glorious evening?’

‘It certainly didn’t go how I expected it to,’ Muriel replies. ‘Thank you, Anne.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Anne grins, almost bouncing. ‘Oh Marilla, isn’t it wonderful that Miss Stacy is staying?’

‘Wonderful indeed,’ Marilla agrees, her eyes lingering on Muriel’s for a long moment before she blinks and looks away. ‘Now, come along and let her get off home, she’s some unpacking to do. And after your adventure, I daresay you need some sleep.’

‘I’m so excited I don’t think I could! Goodnight, Miss Stacy. See you at school!’

‘Goodnight, Anne. Goodnight Marilla, Matthew.’

Muriel watches until Anne’s light bulb is out of sight, until her excited chatter is out of hearing, and then heads for home with a sigh. Marilla was right – she does need to unpack. She isn’t so naïve as to think that tonight’s victory means she’s won over all of Avonlea but it’s a start, and has bought her the time to make a better impression.

And at least she now has the support of her students – and some of their parents.

Suddenly her thanks don’t seem enough for what Marilla has done for her, a near stranger. Helping to secure her immediate future like that – believing in her so staunchly – deserves more reward than simply her words. Back home she might have made a batch of shortbread, but if that loaf was anything to go by then her baking is definitely not up to Marilla’s standards.

It comes to her as she’s getting ready for bed, and she abandons her hair half-braided to go back downstairs and rummage in one of the trunks she hadn’t even started unpacking yet, until she finds a package wrapped in newspaper. Muriel carefully unwraps the layers, heedless of the soil scattering across the floor and her nightgown, until she reaches the unpromising looking but precious contents.

‘Perfect!’

*

Muriel knocks on the door, stands back a little and waits, nervously smoothing her skirt. After a moment she hears footsteps, and then Marilla is opening the door, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Muriel, what a lovely surprise,’ she smiles, and then glances at the package in her hands. ‘What’s all this?’

‘I wanted to thank you, properly.’

‘Whatever for?’ Marilla frowns.

‘For persuading me to stand up for myself. Without your visit, I’m really not sure I’d still have a job – or a home,’ Muriel explains, holding out the package. ‘Please?’

‘Come in, and I’ll put up some tea,’ Marilla relents, reluctantly taking the package from her and ushering her into the kitchen.

Marilla doesn’t reach for the package again until they’re sat down and the tea is poured. Muriel feels irrationally nervous as she carefully unties the length of string and peels back the layers of newspaper, as she takes one of the soil-encrusted bulbs from inside and holds it up, frowning.

‘They’re tulips,’ Muriel explains. ‘I couldn’t bear to be parted from them when I moved, so I lifted them and brought them with me.’

‘Oh,’ Marilla says, putting it back down and pushing the package towards her. ‘I couldn’t possibly–’

‘Please. I want to share their colour and beauty with a friend.’

‘If you’re certain,’ Marilla says hesitantly.

‘I am. I don’t know how well they’ll grow here, but being planted in two gardens might increase their chances. And I’m afraid I have no idea which varieties or colours these are. They all look the same as bulbs.’

‘Well I’m sure they’re all beautiful,’ Marilla smiles.

‘Oh, they are,’ Muriel smiles in return, relief lifting a weight from her shoulders. ‘They won’t flower this year of course, it’s far too late, but they’ll be something to look forward to. I could plant them for you, if you show me where you’d like them?’

‘That’s very kind,’ Marilla says sincerely. ‘There are tools in the barn, just help yourself. And I’ll leave it to you to decide where they should go – that way, they’ll be a real surprise.’

‘I didn’t think you were all that fond of surprises,’ Muriel teases gently.

‘Generally, no,’ Marilla agrees. ‘Although living with Anne has caused me to become somewhat accustomed to them. But I’ll make an exception for something so lovely.’

She meets Muriel’s gaze above the rim of her cup, and Muriel feels warmed from more than just the tea.

*

Marilla has not long pulled a tray of scones from the oven when she hears footsteps on the porch, not heavy enough to be Matthew, not light enough to be Anne. A little flutter in her stomach, she reaches for the kettle to freshen the teapot.

‘Now we just have to wait,’ Muriel announces as she walks into the kitchen. ‘Oh, it smells divine in here, Marilla.’

‘It’s just some scones. I’ll fetch the jam while you wash up,’ Marilla says.

In the pantry, to the sound of the water pump, her hands tremble a little as she reaches for a fresh jar of raspberry jam.

What on earth is the matter? Pull yourself together, she tells herself firmly as she walks back into the kitchen, to find Muriel drying her hands.

‘Oh, look at you,’ she scolds gently, putting down the jar and reaching to wipe a smear of soil from Muriel’s cheek, chilled and rosy from the cold air.

‘I do tend to get in something of a state,’ Muriel apologises, but Marilla waves it away.

‘Unlike Rachel, I’m well aware that hard work sometimes requires a degree of messiness.’

‘I’m not sure that planting a few bulbs counts as hard work, but thank you,’ Muriel smiles. ‘Here, let me,’ she offers, reaching for the teapot at the same instant as Marilla does.

Their fingers brush above the china, and Marilla isn’t certain whether the warmth she feels emanates from the tea or from Muriel’s skin. She pulls her hand away, feels instantly colder and busies herself with plates and scones as Muriel pours, unscrews the lid of the jam jar and breathes in the sweet sharpness, redolent of summer. For a moment, unbidden, she thinks of Rebecca, thinks of picking berries with her and Rachel, thinks of juice staining Rebecca’s laughing lips.

‘Did you know raspberry was my favourite?’ Muriel asks, the memory vanishing at her voice.

‘Just a lucky guess,’ Marilla smiles, passing her the jar, watching as she spreads a generous amount on each half of her scone. A little too generous, perhaps: it oozes over the side as she takes a bite, leaving a vivid, blood red smear on the side of her finger.

‘Delicious,’ Muriel murmurs through the jam and crumbs, licking her finger clean.

The jam is good, Marilla thinks as she takes a bite, the sweet, deep crimson a perfect foil to the pale, buttery scone.

‘I’ll send the rest of the jar home with you. And a couple of scones.’

‘Oh no, Marilla,’ Muriel protests. ‘I came to give you a gift.’

‘One that was entirely unnecessary,’ Marilla smiles. ‘You remaining in Avonlea was all the reward I needed.’

Their eyes meet, and Marilla thinks she can see the slightest shine of tears in Muriel’s, resists the urge to reach out her hand until she sees Muriel’s fingers twitch on the table.

‘If it isn’t already clear,’ she says softly, her hand gently covering Muriel’s, ‘I’m glad that you’re staying.’

Muriel sniffs and smiles. ‘So am I.’

Chapter 2

It’s only a few weeks later that Muriel finds herself back at the kitchen table with Marilla. She’s got to know her students now, to know their strengths and their weaknesses, to know which are enthusiastic learners and which are just marking time until they can leave school. She’s got to know the results of her predecessor’s teaching, too, something she’s far from impressed by and determined to offset – even if it is going to take up much of her free time.

And so she’s spent her Saturday visiting every one of her students’ homes, discussing the possibility of extra tutoring with their parents. Reactions have been – well, variable, to say the least. She’s hoping that once she’s been here a little longer a few more might be open to the idea, although of course she’s also well aware that familiarity might turn things against her. Muriel is almost certain, however, that the Cuthberts will agree.

Almost certain. There's just enough doubt in her mind to make her feel anxious, especially after the refusals she’s already received today.

‘Extra tutoring,’ Marilla repeats, once Muriel has said her piece.

I was wrong, Muriel thinks, her heart sinking. ‘At a time that’s convenient to you, of course,’ she says, determined not to give up without a fight. ‘And that doesn’t interfere with Anne’s chores.’

‘It’s a good job Anne isn’t here,’ Marilla says.

Muriel’s heart sinks further.

‘Or else she’d already be fetching her books and peppering you with questions.’

Muriel stares at Marilla, watches as she sips her tea, sees her smile around the rim of her cup but still doesn’t quite comprehend.

‘Are you quite alright?’ Marilla asks, frowning.

‘Yes,’ Muriel smiles, finally parsing Marilla’s words. ‘I’ve just had a lot of rejections today and it took me a while to catch up.’

‘I wish I could say I was surprised. But Matthew and I want to give Anne all the opportunities that we can, the best life that we can, and a good education is important.’

‘She doesn’t really need extra tutoring,’ Muriel admits. ‘She’s bright, and motivated, and enthusiastic.’

‘She’s certainly that,’ Marilla agrees.

‘But I think she’d benefit from a little more – guidance,’ she settles on. ‘She hasn’t exactly been stretched intellectually. None of them have, to be honest. But I see so much potential in Anne, and I’d like to try and help her realise it. Marilla?’ she asks, when there’s no reply.

‘We weren’t supposed to have her,’ Marilla says quietly. ‘It was a mistake. She almost didn’t have any of these opportunities.’

Muriel senses there’s more to it, more Marilla isn’t telling her, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she reaches for Marilla’s hand. ‘But she does,’ she says simply. And then, to lighten the mood again: ‘Have you worked out where I planted your tulips?’

‘Not yet,’ Marilla replies, with a tiny smile.

‘Excellent,’ Muriel grins. ‘I was thinking I might send off for some more bulbs for next spring, perhaps some crocuses? I know there are probably plenty growing wild but I do so love them.’

Now Marilla’s smile widens, becomes a proper smile. ‘I’ll confess, they are a favourite of mine.’

‘Well, that settles it then. I shall order enough for us both, and our gardens will be a riot of purple and gold for us to enjoy. Assuming, of course, that I’m still here to enjoy them.’

‘Surely you’re not thinking of leaving?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Muriel reassures her. ‘If I leave, it won’t be my decision. Avonlea has stolen my heart,’ she adds. ‘I just need to try not to ruffle too many feathers, else it’ll be out of my hands.’

‘Please do try,’ Marilla implores. ‘Not at the expense of your teaching, or being true to yourself,’ she adds. ‘But–’

‘I will,’ Muriel replies, squeezing her hand. ‘I promise.’

Their gazes meet across the table, and Muriel feels an odd tremble deep within her ribcage.

And then there’s the sound of boots on the porch, and Marilla pulls her hand back to her teacup and looks away just as Anne opens the door.

‘Miss Stacy!’ she beams. ‘What a wondrous surprise.’

Muriel feels her brain scramble to catch up as Marilla tells Anne why she’s here, doesn’t quite manage it because Anne’s arms thrown around her neck come as a surprise.

‘I’ll go get my books!’ Anne says, already half way out of the room.

‘You’re not starting this instant, Anne,’ Marilla calls after her.

‘Next week, I promise,’ Muriel says when the girl turns around, her face falling. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve worked out a schedule – but you’re to check it’s convenient with Marilla.’

‘I will,’ Anne promises, all smiles again, dashing off upstairs.

‘I’ll make sure she does,’ Marilla says. She hesitates a moment, then adds, ‘but you’re always welcome here, tutoring session or no.’

‘Thank you,’ Muriel smiles, ignoring another tremble. ‘And you’re always welcome to visit me too. Although preferably without Mrs Lynde, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’ll try my best not to inflict her on you any more than is absolutely necessary,’ Marilla says conspiratorially, smiling in return.

*

Muriel sends a message via Anne, just as she promised she would and, just as she promised she would, Marilla approves the time she has suggested she come to Green Gables for Anne’s first tutoring session. When Saturday comes around, Anne brings all of her books downstairs immediately after breakfast and settles at the table to pore over them, until Marilla chases her out to do her chores under pain of missing the start of her session if they aren’t finished by the time Muriel arrives.

Which leaves her alone in the house. The room is already clean but she sets to cleaning it again, unable to settle.

‘I don’t know what you’re nervous about,’ she mutters to herself as she wipes down the table again, cloth swiping around the stack of Anne’s books. ‘It’s not like you’re the student.’

But she is nervous, spends the entire morning flitting around the house, unable to settle to any task. She even has to force herself to eat something at lunch, while Anne sits across from her happily chattering away almost non-stop about all the questions she has for Miss Stacy, yet still manages to clear her plate before Marilla is half way through hers.

They clear up together, Marilla for once trusting Anne’s hands to be steadier than hers with the crockery. For some reason she doesn’t understand hers keep trembling, and she fears slightly for the safety of their plates.

‘May I have a scone, Marilla?’ Anne asks, eyeing up the batch cooling in the kitchen.

‘Not until Miss Stacy gets here,’ Marilla says firmly.

With a longing look at the scones, which Marilla pointedly ignores, Anne goes back to her books. Marilla watches for a moment, envies her ability to focus despite the fact that she’s fizzing with anticipation, wonders if she’d have found school so exciting if she’d had a teacher like Muriel at Anne’s age.

Not that it would have mattered, not that it would have changed anything. She could have been the most intelligent, enthusiastic student, but she still wouldn’t have had the opportunities and Matthew would still have needed her, and that’s that. No point wishing things had been different.

There’s a knock at the door, and Anne jumps up. Marilla smooths her skirt, feels her nameless anxiety disappear when Muriel walks in and smiles at her.

‘Now may I have a scone?’ Anne asks as Muriel takes off her coat and gloves.

‘That all depends on whether Miss Stacy would rather have tea now or when you’ve finished,’ Marilla says, her eyes on the teacher, whose smile has widened at the mention of baked goods.

‘It would probably be more prudent to wait,’ Muriel replies, with clear reluctance. ‘However, that would likely make me late to the Barry’s. We’ll just have to be careful not to smear jam all over the books,’ she says conspiratorially to Anne.

‘I’ll make some tea,’ Marilla says, smiling to herself. She can’t imagine Anne’s books are going to remain smear free, suspects Muriel’s might not either if her generous spreading of jam last time is anything to go by.

And her tendency to get covered in dirt or oil – or probably ink, Marilla thinks as she sets the kettle to boil, prepares the teapot, plates three scones. In the other room, Anne is already firing questions at Muriel, far faster than she could possibly answer them. And then she hears Muriel’s voice, just as fast and passionate as Anne’s, thinks Anne might finally have met her match when it comes to both curiosity and loquaciousness.

Kindred spirits indeed, she thinks with a smile when she walks back in to find them with their heads bent close over a book, when they both look at her at the same time and their faces light up at the sight of the scones.

Marilla sits at the other side of the table and takes up some sewing from her basket. But despite her intention to spend the next hour working through the pile of mending, her hands soon lie idle in her lap.

To start with, it’s because she’s impressed by the way Muriel deals with Anne’s tendency to run wild along tangent after tangent and to get caught up in flights of fancy, the way she subtly and skilfully guides her back towards the topic at hand without Anne even noticing.

And then it’s because of the way Muriel expounds on the planets. Marilla has never given much thought to celestial bodies beyond the sun and the moon, and the stars they can see wheeling slowly across the sky night after night. She has a brief flash of memory, of staring up at the stars with Rebecca, of joining the bright pinpricks of light into patterns and shapes, like the game they had played as children of finding pictures in the clouds. Of staring up at the stars after Rebecca left, the pinpricks smeared by her tears, wondering if Rebecca was looking up at them too.

It’s gone almost as soon as it arrived, and she’s back in this moment, hearing Anne perfectly recite the names of the planets, all eight of them, names that Marilla only barely recognises, names she never learned at school. Neptune had scarcely even been discovered when she was at school. She hasn’t missed the information, could happily have gone the rest of her life not knowing any of this. And yet.

And yet.

Now here she is, rapt, would willingly sit and listen to Muriel speak about orbits and comets and moons all afternoon. She even dares to ask a question, doesn’t know whether she or Anne or Muriel is more surprised, and feels something she doesn’t know how to name when Muriel looks at her for the full length of her answer.

It changes, after that. Muriel begins to look at her more often, begins to include her, as if she’s teaching both of them. Marilla feels somewhat adrift – her own schooling entirely failed to cover astronomy, after all – but she feels herself get swept along in all the enthusiasm on the other side of the table, just like she did in Muriel’s lesson on electricity.

And then Muriel glances at her watch. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she exclaims. ‘Where has the time gone? I should have been at the Barry’s a quarter of an hour ago.’

As Muriel scrambles to gather her books and papers, Marilla feels a heavy weight of disappointment. It feels like Muriel only arrived mere minutes ago, but she’s been here well over an hour, and Marilla wishes for nothing more than to keep her here.

Foolish woman, she thinks, hurrying into the kitchen to wrap some scones for Muriel before the teacher vanishes.

‘For me?’ Muriel asks when Marilla holds them out to her.

‘No, for Mrs Barry,’ Marilla replies drily. ‘Of course they’re for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Muriel smiles. ‘And I’m so sorry for getting carried away and losing track of time like that.’

‘No need to apologise,’ Marilla says. ‘I’m sure Anne would gladly have kept you here all afternoon.’

‘And you?’ Muriel asks quietly, her eyes fixed on Marilla’s.

‘I wouldn’t have complained,’ she replies. ‘I’d never complain about your company.’

*

When she gets home that evening, Muriel sits down with her schedule and adjusts it.

‘I really ought to have predicted needing longer at Green Gables,’ she says to herself. ‘What with Anne’s abundant enthusiasm.’

Adding some more time is simply for that reason, and that reason alone.

But it’s Marilla she’s thinking of as she inserts an extra half hour between Anne and Diana. And it’s Marilla she’s thinking of when she dismounts her bicycle to open the gate to Green Gables and walks up to the door the following Saturday.

This week, Marilla has placed a plate of thin little cookies sandwiched together with jam in the middle of the table, is already pouring water into the teapot as she and Anne sit down. For a moment Muriel is worried Marilla won’t be joining them but she sits too, and though her basket of mending is beside her and she takes up a sock to darn, Muriel’s certain she doesn’t sew a single stitch.

Even with the additional time she allowed, and even with her pocket watch on the table right in front of her, Muriel overruns again, so caught up in answering questions from both Anne and Marilla, in pouring as much information as possible into two open, curious minds.

‘Would it be terribly inconvenient,’ she asks when Marilla hands her a package of cookies to take home with her, ‘if I were to call later next week? That way, I won’t have to go on to the Barry’s afterwards.’

‘We’re keeping you too long,’ Marilla frowns.

‘No,’ Muriel says quickly. ‘I enjoy my time here. It’s such a joy to have such an inquisitive and attentive student – and parent. I just don’t want Mrs Barry to hate both of us because I’m continually late to tutoring sessions I’ve organised.’

Marilla says nothing as she silently searches Muriel’s face. ‘Later will be just fine,’ she says eventually.

Muriel smiles all the way to the Barry’s, smiles again when she fishes the slightly crushed and oozing cookies out of her bag for an evening snack with her book.

*

Calling at Green Gables later works well, for a few weeks at least. Until Muriel forgets that it’s Ruby’s birthday, that all of the girls have been invited for afternoon tea. She doesn’t remember until she calls at the Barry’s and finds Diana isn’t there, feels somewhat embarrassed under Mrs Barry’s gaze – one that clearly communicates her disbelief that the woman teaching her daughter has failed to remember something she was reminded of only the day before.

It leaves her at something of a loss, as she pushes her bicycle away from the house. It’s not that she has nothing to do. Far from it: she’s still reshaping the curriculum as she goes along, and simultaneously preparing for the start of the next school year. It’s just that she’s got so used to spending her Saturdays visiting students, and going home this early in the afternoon feels wrong.

From here, Muriel can see Green Gables. Her feet follow her gaze, and she’s at the gate almost before she realises she’s been walking towards it. Marilla is probably busy, she thinks. Probably making the most of an undisturbed afternoon – undisturbed by her as well as by Anne.  She’s just about to turn and head for home when the kitchen door opens and Marilla steps onto the porch. She shakes a cloth out and then looks up, right at her. Muriel raises a hand in greeting, and when Marilla does the same she opens the gate and pushes her bicycle up to the house.

‘Anne’s not here,’ Marilla tells her, frowning.

‘I know,’ Muriel replies. ‘At least, I know now that Mrs Barry has reminded me.’

Marilla says nothing, just keeps on looking at her, and Muriel realises she has in no way answered Marilla’s implied question.

‘You’re probably busy, especially seeing as I keep on taking up your Saturday afternoons, but I wondered if you might have time for a cup of tea?’

Instantly, Marilla smiles. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

*

Two weeks later, and even though it’s June now there’s a torrential downpour as Muriel is wrapping things up with Anne. It’s been threatening all day, the sky full of glowering clouds and the heavy, oppressive feel of a building storm. Muriel had hoped it would hold off until she got home – and if she hadn’t stayed so late into the evening she would have been right – but with an ominous roll of thunder the rain starts, and is soon sheeting down.

‘Miss Stacy, your bicycle!’ Anne exclaims, dashing outside.

Muriel follows her out onto the porch, but Anne has already splashed through the quickly forming puddles and is pushing the bicycle towards the house. She hears footsteps behind her, feels Marilla’s hand on her arm.

‘No point both of you going out in it,’ she says, having to raise her voice above another roll of thunder.

By the time Anne lifts the bicycle into the safety of the porch, she’s drenched. It doesn’t stop her from hopping back down and lifting her face to the sky, though, the widest smile on her face, her braids flying as she twirls around.

‘Anne!’ Marilla calls. ‘You’ll get soaked through!’

‘I already am!’ Anne laughs. ‘Isn’t it just spectacular?’

Silently, Muriel agrees with her, breathes in the freshness and imagines she can feel the power of the storm’s electricity as they see a distant flash of lightning, stark white against the clouds, and hear the accompanying thunder.

‘Looks set in for the next while,’ Marilla says, craning to look at as much sky as she can without getting wet. ‘You’d best stay for supper.’

‘Are you sure?’ Muriel frowns.

‘I can hardly send you home in this,’ Marilla says firmly, as if that settles the matter. ‘Anne, please come in! You’ll catch your death.’

Eventually Anne relents, and when she goes upstairs to dry off and change, Muriel finds herself alone in the kitchen with Marilla, bustling about gathering ingredients for supper.

‘Can I do anything to help?’ she offers.

‘You’re a guest,’ Marilla says, apparently almost horrified at the thought. ‘And an unwilling one at that, trapped here by the weather.’

‘Well, you’re just as unwilling a hostess,’ Muriel points out. ‘So I’m afraid I must insist.’

‘Very well,’ Marilla says, the put upon tone in her voice belied by the smile quirking the corner of her mouth.

She holds out a potato and a knife and Muriel takes them both with a smile, and side by side they chop vegetables, the rain the only sound between them.

*

It’s still raining when Matthew gets in, looking like he’s soaked to the skin and in danger of catching a chill. Marilla tries not to let the worry into her voice – worry that she feels every time he overexerts himself, or becomes angry, or does anything that might strain his heart – but the look Muriel gives her across the kitchen suggests she hasn’t been entirely successful. To her credit, though, she doesn’t mention it, doesn’t ask what’s behind it, doesn’t make Marilla articulate the fear of losing her brother that is her near constant companion, however much she tries not to think about it.

Instead, Muriel talks, fills the silences between rolls of thunder with words that mostly don’t require Marilla to respond. In the last few years, Marilla thinks, this kitchen has heard more words than it has in the rest of her life put together, what with Anne and now Muriel. What surprises her more than anything is that she wouldn’t have it any other way, that sitting down for supper and listening to the pair of them talk while she and Matthew barely contribute a word feels like the most natural thing in the world.

‘Would you like to stay for supper again next week?’ it makes her ask Muriel as she’s preparing to leave, the rain having passed over while they were eating.

Muriel turns from putting her books into the basket on the front of her bicycle, gives her an almost interrogating look that Marilla imagines she uses on students when trying to establish if they’re being truthful or not.

‘This isn’t because I feel obliged,’ Marilla says quietly, before Muriel can follow the look with a question. ‘I enjoy your company – we all do. But you shouldn’t feel obliged either. I won’t be offended if you say no.’

‘I enjoy your company too,’ Muriel says, smiling. And I’d be delighted to accept.’

Marilla smiles too, stands there on the porch and watches until Muriel is through the gate and then out of sight, a warm and contented feeling filling her.

Chapter 3

Somehow, the end of the school year arrives. Muriel still has her tutoring sessions with Prissy Andrews and the other older students who are leaving, adds a few more to make sure they’re going to be ready for the Queen’s entrance exams, but other than that her days are suddenly empty.

But while she has all of this time yawning in front of her, everyone else now has less time, even though the days are longer, because of the harvest. Most of her students are, of course, involved, and most of their parents can’t – or won’t – free them from their chores for what they see as unnecessary extra tutoring. Not that many of the children want to be spending any free time they have over the summer inside with her anyway – apart from dear Anne, of course.

So Muriel splits her time between her empty cottage alone and her near empty schoolroom with the oldest students, finishing her preparations for the following year, trying to balance what she wants to do – what she feels her students need to know – with what she thinks the Board and the Progressive Mothers will accept. In between she takes long walks and bicycle rides around Avonlea – and visits Green Gables. Sometimes she talks to Anne about whatever is on her mind, sometimes she gets roped into helping with the harvest – and sometimes, when Anne is off with Diana, she spends time with Marilla.

Those hours in the garden or the kitchen always seem to speed away the fastest, Anne or Matthew arriving back when Muriel feels like she’s only just got there. It’s been a long time since Muriel found someone she could comfortably spend so much time with: reading to Marilla as she bakes, or kneeling side by side pulling weeds from around the vegetables, or just talking over tea or as they shell peas on the porch. She’d hoped for peace and quiet when she came to Avonlea, hoped to make a difference to the lives of her students, and to maybe find a place she could belong for a while. She hadn’t expected to make a real friend, to find somewhere she truly wanted to stay, somewhere she could see herself staying.

She looks up from weeding between the rows of carrots and onions, looks over to where Marilla is pulling carrot thinnings.

If only Jonah could see her now.

If only their friends could see her now.

They’ll never believe me, she thinks, wiping her hand across her forehead. They’ll never believe that this is how I live, that this is how I want to live.

It feels an age ago, almost as if that life of adventure belonged to someone else.

‘When is it that you’re leaving?’ Marilla asks her over tea, drunk sitting on the porch where they can catch the light breeze, cooling the sweat on their foreheads.

‘Next Thursday,’ Muriel replies.

Because, much as it feels like another woman’s past, she’s about to step into a summer adventure: a short visit to her parents, and then a trip to Boston and the Massachusetts coast with some of her and Jonah’s friends. It’s been planned since just after he died, a return to one of Jonah’s favourite places to mark his first birthday without him there to celebrate with them.

For a fleeting moment, Muriel suddenly doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to go back into that world – doesn’t want to leave this one, this new life, these new friends. And then she feels disloyal to Jonah, to the friends who comforted and sustained them both through his illness, who comforted and sustained her when he died, who encouraged her to go on an adventure all of her own.

It’s thanks to them that she’s here, even if being a village schoolteacher on this little island hadn’t been quite the sort of adventure they had in mind.

‘You must miss him terribly,’ Marilla says quietly.

‘I do,’ Muriel replies. ‘But being here helps – being somewhere new, somewhere that’s mine and not ours.’

And it’s true. She knows she will always miss Jonah, knows she will always love him, knows she will always regret that they didn’t have longer together. But it’s hurting a little less with time, with being absorbed in her teaching and her new life. With having students like Anne, and friends like Marilla.

Marilla nods, and gazes out across the fields. Her fingers catch at the fabric of her apron, twisting it in a way Muriel knows means she’s unsettled.

‘You’ve helped,’ she says quietly, reaching to still Marilla’s hand.

‘Me?’ Marilla looks at her, confused.

‘You made me feel welcome here, made me feel like I could belong here. I hadn’t realised how much I needed that.’

‘I hadn’t realised how much we needed you,’ Marilla replies softly.

Muriel can’t speak around the lump in her throat, just smiles and squeezes Marilla’s hand.

*

‘You are coming back, aren’t you, Miss Stacy? I’m so terribly afraid you’ll get swept away in your adventuring, that you’ll fall in love with it all over again and forget all about quiet little Avonlea.’

It’s Wednesday, the day before Muriel leaves, and she’s come to Green Gables to give Anne a stack of books to keep her busy over the rest of the summer. Marilla holds her breath, hands hovering above a fresh tray of cookies, waiting for Muriel to answer.

‘Of course I’m coming back, Anne.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise,’ Muriel replies.

‘Will you swear it?’ Anne insists, and Marilla knows she’ll be holding out her pinky finger.

‘I swear,’ Muriel says solemnly.

Marilla hadn’t realised how worried she was that Muriel might never come back from her adventure, that she might lose this burgeoning friendship, until this precise moment, until relief floods her so fast she feels unsteady and has to grip the edge of the table.

‘Oh, I don’t know which to start with!’ Anne cries. ‘I want to read them all right now. Thank you, Miss Stacy. Have a wonderful trip, I already can’t wait to hear all about it when you get back!’

Marilla hears the thundering of Anne’s boots up the stairs and into her room, knows that she’ll be sprawled on her bed gleefully looking at each of the books Muriel has lent her until one catches her imagination so much that she can’t put it down.

‘You all packed and ready?’ Marilla asks.

‘Packed, yes. Ready? Not quite sure,’ Muriel replies.

‘Surely a few months in Avonlea hasn’t drained the adventurer from your soul?’ Marilla teases.

‘No,’ Muriel smiles. ‘I know I’ll have a wonderful time, and I’m looking forward to seeing my old friends again, it’s just – well, I’d rather like to see what the rest of the summer is like here.’

‘There’s always next summer. If you refrain from organising another adventure, that is.’

Marilla tries to keep her voice level, tries not to betray her worry that Muriel is only here temporarily, that even if she comes back to Avonlea in the autumn she won’t stay long after that, that she’s going to tire of country life – especially when she’s reminded of all that the world has to offer. She sees a flash of chestnut hair in her mind’s eye, feels her heart ache at the thought of losing Muriel like she lost Rebecca.

‘I do so want to see this County Fair that I’ve been hearing all about,’ Muriel replies wistfully, and the image of Rebecca vanishes at the sound of her voice.

‘Well then,’ Marilla says. ‘Next year. Here – for the journey,’ she adds, holding out a package of cookies.

‘You spoil me,’ Muriel smiles, taking them from her.

Or rather, Marilla expects her to take them. What she actually does is take hold of the package, her fingers over Marilla’s, her eyes fixed on Marilla’s.

‘I’m going to miss you,’ she says quietly.

‘I expect you’ll barely have the time,’ Marilla replies lightly. ‘But we’ll definitely miss you. I’ll miss you,’ she adds, more seriously.

Muriel gently presses her fingers against the cloth then releases them. Marilla only draws them away slowly, feels the loss of Muriel’s warmth immediately and clasps her own hands together as a substitute.

‘I’ll see you when I get home,’ Muriel promises.

She lingers a moment longer, and Marilla thinks she’s going to say something else, but she just smiles and turns away. Marilla watches from the porch as she walks down the drive, as she opens the gate, as she closes it and then pauses. She waves, smiles when Muriel waves in return, and then forces herself to go back inside.

*

A fortnight later, and despite how busy they are with the harvest Marilla misses Muriel. She hadn’t realised quite how used to the teacher’s visits she’d become, finds herself half expecting Muriel for Anne’s Saturday afternoon tutoring sessions, half expecting each knock on the door to be Muriel and only remembering that she’s not in Avonlea when she sees that it’s Rachel.

Finds herself thinking of the summer after Rebecca left, when even helping with the harvest and running the house and looking after Matthew and their mother wasn’t enough to keep her from lying awake in bed at night, her heart sore with loss.

*

A fortnight later again, and she still misses her. The labour of the harvest might be physically taxing, but it hardly occupies Marilla’s mind. In fact, the repetitive, mindless tasks provide fertile ground for her thoughts to roam – not to other tasks that need doing, not to the errands she needs to run tomorrow, not to the chores she needs to ask Anne to do, but to Muriel.

Muriel, who is probably having such a good time with her brave, adventurous friends that she hasn’t spared them a single thought since she left.

But she’s wrong.

She meets Rachel when she’s running her errands, steps into the Post Office with her so she can send a letter to Thomas Junior.

‘Miss Cuthbert,’ the clerk says when he sees her. ‘One for you and one for Miss Anne.’

‘I thought you didn’t need to come in here,’ Rachel says, slightly accusingly.

‘I didn’t think I did,’ Marilla replies, frowning as she takes two postcards from the clerk.

One glance at the image on the top card is enough for her to know who they’re from, enough to make her slip them into her basket before Rachel finishes her business and tries to sneak a look at them, much as she wants to turn them over and read the contents immediately.

Because the picture is of Boston Harbour, which means they must be from Muriel, and though she doesn’t know why, Marilla doesn’t want to share that with Rachel.

The rest of their errands seem to take forever. Marilla’s thoughts keep straying to the postcards in her basket, and she knows Rachel knows she’s distracted, keeps waiting for her to demand to know who’s been writing to her, what’s got her so preoccupied, but she doesn’t. Eventually they’re both finished, and Marilla refuses Rachel’s offer of tea – only made, she knows, because Rachel is desperate to know about the postcards, and Marilla has so far managed to fend her off – and makes her way back home alone.

Marilla stops just before she’s in sight of Green Gables, takes the postcards from her full basket with slightly trembling fingers. The first, the one of the harbour, is addressed to Miss A. Shirley-Cuthbert. The second, of a beautifully laid out public garden is, just as the clerk said, addressed to her.

‘Dear Marilla,

Boston is invigorating and exciting and exhausting. I feel certain you would love the gardens here. We begin our trip along the coast tomorrow, and I must admit I’m looking forward to a little less bustle! Much as I’m enjoying myself, I also find myself missing Avonlea. I can’t wait to tell you about everything I’ve seen.

Muriel.’

Marilla reads the short message once, reads it again, smooths her thumb across the ink and smiles.

Muriel hasn’t forgotten them.

As soon as she gets home Marilla goes upstairs, props her postcard against the mirror while she removes her hat and shawl, while she puts both neatly away. Part of her wants to leave it there, where she can see it every time she walks into the room, every time she sits to pin her hair. But, just like she didn’t want to share it with Rachel, Marilla also doesn’t want to share it with her family, even though Muriel is a friend to all of them, even though there’s nothing remarkable about the card or the message.

So instead she picks it up, reads the message again and imagines Muriel writing it, then tucks it inside the copy of Jane Eyre that Josephine Barry gave to Anne, replacing the fraying piece of ribbon she’s been using as a bookmark.

Anne, Marilla’s complete opposite as she so often is, reads Muriel’s message on her postcard out loud, passes it around so they can all see it, talks about what she knows about Boston and how much she wants to travel when she’s older, how Muriel is a role model to her in her adventuring as well as in so many other ways.

Marilla makes no mention of her own card. When the conversation moves on she feels a little foolish, knows it’s too late to mention it now; it would be odd, would make it seem like she had something to hide. But at the same time she feels warm inside at the thought of it being her secret – hers alone – tucked safely into the book on her nightstand, where only she will see it.

When she goes to bed that night, Jane Eyre falls open naturally to where Muriel’s postcard sits. Marilla takes it out, looks at the picture of the gardens and imagines Muriel standing there looking at the same view in person, imagines Muriel finding the postcard and thinking of her. She turns it over, reads it again and smiles, then places it on her lap while she reads a few pages.

She reads it every night, even though she doesn’t need to, even though she knows every word by heart.

Chapter 4

Notes:

If you'd like to listen to what I've been listening to on repeat while writing this, you can find the playlist here.

It’s late when Muriel gets back, exhausted from travelling. She looks around her cottage, sighs and smiles.

‘It’s good to be home,’ she says to the quiet, empty room, and then yawns.

Unpacking anything can wait, she decides, and heads straight for bed.

She forgets to close the curtains, and the sun rouses her far earlier than she really wants to be awake. She lies still for a long moment, revelling in being in her own bed, on her own again after having spent the past weeks constantly surrounded by others.

I used to live like that, she thinks as she stretches out muscles still sore from the long journey back to Avonlea.

Now she can’t imagine being anywhere else, can’t imagine not being surrounded by this stillness, not being able to hear the birds just outside her window. Can’t imagine not spending her time in this place, with these people.

That thought propels her out of bed and to her closet, to find something suitable for church. She doesn’t have all that many options but it takes her longer than it should to settle on an outfit.

As usual, she’s one of the last to arrive, just barely on time thanks to her indecision and the way she lingered on the walk over, reacquainting herself with her route, revelling in how summer has changed the trees while she’s been away. But finally she slips into what has become her seat, sharing a pew with Gilbert and Bash and Mary, smiles when they welcome her back. She hears the sudden rise in the susurration of quiet conversations around the room, smiles as other students and parents turn around to look at her. But she keeps glancing towards the Cuthberts’ pew, smiles widely when Anne twists in her seat and grins at her, feels her heart flutter and then settle when Anne nudges Marilla and she looks around at her too.

The service feels even longer than usual and Muriel regrets coming, wishes she’d just allowed herself to spend the morning wandering instead and arrived as everyone was leaving the church: she’s here for the people, after all, not for the Minister’s droning sermon which, if she were listening properly, she would no doubt find denounces some aspect or other of her own life.

‘Miss Stacy!’

Muriel turns from Bash and Mary just in time for Anne to collide with her, arms wrapping around her. The girl seems to have shot up while Muriel has been away, and she wonders what else she’s missed.

‘It’s good to see you too, Anne,’ Muriel smiles.

‘Did you have the most glorious adventure? Your postcard made it sound like you were. And the picture,’ Anne rushes on, before Muriel can say a word. ‘Oh, it made me feel like I was there. Boston is at the very top of my list of places I want to visit when I go on my own adventures. Was it really as incredible as it looks?’

‘It was certainly quite the sight,’ Muriel replies.

‘You have to tell me all about it,’ Anne insists. ‘You should come for lunch. Marilla, can Miss Stacy come for lunch?’

‘Has Miss Stacy been consulted about this?’ Marilla asks dryly. ‘You look fair ready to drop,’ she adds, studying Muriel and no doubt seeing the lingering tiredness from her journey home. ‘Perhaps dinner instead – or tomorrow, if you’d prefer? If you’d like to come, that is.’

‘I would like to, very much. Would this evening suit you?’

Marilla nods. ‘It’s nothing fancy,’ she warns – as if Muriel doesn’t already know how they eat, as if Muriel has never shared a meal at Green Gables before.

‘Sounds perfect,’ Muriel smiles, and then has to stifle a yawn.

‘Go on, off home with you and have a nap,’ Marilla says fondly, her fingers just brushing Muriel’s arm.

‘Your mother is full of excellent ideas,’ Muriel says to Anne in a stage whisper. She glances up to see a shocked little smile on Marilla’s face, realises Marilla may never have been referred to as a mother before. ‘I’ll see you later. And I might have a little treat from my travels,’ she adds teasingly, watching Anne’s face light up.

*

It’s Matthew who opens the door for her, who shows her into the kitchen where Marilla is standing over a pot on the stove.

‘Feeling better?’ she asks when she turns around, spoon in hand.

‘Much, thank you,’ Muriel smiles. ‘What is that? It smells wonderful.’

‘It’s just soup,’ Marilla replies. ‘I did warn you it wouldn’t be fancy.’

‘I wasn’t expecting fancy. But after days of eating while travelling, I think this is just what I need.’

‘Miss Stacy, you’re here!’ Anne exclaims, her arrival in the room heralded by a clatter of boots. ‘I’ve missed your visits so much.’

‘Did you enjoy the books I lent you?’

‘Oh, so much,’ Anne says emphatically.

Muriel listens as she launches into raptures, pays close enough attention to be able to both ask and answer questions. Her eyes keep straying to Marilla, though, as she finishes and then ladles out the soup. As they eat, the conversation turns to her trip. Between spoonfuls of soup and bites of bread she tells them all about her friends and her brief stop in Toronto; about Boston, about the Botanical Museum and the Museums of Comparative Zoology and Natural History and Fine Art; about Cape Cod’s coastline of beaches and sand dunes and cliffs, about the seals bobbing in the sea and the birds wheeling overhead; answers all of Anne’s pressing enquiries about each of these in as much detail as she can. Between this and Marilla and Matthew’s quiet presence, Muriel feels her soul settle, the lingering vibrations of travel finally dissipating.

I feel at home, she thinks, as she and Anne insist on clearing the table and washing the dishes, despite Marilla’s protestation that Muriel is their guest.

‘Hardly!’ Anne scoffs. ‘She’s here so often – or she was, anyway. Abandoning us to go on an adventure doesn’t change that.’

Muriel intends to leave after that, to leave the Cuthberts’ to have the remainder of their Sunday evening in peace, but when Marilla asks if she’d like a cup of tea there’s a hopeful look in her eyes that Muriel is unwilling to dispel, quite aside from Anne’s wish for her to stay. So she allows herself to be shepherded into the parlour and onto the sofa, Anne sitting on one side of her and Marilla on the other.

‘Oh!’ she exclaims as she sits down, and reaches into her pocket. ‘I clear forgot about your souvenir.’

Anne’s face lights up even more as she takes the little package from her, as she carefully unwraps the brown paper to reveal the small trinket box decorated all over with tiny sea shells.

‘All the way from Falmouth,’ Muriel tells her.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Anne says quietly, fingers running over the ridges and twists and glossy curves of the shells. ‘Thank you, Miss Stacy.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ Muriel smiles. ‘Actually, there’s something I was hoping to ask your advice on – all of you.’

‘Go on,’ Marilla coaxes.

‘It was an idea I had while I was away – well, actually it was prompted by something one of my friends said, but anyway,’ she stops herself, realising she’s beginning to ramble. ‘What do you think of the idea of a community newspaper? The Avonlea Gazette, written by my oldest students and distributed for free.’

‘A newspaper?’ Anne practically squeals, bouncing up and down beside her. ‘Oh Miss Stacy, I’m already just brimming with ideas for articles.’

Anne jumps up and starts pacing around the room, talking a mile a minute, but Muriel looks at first Matthew, then Marilla.

‘I knew she’d be enthusiastic about it,’ Muriel says quietly. ‘But what do you think? Do I stand a chance of getting this past the Board, or is it a terrible idea?’

‘What would they write about?’ Matthew asks.

‘News and events in the community,’ Muriel replies. ‘Topics of local interest.’

‘Could be a good thing, I think,’ Matthew nods, and looks at Anne, who’s still chattering away, her eyes alight, regardless of the fact that none of them are listening. ‘Might help keep certain young people busy and out of trouble.’

‘I’m not sure anything can keep her out of trouble,’ Marilla mutters fondly. ‘But I agree with Matthew. Whether the Board will, however, is quite another matter.’

Muriel nods glumly. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it and got Anne’s hopes up.’

‘I hope you’re not giving up just like that, Muriel Stacy,’ Marilla says sharply. ‘Why don’t you come over sometime this week and tell me a little more, and then I’ll see what I can do about convincing Rachel. If we can get her on our side, that’s at least half the battle won.’

‘She’s certainly a difficult woman to dissuade, once she’s got an idea in her head,’ Muriel agrees. ‘Do you really think it could work?’

‘I do,’ Marilla replies with a smile.

*

A few days later, Muriel appears while Marilla is pegging out the washing, comes unbidden to her side and helps her until the basket is empty and the line is full.

‘Anne has barely stopped talking about the newspaper,’ Marilla tells her as they walk inside. ‘I think journalist has been added to her ever-expanding list of potential careers.’

‘That girl is going to need a hundred lifetimes to get through all her aspirations,’ Muriel laughs.

‘Well, why don’t we see if we can’t start her off on one of them now? What were you thinking, for the paper?’

So Marilla listens as Muriel outlines her ideas, illustrating them with the sheaf of newspapers she’s brought with her. Her enthusiasm makes her eyes bright, her whole face alight and passion in her voice, just like when Marilla first saw her teach all those months ago.

‘I won’t make any promises,’ Marilla says when she’s finished, ‘but I think Rachel will like the idea. As long as you’re not going to be stepping on her toes when it comes to spreading gossip, that is.’

Muriel looks at her sharply, her mouth already open to protest, but she closes it again when she sees Marilla’s teasing smile.

‘Now, how about some fresh tea?’

‘That would be lovely – if I’m not keeping you from anything important?’

‘You’re important,’ Marilla says softly.

It’s an effort to tear her eyes from Muriel’s but she does, turns away to put the kettle back on the heat, to fetch the tea caddy so she can add more leaves to the pot.

‘Will you tell me what I missed while I was away?’ Muriel asks.

‘Nothing exciting, I’m afraid.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Muriel smiles. ‘But I’d still like to know. While I was away I realised Avonlea truly feels like home now. I want to know about all the little things I’ve missed, because they matter to me just as much as the big things.’

‘I was worried,’ Marilla says as she pours water into the teapot, ‘that Avonlea would seem too small and dull after you’d been back out into the world.’

‘Excitement is all very well,’ Muriel replies. ‘But it loses its appeal if that’s all you have. Besides, I wouldn’t call life here dull – not with Anne around. And not,’ she adds, reaching across the table for Marilla’s hand, ‘when I have good friends to share it with.’

Suddenly reminded of their boarders, of how they had professed a wish to make Avonlea their home while deceiving them all along, Marilla studies Muriel’s face. But, as always, there’s nothing there but honesty – and she knows Muriel well enough by now to know how poorly she can hide her feelings.

So she pours them each another cup of tea and sits down again, tells Muriel about their summer, about how Matthew narrowly lost out to Jack at the County Fair again but she retained her red ribbon for another year, about how each crop has harvested so far, about the trip Anne persuaded them to take to the beach again (about the same trip last year, when Anne launched herself into the sea and almost drowned, about how Matthew taught her to keep herself afloat, about how worried she’d been that Anne had forgotten and how relieved she was when her head only dipped beneath the water before coming back up again), about all the mundanities of their lives.

‘I’ve missed so much,’ Muriel says with a sigh, when Marilla finally reaches the day before they saw each other again.

‘Nothing that won’t happen again next summer,’ Marilla assures her. ‘Nothing you won’t be able to share with us.’

Chapter 5

Autumn comes, and with it the end of the harvest and the start of the new school year. Suddenly Muriel’s life is full again, even fuller than it was before, what with after school sessions both to begin preparing Anne’s cohort for the Queen’s entrance exams and to lay the groundwork to get the Avonlea Gazette up and running.

Because Marilla was right: Rachel was convinced, and it was only a matter of time until the Board was prevailed upon to follow suit. Muriel can’t help but be impressed by the force of the woman, hopes to never again be on the receiving end of it but for now is nothing but grateful. They’re stuck copying by hand until Muriel manages to locate a printing press, so by necessity these newspaper sessions have to be longer and more frequent, and the paper shorter, than she had hoped. But she has a few leads on old, unused, retired printing presses, can only hope one of her pleading missives is successfully answered before any of her reporter’s hands drop off.

Her weekends vanish too, into marking essays and finishing preparations for the following week, into casting her eye over pieces drafted for future editions of the paper and making suggestions and edits. It’s a good thing she no longer feels the need to give individual students extra tutoring sessions any more, otherwise there wouldn’t be enough hours in the week to get everything done.

But no more tutoring sessions, and precious little free time, means no more visits to Green Gables, no more time in the kitchen or garden with Marilla. Muriel doesn’t even manage to make it to church every Sunday morning, and before she knows it a month has gone by since she last saw her friend. She looks at her stack of marking with a sigh, wonders how much she’d regret walking over to Green Gables now and staying up late to get it all finished.

She’s almost convinced herself that she wouldn’t regret it that much when there's a knock at the door – and, as if the universe heard her thoughts, when she opens it she finds Marilla, a basket over her arm.

‘I know you must be busy, what with the newspaper on top of school, so I don’t want to keep you, but I thought some treats might not go amiss.’

She holds out the basket. Muriel takes it, lifts the corner of the cloth covering the contents to find a fruit loaf and a pile of shortbread fingers.

‘You spoil me,’ she smiles, and thinks she sees the slightest blush colour Marilla’s cheeks. ‘I could do with a break from these essays, if you’ve time for tea? Please?’ she insists, when Marilla looks uncertain.

‘That would be very nice,’ Marilla relents with a smile, and follows her inside.

They drink their tea, and eat some of Marilla’s wonderfully crisp, rich shortbread, over the essays and books scattered across the kitchen table. Despite how meticulously clean and ordered Green Gables always is, Muriel doesn’t feel embarrassed by her mess, knows Marilla knows her well enough by now not to judge her for it.

‘We’ve missed you, at home and at church,’ Marilla says hesitantly.

‘I’ve missed you too,’ Muriel replies, irrationally pleased by Marilla’s words. ‘As you can see, I haven’t quite got on top of things yet this school year.’

‘I hope you’re not working yourself too hard,’ Marilla says, looking at her closely. There’s an edge of concern in her voice that confuses Muriel, coming as it does from a woman who seems always to be occupied.

‘As hard as I need to,’ she replies with a shrug. ‘Unlike my predecessor, I’m willing to actually put effort into my students.’

‘I know,’ Marilla says, reaching to pat her hand. ‘And it’s not that I’m not grateful. I just worry, is all.’

‘You don’t need to,’ Muriel smiles, catching at Marilla’s hand before she can draw it back across the table. ‘I promise I’m eating and getting enough sleep.’

Marilla studies her again, and must be satisfied that she’s being honest because she smiles. ‘Anne tells me you’ve been teaching them about magnets.’

And suddenly it’s just like they’re at Green Gables for one of Anne’s tutoring sessions.

‘I have. What I didn’t tell them about, though, was what Thales said about magnets.’

‘Thales?’ Marilla frowns.

‘He was an ancient Greek philosopher, and he’s said to have claimed that magnets have souls.’

Marilla’s frown deepens. ‘Souls? Why on earth would he think that?’

‘We only have fragments of his writing, so we don’t really know. But one interpretation is that magnets almost behave like they’re alive, like they’re seeking things – iron – out. It’s rather touching, don’t you think?’

‘It is,’ Marilla agrees. ‘And I applaud your judgement on not telling Anne.’

‘No doubt she’d have come up with a tragical romance between a magnet and an iron nail,’ Muriel smiles.

‘Which I could well do without,’ Marilla says dryly. ‘She said you showed them how to make patterns with tiny pieces of iron, too.’

Curiosity has crept into Marilla’s voice now, and Muriel wishes she had her magnets and iron filings on hand to demonstrate.

‘Unfortunately my box of scientific tricks is at school,’ she apologises. ‘But I promise I’ll show you sometime, if you’d like?’

‘I would,’ Marilla smiles. ‘If you have the time.’

‘For you, always.’

*

Muriel goes straight to Green Gables after school the following Friday, her magnets and iron filings safely in the basket of her motorised bicycle. It’s been a long week – they all seem to be long weeks at the moment – and she’s tired, but even though she hasn’t made any promises, even though Marilla isn’t expecting her, the thought of waiting until tomorrow morning doesn’t so much as cross her mind. The breeze on her face revives her a little, as does the prospect of tea with Marilla, in the restorative quiet of Green Gables’ kitchen.

She crests the rise, and there is Marilla unpegging a sheet from the washing line, and Muriel’s heart rises too, the tiredness of the week forgotten.

*

‘What do you know about magnets?’ Muriel asks as she opens a small box, taking out a bar magnet and a little jar of coarse, dark powder.

‘They’re attracted to metal,’ Marilla says, thinking back to Anne’s chatter over supper after that lesson. ‘And they have invisible – rings?’ she guesses, knowing it’s not quite right, ‘around them.’

‘Very good,’ Muriel smiles. ‘It’s called a magnetic field, and we can make it visible using these iron filings,’ she adds, holding out the jar to Marilla. ‘Now, in class I thought it prudent to demonstrate this myself, but I think I can trust you.’

She unfolds a sheet of newspaper and spreads it out on the clean table, and then places one of the magnets in the centre.

‘Now, sprinkle the iron filings around the magnet – very lightly, as if you were seasoning a dish.’

Marilla does as she’s told. To begin with nothing appears to happen, but then as she adds more she starts to see little jagged lines curving from all sides of the magnet.

‘If you gently tap the edge of the paper,’ Muriel says quietly.

Marilla does, and suddenly the lines become clearer, as if they’re coming into focus.

She hears Muriel speaking, knows she’s probably explaining what’s happening, telling her what the lines mean and why they’re there. She doesn’t hear the words, though, too caught in the almost magic before her eyes.

*          *          *

Marilla is almost half way to Muriel’s cottage when she sees a familiar figure striding towards her.

‘Marilla!’ Muriel calls. ‘I was just on my way to see you.’

‘If I’d known I’d have stayed home and put the kettle on,’ Marilla teases as she waits for Muriel to reach her.

‘For you,’ Muriel says, holding out the basket she’s carrying – the same basket Marilla brought bread and cookies to her in several weeks before.

‘My own basket? You shouldn’t have,’ she says dryly.

‘Ah, no – it’s what’s inside,’ Muriel grins.

Marilla lifts the cloth and sees a dozen or so flower bulbs.

‘Crocuses,’ Muriel explains. ‘I’d completely forgotten about them, but I don’t think it’s quite too late to plant them for spring. If you’d still like some, of course?’

‘I would,’ Marilla smiles as they turn back the way she came and head towards Green Gables. ‘I’ll admit, I’d forgotten too.’

‘I take it that means you still have no idea where your tulips are?’

‘None at all,’ Marilla replies. She can’t help but smile at Muriel’s delight, at the fact that she remembers, at the memory of that unexpected gift back when they barely knew each other. ‘Are these to be a surprise as well, or am I allowed to help you plant them?’

‘If you must,’ Muriel teases, with an overdramatic sigh.

Which is why, when Anne comes home from spending the morning with Diana, she finds them kneeling beside each other in front of a patch of disturbed earth, the bulbs planted and Marilla wiping a smear of dirt from Muriel’s cheek, a fondly exasperated expression Anne knows only too well on her face.

‘You know,’ Marilla says carefully, as they’re washing up next to each other at the sink, ‘you don’t need an excuse to call.’

She feels Muriel’s gaze on her, but keeps staring out of the window.

‘I know you don’t have a great deal of time to yourself at the moment,’ she continues, ‘so I wouldn’t want you to feel obliged to make it a regular visit, but you’re always welcome here. Lord knows Rachel never bothers to come up with an excuse to impose her company on me.’

‘I wouldn’t want to become like Rachel.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Marilla says quickly, horrified that Muriel has taken her words the wrong way. ‘You have never yet been an imposition, Muriel, and, unlike Rachel, I don’t think you ever could be. I merely meant that if Rachel doesn’t need a reason to call, then neither do you.’

She can see Muriel’s smile dimly reflected in the window, finally looks at her and is taken aback by how fond and genuine it is.

‘You do know, don’t you, that I consider you a dear friend?’

‘I do,’ Muriel replies, her smile widening, and reaches for Marilla’s still wet hand. ‘And I consider you the same.’

Muriel only draws her hand away, and Marilla only looks away from her face, at the clatter of Anne’s boots down the stairs.

Chapter 6

The year turns, the fiery leaves of fall parting company from their trees, leaving only skeletal branches, stark black lines etched against the sky. Muriel had forgotten how chilly the schoolroom was when she first arrived, finds herself glad of her layers of tweed waistcoat and jacket to keep her warm, especially on a Monday morning when the stove struggles to heat the room after two days unlit.

Green Gables, by contrast, is always warm. Muriel wonders how much is due to the stove and the fireplaces, and how much to the welcome she always receives, whether she’s expected or not. Much as she loves Anne and Matthew, it’s the times she spends with just Marilla that Muriel likes best, just like she did in the summer, before her adventure. She likes that she can talk and talk and Marilla doesn’t mind, likes that they can sit in silence and Marilla doesn’t mind, likes that she doesn’t ever feel the need to be somebody who she isn’t.

*

The year turns, and somehow it’s December, and the first serious snowfall of the winter covers Avonlea in a thick blanket of white. Marilla long ago stopped seeing snow as anything other than a nuisance making life harder, albeit a somewhat prettier nuisance than too much rain. Anne, of course, finds it beautiful and enchanting and magical, just like she did last winter, just like Marilla suspects she will every single winter of her life.

She supposes she oughtn’t to be surprised that Muriel is enchanted by it too, considering she shares something of Anne’s poetical nature. But where Marilla’s response to Anne’s delight is to become more displeased, to lean into her dislike, Muriel’s joy is somehow contagious. She even finds herself agreeing when Muriel declares that the view from Green Gables, of endless white fields scarcely blemished by human hand – or foot – is glorious, sublime, breath-taking, when only hours before she’d disagreed with Anne when she said almost exactly the same thing.

The shock of this realisation makes her lose track of what Muriel’s saying.

Why should Muriel’s love of snow affect me any differently to Anne’s?

*

Outside church, the weekend before Christmas, and Muriel is waiting for the Cuthberts, her gaze fixed on the church door. She can hear Anne’s voice over the other, quieter conversations around her, knows Matthew and Marilla won’t be too far behind. But with her entire attention focused like that, even her teacher’s awareness of things happening around her fails to warn her of Rachel Lynde’s approach.

‘Ah, Muriel, I was hoping I’d catch you.’

Too late for escape, Muriel has no choice but to feign a smile. ‘You were? Whatever for?’

‘To invite you to have Christmas dinner with us, of course,’ she replies, with an expression that makes it clear refusal is not an option. ‘Most of the children will be visiting, so it will be a full house.’

‘Well, that does sound lovely, and it’s very kind of you,’ Muriel says, desperately trying to think of a way out.

‘But,’ comes Marilla’s voice from over her shoulder, ‘I’m afraid Muriel has already accepted an invitation to spend Christmas at Green Gables.’

‘Yes,’ Muriel agrees, feeling a rush of relief. ‘So I’m terribly sorry Rachel, but I must decline.’

Rachel looks from her to Marilla and back again, seems temporarily lost for words at the failure of her plan. ‘Well I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,’ she says eventually, with a not entirely convincing smile.

‘With Marilla’s cooking, I have no doubt,’ Muriel smiles.

‘I apologise for the ambush,’ Marilla murmurs once Rachel has left them. ‘But from the look on your face, dinner with the entire Lynde family was not how you wanted to spend your Christmas.’

‘However could you tell?’ Muriel asks dryly.

‘You don’t have to spend it at Green Gables either, if you don’t want to.’

Muriel looks at her, notices the slight movement as she twists her gloved fingers, the cautious hope in her eyes. ‘There’s nowhere I would rather spend Christmas,’ she says sincerely, feeling a bubble of excitement at the thought. ‘As long as you don’t feel forced into it, of course. I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

‘I’d been planning to invite you anyway,’ Marilla confesses. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of you spending Christmas alone – and certainly can’t bear the thought of you having to unwillingly spend it surrounded by the Lyndes. It’s supposed to be a holiday for you, as well as the children, after all.’

‘You were really planning to invite me?’

‘Of course,’ Marilla replies, frowning a little at the question.

‘Have you asked her?’ Anne asks excitedly, appearing at Marilla’s shoulder. ‘Is she coming?’

‘I have, and she is,’ Marilla replies.

‘Then we need to go right away,’ Anne says fervently. ‘Oh, there’s so much decorating and baking I need to do.’

‘There’s really no need to go to additional effort on my behalf,’ Muriel protests.

‘Oh don’t worry, you’re just a handy excuse,’ Marilla replies dryly, as Anne takes her by the elbow and practically drags her away.

*

The morning of Christmas Eve finds Muriel sitting on her bedroom floor, trapped in indecision. Beside her, already neatly wrapped in brown paper decorated with holly leaf shaped potato prints and spruce sprigs and twine, are her gifts for Anne (a small journal with marbled page edges, from a set she bought long ago and still hasn’t used) and Matthew (a tobacco pouch, stitched out of offcuts of Jonah’s clothes that she’s altered for herself).

Giving her pause, though, is her gift for Marilla. She gently shakes out the soft, square shawl and looks at it, remembers the moment in Taunton, where they stayed overnight on the first leg of the journey home from Cape Cod, when she caught a glimpse of the muted plum and blue paisley and instantly thought of Marilla, bought it on impulse without really thinking about it.

And then when she had pulled Anne’s shell box from where it had spent the journey home nestled safely among her clothes, the scarf folded around it, it suddenly struck her that the two were not comparable, that the beautiful scarf was no trinket, no mere souvenir.

I can’t just give it to her with no reason, she had decided.

So instead she had carefully folded the scarf and laid it in a drawer, until a few days ago when she took it out, the silk blend even softer than she remembered it being, the paisley pattern even more intricate and delicate. But she knows Marilla better now, knows she will no doubt see such a scarf as frivolous and far too expensive.

And it is, she thinks as she sits with the scarf spread over her lap, absentmindedly playing with the fringing. And maybe it is an inappropriate gift for a friend.

And then she thinks of Marilla, of how much she must have sacrificed to give Anne the life she deserves, of how much she gives of herself to others, of how dear a friend she has become in the short time Muriel has known her, and carefully folds the scarf again before reaching for the rest of her holly printed paper.

*

Muriel uses Green Gables’ front door for the first time since she arrived in Avonlea, sees Anne’s hand in the wreath hanging there, examines and admires the winter greenery and berries and pine cones as she waits for her knock to be answered.

It’s Anne who opens the door, who welcomes her inside in a whirlwind of excitement, who takes her basket of gifts and disappears to place them under the tree.

‘No trying to work out what they are!’ Muriel calls after her as she stamps the snow from her boots, glad to be out of the cold and into the warmth of Green Gables.

She’s just unbuttoning her coat when Marilla steps into the hall, apron still on over her skirt, looking a little flustered.

‘Anything I can do to help?’ Muriel offers, even though she’s certain she already knows the answer.

‘Keep Anne out of the kitchen?’ Marilla replies, a note of pleading in her voice.

‘That I can do,’ Muriel smiles, watching Marilla disappear back into the kitchen and hanging her coat before going in search of the girl. She finds her kneeling by the tree, one of Muriel’s presents in her hands. ‘I hope you’re not cheating.’

‘No,’ Anne replies quickly, dropping the present and looking around at her, guilt all over her face.

‘I never could resist either,’ Muriel says conspiratorially.

She’s about to ask Anne what she’s reading, in the hope that conversation will keep her from under Marilla’s feet as she finishes whatever is causing the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen. But then, as she’s looking around the room, taking in the sprigs of greenery and garlands that, like the wreath, clearly owe much to Anne’s influence, she spots a little basket of marbles on the side table.

‘How about a game?’ she asks, touching the marbles, the glass cold, the rattle taking her straight back to her childhood.

‘You know how to play?’

‘I grew up with two brothers,’ Muriel smiles. ‘Although it’s been a while, so you might need to be a little patient with me.’

*

Her apron finally off, Marilla hands the last of the dishes to Matthew to take to the table and goes to fetch Muriel and Anne. They’re sitting on the parlour floor, the tree candles twinkling behind them, intensely focused on a game of marbles. She stands in the doorway for a moment, watches as Muriel takes her turn. The sound of the marbles knocking together reminds her almost painfully of Michael, until it’s replaced by the memory of Matthew and Anne playing last Christmas, in almost exactly the same spot.

It seems almost a shame to disturb them, but she’s spent so long cooking, and no doubt they’re both hungry.

‘Can I interest anyone in some supper?’

Marilla isn’t sure which of them has the biggest smile, which of them is first to scramble to their feet. But while Anne immediately dashes past her towards the table, Muriel lingers in the room.

‘I’m sorry to have cut short your game,’ Marilla apologises as they blow out the candles.

‘You actually saved me from what was looking to be a rather stunning and frankly embarrassing defeat,’ Muriel confides. ‘So your timing could not have been more fortuitous.’

‘In which case, I’m very happy to have helped,’ Marilla smiles.

She watches as Muriel gently blows out the last candle on the tree, watches her look out at the sporadic snowflakes slowly drifting down in the darkness. There’s something that looks a little like sorrow on her face and Marilla wants to reach for her, to lay a comforting hand on her arm, to bring her back from wherever she’s gone. But then Muriel shakes her head slightly, and by the time she turns around she’s smiling again.

*

Christmas Eve at Green Gables is just as Muriel imagined it would be. The food is excellent and plentiful; she eats until her clothes feel uncomfortably tight, even more glad than usual that she decided to forgo her corset. She delights in Marilla’s quiet smile when she tells her how wonderful it is, delights in Anne’s exuberant reaction to her praise of the slightly uneven mince pies decorated with little pastry stars that she contributed to the table. The conversation flows easily between them, Muriel taking care to include Matthew and Marilla even though Anne could easily fill every second herself. For a fleeting moment she thinks of Rachel’s offer, imagines herself sitting at a very different table, in a very different conversation, surrounded by Lyndes of every age, and almost manages to suppress a shudder. But only almost.

‘Alright?’ Marilla asks quietly over the remaining pies.

‘Just thinking of where I would be were it not for your timely intervention with Rachel.’

‘You don’t think you’re missing out on all the fun?’ Marilla asks, the slightest twitch of her lips betraying the dryness of her voice.

‘I suppose I’ll never know,’ Muriel replies, knows from Marilla’s smile that she caught her teasing tone.

*

Muriel wants nothing more than to go home, to collapse into bed and give in to the drowsiness of such a meal. But there’s church to go to, and it would hardly be in the Christmas spirit to dash Anne’s bright eyed desire for her to accompany them, to dash the quiet hope in Marilla’s eyes.

So she goes with them, allows Anne to almost drag her to share their pew instead of taking her usual seat. Across the aisle most of Rachel’s family is in attendance, as boisterous and noisy as Muriel had imagined them to be, and Marilla and Muriel share a glance.

‘Thank you for saving me from that,’ Muriel whispers fervently, head bent close to Marilla’s ear. ‘Please don’t let them corner me.’

‘I’ll try my best,’ Marilla promises, and there’s no levity in her voice, and Muriel knows she can trust her.

The service isn’t as big or impressive as some Muriel has been to, especially when she lived in Toronto. Everything is smaller here: a small church not a cathedral, no hierarchy of scholars and bishops taking the readings, no perfectly harmonising choir singing the carols. But the succession of parishioners reading the lessons and the whole congregation singing the carols as well as the hymns touches her more than any well-oiled Christmas service ever has.

And as they sing the final carol, her voice blending perfectly with Marilla’s beside her, Muriel feels tears prick her eyes, feels more like God could exist than she has in a long time.

*

Singing when she takes her students carolling around Avonlea the following afternoon and evening doesn’t have quite the same effect on Muriel, although it’s joyous and glorious in an entirely different way. And she has to admit, the Lyndes were certainly the most enthusiastic of all the houses, Rachel’s sizeable family practically forming a choir of their own.

Once they’ve visited every house they walk through Avonlea again, this time with small groups splitting off to go home. Soon enough she says goodnight to Diana, and it’s just her and Anne left.

‘Thank you so much for my gift, Miss Stacy,’ Anne says, as they walk towards Green Gables. ‘I won’t touch it until I can think of a story worthy of gracing its pages.’

‘Don’t do that,’ Muriel says, thinking of the two sister journals still sitting at home, unused. ‘Beautiful things should be used and appreciated, otherwise they just go to waste.’

‘But what if I waste it anyway, writing something terrible that ruins it forever and ever?’

‘Will you enjoy writing in it?’

‘Oh yes,’ Anne smiles. ‘It’s so beautiful, how could I not?’

‘Then it won’t be a waste,’ Muriel says firmly. ‘The only way you can waste it is by not using it at all.’

‘I never even considered that,’ Anne replies. ‘What wonderful advice. You truly are wise, Miss Stacy.’

I should be wise enough to follow my own advice, Muriel thinks. Tomorrow I shall take down one of my empty journals and start to use it.

‘You will come in, won’t you?’ Anne asks, as they reach the gate. ‘Marilla said she would make cocoa, as a Christmas treat.’

Muriel looks at her, can see the excitement shining in her eyes even in the dim light of the lamp. ‘If you’re sure Marilla won’t mind,’ she replies, wondering how much persuasion Marilla took to agree to this treat.

‘She never minds you visiting,’ Anne says, throwing it over her shoulder as she skips on ahead to the door.

But when Muriel steps into the kitchen she finds Marilla tense, her smile not reaching her eyes, and wonders if her presence is unwelcome, if she should have politely refused Anne’s request. She spent all of yesterday evening with them, after all, and has taken Anne away for the past hours. What if Marilla wanted Christmas Day just for the three of them?

It’s too late for her to say anything, though, because Anne has already thrust a mug of sweet, steaming cocoa into her hands, is already giving a detailed account of their carolling. Muriel chips in whenever Anne prompts her, just enough of her mind on the girl’s words even though her eyes keep straying to Marilla.

She has to wait until Anne has finished her cocoa and excused herself, giving Muriel a significant look when she says that she’s going to go and write, but before she can say a word Marilla asks her into the parlour.

And there, on the little sofa, is the shawl she gave Marilla, sitting on her home printed wrapping paper.

‘I have to return this,’ Marilla says, picking it up and holding it out to her.

‘You don’t like it?’ Muriel asks, not taking it from her, keeping her hands pointedly behind her back.

‘Oh no, it’s beautiful.’

‘Then why?’ Muriel asks, suspecting she already knows the answer.

‘It’s far too much. It must have cost you a small fortune, something like this.’

‘But you like it?’

Marilla nods, a tiny soft smile gracing her lips as she strokes the fringing.

‘Then it was worth every cent,’ Muriel smiles. ‘You deserve something pretty and a little bit luxurious, just as much as anyone. And I won’t hear another word about it,’ she adds firmly, before Marilla can protest.

‘If you’re sure.’

‘I am,’ Muriel replies. ‘And thank you so much for my handkerchiefs. I only realised as I was getting ready to go carolling that the colours you used for the monograms match the colours of my suits.’ She pulls one from her pocket, unfolds it and holds it against her skirt to show Marilla the colour she chose.

‘It’s only small,’ Marilla says, not meeting her eye, and Muriel realises that she’s a little embarrassed in the face of the shawl.

‘It’s one of the most thoughtful gifts anyone has ever given me,’ Muriel says honestly, reaching to touch Marilla’s hand, still resting on the soft paisley fabric.

Chapter 7

January is cold and cloudy and windy. Even though the days are theoretically getting longer there seems to be hardly any daylight, and Muriel gets used to trudging to and from school in grey semi-darkness, walking rather than riding because while her bicycle might withstand the freezing temperatures, she doesn’t much relish the prospect of the wheels slipping on icy mud, ending in her being deposited in a snow bank.

On schooldays, she resigns herself to only seeing daylight if she steps outside during the lunch break. At the weekends, however, she makes a point of getting out of the house whenever she can, leaving her marking and lesson preparation for when it’s dark, goes to church every Sunday and often takes a longer route than necessary home just to make the most of it. She even forces herself to go outside on the coldest, windiest, murkiest Saturdays, draws her scarf up around her face and walks through swirling or driving snow, even if only for a quarter of an hour. If nothing else, it certainly blows away the cobwebs, and freezes the maudlin thoughts encroaching ever more on her time alone and unoccupied by schoolwork.

This time last year was beautiful: crisp and cold, blue skies and fluffy clouds, the snow picturesque. She had barely noticed, though, had only really been even vaguely aware of it when their friends had coaxed her from beside Jonah’s bed for brief periods, when they had forced her outside to see the sun and breathe fresh air.

Weather like this would have been far more appropriate, she thinks as she looks out of the window.

It’s Sunday, and Muriel woke late after a disturbed night’s sleep – too late to go to church. Well, not really too late, not if she’d got up immediately instead of just lying there as more light gradually filtered through the curtains. But the thought of having to pretend that it’s just a normal day, of having to smile and make small talk with students and parents and, worst of all, Rachel, who’s still determined to find her a new husband whatever Muriel says, was hardly good motivation.

But she hasn’t been able to put the time to good use, either. She can’t focus on the essays she has to mark, can’t settle to read her book or to write, can’t bear to be in the house with nothing but her thoughts for company.

So she pulls on her boots and her coat, winds her scarf around her neck and pins her hat on securely, and steps outside. The clouds are almost as white as the snow already laying on the ground, laden near to bursting with fresh flakes, the first ones falling when she’s only a few yards from her door. Very quickly it gets heavier and the wind picks up, but still she keeps walking, feet following a familiar path she can hardly make out, yesterday’s footprints long gone, buried or blown away.

Jammed deep into her pockets, her fingers are cold, just the right side of numb to be painful. She forgot her gloves, can picture them still lying on the table where she left them to dry yesterday afternoon.

A few more steps, and now she can hardly see, half closes her eyes against the sharp flakes but can’t keep them from stinging her cheeks above her scarf. The wind swirls around her, catching the brim of her hat so she can feel the pins pulling at her hair. The hem of her skirt drags through the growing drifts, and she ought to care but doesn’t.

Suddenly her toe catches on a buried stone or root and she stumbles, just manages to catch herself on a tree before she can fall to her knees. She leans there for a moment, can just feel the rough bark through the numbing cold, and then sets off again, no longer entirely certain which direction she’s walking in.

Until she reaches a familiar white fence, and knows that if it wasn’t for the snow she would be able to see Green Gables. And while the prospect of having to mix with the entire of Avonlea today was the worst thought possible, the prospect of seeing Marilla fills her with relief. Muriel has no idea what time it is, no idea how long she’s been walking, no idea if the Cuthberts will be home from church yet.

And then, carried on a gust of wind, she hears the faint jingle of harness bells.

*

Matthew passes Marilla the reins then jumps down to open the gate. It’s been a slow drive back from church, what with the snow and wind gradually making it harder and harder to see beyond the mare’s ears. Marilla is very much looking forward to being inside again, to sitting close to the fire and wrapping her hands around a bowl of yesterday’s reheated soup. She wonders if the weather will clear later, or if Anne is going to have to stay the night at the Barrys’.

She’s just about to click her tongue to the mare when a figure looms out of the whiteness. Marilla frowns, wonders who on earth would be out walking in this weather, and then realises she recognises the coat just barely visible beneath a layer of snow.

‘Matthew!’ she calls, raising her voice to keep it from being completely blown away, dropping the reins and climbing down from the sleigh.

She reaches Muriel ahead of him, wraps an arm around her waist and draws her close, decides that while it would be quicker to get her to the house in the sleigh, it’ll be far easier to walk.

‘You take the horse, I’ll get her inside,’ she says to Matthew. ‘What on earth were you thinking?’

‘It was hardly snowing when I left,’ Muriel replies, teeth chattering from the cold.

There’s something more, Marilla is certain, but she decides to leave it be until they’re in the warm, focuses instead on keeping both of them balanced and heading in the right direction as the wind buffets them.

They eat in near silence, just like they used to before Anne. Muriel sits in the chair closest to the fire, where Marilla gently pushed her after taking her coat and scarf and hat. She eats her soup with no protest, eats it more slowly than Marilla thinks she’s ever seen Muriel eat – all the more concerning considering she’s not being held up by conversation. Marilla keeps looking at her, worried both by her silence and her slowness, not to mention how they found her.

When their bowls are empty, she exchanges a glance with Matthew, sees that he’s worried too but knows he’s reluctant to say anything.

‘Got some things to be doing, out in the barn,’ he says, and Marilla nods, watches him leave the room.

‘Have you thawed out some?’ she asks gently, once she hears the outside door close behind him.

*

‘Yes, thank you,’ Muriel manages.

And she does feel warmer, thanks to the fire and the soup and the care that always seems to radiate from Marilla, that always seems to fill Green Gables. But she also feels brittle, like ice, like she might shatter at any moment if she loses focus on holding herself together for even an instant.

Marilla leans closer, places a gentle hand over hers where they lie clasped tightly in her lap, and Muriel feels herself beginning to melt, feels everything the cold had numbed gradually coming back to life.

‘It’s been a year,’ she says quietly, faintly surprised at how hoarse her voice is.

‘A year?’

Muriel looks up and sees Marilla’s frown, realises she has no idea. And why should she?

‘Since Jonah died. A whole year. One of every season without him. I thought I’d grown used to it. I have grown used to it, but–’

Marilla’s hand is no longer lying on hers but is now gripping them, gentle but firm.

‘Anniversaries are hard.’

Muriel nods, feels a tear slip down her cheek but makes no move to wipe it away.

She doesn’t feel like she’s going to shatter any more. All the things she thought might rush out through the cracks if she didn’t keep them pressed firmly together don’t seem to be there now, like merely saying the words, entrusting them to Marilla, released all that pressure. She doesn’t feel like she wants to sob, doesn’t feel like she needs to cry at all. Instead she feels a sense of peace and calm and relief, wonders how long it had been building without her noticing. Wonders if she should have told Marilla a day ago, a week, a fortnight, a month, wonders if that would have made things better.

Muriel sighs, loosens the vice grip of her hands on each other, and smiles. ‘I didn’t leave the house intending to half freeze.’

She feels Marilla looking at her, examining her for honesty.

‘I just needed to be out of the house,’ she adds. ‘Needed to be moving.’

‘I can well understand that,’ Marilla nods. ‘Although I usually tend towards unnecessary cleaning rather than polar exploration.’

Muriel looks at her, sees her small, slightly teasing smile, and knows Marilla believes her.

*          *          *

The year turns again. It’s still winter – still cold, still snowy, the days still short – but Muriel swears it feels different. The appearance of the first snowdrops, bravely pushing their way through the frozen earth, probably has something to do with it: a sign that winter will end, that there is life stirring beneath the snow. Maybe it’s just that Jonah’s anniversary has passed and she feels more like herself again, more like the self she’s become without him.

A self that she likes, she thinks as she walks towards the village to run her errands, smiling at and greeting each person she passes. She knows most of them by now – all of them by sight, and most of them by name – even if they don’t have children in school with her. Most of them will even stop to exchange pleasantries with her, a vast improvement from when she first arrived. She still feels something of an outsider, suspects she could spend the rest of her life here and still feel that way, but at least now she’s an accepted outsider, an honorary Avonlean.

It’s good enough for her.

*

Marilla spots Muriel stepping out of the Post Office, not looking where she’s going because all her attention is on the envelope in her hands as she struggles to get her gloved fingers under the flap to open it. She watches in fascination as, apparently entirely oblivious to her surroundings, Muriel somehow manages to avoid several people. She waits for her to look up and realises she isn’t going to, because she’s managed to wrestle the envelope open and is now reading the contents, which are clearly far more interesting than her personal safety.

Marilla reaches her just in time to keep her from stepping into the path of Mr Andrews’ horse.

‘Important news?’ she asks.

‘Marilla!’ Muriel exclaims, looking at her in surprise. ‘Yes, look at this!’

She passes Marilla the letter, but doesn’t give her chance to do more than glance at it before continuing.

‘I’ve found a printing press for the paper! It sounds like it’s going to need more than a little tinkering – and possibly a measure of brute force – to get it working, but it’s ours.’

Muriel’s excitement is contagious, and Marilla can’t keep herself from smiling.

Even if she did almost get bowled over because of it.

‘I’m sure Matthew would be happy to give you a hand, if you’d like?’

‘Really? Oh, that would be a great help, Marilla.’

They fall into step along the street, Marilla doing her best to gently steer Muriel who, despite now looking up, is clearly not paying full attention.

‘I can’t wait to get it up and running. Just think how much more we’ll be able to include in the paper, how many more copies we’ll be able to produce, if every single word doesn’t have to be hand written.’

‘I expect you’ll have a lot less complaints from your reporters, too,’ Marilla adds dryly.

Anne, of course, hasn’t been complaining. Or rather, she hasn’t been complaining about her own hand. Complaints about the lack of dedication from her fellow student journalists have been plentiful, a fact that Muriel’s expression makes it clear she’s aware of.

‘You’re sure Matthew won’t mind getting roped in?’

‘Of course not,’ Marilla assures her.

She’s not sure, not entirely. But she knows Matthew would do anything for Anne, and in a slightly roundabout sort of way this is for Anne. Not that he wouldn’t be happy to do a favour for a friend, not that he wouldn’t do it just because she asked him to. But Muriel’s smile is so wide, the excitement in her eyes so bright, that Marilla knows she would do anything necessary to get him to agree.

*

The press doesn’t need too much work to get it functioning again – it’s not in quite the state of disrepair that she was expecting – but Muriel is still glad of Matthew’s assistance. She’s even more glad of it when Rachel appears in the barn doorway, radiating disapproval, glad to feel his steadfast presence behind her.

She’s worried about Marilla, though. Marilla, who didn’t come in the buggy with Matthew to collect her and the press.

Marilla, who insisted she stay for a cup of tea once they were finished, dismissing Muriel’s protestation that she’d already disrupted their day enough, who had apologised for the lack of fresh baking but hasn’t said a word since.

Marilla, who is standing by the sink, hands twisting as she glances out of the window.

Muriel sips her tea, glances at Marilla over her cup and sees the tension in her spine, the anxiety in her hands. ‘Matthew told me Anne has gone to the orphanage in search of information about her parents?’

‘She has,’ Marilla says shortly, and Muriel knows she’s found the root of her worry.

‘Anne has travelled on her own before. I’m sure she’ll be just fine,’ Muriel tries.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Marilla says quietly.

But when she finally turns away from the window and comes to sit at the table, her smile is tight and tiny, so fleeting Muriel almost misses it, and she wonders if there’s something else on Marilla’s mind too, something she isn’t willing to share.

Chapter 8

Whispered news of Mary’s illness spreads like wildfire around the schoolroom. Muriel determines to visit her, Bash and Delphine that very weekend, to see if there is anything she can do, to at least offer her support. She refuses to be like those of her and Jonah’s friends who stayed away because they didn’t know what to say to a dying man and his wife, refuses not to at least try and use her tragical romance, as Anne used to insist on calling it, to help them.

But when she comes in sight of the house on Saturday morning, her feet refuse to take her any further. A believer in science she might be, but Muriel fancies she can feel a hovering cloud of mortality. She feels much as she did when Emily or Susanna or Luke persuaded her to leave Jonah’s bedside and take some air, feels that same treacherous reluctance to go back inside, that same intense desire to turn and walk away from it all, to just keep walking, as if distance would keep it from being real.

Muriel leans on the fence, looks out across the fields and then closes her eyes, clasps her hands together firmly as if she could draw strength from herself, as if she has any strength to draw upon.

‘Muriel? Is something the matter?’

If it were anyone else, Muriel’s eyes would have flown open, a lie springing to her lips. But as it is, she keeps them closed, waits until she feels Marilla come to lean beside her, arm barely touching hers, before she opens them.

‘I’m not sure I can go in,’ she confesses, filled with shame. ‘When Jonah was dying I promised myself I would never be that friend, yet here I am.’

*

Marilla’s heart aches at how small Muriel’s voice is, and she gently leans against her.

‘It must bring back a lot of memories,’ she says hesitantly, not wanting to force Muriel to talk.

‘We were lucky, I suppose,’ Muriel replies, her gaze fixed on the horizon. ‘We had a good few months when we knew he was dying but he was still healthy, time enough to go on one last adventure to some of the places he most wanted to visit. For a while, it was like there was nothing wrong at all, like the doctors had made a mistake.’

‘And then it wasn’t?’ Marilla guesses.

Muriel shakes her head. ‘And somehow it was still a surprise,’ she says, with a mirthless laugh. ‘It didn’t take long, he wasn’t in pain for long. It seemed like an eternity, though. And sometimes–’

Muriel hesitates, and Marilla presses against her a little more.

‘Sometimes I just wanted to run away,’ she says finally, barely above a whisper. ‘I couldn’t stand seeing him like that. But I didn’t, because I couldn’t stand to be away from him either, couldn’t bear to miss a single, precious moment, however much it hurt, however much I just wanted it to be over.’

Now Marilla reaches for Muriel’s hand and grips it lightly. ‘That doesn’t make you a bad person,’ she says softly.

‘I know,’ Muriel replies with a tiny, sad smile.

‘What did you mean, about not wanting to be that friend?’

‘Some of our friends were wonderful but others just disappeared. Even Jonah’s best friend since he was a boy.’

‘He didn’t visit?’

Muriel shakes her head. ‘Not even once. And I can understand it – we were all young, too young and too healthy to be facing our mortality like that. I guess he just didn’t know what to say, so it was easier not to have to say anything.’

‘That doesn’t stop it from hurting, though,’ Marilla says, squeezing her hand.

‘I never wanted to be like that, never wanted to let any of my friends down. But now it comes to it, it’s a little harder than I anticipated. I thought I’d worked my way through it all, but faced with another sick bed that’s about to become a deathbed – well, it appears I haven’t at all.’

‘I’m not sure you ever can, not really,’ Marilla says quietly, thinking of Michael, of their mother. ‘I don’t think it ever leaves you, you just get a little more used to its presence.’

Muriel nods, and leans into Marilla’s side a little. ‘I want to be there for Mary and Bash. I mean, I know what it’s like to lose someone you love far too young. But all I can think of is Jonah.’

‘Would it help if we went in together?’ Marilla offers. ‘I don’t want to force you if you’re not ready, but–’

‘Yes,’ Muriel interrupts her, relief clear in her voice.

Marilla smiles, stands up properly and offers Muriel her elbow.

They walk up to the house arm in arm, in silence until they reach the doorstep.

‘Alright?’ Marilla asks quietly.

Muriel nods, and Marilla raises her hand to knock.

*          *          *

Things only get harder for Mary and Bash. Sometimes Marilla wonders if there might be something merciful in the speed of Mary’s decline, in the fact that her suffering – her dying – won’t be dragged out over months and years. Wonders if it might have been easier if their mother had died quickly instead of shrinking away so fast and then lingering so long.

And then she sees them together, sees the way Mary is still so fiercely herself, so unlike their mother became, the way they love each other so fiercely that it hurts.

Was it like that for Muriel? she wonders. For Josephine Barry?

She takes Delphine when they need her to, when they need some time alone together for Bash to remember and cherish when she’s gone. Helps Mary with whatever she needs – cooking and cleaning and bathing, and holding her when she needs to cry.

When did I become this person, the person who holds others like this? she wonders as Mary’s tears soak through her blouse again.

They are none of them strangers to death, to deaths timely or untimely, fast or slow, painless or agonising. Nor are they strangers to grief. Marilla wishes that made it easier.

Delphine is mostly a sweet child. Today, though, she won’t stop fussing and crying, whatever Marilla does. Already unsettled from arguing with Matthew and Anne, upset with herself for upsetting them both, her heart sore with worry and fear of what Anne might discover and what it might lead to, a fretful child is the last thing she needs.

‘Why today, little one?’ she asks, almost pleading.

Not that Delphine understands, not that it changes anything.

Her broken glasses are an annoyance but she has an appointment with the oculist next month, so she’ll just need to be careful how much she reads and sews by lamplight until then. But the bottles and flour need replacing now, an outing that does little to improve her mood or the baby’s.

If she could just have got back home again without incident, Marilla thinks she may have regained her equilibrium. But the unchristian, uncaring judgement of the people in the store tips her over, the final thread of her composure pulled as taut as it can go without snapping, her fury only just barely contained out of consideration for the almost sleeping Delphine.

And then she practically walks right into Muriel.

*

Marilla’s walk back home is far more pleasant than her walk to the store had been. The fact that Delphine has, at last, settled helps, of course, but it’s Muriel’s presence at her elbow, Muriel’s calm, measured, wise words that make the real difference.

Muriel is still talking as they approach Green Gables, as she opens the gate for Marilla and closes it again behind them, although now she’s talking about something else entirely. No longer preoccupied by the fussing child, and her worries about Anne assuaged, Marilla looks up from her path towards the house and stops dead.

‘Is everything alright, Marilla?’ Muriel asks, concern creasing her brow.

Marilla feels her eyes fill again, can only gesture towards a particular little patch of earth.

‘Oh,’ Muriel breathes.

‘They’re beautiful,’ Marilla smiles through her tears.

Because Muriel’s tulips have burst into flower, a riot of vivid colours against a landscape still drab with winter.

‘Did I choose a good spot?’

Marilla’s gaze drifts upwards to her bedroom window, the tulips perfectly positioned so she’ll be able to see them every time she stands there. ‘The best,’ she assures Muriel.

Where she’s nestled safe and warm against Marilla’s chest Delphine, who has been miraculously quiet on the walk back, stirs.

Don’t start crying again, Marilla pleads silently, holding her breath, relaxing as the baby settles again.

‘Why don’t I come in and watch her for a little while?’ Muriel offers.

‘Oh no,’ Marilla protests, even though right now there’s nothing she wants so much as Muriel’s company for a little longer. ‘I’ve already taken up quite enough of your time today.’

‘It’s never a hardship to spend time with a friend,’ Muriel says softly, sincerely.

‘If you’re sure,’ Marilla relents.

‘I am,’ Muriel says firmly, leading Marilla towards her own front door.

Marilla watches her for a moment, glances back at the tulips and, smiling, follows her. ‘Are yours flowering yet?’ she asks as she catches up with Muriel where she’s paused to study the bright blooms more closely.

‘I don’t know. I was a little distracted this morning by the young, no doubt highly eligible, man waiting outside my door.’

‘Rachel’s doing, I presume?’ Marilla asks, not sure why it bothers her so much.

‘It certainly wasn’t my doing. Will she eventually give up, Marilla?’ Muriel asks, gloved fingers delicately stroking a red and white petal. ‘Please tell me she will.’

‘I’m afraid that once Rachel has set her mind to something, the best course of action is just to ignore her until she finds another project.’

‘Another victim, more like,’ Muriel mutters. ‘I’m sorry, she’s your friend. I don’t mean to–’

‘No, no, you’re quite right,’ Marilla smiles as Muriel looks at her sheepishly. ‘I love Rachel dearly, but I’m well aware of the nature of her… meddling. And her inability to listen to protests.’

‘I should never have mentioned that I miss companionship,’ Muriel sighs, standing and brushing down her skirt. ‘I suppose I only have myself to blame.’

‘No one but Rachel is ever to blame for Rachel’s schemes,’ Marilla says firmly, holding Muriel’s gaze until she smiles. She looks down at the flowers, and then back again. ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’ Muriel frowns. ‘Requiring your counsel regarding Rachel?’

‘For turning my day around,’ Marilla corrects her. ‘For allaying my fears and making me smile – not an easy task today, I can assure you. And for sharing your beautiful, precious tulips,’ she adds.

‘I’m glad I could help,’ Muriel smiles, gently squeezing Marilla’s arm. ‘And nothing could make me happier than sharing the things I love with a friend as good as you.’

Muriel holds her gaze for a long moment, until Delphine squirms again and she blinks and quickly looks away, and for a breath Marilla feels almost bereft. Until Muriel picks up the basket and gently nudges Marilla towards the house, her elbow a gentle, constant pressure against Marilla’s.

‘Tea, I think,’ Muriel says. ‘And we’ll see if we can’t get this little one fed and down for a nap, give you some peace for a while.’

‘It’s quite the mess,’ Marilla warns with a rush of embarrassment as Muriel opens the door and ushers her inside.

‘My house is always a mess, Marilla, as you well know,’ Muriel soothes. And, to her credit, she doesn’t outwardly react when she sees the state of the kitchen, just shoos Marilla into the parlour as she removes her hat and gloves. ‘Contrary to popular belief, I am perfectly capable of a bit of tidying.’

Marilla doesn’t know which of them is more surprised when she uncomplainingly does as she’s told, even allowing Muriel to remove her hat for her before she unties the length of material holding Delphine to her. She seems barely to have had time to take off her jacket and do her best to tidy her hair before Muriel is back, a smile and a dusting of flour on her face.

‘All safe, and I’ve put the kettle on for tea and set some milk to warm.’

‘My, aren’t you efficient!’

For there’s no trace of the spilt flour or broken bottles left. In fact, the only sign of anything untoward are Marilla’s reading glasses, sadly not returned to their former state in the same way as the rest of the kitchen.

‘I can’t make them good as new, but I can probably make them wearable again,’ Muriel offers, following her gaze. ‘And you already know how much I enjoy tinkering, so please don’t think it would be any hardship,’ she adds, before Marilla has even opened her mouth to object.

‘Wearable would be a vast improvement. If you could make them survive a couple of weeks, I can get a new pair when I go to see the oculist.’

‘In Charlottetown?’ Muriel asks, passing Marilla the baby bottle and following her silent directions to the tea caddy. ‘I’ve been thinking of taking a trip there myself soon. There are some things I could do with that Avonlea cannot provide.’

‘If you’d like some company, and can wait a little, you’d be more than welcome to travel with me,’ Marilla offers, watching Muriel move easily around the kitchen. ‘I usually stay overnight, to keep me from having to rush.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It would save me another near sleepless night courtesy of Rachel’s snoring,’ Marilla says drily. ‘Seeing as she would no doubt invite herself along, as she always does.’

‘Jonah never had any complaints on that front,’ Muriel smiles. ‘If you’re sure it wouldn’t be an inconvenience?’

‘Not at all,’ Marilla smiles. ‘Far from it.’

‘Well then, I would be delighted to accompany you.’

Marilla hadn’t realised how much she wanted Muriel to agree, not until she does, and now she can’t keep her smile from widening. She forces herself to look away from Muriel and down at the baby in her arms, but can feel Muriel still gazing at her across the table, can somehow feel the force of her smile.

*          *          *

Mary’s funeral is nothing like Jonah’s, but Muriel still can’t keep herself from making the comparison. As Mary’s body is committed to the earth she thinks of Jonah’s grave, countless miles away, and has to blink away tears and swallow down a lump in her throat. She fixes her gaze on the grass at her feet, mentally separates out and counts each vivid green blade, until she becomes aware of someone’s eyes on her, looks up and meets Marilla’s soft gaze. Even from here she can see the grief in Marilla’s eyes, and she realises that she still knows so little about Marilla’s life, has no idea who she might have buried, whose loss she might have grieved, whose ghosts might haunt her. But she can see the care in them too, and feels the resurgence of her pain subside a little.

On the walk back to the house Muriel feels another pair of eyes on her, and this time there’s no sense of comfort. Instead, there’s a sense of impending doom: Rachel, and the approach of a conversation about suitors and courting that she absolutely cannot face today. She speeds up a little, puts the Barrys between herself and the Lyndes, doesn’t realise that she’s drifted towards Marilla until she’s already beside her. Marilla doesn’t say a word, for which Muriel is inordinately grateful, just offers a small smile and shifts a little closer that necessary as they pass through the door, close enough that their arms press together.

Muriel feels instantly settled, a sensation she long ago came to associate with proximity to Marilla. She doesn’t leave Marilla’s side as she pours them each a cup of tea, as they’re joined by Constance and Jocelyn, as she takes Marilla’s half empty cup so Marilla can take a turn holding Delphine. When she passes her cup over Marilla’s fingers brush Muriel’s and their eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and there’s something so tender there that Muriel feels more cared for than she has in a long time.

She applies herself to the conversation, enjoyed speaking with Mary’s friends at Easter and enjoys it now too, enjoys seeing their love for their friend and for sweet Delphine, enjoys seeing how Marilla has welcomed them as her own friends, much as she welcomed Muriel herself. She forgets, almost, that they’re at a wake, that they just buried Mary, that this isn’t simply another benign social occasion.

Until Anne’s voice cuts through the subdued conversation from the other side of the room, requesting that Marilla comes to settle some dispute between her and Diana. With a fondly exasperated roll of her eyes, Marilla passes Delphine to a very willing Jocelyn and joins the girls.

Almost the instant she leaves her side, Muriel feels unsettled. Her eyes follow Marilla, and she sees all the black clothes, all the serious faces, can almost taste the grief in the air. Somehow the quiet voices begin to crescendo, until they’re crashing waves in her ears, almost deafening. The room presses in on her and she can’t stand it a moment longer, manages to hold onto her composure just long enough to set down her cup and saucer and excuse herself.

She doesn’t feel Marilla’s gaze on her as she leaves the room.

*

Marilla catches the movement out of the corner of her eye, looks away from Anne and trails off mid-sentence when she sees who it is. Oblivious, Anne picks up the conversation and chatters away regardless, and Marilla exchanges a concerned glance with Constance. When the other woman just shrugs, Marilla excuses herself and, without waiting for a response, follows Muriel outside.

She finds her standing at the back of the house, staring across the fields, her entire body tense. Marilla hesitates a moment: Muriel came out here to be alone, after all. But as she takes a step, intending to retreat back into the house, the toe of her boot catches a stone. Muriel turns sharply at the sound, but when she sees Marilla her face and frame soften a little.

‘I don’t mean to intrude,’ Marilla apologises.

‘You’re not,’ Muriel replies, with the smallest of smiles, her voice a little hoarse. ‘For a moment I thought it might be Rachel, come to pursue me with talk of another suitor.’

‘If she even tries that today, she’ll have me to answer to,’ Marilla says firmly. ‘If you’d rather be alone, I’ll go and keep her occupied inside.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Muriel says quickly, looking a little surprised at her own words. ‘In fact, I would welcome your company.’

Marilla smiles, absurdly pleased by the way Muriel said your, the way she specified it was her – Marilla’s – company that she welcomed, the implication that anyone else would have been turned away.

Muriel sighs heavily, sits on the wooden steps and looks at Marilla expectantly, doesn’t look away across the fields again until Marilla sits beside her, without a word shifts closer than the space requires so they’re touching from shoulder to knee. Marilla hesitates, then gently places her hand over Muriel’s where they’re resting in her lap, feels the smoothness of skin that hasn’t been subjected to a lifetime of physical labour.

And then Muriel sighs again, and rests her head on Marilla’s shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ Muriel murmurs.

Marilla says nothing, just gently pats her hand and presses into her a little more. And then Muriel turns her hand so she can grip Marilla’s, grips it like she’s holding on for dear life, and Marilla squeezes in return, hopes it’s enough to make Muriel feel comforted, secure, cared for.

Chapter 9

Notes:

I know I'm terrible at getting around to replying to comments, but please know that I appreciate every single one and that hearing what you think always makes me smile! <3

Muriel is just about to wrap up the last lesson of the week when she hears the gentle, rhythmic clop of hooves approaching along the track. The flock of butterflies that has filled her stomach since she woke that morning takes flight again, and she has to force herself to focus on her students instead of looking out of the windows.

It’s just a trip to a small town with a friend, she scolds herself, fixing her full attention on Gilbert’s answer to her question about oxbow lakes. Nothing to get too excited about.

But she is excited. Almost as excited as she was before each adventure she and Jonah embarked on together.

And so is Anne, even though she isn’t going with them, her dedication to academic competition with Gilbert momentarily forgotten as she looks outside, craning her neck and practically bouncing when she sees the buggy from Green Gables outside. Muriel should probably reproach her, but she can’t help feeling how hypocritical that would be, instead allows Anne a longer moment of distraction than she can afford herself.

They come to a natural stopping point a few minutes before the school day usually ends – not that any of the children complain. There’s the usual rush of activity and chatter as they all gather their belongings, and Muriel slips away into her little office, checks she has everything she needs, pulls on her coat and pins on her hat, checks in the mirror and pulls out the pin to reposition it slightly more to the left.

‘Are you coming, Miss Stacy?’ Anne calls from the schoolroom.

She spares another glance into the mirror as she picks up her bag, scolds herself again for investing so much into this trip.

‘There’s no need to shout, Anne,’ Marilla is saying when she steps outside, pulling the door closed behind her. ‘We have plenty of time.’

‘But what if we were to meet a fair maiden in distress, or a bold hero needing help on a quest?’

Muriel smiles at that, smiles even more at Marilla’s fondly exasperated response at how unlikely either of those possibilities is.

‘Better safe than sorry,’ Anne replies. ‘Miss Stacy, you’re riding in the back with me. It’s more comfortable than it looks, I promise.’

Marilla twists around in her seat beside Matthew to look at her. ‘We can switch places, if you’d prefer?’ she offers.

‘I’ll be just fine, thank you,’ Muriel replies, jumping up beside Anne. ‘Now Matthew, we’d best be off – just in case we come across any adventurers in need of our assistance.’

Muriel isn’t sure, but beneath the sound of Matthew encouraging the horse forward she thinks she hears a tiny, amused huff from Marilla.

Of course, they don’t meet any such person on the journey – although Anne hasn’t stopped talking the entire way, so Muriel doubts she’s had the opportunity to be disappointed.

There’s the usual flurry of activity when they arrive at the station. Matthew stays with the horse but Anne insists on accompanying them onto the platform, so excited that you’d think she was going too.

‘Now, you be good,’ Muriel says as Anne hugs her. ‘And no burning down the house.’

‘I promise,’ Anne intones, in a way that makes Muriel certain she’s heard this warning before.

‘You never know what mischief the two of them might get up to when left unsupervised,’ Marilla tells her as they get onto the train, Anne enthusiastically waving goodbye through the window.

‘Well, Green Gables is still standing so far,’ Muriel replies. ‘And from what I’ve heard, Anne knows just what to do in case of fire.’

‘She’s a bright girl, and no mistake,’ Marilla agrees, raising her hand to Anne, who is still waving. ‘You’d best wave too, before her arm drops off,’ she adds.

Muriel does so, smiling at Anne’s grin, and then flops into her seat and closes her eyes with a sigh. ‘I do love her, but after a long week of teaching a bit of peace doesn’t go amiss.’

‘Peace I can do,’ Marilla says, sitting beside her. ‘I thought these might help, too.’

Muriel opens her eyes to see Marilla unwrapping cookies, can already smell the sugar and cinnamon from them.

‘You spoil me,’ she says, taking one.

It’s delicious, sweet and spicy and buttery, crisp around the edges and a little chewy inside, and Marilla smiles at her lap and blushes a little when Muriel tells her so.

It’s dark by the time they step off the train. Muriel didn’t even get her book out of her bag, let alone open it. Instead they sat in comfortable silence for a while, and Muriel felt herself becoming restored and revived, the school week left far behind them as the train ate up the miles.

And then they talked, and seemed to arrive in Charlottetown in no time at all. Muriel told Marilla about her week, at school and outside, about the latest suitor Rachel sent to ambush her on Wednesday morning. They discussed their respective errands for the following day, made a plan that accommodated everything they each needed to do. And Marilla told her about her first visit to the oculist, about her headaches, about how her health never really mattered until Anne, until they had someone depending on them. At the uncharacteristic trace of fear in Marilla’s voice, Muriel had reached out to take her hand, had clasped it until the train pulled in to Charlottetown station.

And once they were off the train, heading for a supper that was simple yet novel in having been prepared by someone else, Marilla had slipped her hand into the crook of Muriel’s elbow.

*

Marilla struggles to sleep that night, her mind providing her with possibility after possibility about what the oculist will say, what each might mean for the future: hers, theirs, and most of all Anne’s. Just because she’s been fine at every appointment, just because the oculist keeps reassuring her that there’s nothing else the matter, doesn’t mean that he might be wrong, that he might change his mind. Beside her, Muriel sleeps deeply. She was correct in her assertion that she doesn’t snore, something that would be more of a relief if worry were not already sabotaging Marilla’s chances of falling asleep.

And then, just as she’s almost given up hope, as she’s almost about to get up, Muriel shifts closer in her sleep. Marilla holds her breath, but the total invasion of space that occasionally sharing a bed with Rachel has taught her to expect never comes. Muriel doesn’t hog the bed, doesn’t wildly fling an arm across Marilla’s body. She’s just – closer. A hand just touching Marilla’s elbow, her breath ghosting across Marilla’s neck. Marilla sighs and closes her eyes, feels calm spread through her.

The next time Marilla opens her eyes, it’s to the first light of dawn through the thin curtains. She blinks, confused, can’t quite believe that she’s slept through the whole night. She lies still for a little while, as the sun creeps higher and the light grows stronger, makes the most of not having to be up early, drifts in and out of sleep with Muriel peaceful beside her.

She doesn’t wake properly until Muriel stirs.

‘I can’t remember the last time I rose this late,’ she says as they begin getting ready for the day.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Muriel asks.

‘I did, much to my surprise. Not because of you,’ she adds hurriedly. ‘I’m just worried what the oculist might say.’

‘Nothing is insurmountable, Marilla,’ Muriel says sincerely, gently touching Marilla’s arm. ‘And you are not alone.’

Marilla is definitely aware that she isn’t alone as they get ready for the day ahead. In fact, she ponders, she could probably never feel alone in the same room as Muriel Stacy. The woman is something of a whirlwind, flitting about in a way that makes it impossible to forget her presence, a way that Marilla would usually find frustrating but for some reason just finds comfortable.

Dressed, Marilla sits in front of the mirror to pin her hair. She likes the way their subtly different hairpins look together on the top of the dresser, hers in a neat pile and Muriel’s in a haphazard scatter (and if that juxtaposition doesn’t represent the two of them, she doesn’t know what does).

And then Muriel comes to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder into the mirror, reaching over her shoulder for her pins. And though she’s been doing her hair like this almost every day of her adult life, Marilla’s bun takes longer than usual because she keeps finding herself distracted by Muriel’s fingers deftly shaping her hair, by Muriel’s voice, still coloured with sleep, as she tells Marilla about the book she’s been reading, about the birds she saw on her way to school yesterday, about the project she’s working on that requires her to procure some tiny screwdrivers from the bicycle repair shop. A few years ago, before Anne, this would have frustrated her no end too, but now it’s reassuring, almost a reminder of home. She never feels quite like this at home, though, can’t put her finger on what it is that she’s feeling as she tears her eyes from Muriel and slides the final pin into her hair.

*

They don’t have enough time to do anything before Marilla’s appointment, but too much time to just go straight there, so Muriel suggests they take a detour and walk through the park. It’s a fine day, and the flowerbeds are full of colour, but Marilla hardly seems to notice.

Muriel glances at her out of the corner of her eye, can see the worry she probably thinks she’s hiding. She slips her hand into the crook of Marilla’s elbow and can feel the tension in her body, squeezes gently to reassure her and is pleased when Marilla offers a small smile in return. When they leave the park and head towards the oculist’s office Marilla shifts a little closer to her, and though Muriel knows it’s just because the streets are busy she can’t help but smile.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ she says outside the door, squeezing Marilla’s elbow again before letting go, fingers trailing along Marilla’s arm as she turns to go in.

Muriel watches through the door until Marilla disappears behind the window display, then quickly strides down the street in search of her first destination. Usually she would spend plenty of time wandering and browsing, but she wants to be back outside the oculist’s in plenty of time – just in case. So she goes into only the stationers and the bicycle repair shop; buys only a new journal, a bottle of ink, a set of tiny screwdrivers for more delicate tinkerings. She isn’t even tempted by the little bookstore, doesn’t think she could focus enough to take in any of its literary offerings. The only shop that does tempt her is the confectioners, with its window full of jars of brightly coloured sweets. Muriel checks her watch, for the umpteenth time since she left Marilla, sees she still has plenty of time to buy herself a little treat.

Even with this diversion, Muriel is still back outside the oculist before they arranged to meet. Without an errand to complete, the sympathetic nerves that have distracted her all morning surge and she finds she can’t stand still, takes a pear drop from the paper bag in her coat pocket and crosses to the quieter side of the street where she can pace up and down the length of a half dozen storefronts without getting in the way of quite so many people.

Finally, after what seems like an age – although in reality the last of her boiled sweet has barely dissolved on her tongue – she spots Marilla. She tries to gauge from her demeanour how her appointment went, what the oculist said, decides that Marilla looks less tense but not happy.

‘Marilla!’ she calls, dodging a cart as she crosses the street.

Marilla turns, clearly surprised. ‘I thought I’d have to wait a little, considering you had a number of errands to run.’

‘I’ll have you know I can be very efficient,’ Muriel teases. ‘How did it go?’

‘He was less than impressed by the state of my glasses, despite your repair,’ she replies drily.

‘And you? Your sight, I mean?’

‘All fine.’

‘You don’t seem too pleased,’ Muriel frowns.

‘Just surprised,’ Marilla admits, with a little sigh. ‘I hardly believed I only needed reading glasses the first time I saw him, and every time I come back I expect him to have changed his mind, to find something more serious wrong.’

‘And he’s still absolutely certain?’

‘Absolutely,’ Marilla confirms, and Muriel feels the knot in her stomach loosen, the anxious energy subsiding a little.

‘Well then I think that’s worth celebrating, don’t you?’

‘Celebrating?’ Marilla asks, taken aback.

‘There’s a charming little tea room just down the street,’ Muriel suggests. ‘We could have a pot of tea and sample some of their delicacies to bolster ourselves before attacking the drapers?’

Muriel watches Marilla’s expression carefully, sees her initial hesitance and uncertainty give way to acceptance. ‘Some tea would certainly be welcome,’ she says eventually.

‘Shall we?’ Muriel asks, offering her elbow.

‘Lead on then, Miss Stacy,’ Marilla replies with a smile, linking their arms.

*

The tea room is refined and elegant, and Marilla regrets agreeing to come as soon as the door closes behind her. Her discomfort isn’t helped by the fact that Muriel seems perfectly at ease – a reminder of just how different their lives have been, just how much more of the world Muriel has experienced compared to her.

‘Are you alright, Marilla?’ Muriel asks quietly once they’re seated.

‘Fine,’ she replies, with a smile that, going by Muriel’s expression, must not be as reassuring as she thinks it is. ‘Just not used to be served, is all.’

‘We can go somewhere else, if you’d prefer?’

‘No, no,’ Marilla says. She settles further into her seat, trying to make it look less like she’s about to flee. ‘It looks lovely.’

*

Even after the waitress has brought their tea and a delicate stand with a selection of dainty cakes and scones, Marilla still looks like she’d rather be somewhere else – anywhere else.

Bad suggestion, Muriel scolds herself as she pours tea for them both and gestures for Marilla to have first pick of the cakes. Ah well, too late now.

‘Not long until the fair,’ she says, in the hope that conversation will distract Marilla from their surroundings. ‘Am I right in thinking I overheard Anne saying that she’s planning to bake something?’

‘She is indeed,’ Marilla says, the usual combination of pride and exasperation and love in her voice that Muriel has come to recognise as the tone reserved for Anne. ‘She spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Mary, learning her recipes. I think she wants to bake something in her memory.’

‘What a lovely sentiment,’ Muriel says quietly. ‘Although I expect Mary’s recipe is going to be well and truly transformed. I overheard her telling Diana all about the decorations she has planned, and it certainly sounded rather elaborate.’

‘Well, you know Anne,’ Marilla says dryly. ‘She’d take elaborate over simple any day.’

‘I’d expect nothing less from her,’ Muriel smiles. ‘Would I be right in assuming that she hasn’t been able to persuade you that your plum puffs are in need of any embellishment?’

‘Certainly not,’ Marilla replies with mock affront. ‘My puffs are perfectly able to speak for themselves without any frippery, thank you very much.’

The sternness in her voice is belied by the faint smile playing around the corners of her mouth, and Muriel wonders just how many people in Avonlea have failed to spot this, have miscast Marilla as sombre or unbending because of it. How many have failed to get to know her because of it, how many have lost the chance to become her friend.

‘In some cases, simple is definitely best,’ Muriel smiles, and takes a bite of her scone. ‘I have to admit,’ she says, lowering her voice so as not to be heard over the soft chatter and chinking of china, ‘I prefer your scones and jam to these.’

‘Oh, now you’re just being kind,’ Marilla scoffs, but Muriel can see her smile grow a little. ‘Are you planning on entering anything at the fair?’

‘Oh no,’ Muriel replies around another mouthful of scone. ‘I don’t think I’m good enough at anything to not embarrass myself in front of the entire community.’

‘Fiddlesticks!’ Marilla replies, loud enough that the woman at the next table turns to look at them disapprovingly. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘I’m not a terrible baker,’ Muriel admits. ‘But if your baking is anything to go by, then the standard at the fair is going to be rather higher than mediocre.’

‘I didn’t have you down as someone who backs down from a challenge.’

‘Not backing down,’ Muriel corrects her, thinking fast to find something that will appease Marilla. ‘More like scoping out the competition, so I’ll know how much practice I need to get in to be a serious contender next summer.’

The look Marilla gives her across the little table, a tiny sponge cake half way to her mouth, is one that Muriel can’t decipher. She thinks, though, that she somehow gave the right answer.

*

It’s a while since Marilla has been to the drapers in Charlottetown. She could quite easily spend the rest of the day wandering along the rows of fabric and buttons, but today she’s conscious of Muriel beside her so, not wanting to bore her, she pulls out her list and heads straight for the velvets.

‘I’m going to make Anne a dress for when she goes to Queen’s,’ she tells Muriel. ‘I was thinking perhaps a dark green?’

‘It would contrast her hair wonderfully,’ Muriel agrees, reaching to run her fingers along the soft fabric. ‘Although having said that, this is beautiful.’

Marilla steps closer, looks over her shoulder at the rich, deep blue with a hint of teal that makes it look like the sea, and imagines Anne’s fiery hair against it. ‘You’re right,’ she says softly.

‘Are you sure?’ Muriel frowns, turning to look at her. ‘I don’t want to sway your decision.’

Marilla reaches out to the velvet too, her fingers inches from Muriel’s. ‘I’m sure,’ she smiles. ‘And I very much value your opinion. Although there aren’t really any more decisions to be made now I have the colour, so if there’s anything you’d like to look at?’

‘I was thinking I might make myself a few new neckties for the new school year.’

‘There’s usually some baskets of silk offcuts in that direction,’ Marilla says, pointing towards the back of the store. ‘Shall I come and find you when I have everything?’

‘Yes,’ Muriel replies with a smile. ‘And please drag me away, if necessary.’

A little while later, her selections made, the shop assistant measuring and cutting her fabrics, Marilla goes in search of Muriel. She finds her not beside the offcuts baskets, although she has a selection of silks in her hand, but beside the tweeds and tartans, gazing at a male mannequin wearing a tartan waistcoat of dove grey, blue, cream and muted plum.

‘That’s rather handsome,’ she says quietly, not wishing to startle Muriel.

‘Isn’t it?’ Muriel replies, a note of wistfulness in her voice.

‘I’d be happy to help you alter it,’ Marilla offers, even though they both know Muriel is perfectly capable of altering her own clothes.

Sighing, Muriel turns from the mannequin and looks at her. ‘I can’t justify the expense, not when I really have no need for another waistcoat. However much I might like it,’ she adds, glancing back at the waistcoat, fingers briefly touching the fabric.

As they pay for their purchases – Marilla’s all now measured and cut and neatly wrapped – Marilla glances surreptitiously at Muriel, can see the longing and regret still lingering in her eyes. It’s an extravagance, she knows. Unnecessary. No doubt costly. Not something she would ever contemplate for herself, not something she would entertain for Anne, even.

But for Muriel…

Why should it be different? she thinks, even as she makes what, to her, sounds like a flimsy excuse of forgotten buttons to go back inside, telling Muriel she won’t be long.

‘You have a tartan waistcoat, mainly grey, on a mannequin,’ she says to the assistant. ‘Could I have some of the fabric?’

‘I’m afraid we sold the last of it yesterday,’ the young woman replies.

‘I don’t suppose I could buy the waistcoat itself, then?’ Marilla asks. ‘Along with some silk, to replace the lining?’

‘It won’t be cheap,’ the assistant warns her, working the sum in pencil and showing Marilla the total.

It’s far from cheap, and for a moment Marilla hesitates. Between this and the fabric for Anne’s dress and the oculist’s bill they’ll have to tighten their belts a little for a while. But then she thinks of Muriel’s longing, thinks of all the things Muriel has done for her, and for Anne. Thinks of the beautiful paisley shawl, that she hardly wears but frequently finds herself reaching for just to touch – and nods. Her friend’s delight will be well worth it.

*

Matthew is waiting for them on the platform when they step off the train. Muriel selfishly finds herself wishing he had been detained, or misremembered which train they were getting, just so she could have a little longer with Marilla all to herself.

‘All alright?’ he asks his sister, trying to take her case and basket from her.

‘Stop fussing, Matthew,’ she scolds good-naturedly. ‘I’m perfectly fine.’

As she passes him, heading for the buggy, he looks at Muriel for confirmation. She just nods, accepts his silent offer and hands him the packages from the drapers.

‘Good trip?’ he asks.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Muriel smiles. ‘And successful on the shopping front, as you can see.’

‘Muriel helped me to choose the fabric for Anne’s new dress,’ Marilla adds. ‘The most beautiful blue.’ And then she frowns. ‘What are you doing?’

Muriel stops, her hands on the tail board, about to lift herself into the back of the buggy. ‘Getting in?’ she replies, confused.

‘There’s plenty of space up here. No need for you to be uncomfortable.’

‘I don’t mind. Anne was right – it is more comfortable than it looks.’

‘I insist,’ Marilla says firmly.

Muriel glances at Matthew, but he hurriedly looks forward at the horse’s ears. No help there, then.

‘Please?’ Marilla asks, more softly, her eyes fixed on Muriel’s.

Muriel finds she can’t refuse – doesn’t want to refuse. So she climbs up beside Marilla, finds there’s only barely enough space for three adults on the seat, but Matthew has clicked his tongue and they’re already moving before she can point this out. Not that it’s unpleasant to be pressed close to Marilla, and she can only assume Marilla doesn’t mind either, seeing as, of the two of them, Marilla is the one who ought to be fully aware of exactly how much space Green Gables’ own buggy has.

With her eyes on the landscape, and one ear on the conversation beside her as Marilla tries to ascertain if anything untoward happened at Green Gables in her absence, Muriel allows her mind to wander. Perhaps being so close to Marilla again makes it inevitable that her thoughts turn to how she woke up, drifting into consciousness beside Marilla, the warmth of her body and how pleasant it felt, how right.

She barely notices when the buggy stops, doesn’t realise they’re outside her cottage until Marilla reaches for her hands.

‘Thank you for coming with me, Muriel,’ she says quietly. ‘And for treating me to tea today, I had a lovely time.’

‘Oh no, thank you for inviting me. I hope I was at least as good company as Rachel,’ Muriel teases.

Marilla tilts her head as if considering, but there’s no mistaking the sincerity in her eyes. ‘Will we see you at church tomorrow?’

Muriel had been planning on staying home to catch up on the work she would ordinarily have done on Friday after school, but she finds herself nodding.

Their eyes linger on each other’s for a long, long moment, until the horse shifts, and the seat under them shifts, and the moment vanishes. Muriel blinks, and Marilla lets go of her hands.

‘I’ll see you both tomorrow, then,’ Muriel says, jumping down and taking her bag from the back of the buggy.

‘See you tomorrow,’ Marilla echoes.

When Muriel goes to bed that night, it feels cold and empty in a way it hasn’t for months.

Chapter 10

This year’s county fair is not exactly a resounding success for Green Gables. But then if Anne hadn’t dropped the bottle of vanilla, if Marilla hadn’t reused the old bottle without changing the label, if Anne’s cake hadn’t ended up being unintentionally liniment flavoured, then Marilla knows she would never have suggested going up in the balloon, knows that even then she wouldn’t have countenanced it if it weren’t for the changes Anne has wrought on her these past years.

Even with her feet firmly back on solid ground, something of the feeling of the balloon ride remains with Marilla for the rest of the day. She’d imagined it would be terrifying, being untethered from land like that, and to begin with it was. But then, all of a sudden, it was exhilarating – liberating, almost.

She’s still feeling it when they walk into the barn for the dance: like now she’s drifted high above the island, anything might be possible. Marilla looks around the room, scanning the familiar faces, stops part way around when her gaze lands on Muriel. At that moment, Muriel looks up, looks right at her and smiles, and Marilla’s stomach swoops like it did the moment the balloon’s basket started to rise. There’s no fear accompanying it this time, though, just the lingering exhilaration intensifying a little.

‘I understand you caused quite a stir at the rifle range,’ she says, once she’s worked her way through the crowd to Muriel’s side.

‘Some men cannot stand being beaten at their own game by a woman,’ Muriel replies with a smile.

‘I wish I’d seen it.’

‘And I wish I’d seen your victory in the baking tent. I’ve heard so much about your legendary plum puffs, but still never had the pleasure of tasting one.’

‘Well, we’ll have to rectify that,’ Marilla smiles, laughing at Muriel’s eager expression.

Around them, the dance ends and the caller announces the next. There’s a flurry of movement as people leave the floor and others walk onto it.

‘Would you care to dance?’ Marilla asks, the question slipping from her lips almost without her realising it. ‘What?’ she frowns, when Muriel laughs.

‘Nothing,’ Muriel replies. ‘It’s just that I was about to ask you.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ Marilla smiles, holding out her hand.

‘A very definite yes,’ Muriel says, taking it and following Marilla to join a forming set, not letting go until the last possible moment.

*

Muriel would have done pretty much anything in order to avoid dancing with any young man Rachel pushed in her direction. Dancing with Marilla, though, was not part of this strategy. But Muriel would happily have danced with just Marilla all night, realises as she makes her way home that she almost did, that either of them dancing with someone else, dancing in different sets, was quite the exception.

What an imposition! she scolds herself.

And then she thinks: But was it? Really? I wasn’t always the one offering. Even if Marilla would have felt it rude to refuse, she didn’t have to keep on asking me.

She thinks of Marilla’s smile, of the light in her eyes and the colour in her cheeks. Of the feel of Marilla’s hand in hers, Marilla’s hand on her waist, Marilla’s breath on her cheek, stirring the hair gradually escaping its pins.

Of the way Marilla’s eyes were on her every time she looked across the room when she was dancing with someone else.

Muriel doesn’t feel guilty any more. She goes to bed smiling, content that both she and Marilla spent the evening in the way they wished.

*          *          *

A couple of days after the fair, Marilla walks to Muriel’s cottage, a covered basket over her arm, a fresh batch of plum puffs inside. She thought about Muriel the entire time she was making them. About how she had more fun dancing with Muriel than she has at any barn dance since she was a girl, how she enjoyed standing and talking with her just as much as dancing with her. About Muriel’s smile, her enthusiasm, the sparkle in her eyes and the flush high on her cheeks from the heat in the room and the exertion of dancing. About Muriel’s hands in hers, her skin so much softer than Marilla’s.

Now, she thinks about Muriel’s desire to taste her plum puffs, about how surprised she’ll be when Marilla turns up on her doorstep with a batch made just for her, about how–

She stops, struck by sudden worry: what if she was just being polite?

Despite the new, strange feeling that’s lingered inside her ever since the balloon ride, she’s about to turn back towards home. But then she hears footsteps approaching and, from between the trees, Muriel appears.

‘Marilla!’ she calls, a wide smile on her face. ‘What a wonderful surprise.’

Marilla smiles in return, but the worry doesn’t dissipate. ‘Have you had a nice walk?’

‘I have indeed, most invigorating. Especially since I was able to go on my own, rather than with an undesired companion of Rachel’s conjuring. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’

‘Why don’t you see for yourself?’ Marilla asks, heart racing as she gestures to the basket and raises a corner of the blanket.

Muriel steps closer to her and peers inside, her fingers brushing Marilla’s as she lifts the blanket a little more. ‘Are these plum puffs?’ she asks, her eyes wide, no mistaking the delight in her voice.

‘They might be,’ Marilla teases.

‘In which case, you couldn’t have come at a better time. I think these are just what I need to replenish my energy.’

‘I hope you enjoy them,’ Marilla smiles, holding out the basket.

‘I’d enjoy them far more if you were to stay,’ Muriel says, not taking it.

‘Oh no, I– well, I made them just for you,’ Marilla admits, looking away.

‘For me?’

Marilla looks up at the disbelief in her voice, feels all her worry and embarrassment fade away at the look on her face. ‘For you,’ she confirms, reaching to touch Muriel’s arm.

‘Then it’s up to me to decide how to consume them, and I would very much like to share them with you,’ Muriel smiles, her hand clasping Marilla’s for a moment before she turns towards her front door.

Inside, Muriel makes tea while Marilla plates two of the puffs, the rest of the batch on Muriel’s table, bathed in the soft light streaming through the thin curtains.

‘If they taste anywhere near as scrumptious as they look,’ Muriel says.

Marilla watches as she takes a bite, feeling more nervous than she ever has during judging at the fair.

Muriel’s eyes flutter closed, and she hums softly.

‘Well?’ Marilla asks, unable to stop herself.

‘I can see why everyone waxes lyrical about them,’ she replies, opening her eyes. ‘Marilla, this is truly one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten.’

‘Ever?’

‘Ever,’ Muriel confirms, and takes another bite.

Marilla feels all warm inside, somehow different to how she’s felt when anyone else has complimented her baking, better even than winning a red ribbon. She presses her lips together, trying to keep her smile from becoming too wide, looks down at her plate and then glances back across the table and finds she can’t look away.

Muriel is truly beautiful, the strands of hair that escaped during her walk catching gold in the light, a look of pure bliss on her face. She looks nothing like Rebecca but for some reason Marilla thinks of her, remembers long summer evenings sitting together when Rebecca seemed to glow in the sinking sun.

But then Muriel looks at her, and Marilla forgets about anything but the woman sitting across the table from her.

‘I think I’m going to eat my way through the rest of the batch embarrassingly quickly,’ Muriel admits. ‘And I’ll definitely be trying to find something worthy of exchanging for more in the future.’

‘I’d make more for you in exchange for nothing more than the pleasure of your company,’ Marilla smiles. ‘But if you’d like,’ she adds, ‘maybe you could help me make this year’s jam?’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. The only time I’ve attempted to make jam it did not go at all well. I’d hate to ruin yours – or the baking you use it in. And I don’t think I could forgive myself for breaking your winning streak at the fair.’

‘Fiddlesticks. Anyone can make jam, and it’s not like you’ll be doing it alone. But perhaps, seeing as it’s your favourite, we could have a trial run with raspberries? Imagine having your larder stocked with jars of jam you’ve made yourself,’ she adds temptingly.

‘It would take a far stronger woman than me to resist such an offer. Just don’t tell Rachel you’ve found the way to my heart, or every suitor she finds will be turning up with jars of jam.’

‘I promise,’ Marilla smiles, wishing the raspberries were already ripe.

*          *          *

The days after the fair turn out to be unexpectedly eventful, thanks to Anne’s hot-headedness. Muriel can’t help but admire the girl’s passion and desire to right the injustices she sees in the world – even if she did go about it rashly and, it turns out, painfully. She wishes that Anne had just come to see her, to speak to her, wishes they could have gone about raising this topic carefully and strategically so it might have sparked something more constructive than outrage.

There’s no point to wishing that things were different, though, so Muriel sets about limiting the damage as best she can.

And then the Board meets, and an incensed Rachel comes to see her, and Muriel scarcely manages to contain her fury until she’s gone. She paces around and around her cottage until she feels just barely calm enough to go to Green Gables – anger making her walk even faster than usual – to pass on the Board’s conditions. To fire Anne not just from editorial duties, but from the paper altogether.

Muriel has no idea what to do. She can think of no way to keep the paper alive without yielding to the Board’s terms, without complying with the censorship that affronts her. But Anne, of course, comes up with a plan.

Is there no end to her resourcefulness and imagination? Muriel wonders, as she oversees their preparations upstairs in the barn at Green Gables.

*

Muriel waves of the last of her students off, then goes back into the barn, climbs the ladder to find Marilla gathering up the tin mugs into her now empty basket, spots one that she’s missed and picks it up.

‘Tomorrow’s going to be quite a day,’ Marilla says, looking at the painted signs, evidence of the passion and hard work of Muriel’s students.

‘It is indeed,’ Muriel agrees, placing her mug with the others and rubbing a hand across her forehead. ‘You’ll be there?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Marilla smiles. She sets down the basket, takes her handkerchief from her sleeve and gestures towards Muriel’s face. ‘May I?’

Muriel frowns, then looks at her hands and realises she must have rubbed paint and dirt all over herself. She nods, stays still as Marilla gently takes her chin in one hand and carefully wipes her forehead clean.

‘Thank you,’ Muriel murmurs.

‘Someone’s got to keep you in order,’ Marilla teases softly, her fingers brushing escaped strands of Muriel’s hair back from her face.

She’s so close Muriel can feel each breath she takes, can see every fleck of colour in her irises. She sighs, leans slightly into the hand now cupping her cheek, feels her stomach flutter at the tender look in Marilla’s eyes.

‘Where’s Anne off to?’

At Matthew’s voice from behind them, Marilla’s hand drops and she takes a step away, and Muriel instantly feels the loss.

‘I don’t rightly know,’ Muriel hears Marilla answer as she walks closer to him. ‘But she said it was important.’

She doesn’t hear his reply, or what Marilla says in return. It must be the heat of the day, all her anger and stress, all the excitement from the children, but Muriel feels a little light-headed, her breath a little too shallow and her heart a little too fast. She reaches one hand out to the nearest post for steadiness, presses the other to her stomach to soothe herself, closes her eyes and focuses on the sounds around her: the call of a bird outside, the lowing of a cow below, Marilla’s footsteps coming closer again.

‘Oh!’ she exclaims, jumping when a hand lights on her elbow, opens her eyes to find Marilla gazing at her, concerned.

‘Are you quite alright?’

‘I feel a little strange,’ Muriel admits. ‘No, no,’ she adds hurriedly when Marilla’s expression turns to worry. ‘I think it’s just all the excitement of the past few days catching up with me.’

‘It certainly has been eventful,’ Marilla agrees. ‘Why don’t you come inside and sit for a while before walking home?’

‘I would dearly love to,’ Muriel replies. ‘But there’s something very important I have to do before tomorrow.’

‘Oh?’ Marilla frowns.

‘Yes. I must get to the post office and send a telegram.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to it? I could come with you, if you’d like?’

It’s a tempting offer, and Muriel instantly wishes to accept, just as she always wishes to accept Marilla’s company. But the fluttering in her stomach has intensified again at Marilla’s touch, and suddenly she feels desperate for solitude.

‘I’ll be fine. I think a little fresh air and a walk will do me the world of good.’

‘If you’re quite sure.’

‘I am,’ Muriel smiles, gently touching Marilla’s hand. ‘Thank you.’

*

She forces herself to concentrate as she walks to the post office and sends the telegram, until she’s well on her way home and unlikely to meet anyone else. And then she slows down and lets herself think about how she felt in the barn at Green Gables.

How she felt when Marilla touched her elbow.

How she felt when she danced with Marilla at the fair.

‘Oh.’

She stops dead, just in sight of her front door.

The ghost of Marilla’s hand is on her waist. Muriel remembers the weight of it, remembers the feel of Marilla’s hand in hers, skin against skin.

The way she couldn’t stop looking at Marilla through the other dancers. The way she can never stop looking at Marilla.

‘How could I be so stupid?’ she asks the sparrow perched in her eye line.

The sparrow ruffles its feathers and tilts its head, as if in question.

‘I mean, how did I not realise? I really should have realised sooner.’

Still looking at her, the sparrow tilts its head in the opposite direction.

‘Yes, I know it took me a while to realise how I felt about Jonah, but you’d think I’d recognise it again.’

With another ruffle of its feathers, the sparrow flits away, and Muriel suddenly realises where she is, that anyone walking nearby could have heard her.

And before Jonah, she thinks as she lets herself in and unpins her hat. Before Jonah, there was Emily.

Emily, with her dark eyes and darker hair, who had made Muriel’s heart skip a beat the moment she saw her, who had kissed Muriel in the safety of her college room and held her while her entire world shifted.

Emily, who had named every muscle and bone in Muriel’s body, each name punctuated by a touch, a kiss, the Latin an incantation against her skin.

And now, Marilla.

‘Oh dear,’ Muriel sighs, sinking into a chair. ‘How inconvenient.’

But her whole body feels suddenly more alive, her blood fizzing through her veins with each beat of her heart.

Because however inconvenient it might be, she appears to have fallen in love.

Chapter 11

Anne flies in like a whirlwind after sitting her Queen’s entrance exam, stays long enough to hug Marilla, to tell her breathlessly that she doesn’t think it went terribly, to grab the basket of scones waiting for her on the kitchen table before dashing out again to celebrate with her friends.

‘Anne!’ Marilla calls after her.

She turns around, runs back to take the blanket Marilla is holding out, and then she’s away. Marilla watches until she’s out of the gate, until she’s out of sight, tries not to think about the day not too far distant that she won’t just be out of sight but out of Avonlea entirely, out in the world.

How different her life will be, compared to mine, Marilla thinks. More like Muriel’s, perhaps, full of learning and adventure.

Muriel. Marilla wonders how she is. Exam week, she imagines, must be stressful for a teacher (at least, she corrects herself, thinking of Mr Phillips, for a teacher who cares about their students) at the best of times. But now, a day after finding her school burned to ashes?

She writes a note for Matthew, out in the far field with Jerry, and leaves it on the kitchen table, pins on her hat, and sets off for the teacher’s cottage.

*

She knocks on Muriel’s door but there’s no answer, and she thinks Muriel must be out. And then from behind the house she hears a crash, a clank and a growl, the timbre of which she immediately recognises. Cautiously, she walks around to see Muriel fighting with her smoker, her boots and the bottom of her skirt wet from where a bucket has fallen over.

That explains the crash.

‘Have I come at a bad time?’

‘Never,’ Muriel says, her grimace turning into a smile when she sees Marilla.

‘I thought today might have been – well, an odd sort of day for you,’ Marilla ventures. ‘Nerve wracking, if what I’ve been feeling for Anne is anything to go by. And that’s without everything else that’s happened.’

‘I’m afraid my anger has somewhat drowned out all other emotions,’ Muriel admits, finally winning her battle with the smoker and wiping her hands on her apron.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Marilla says, the last words she speaks for quite some time.

‘I’m just – incandescent, Marilla,’ Muriel says, pacing back and forth, gesticulating wildly. ‘First the censorship, then stealing the press – stealing it! From children! And, whether through accident or carelessness or deliberately – and I would not put it past those- those closed-minded, ancient dinosaurs – burning- burning down the school. And now the stupid fish don’t want to go in my stupid smoker, and I just-’ She breaks off with a sob. ‘They burnt down my school, Marilla,’ she finishes helplessly, all the rage suddenly draining from her.

Marilla is just close enough to reach out and steady her when she sways, carefully lowers them both to the grass before they collapse.

‘They burnt it down,’ Muriel repeats, gazing at her.

This close, Marilla can see the tears pooling in her eyes, can see them spill over when she blinks.

‘I know,’ Marilla says. She tries to brush Muriel’s tears away, but they’re coming too fast now.

‘And it’s all my fault,’ Muriel manages with a sniff, looking away. ‘If I hadn’t come, hadn’t stayed, hadn’t been so- so contrary to everything they want in a teacher, none of this would have happened.’

‘Now you listen to me, Muriel Stacy,’ Marilla says firmly, ignoring the tears pricking her own eyes. ‘Listen to me,’ she repeats, cupping Muriel’s cheek and coaxing her to look up again. ‘This was not your fault.’

‘But I-’

‘No,’ Marilla interrupts her. ‘This was the fault of narrow thinking – yet again. The fact that you’re not the sort of teacher those dinosaurs want is precisely why you’re the right person for the job. Precisely why you’re the person I wanted teaching Anne.’

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ Marilla smiles. ‘How will things ever change – how will our children become better people and have better chances than we did – if they only ever learn what and how I did as a child? Someone needs to offer them a brighter future – and no one the Board approves of is going to provide that.’

‘Do you really believe that?’ Muriel asks, her voice small.

‘With all my heart. If I have learnt anything from Anne it’s that change, while sometimes uncomfortable or even frightening, is necessary. And I know Avonlea isn’t done changing yet,’ she adds, thinking of the plan she and Rachel have concocted. ‘So I hope you’re planning on sticking around, because we’re going to need your help.’

‘You don’t think I’ll do more harm than good?’

‘No, I don’t. And I know I’m not the only one.’

Muriel looks like she’s about to say something, and Marilla’s perfectly prepared to stand her ground, but she’s stopped by a yawn. ‘Sorry. I haven’t slept well the past few nights.’

‘I can’t think why,’ Marilla says drily, pleased to draw a huff of laughter from Muriel. ‘An early night to bed for you, I think.’

‘Perhaps,’ Muriel agrees. ‘If my mind will oblige.’

Marilla doesn’t know what possesses her, but she presses a kiss to Muriel’s forehead, lips lingering a heartbeat, another. When she draws away, she sees that Muriel’s eyes have fluttered closed, that some of the tension has gone from her face.

‘Will you stay awhile?’ Muriel asks quietly.

‘As long as you want,’ Marilla replies.

Eyes still closed, Muriel smiles. And then, to Marilla’s surprise, she shifts so she can lay her head in Marilla’s lap. Marilla hesitates a moment, frozen, then begins to stroke Muriel’s hair, listening as her breathing slows and evens out.

*

Muriel wakes slowly, aware of warmth against one cheek and coolness on the other, and fingers gentle in her hair. She opens her eyes and sees that she’s in her little garden, sees the overturned bucket and remembers fighting with the fish and the smoker. Remembers–

‘Oh my,’ she says, sitting up so fast her head spins. ‘Marilla, I’m so sorry.’

But Marilla just smiles, and reaches out to steady her again. ‘It’s alright, you’ve had quite the week.’

‘That’s no excuse for falling asleep on you like that,’ Muriel says, turning away to hide her embarrassment, trying to pat her hair into some semblance of order but giving it up as a lost cause. ‘The least I can do is offer you a bite of supper – if you don’t need to be getting back, that is?’

‘You don’t need to offer me anything. But I would be glad to stay. Anne’s off celebrating, and I’m sure Matthew’s perfectly capable of fending for himself.’

So they have a simple meal of smoked fish and bread, talk quietly of all manner of things, both carefully avoiding any mention of the Board or the newspaper, or of students or exams.

‘The raspberries are almost ready to pick,’ Marilla says as she takes a strawberry from the dish Muriel places between them. ‘A couple more days should do it.’ It’s a statement, but Muriel can see the question in her eyes.

‘You’re sure you want a novice jam maker getting in your way?’ Muriel teases.

‘It must be good for the teacher to be the student every once in a while,’ Marilla teases in return.

*          *          *

‘Just the two of us?’ Muriel asks, taking the apron Marilla hands her and tying it around her waist.

‘It’s not a big patch,’ Marilla replies, picking up the pails. ‘It won’t take us that long.’

‘No, that’s not- I just assumed Anne would want to lend a hand.’

‘Oh, she does. But last year more berries went into her mouth than into her pail.’

‘So she’s banished from the raspberry patch?’ Muriel guesses, following Marilla outside.

‘Only until I’ve made a good batch of jam,’ Marilla replies. ‘And banished is such a strong word. I just suggested she might like to spend some time with her friends, as it’s such a lovely day.’

‘And?’

‘What do you mean, and?’ Marilla frowns.

‘Nothing. You just sounded like you weren’t quite finished with that sentence.’

‘I- well, I may also have neglected to inform her that we’d be picking most of them today.’

‘I see. Very strategic of you. Of course, you have made rather a large assumption, though.’

‘I have?’

‘Yes. You’ve assumed that I’ll be more capable than Anne of resisting what are no doubt very tempting raspberries.’

Marilla presses her lips together, trying to hold back a smile. ‘Why, you’re a grown woman, Miss Stacy. Surely you have a modicum of self-restraint?’

Muriel tilts her head. ‘Depends how good the raspberries look,’ she teases.

‘The more you eat now, the less jam you’ll have later,’ Marilla reminds her.

‘Good point. I promise I will try my very best to behave.’

‘See that you do,’ Marilla replies. But now she can’t hold back a smile, and Muriel grins in return.

‘Can I at least try one?’ Muriel asks when they reach the raspberry canes. ‘As quality control. Wouldn’t want to go to all the effort of making jam if the berries aren’t perfect, after all.’

‘One’, Marilla relents with mock sternness. ‘Just the one, mind. Don’t think I haven’t heard that argument before. And watch out for the thorns,’ she adds. ‘I’d recommend the gloves in the apron pocket.’

‘I’d better choose carefully, if I’m only allowed one,’ Muriel says, reaching for the nearest cane and making a show of examining the deep crimson berries hanging from it. She chooses one, carefully avoids the thorns and picks it delicately, pops it into her mouth. It’s warm from the sun, the perfect balance of sharp and sweet. 

‘Good enough?’ Marilla teases. 

‘If raspberry wasn’t already my favourite jam, it very quickly would be.’

‘I’m glad they meet with your approval,’ Marilla smiles, her gloved fingers already gently pulling the berries free. Muriel watches the way she gathers several into her cupped palm before dropping them into her pail. ‘Are you planning on helping or just watching me work?’ Marilla says drily.

‘Just studying your technique,’ Muriel replies, reaching into her apron pocket for the gloves. ‘Teacher becoming the pupil, remember?’

*

It couldn’t be more different to picking with Anne last year. She and Muriel work side by side, Marilla unconsciously slowing her pace a little to stay close to her. She glances through the leaves at Muriel every now and then, sees how carefully she’s examining every cane, peeking under leaves so as not to miss a single berry, pretends not to notice the odd fruit that disappears into her mouth, or the way her lips are stained slightly crimson; most of them are going into her pail, after all, and the smile on Muriel’s face and in her voice when she speaks is more than fair exchange for those that are lost.

Not that they talk much. Marilla has become used to Muriel’s talkative nature, so similar to Anne’s, and her long silences today give her pause for a moment, hand stilling in the act of moving a leaf aside to check beneath it. She thinks about the past months, realises that as they’ve grown closer she’s been talking more and Muriel less, realises that while for her friendship means being comfortable speaking her mind more, for Muriel it seems to mean being comfortable with moments of silence.

At least, she hopes it means Muriel is comfortable. Perhaps she’s wrong, perhaps Muriel has just run out of things to say to her, or thinks she doesn’t want to hear her, or-

She looks at Muriel again, watches as she gently picks each ripe berry from a cluster and deposits them on top of the others already in her filling pail, sees the blood-like specks on her gloves from where she’s not quite been gentle enough and juice has burst out under the pressure of her fingers. She looks happy, relaxed, like all the weight of the school year and the paper and the Board and the fire has been lifted from her shoulders.

At that moment, Muriel looks across at her, catches her looking. ‘Is everything alright, Marilla?’ she asks, a slight frown creasing her brow.

‘Just fine. You look like you’re enjoying yourself,’ Marilla replies, fighting to keep it from sounding like a question.

‘I am,’ Muriel says definitely. ‘There’s something so wonderful about being out in the sun, seeing all the bounty of nature, don’t you think? And the bounty of all your hard work, of course.’

Before Marilla can reply Muriel is off, waxing lyrical about ripe fruits and the turning seasons and how she can’t wait to see Avonlea in the fall again, can’t wait to see how the red leaves and red clay make the roads look like they’re on fire. Marilla can’t help but smile, feels her heart skip a beat at the confirmation that even after everything that’s happened, Muriel is still planning a future here.

‘You know,’ Muriel says, breaking Marilla’s reverie, ‘I swear I saw some wild brambles on at least one of my walks.’

‘We do have them,’ Marilla says.

‘Would you care to go blackberrying with me, Marilla?’ Muriel asks, something that sounds like nerves colouring her voice. ‘When they’re ripe, I mean. Obviously. And if you have the time, of course. I wouldn’t want to–’

‘I’d love to,’ Marilla says, halting her rambling.

‘You- you would?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Marilla frowns.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I just – well, I suppose we’ve been spending quite a lot of time together, and I thought you might – well, you might not want to, or you might be bored of me, or-’

She stops when Marilla reaches across the raspberry canes between them and touches her arm. ‘I don’t think I could ever be bored of spending time with you,’ she smiles, her eyes fixed on Muriel’s. ‘I enjoy it very much.’

Muriel lets out a sigh of relief, raises her free hand and, after a moment’s hovering hesitation, lays it over Marilla’s. ‘So do I,’ she smiles.

*

In bed that night, Marilla thinks of Muriel, of the look on her face in that moment, of the weight of her hand as they stood among the raspberries. Of the intense happiness she felt when she realised their friendship means as much to Muriel as it does to her.

Of how their eyes kept catching as they moved around each other in the kitchen later, how close Muriel stood to her as she instructed her in the finer points of jam making, how carefully she listened and observed.

Of how she felt suddenly, sharply sad as they parted, as she watched Muriel walk away, how she had, for a moment, wished that she was Anne’s age and could run after her friend without looking foolish.

Of how Muriel had paused halfway through the gate, how she had turned and waved, how she had stayed looking back for a moment before lowering the latch and heading for home, almost as if she was just as reluctant to say goodbye.

Chapter 12

Muriel’s walk home from the river, via Sebastian’s, doesn’t strictly take her past Green Gables. But even after sharing her catch with Bash and his mother, and even considering her smoker, she still has more fish than she really needs herself – and Marilla said her oculist recommended she eat more fish.

A flimsy excuse, she admits to herself as she opens the gate, and waves at Jerry as he stops what he’s doing and walks towards her, an anxious expression on his face.

‘Hello, Jerry,’ she smiles.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Stacy. Anne and Mr Cuthbert are not here. They’ve gone away with Anne’s Indian friend’s parents. The people from her school came to take her back, and they shot her father when he tried to stop them, so they’ve gone to get her.’

‘They shot him? Is he alright?’

Jerry nods, opens his mouth to add something but closes it again.

‘What is it, Jerry?’ Muriel asks gently.

‘I think Miss Cuthbert is worried about them,’ he says quietly. ‘About what might happen.’

‘I’ll go in and see her,’ Muriel says, with an attempt at a reassuring smile.

Jerry smiles in return, clearly happier now someone else is here, then goes back to what he was doing. Muriel takes a deep breath and heads towards the house, can only imagine what Marilla must be feeling, can’t quite fathom what Jerry has told her about Ka’kwet and hopes Marilla will be able to tell her more.

She gives her usual cursory knock before opening the door, leaves her bucket of fish just inside and looks into the kitchen, but it’s empty.

‘Marilla?’

‘In here.’

Marilla’s voice sounds quiet and weak, and Muriel is instantly worried, follows the sound to find her sitting at her sewing machine, the rich blue fabric they chose together in Charlottetown under the stationary needle.

‘Well this is a surprise,’ Marilla says with a smile, looking up at her. She looks pale, her smile far from convincing, a tightness around her eyes, and Muriel’s worry grows.

‘I had a rather successful day fishing, and thought I’d share my abundance,’ Muriel explains, trying to study Marilla without it being obvious.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Marilla says, one palm pressed firmly to the sewing table as she slowly rises.

Muriel watches as she walks towards the kitchen, picking up the bucket of fish on the way, follows her and watches as she looks at each fish in turn. There’s something not quite right about the way she’s moving, the way her usually steady hands tremble a little, the way she’s frowning like she’s having to force her eyes to focus.

‘Take your pick,’ she offers.

‘Just one will be plenty,’ Marilla says, placing her choice into the sink. ‘Seeing as it’s only me for supper.’

‘Jerry told me Anne and Matthew are away – something to do with Ka’kwet?’

‘That’s right,’ Marilla replies with a curt nod.

Muriel hears her breath hitch, sees her hand tighten on the edge of the sink. ‘Are you alright, Marilla?’ she frowns, taking a step closer.

‘Just a bit of a headache,’ Marilla replies, with another unconvincing smile. ‘Worrying about the pair of them doesn’t help.’

‘I could stay awhile?’ Muriel offers. ‘If you’d like?’

‘I’m afraid I won’t make very good company,’ Marilla replies. ‘And it’ll pass, they always do.’

‘If you’re sure.’

Their eyes meet, and again Muriel has the impression that Marilla is fighting to get her vision to focus.

‘I’m sure,’ Marilla says, her tone firm despite the slight tremor in her voice.

‘Alright,’ Muriel concedes, reluctant to leave but wanting to respect Marilla’s wishes. ‘Don’t sit up sewing too late, will you?’

‘I won’t.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise,’ Marilla replies, her smile a little more genuine now.

So Muriel picks up her bucket and goes home, puts all but one of the fish into the smoker and fries that last one up for a simple supper. Once she’s eaten she settles to read, but her thoughts keep straying back to Marilla, all alone in the house, worried and, however much she might have protested, not feeling well.

‘What were you thinking, just leaving her like that?’ she berates herself aloud, jumping up and reaching for her jacket – because for all that it’s summer, the nights can still be chilly this far north – and strides back to Green Gables through the dimming light.

‘Only me,’ she calls quietly as she closes the door behind her, quickly looking into the kitchen, the little sewing room, sticking her head around each door as she comes to it. ‘I just wanted to– oh.’

In the parlour door she’s brought up short by the sight of Marilla levering herself upright on the sofa. Her hair is coming loose from her bun, her eyes unfocused, her face pale, arms shaking a little from the effort of holding herself up.

I never should have left.

*

‘I told you, I’ll be fine,’ Marilla scolds weakly as Muriel walks over and gently touches her forehead, closing her eyes at the gentle pressure and the coolness of her skin.

‘You might be going to be fine, but you’re not fine right now.’

‘No,’ Marilla admits with a sigh, tension leaving her body as she abandons the pretence.

‘Do you think you can eat?’ Muriel asks quietly.

‘I had some soup a while ago,’ Marilla replies.

‘Then bed, I think,’ Muriel decides, straightening up and holding out her hands.

Marilla is going to protest, to say that she’s perfectly capable of taking herself to bed, thank you very much. But there’s a firmness in Muriel’s eyes, honed in the schoolroom, and Marilla doesn’t have the energy for an argument. And there’s concern and kindness there too, and suddenly it’s all Marilla can do not to cry in gratitude and relief.

So she slips her hands into Muriel’s and allows herself to be slowly drawn upright. The room spins a little, and Marilla has to close her eyes and breathe until the ringing in her ears subsides.

‘I’ve got you,’ Muriel is saying softly when the world rights itself again. ‘It’s alright, Marilla, I’ve got you.’

Marilla opens her eyes, and offers a weak, grateful smile.

‘Upstairs?’

Marilla hums in assent. Muriel leaves her just long enough to take up the single lamp lighting the darkening room, comes back and slides her free hand around Marilla’s waist. It feels wonderfully strong and secure, and Marilla allows her body to sway into Muriel’s, all softness and warmth and steadiness.

In her room, Muriel turns her back to give Marilla some privacy to shed her clothes, her fingers only fumbling a little through the familiar task of loosening her corset. She unpins her hair too, and when she turns to place the pins in front of the mirror she sees that Muriel has taken off her jacket.

‘You needn’t stay,’ Marilla protests.

‘I’m not leaving you alone again,’ Muriel says firmly. ‘I’d never forgive myself if something were to happen to you. I don’t think Anne would ever forgive me, either.’

She could argue. She probably should argue. If it was anyone else, even Rachel, she knows she would. But she finds that she doesn’t want to.

‘Very well,’ she says instead, lifting her hands to braid her hair. But her fingers have been made clumsy with tiredness and pain, and before she realises that Muriel has moved her hands are gently covering Marilla’s and pulling them away.

No one has braided Marilla’s hair since she was a child, since before Michael died, when their mother was still their mother and not a shell hollowed out by grief. Muriel’s fingers rake through the strands, gently teasing out the tangles, before she swiftly braids it.

‘Ribbon?’ Muriel asks softly.

Marilla realises she’s closed her eyes, lost in the sensations. She opens them, picks up the first piece of ribbon she sees and passes it to Muriel, watches in the mirror as she ties a neat bow.

‘There,’ she smiles, meeting Marilla’s gaze in the glass, her hand lingering on Marilla’s shoulder. ‘All done.’

Marilla smiles in return, realises she’s been looking for too long and, flustered but not knowing why, turns away and pulls back her bed sheets. ‘Anne’s room is at the end of the hall, I’m sure she won’t mind if you-’

‘Oh no, I’m staying right here,’ Muriel interrupts her. ‘Just in case.’

Marilla turns, sees her settling herself in the chair, and sighs. ‘If you’re going to be stubborn, you may as well be comfortable. Come on, there’s room enough for two.’

Muriel hesitates, and for a moment Marilla thinks she’s going to argue. So she fixes her with the sternest gaze she can muster, doesn’t look away and get into bed until Muriel relents, hands moving to the buttons at her throat. Marilla closes her eyes, sighs in relief as her head touches the pillow and she no longer has to hold its weight.

The mattress dips beside her far quicker than she expects. Another benefit of not wearing a corset, Marilla thinks, the idea more attractive than ever.

‘Alright if I turn down the lamp?’ Muriel asks softly.

Marilla opens her eyes, sees that Muriel has stripped down to her chemise and bloomers and braided her hair into pigtails, just like when they were in Charlottetown. Now, though, each braid is tied with a length of Marilla’s own ribbon, one white and one plum.

‘Fine,’ Marilla replies.

The room goes dark and she feels Muriel lie down, feels the warmth of her under the cool sheets.

‘At least I already know that you don’t snore,’ Marilla teases as they each settle themselves. ‘Or hog the sheets.’

‘I’m pleased to hear I’m such a considerate bed mate,’ Muriel replies, a smile colouring her voice. ‘Goodnight, Marilla.’

‘Goodnight.’

*

The first thing Muriel sees when she wakes is Marilla, still sleeping peacefully in the clear, pure light of the morning. She hopes it’s a good sign, hopes she’d have woken if Marilla had. She always used to wake when Jonah had a bad night, used to feel his disturbed sleep even in her dreams; surely all this time with no one beside her in bed can’t have eroded that ability?

Muriel lies still for a while, watches over Marilla as she hears the world start to wake outside: the singing of the birds, the lowing of the cows, the neighing of the horses. It’s so different to the morning sounds she’s used to in the trees surrounding her cottage, so different to the sounds she was used to before she moved to Avonlea, yet somehow it feels familiar. It’s the most at peace she’s felt in a long time, longer than she can recall.

Marilla sighs in her sleep, a slight frown creasing her brow. Muriel can’t stop herself from reaching to gently touch her hair, the softest, soothing touch. She settles again, her brow smoothing, and Muriel smiles, brushes strands of hair away from Marilla’s face. In the crystal light she can see every fine line etched in Marilla’s skin, wonders which were caused by grief, by worry, by anger, by laughter. Wonders which have been caused by Anne.

And then she hears Jerry’s voice outside, guesses that he’s calling to the horses and realises that Marilla would usually be up by now, might wake up at any moment and probably won’t want to find Muriel leaning over her, studying her. She certainly doesn’t want Marilla to wake up and find her like this.

So she gets up and dressed as quietly as she can, but can’t quite bring herself to leave the room.

Marilla might not feel better yet, she reasons. She might need my assistance when she wakes.

She’s about to sit in the chair by the window when she spots a book on the little table beside the bed – and Muriel has never been one to resist a book. She picks it up, and smiles when she sees what it is: Jane Eyre.

‘Hello, old friend,’ she murmurs, gently stroking the worn cover. It’s clearly a well-loved volume, the gilded edges of the pages dented, the corners bent, the spine cracked from being read multiple times.

Muriel sits down and opens the book, surprised to see a dedication inside. She’s even more surprised when she reads it:

            To my Gertrude,

            Someone will remember us, I say, even in another time.

            Forever you have my heart. Jo.

She glances across at Marilla, wonders if she knows the significance of the quote, if she knows who Gertrude and Jo are and what it means for them, for who they are and what they are to each other.

Muriel sighs, lightly runs her finger across the ink and cranes her neck to gaze out of the window. She wonders what Marilla thinks about that, about the possibility of two women loving each other, if the possibility has ever even crossed her mind out here in Avonlea, hardly the most open-minded and progressive place, as she herself is only too aware.

Wonders what Marilla would think of her, if she knew about Emily, about those heady months at college that Muriel had spent kissing and loving another woman. If she knew what Muriel has realised about her feelings for her, about the fact that they extend beyond mere friendship into something far deeper, even if she knows this will remain forever unspoken.

And then she thinks about how Marilla welcomed her, defended and fought for her when they hardly knew each other. How Marilla has become a mother to Anne. How she befriended Sebastian and Mary, how she didn’t hesitate to care for Delphine despite what others thought. And she thinks that perhaps Marilla might accept this, too; might in fact, despite appearances to the contrary, be one of the most open and accepting inhabitants of Avonlea, if given the opportunity.

The pages of the book naturally split where something has been placed between them. Muriel expects a piece of ribbon, a scrap of paper, perhaps even a leaf – all things she uses to keep her page. But it’s the postcard she sent Marilla from Boston. Muriel takes it out, notices how the corners are slightly dog-eared, like it’s been frequently handled. She wonders what it means that Marilla keeps it in the book beside her bed, has been using it to mark her place, where she must see it every night.

It was probably just nearby when she started the book, Muriel reasons, thinking of all the times when she’s used something far stranger as a bookmark just because it was the thing closest to hand.

It isn’t quite enough to completely squash the flutter of hope she felt at the sight of the card, at the thought of Marilla reading her words each night.

*

When Marilla wakes in the morning, she instantly knows that it’s later than usual. She lies still for a moment, taking stock of her body, then slowly opens her eyes. There’s no stab of pain, no fuzziness around the edges of her vision, no ringing in her ears.

What there is, though, is Muriel, sitting in the chair with a book open in her hands. She’s mostly dressed now, barring her jacket, but her hair is still braided, if messy and tousled from sleep. For a long moment Marilla just watches her. The sunlight streaming through the window makes her seem to glow, the loose strands of hair around her face sparkling like threads of gold.

The book must be Jane Eyre, Marilla realises. She wonders if Muriel read the dedication or if she turned straight to the story itself. What would she make of Gertrude and Jo? Marilla can’t imagine someone as unconventional and open-minded and kind as Muriel being scandalised by such a thing. And surely in her travels, in her time in big cities, she must have come across women like them? Like – well, like her?

And then she remembers the postcard carefully tucked between the book’s pages, marking her place. Maybe Muriel didn’t notice it. Maybe she did, but thought nothing of it. Maybe she did, and thought Marilla foolish and sentimental.

Which you are, she scolds herself, thinking of how she still reads Muriel’s message every night even though she’s been able to recite it word-perfect almost since the day it arrived.

*

At the end of the chapter, Muriel lifts her head and glances across at Marilla.

‘You’re awake,’ she smiles when she sees that Marilla’s eyes are open. She closes the book and gets up, perches on the edge of the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Better,’ Marilla smiles. ‘Tired, but better. Thank you – for taking care of me. For staying, despite my best efforts to persuade you not to.’

Unable to help herself, Muriel takes Marilla’s hand, gently caresses it with her thumb. ‘You are the dearest of friends, Marilla. Please never think that you have to be alone.’

Marilla smiles, and then looks down at their clasped hands. Muriel pretends not to notice the shine of tears in her eyes.

‘Now, why don’t I go and put some water on for tea?’ she suggests. ‘And then you can come and supervise breakfast. And before you protest,’ she adds quickly, ‘I’m hungry, and I’d far rather eat here with you than at home on my own.’

‘Very well,’ Marilla relents, her lips twitching with the slightest of smiles. ‘Are we going to be having this breakfast this morning, or at some unspecified time in the future?’

‘Hm?’

Muriel looks up to find Marilla looking at her, an amused expression on her face. Suddenly she realises she has no idea how long she’s just been sitting here, gazing at their hands. She jumps up, face burning, and hurries to the door, hurries down the stairs as fast as she can without tripping over her own feet, doesn’t stop until she’s in the kitchen and then feels foolish for having fled like that for no reason. It’s not like Marilla can read her thoughts, not like she could possibly know how she feels.

What must Marilla think of me? she reproaches herself as she fills the kettle.

Marilla comes downstairs just as Muriel is about to pour the tea.

‘Perfect timing,’ Muriel smiles, determined to put her embarrassment behind her, to put Marilla at ease that her odd behaviour was nothing.

‘Perfect indeed,’ Marilla smiles in return.

They move around each other easily as they prepare breakfast. Muriel studies Marilla at every opportunity she gets, but the only hints to what happened yesterday are a slight tired heaviness to her movements, a slightly looser bun than she usually wears.

‘Are you truly feeling better?’ she asks as they sit down to eat, a plate of toast and dish of butter between them on the table, an egg in a cup on each of their plates.

‘I am,’ Marilla replies. ‘Still worried about Matthew and Anne, but better other than that.’

Internally, Muriel smacks her forehead with her palm. In all her worry about Marilla’s headache, she somehow managed to completely forget the reason she was alone.

‘I can’t imagine either of them will let any harm come to the other,’ Muriel says, reaching across the table to lay her hand over Marilla’s. ‘And I can’t imagine you could have stopped Anne from going.’

A smile flickers across Marilla’s face. ‘She does have a mind of her own.’

‘And a knack for getting herself out of whatever trouble she gets herself into,’ Muriel smiles.

‘Life has certainly been more eventful since she came into our lives. I wouldn’t change it for the world.’

‘I know I’m going to miss having her in school. I can’t imagine how much you’re both going to miss her.’

‘Dreadfully,’ Marilla admits. ‘But Charlottetown’s only a train ride away, and I know she’ll write.’

‘Pages and pages every time, I should think.’

Marilla nods, turns her hand over so she can clasp Muriel’s. ‘I want her to have more than I had, Muriel. I want her to have every chance, to be able to do whatever she wants with her life.’

‘She’s very lucky to have you, Marilla.’

‘No,’ Marilla smiles. ‘We’re the lucky ones. And she’s lucky to have had you to encourage her.’

*

When Marilla unpins her bun that night, she realises that two of the pins are different, that this morning she must have mistakenly picked up two of Muriel’s from the haphazard scatter across the top of her dresser. She used the same number of pins as she always does, though, and there aren’t any extras in her neat little pile. Which means Muriel must have two of her pins.

Marilla gently strokes one of the unfamiliar, slightly paler pins, finger running up and down along every ridge, thinks about how something of Muriel’s has been tucked into her hair all day, how something of hers has been close to Muriel all day. It’s such a small thing. Meaningless, really, just an error. But when she finally puts the pin down with the others and glances into the mirror, Marilla sees that she’s smiling.

Foolish woman, she scolds as she picks up her brush and starts to pull it through her hair.

But that makes her think of Muriel’s fingers last night, how gentle she had been, how restful it felt, how she hasn’t felt so cared for in decades.

Braiding comes automatically again now, her hands almost as quick as usual. She reaches for a ribbon and realises it’s one that Muriel used, a single strand of her hair caught around it. Marilla doesn’t pull it free, wraps it around her own hair along with the ribbon and lets it get tangled in the bow. She catches sight of herself smiling in the mirror again, feels oddly like a girl, a little like when she forgot her scarf because her mind was full of worry for her mother and Rebecca had insisted on looping her own scarf around Marilla’s neck.

The scarf had smelled like Rebecca. When Marilla gets into bed, the pillow smells like Muriel.

*          *          *

Marilla turns in her pew to look over her shoulder at the church door yet again. It’s almost time for the service to begin and Muriel isn’t here yet, her usual space with Gilbert, Sebastian and Delphine still empty. She tries not to be disappointed: Muriel doesn’t always come to church on a Sunday, after all, although her attendance has been more regular in recent months.

And then, just as the service is about to start, she hears footsteps and the commotion of people shuffling along a pew to make space, turns to see Muriel sitting down beside Gilbert, her hat not quite on straight, as if she left the house in a rush.

And then Muriel looks at her, and they exchange a smile, and Marilla only turns around again when she realises everyone is standing for the first hymn. She’s almost certain she can feel Rachel’s gaze on her, spends the rest of the service resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder at Muriel for fear of catching her friend’s eye, for fear of arousing her insatiable curiosity.

*

Towards the end of the service, Delphine begins to fuss. At the end of the pew, with the easiest escape route, Muriel holds out her arms to take her from Bash, carries her outside and walks up and down, quietly talking to her, the sound of the final hymn carrying out to them on the still air.

By the time the rest of the congregation begins to spill outside, Delphine is asleep. Muriel keeps her distance, not wanting to wake her again if she can avoid it. She keeps her gaze on the door, though, watches for Marilla, catches her eye and waves as best she can with the baby in her arms, smiles when Marilla heads towards her. She’s pleased to see that Marilla looks well, to see no hint of slowness or tiredness or pain.

‘Hello, little one,’ Marilla says softly to Delphine, gently touching her head. ‘And hello you,’ she adds, looking at Muriel, fingers just brushing her hand.

‘They came back safe?’ Muriel asks, nodding towards Matthew and Anne where they’ve been cornered by Rachel.

Marilla nods. ‘It’s a fair strange business, taking children away from their families like that, against their wishes. Anne’s determined to write to a newspaper about it, so I don’t doubt she’ll want to bend your ear.’

‘I’d be delighted to help,’ Muriel says. ‘And you?’ she asks, even quieter. ‘How are you?’

‘Just fine, thank you,’ Marilla replies, a little stiffly, a little warily.

‘Good,’ Muriel smiles.

‘You won’t– I mean, I’d rather–’ Marilla says hesitantly. She glances towards Matthew and Anne, then meets Muriel’s eye. ‘I don’t want them to worry, especially not Anne, not so close to her going away to college.’

Muriel shifts so she can touch Marilla’s elbow, the movement hidden beneath Delphine’s blanket. ‘It’s not for me to tell,’ she murmurs, and sees Marilla instantly soften, feels her lean slightly into her hand.

‘I checked the plums this morning,’ Marilla says. ‘Will you have time for a spot of jam making sometime this week?’

‘How could I refuse such an offer?’ Muriel smiles. ‘Especially if it puts me first in line for a batch of plum puffs.’

Marilla huffs and shakes her head in despair, but her eyes are bright and, this close, Muriel can see the corners of her mouth twitch with a suppressed smile.

And then Muriel glances up, over Marilla’s shoulder, and sees Rachel watching them, a curious, almost scrutinising look on her face. Muriel forces herself to smile at her, to not look away sharply – guiltily.

Is it written all over my face? she wonders, as she fixes her attention on Marilla again. Because if anyone could discern her feelings about Marilla from a distance of twenty paces, however certain she is that she’s keeping them safely hidden, it would surely be Rachel Lynde.

And then Muriel remembers Rachel’s gaze on her at the dance. She had thought Rachel was merely keeping an eye on her in order to know where to send any suitable young men she came across, had thought she was just disapproving of Muriel’s utter failure to seize such an unparalleled opportunity to find herself a husband from outside their immediate circle.

But now she wonders if Rachel saw this before she did, if Rachel suspected this before she did.

*

The next morning, when she opens her front door to leave for school, Muriel half expects to find another young man waiting for her. She’s pleasantly surprised that there isn’t.

Chapter 13

As if the harvest wasn’t quite enough to keep them busy, now Marilla has to find time to finish preparations for Anne to go to college. Because even though they don’t have their results yet, Marilla has no doubt that Anne will be accepted, a thought that fills her with so much pride she doesn’t know what to do with it.

Anne’s dress, at least, is almost done, just the buttons and final details to go. It’s by far the most beautiful, elegant, embellished garment Marilla has ever made, and she can’t quite believe it’s for Anne, can’t quite believe the small, skinny child Matthew brought home what seems like only yesterday has grown into a young woman who will soon have occasion to wear such a dress. She holds it up in the sunlight, imagines Anne’s fiery hair against the rich velvet and is glad Muriel persuaded her to buy the blue rather than the green.

As if conjured by her thoughts, Marilla hears the door open and familiar footsteps, carefully lays down the dress just as Muriel pokes her head into the room.

‘Oh Marilla, it’s beautiful,’ she says, coming closer and gently stroking the fabric.

‘Partly thanks to some good advice I had on colours,’ Marilla smiles. ‘There’s so much to do before she leaves, I sometimes wonder if my time is best spent on something inessential. And then I think of the childhood she’s had, and how much having a dress like this of her own would mean to her, and I wonder if–’

‘If maybe it is essential?’ Muriel guesses, and Marilla nods. ‘I think you’re right. Sometimes something that appears to be a luxury to most people can have far more meaning for others. And I know it’ll mean all the more to Anne because you made it for her.’

Marilla’s heart clenches, as it does every time she spends too long thinking about Anne’s leaving, about her not being here, about her having the chance to spread her wings by leaving them behind. She shakes her head slightly to dispel the feeling before it can turn into melancholy.

The gentle touch of Muriel’s fingers on the back of her hand makes Marilla jump, which makes Muriel jump and pull her hand away. But Marilla regains her wits fast enough that she doesn’t have chance to move far, touches Muriel’s hand and then, hesitantly, curls her fingers around it. She looks up to find Muriel staring at their hands, an almost dazed expression on her face that Marilla doesn’t understand, cannot name. Thinking she’s done something wrong, made her friend uncomfortable, she’s about to let go when Muriel grips her hand in return, thumb rubbing across Marilla’s knuckles, eyes meeting Marilla’s.

‘I believe there’s some very important jam to be made,’ Muriel says after a long moment.

She gently tugs on Marilla’s hand, doesn’t let go when Marilla rises, doesn’t let go until they’re in the kitchen in front of the big bowl of plums Marilla had Anne help her pick before she disappeared off to spend the day with Diana.

‘I hope you’re good with a knife,’ Marilla says, offering Muriel the better of their two small, sharp kitchen knives.

‘Don’t worry,’ Muriel smiles, taking it and picking a plum from the bowl. ‘You shouldn’t need to tend to any wounds.’

*

The kitchen at Green Gables has never struck Muriel as being small, by any means. Today, though, it’s like it’s the size of a hatbox, and she and Marilla constantly seem to be trying to occupy the same space. Stoning the plums, they stand close enough that their elbows nudge occasionally. When they each reach into the bowl for another plum, it seems to Muriel that their fingers touch more times that could possibly be due to chance.

It must be me, she thinks. She’s found herself arcing ever closer to Marilla recently, after all, her body inexorably listing towards her without permission.

So she takes a little longer removing the next stone, reaches for her next plum when Marilla’s knife is just biting into the flesh of her fruit. But just a few minutes later, Marilla’s fingers brush against the back of her hand, when Muriel is certain she isn’t working any faster or slower than she was before.

Maybe it’s not just me? she thinks, glancing at the woman beside her. But Marilla’s face betrays nothing.

No, Muriel tells herself firmly. It’s just stupid hope, just wishful thinking.

And then at the stove, while Muriel is staring into the pan of fruit and sugar, watching it bubble, waiting for it to thicken, Marilla comes to stand at her shoulder. Muriel can feel the whisper of her breath and it’s almost too much, and she’s grateful for the steam rising from the almost-jam, grateful to have something to explain away the flush she feels colouring her cheeks.

Because Marilla, surely, has no idea.

No idea Muriel wants nothing more than to shift just a little, just enough to press their bodies together.

No idea Muriel wants to look around and kiss her.

No idea Muriel is hopelessly in love with her.

She pushes that thought away, pushes it firmly to a corner of her mind and tells it to stay there. She won’t ruin this, won’t lose this friendship for the sake of feelings she knows can’t be requited.

*

The jam is made, all safely sitting in its jars to set. Marilla screws on the last lid as slowly as she can, reluctant to tell Muriel that the job is finished, reluctant for her to leave. She glances at the other woman, standing with her hands on her hips, looking at the full jars with a satisfied smile.

‘A job well done, I’d say,’ Marilla says, unable to stretch it out any longer.

‘I only hope it’s up to your usual standards.’

‘I’ll make a batch of plum puffs sometime soon to try it out,’ Marilla promises, remembering the look on Muriel’s face when she took her first bite, the feeling that bubbled inside her at Muriel’s praise.

‘No complaints here,’ Muriel smiles.

‘I didn’t say I’d make them for you,’ Marilla teases. ‘Do you have plans for the rest of the day?’

‘Not really,’ Muriel shrugs. ‘You?’

‘Well I have a lot of buttonholes to finish off on Anne’s dress, so I suppose I’ll make a start on those.’

‘Would you like some help?’

All Marilla can do is stare at her.

‘Not that you really need it, I’m sure,’ Muriel hurries on. ‘But I’m a pretty dab hand at buttonholes and it would give you more time for everything else you need to get done.’

‘Are you sure that’s really how you want to spend your afternoon?’ Marilla frowns.

‘I’d like to spend it with you,’ Muriel says softly. ‘And if I can help you to tick something off your list, then that would be even better.’

Which is how they end up sitting beside each other, the dress spread over their laps, Muriel sewing buttonholes and Marilla working on the cuff detailing. They work mostly in silence, which would have surprised Marilla a year ago but by now she’s just as accustomed to Muriel being silent as she is to Muriel filling silences.

Marilla glances at her, sees the little crease between her eyebrows that shows how hard she’s concentrating on the fiddly buttonhole she’s carefully stitching, her fingers delicately holding the expensive fabric. She doesn’t need to watch her, can see that she’s doing at least as good a job as Marilla would have done herself – possibly better, given the circumstances – yet still she watches, her own hands lying motionless. She doesn’t realise she’s been still and staring for too long until Muriel says her name.

*

‘Just admiring your handiwork,’ Marilla says, hastily returning her gaze to the cuff she’s finishing.

‘I think it almost matches your impeccable stitching. Close enough not to embarrass myself – or you – anyway,’ Muriel says, watching as Marilla pauses with her needle halfway through the fabric, a delicate blush rising on her cheeks.

‘Far from it,’ Marilla murmurs, her gaze briefly meeting Muriel’s before dropping back to her work.

‘This dress truly is exquisite, Marilla,’ Muriel says. ‘I hope I get to see Anne wearing it someday.’

‘Perhaps if you join us for Christmas again this year?’

Now it’s Muriel’s turn to stop stitching and stare at Marilla. ‘Are- are you sure?’ she asks. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude on your time with Anne.’

Marilla carefully finishes her stitch, looks at the lace for a moment and then meets Muriel’s eyes. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at her for what feels like hours. Her expression is soft and hopeful and fond – Muriel might even say tender, if she were to listen to her hopelessly romantic heart.

‘We would all love for you to be here,’ Marilla says quietly and sincerely, hesitating and then gently touching Muriel’s hand.

‘And there’s nowhere I’d rather be,’ Muriel replies, just as sincerely.

She can feel her heart thudding against her ribs, almost expects Marilla to ask her what’s wrong because surely it’s loud enough for her to hear. All she would have to do is lean a little closer, and she could kiss Marilla. It would be even easier than it would have been when they were standing over the bubbling jam.

For a moment, Muriel imagines it. Imagines taking Marilla’s face in her hands, imagines the softness of her skin and the warmth of her lips.

‘Results day on Tuesday,’ she says, a deliberate attempt to distract herself, to slow her racing heart and push thoughts of kissing Marilla from her mind.

‘Nervous?’

‘A little,’ Muriel admits. ‘But not for Anne. I have no doubt she’ll be accepted.’

‘Neither do I,’ Marilla smiles. ‘I’m so proud of her.’

‘And so you should be. The only question, really, is whether she or Gilbert comes out top of the class.’

*

Results day arrives. It’s the first time Muriel has seen all her oldest students together since their final revision session, and her house is crowded and noisy, and it’s both glorious and somewhat overwhelming after the quiet of the summer. She looked at their results beforehand, knows what each of them achieved and is full of pride for it, full of excitement for them.

There’s a flurry of celebration and thanks, and Gilbert’s quiet request, and then she’s all alone again, just her and the bittersweetness of an ending and new beginnings.

Muriel’s thoughts turn to the new term, not so far away now. Somehow, her holiday feels almost over, even though it hadn’t felt like that yesterday. It must be seeing them all again, she decides, being reminded that she’s a teacher.

So she spends the evening reviewing her notes and lesson plans from last year, making a few adjustments and additions where she thinks they’re necessary. Now the holiday really does feel over, and for the first time in weeks she goes to bed thinking of something other than Marilla.

The next morning, Muriel walks over to her brand new schoolroom, risen from the ashes thanks to the hard work of Avonlea’s men. Still smelling of sawdust and whitewash, it’s completely bare, a blank canvas that’s all hers.

She’s there again the following day, and the one after that, grateful she has so much to keep her busy, to keep her mind from straying to Marilla, to keep her feet from straying to Green Gables, to allow the Cuthberts to spend these last precious days with Anne before she leaves and everything irrevocably changes for them again.

And then sometime the following afternoon – she’s lost track of time, forgot her watch this morning and the schoolroom doesn’t yet have a clock – she hears footsteps and the quiet creak of floorboards that are still settling, looks up to see Marilla peering in through the open door.

*

‘So this is where you’ve been hiding,’ Marilla teases.

‘It’s hardly hiding, considering this is my schoolroom,’ Muriel retorts, a smile playing across her lips.

‘I suppose not,’ Marilla concedes, looking around the room. ‘It certainly looks like you’ve been busy.’

‘Turns out there’s a lot to be done before term starts when you’re literally starting from nothing,’ Muriel says wryly.

Pain from the burning down of the school is still evident in Muriel’s voice and it tugs at Marilla’s heart, makes her want to reach out and comfort her like she did that day in Muriel’s garden. She tries to forget the feel of Muriel’s hair, soft between her fingers, doesn’t know why the memory is so strong or why she so longs to touch it again.

‘I’ve made a few changes,’ Muriel says, standing up.

‘So I see.’

The room seems bigger, somehow, even though from the outside it looks exactly the same as it always has. Something about the new arrangement of the desks and benches, leaving an empty space at the back, gives the illusion of a larger room.

‘So we’ll have plenty of space for practical demonstrations and hands-on learning. And don’t worry,’ she adds, before Marilla can say anything. ‘I’ve already spoken to Rachel, and she has mediated with both the Board and the Progressive Mothers on my behalf.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ Marilla smiles, relieved beyond what is surely reasonable that Muriel has found a compromise, that the Board won’t be handed a reason to remove her.

‘And I’ve started gathering books for students to borrow, like a little lending library,’ she says, gesturing to a small bookcase.

Marilla bends to read the spines of the books clustered at one end of the otherwise empty case, propped up by a large stone. There are volumes on botany, natural history, geography, but also smaller books, with titles Marilla mostly doesn’t recognise but that can only be fiction.

‘It’s rather a meagre collection so far,’ Muriel admits. ‘But it’s better than nothing, and I intend to add to it until the bookcase is overflowing.’

‘We might have something to donate,’ Marilla says, thinking of their own shelves. ‘And I’ll have a word with Rachel, see if she won’t exert a little judicious pressure around the community for a good cause.’

‘Would you? It would be wonderful to give every student the opportunity to fall in love with reading, to find something that they’re passionate about.’

Marilla barely hears Muriel’s next words, momentarily distracted by the title of the last book on the shelf, the one resting against the rock: Jane Eyre.

‘And this is going to be a nature table, where we can all display our finds and then discuss them.’

Marilla blinks, straightens up and follows Muriel to the corner where she remembers the skeleton hanging. Standing in the square of light beaming through the window is a small table. Like the bookcase it’s mostly empty, just a fragile little bird skull and some feathers, a saucer containing a few pebbles of various colours, and half a dozen shells.

‘I want to nurture their curiosity and creativity,’ Muriel says.

Her excitement is palpable, clear in her voice, and Marilla remembers the electricity lesson, remembers Anne’s tutoring sessions, remembers the curiosity awoken in her by Muriel’s enthusiasm.

‘I have no doubt that you will,’ Marilla smiles, her gaze caught on the brightness in Muriel’s eyes.

After a few moments, Muriel clears her throat. Marilla realises she’s been staring and, blushing, looks out of the window.

‘I don’t suppose that basket contains something delicious, by any chance?’

Marilla looks down at the basket she’d forgotten she was carrying, and suddenly remembers why she’s here. ‘You’re in luck,’ she smiles.

‘Why don’t we sit out on the steps, make the most of the sun while it lasts?’

*

Muriel sighs, closes her eyes and turns her face up towards the sun. It’s warm but not as warm as Marilla, pressed against her from shoulder to knee thanks to the narrow steps, however much Muriel tries not to think about it.

‘Here.’

She opens her eyes to find Marilla offering her a plum puff, and feels a sudden rush of anxiety. ‘Made with our jam?’

Marilla nods.

‘Have you tried it?’

‘I thought you should have the first taste,’ Marilla smiles.

‘I’m not sure that’s filling me with confidence,’ Muriel mutters.

But when she takes a bite, the puff tastes just as amazing as she remembers.

‘Good?’

‘Very,’ Muriel manages through her mouthful of pastry, licking cream and jam from her finger and not caring how unladylike it is. ‘But then I did have a good teacher,’ she adds once her mouth is empty.

She glances at Marilla, sees a faint blush that only serves to highlight her cheekbones, a smile playing about the corners of her mouth.

‘Maybe one day you’ll teach me how to make the puffs, seeing as now I can make the jam?’

‘We’ll have to see about that,’ Marilla teases. ‘I only showed Rachel last year, after a lifetime of her badgering.’

‘How about if I promise never to enter them at the County Fair?

‘Do you swear?’ Marilla asks, holding out her pinky finger.

‘I swear,’ Muriel says solemnly, ignoring the way her heart flutters when their skin touches. ‘I thought you’d have been busy with Anne all this week. Or with the harvest.’

‘The corn’s all in, so we’ve a brief respite for now,’ Marilla replies. ‘And Anne’s spending the day with Diana. It pains me to see how much the thought of being without her hurts. I only wish there were something I could do to persuade the Barrys to change their mind about sending Diana to finishing school.’

Marilla sighs heavily, and Muriel reaches for her hand without thinking. ‘Maybe you can,’ she says softly. ‘Maybe Mrs Barry might listen to you?’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ Marilla says, with a mirthless laugh.

‘Well, at least you’ll know you tried.’

Marilla nods and sighs again. ‘I think I must. I lost a dear friend at around Anne’s age, when she moved away. I don’t want Anne to have to go through that pain as well, especially not after all the losses she’s already experienced.’

Muriel squeezes Marilla’s hand, leans into her a little in the hope that it might provide comfort, that it might give her the strength to face Mrs Barry.

Chapter 14

Marilla lies in the too large, too soft, too luxurious bed in one of Josephine Barry’s many guest bedrooms, staring into the darkness. It’s been quite the day: the disappointment of the letter from Scotland, followed by her impulsive decision and then the success of their visit to Mrs Thomas. And now here she is, persuaded by Anne that it was too late for them to travel home so they should stay with Miss Barry for the night instead.

She thinks about Anne’s joy at having part of her parents at last, something real to hold in her hands, to prove that she was loved and not abandoned.

How could I ever have wanted to keep that from her? How could I ever have thought that she would leave us – Anne, who, despite all she’s been through, is so full of love that it spills from her?

Muriel, she realises. Muriel is the reason for this happiness. Muriel, and her reassurance, and her sage words about love.

She’ll want to hear all about their little adventure, and the outcome of Anne’s quest. And Marilla finds she’s desperate to tell her, desperate to recount their discovery and Anne’s reaction, to see all the emotions they’ve felt today reflected on her beautiful, expressive face.

Desperate to see if Muriel is proud of her, if she’s honest with herself. Marilla feels like she would run all the way from the station to Muriel’s house when they get off the train tomorrow, just to be able to tell her a little sooner, to be able to see her a little sooner, to be able to just be with her.

Suddenly, Marilla sits bolt upright, so quickly that her head spins. She grips the bed sheets with both hands in an effort to ground herself, thinks that her heart is pounding so hard that Matthew must surely be able to hear it from down the hall. She reaches trembling fingers out until they touch the lamp, fumbles for the switch and blinks as bright electric light floods the room, as clear as the single, blinding thought filling her mind.

I love her.

*

Marilla forces herself to stay in her room until fifteen minutes before they were told breakfast would be served. She feels a little restless from lack of sleep, from the fluttering in her stomach, from the fact that her thoughts keep returning to Muriel and every time they do her heart trembles. She longs for the soothing mundanity of milking the cows or kneading dough, for anything that would at least absorb some of this bubbling energy filling her. There’s nothing for her to do here, though, so she makes do with pacing the room, but that only seems to make things worse.

Eventually, she decides that it’s no longer too early to be impolite, thinks that perhaps a cup of tea will settle her a little, and ventures downstairs. Josephine Barry is already sat at the table, a delicate china cup in one hand, the newspaper open in front of her.

‘Reading the paper over breakfast was one of Gertrude’s habits,’ she apologises as Marilla takes a seat. ‘I used to scold her for it, and then somehow I ended up doing exactly the same. And now, I suppose, it’s something of a comfort.’

‘Please don’t stop on my account,’ Marilla says, as Josephine reaches for the edges of the paper to fold it.

She thinks of Muriel, thinks of the books and papers usually piled on at least half of her kitchen table and spread over most of the rest, wonders what she reaches for to read over her breakfast, knows without doubt that she willreach for something.

‘What sort of a hostess would I be if I ignored my guest in favour of newsprint?’ Josephine smiles, handing the paper to Rollings, who has silently materialised at her shoulder. ‘Tea, Marilla?’

Marilla nods, for once grateful to be served, grateful to avoid the threat of spilled tea on the fine tablecloth due to her unsteady hands. She takes the opportunity to glance around the room, taking in the comfortable furniture, the paintings, the beautiful china. And then her gaze lands on a photograph of two women, one undeniably a younger Josephine Barry. The other, wearing a smart men’s suit and gazing at her, tenderness captured forever, must be Gertrude. Her thoughts turn once again to Muriel – as if they’d ever left her.

‘How did you know?’

‘That I loved her?’

Startled, Marilla looks around at Josephine, and realises she spoke aloud.

‘That she felt the same. It strikes me as quite the risk – to say the words if you’re not entirely certain.’

‘I’m afraid Gertrude knew how she felt before I did,’ Josephine smiles. ‘And wasn’t afraid to court me, just as a man would have done. So you see, by the time I realised, her feelings for me were quite obvious.’

Before she can say anything else, the door opens and Matthew walks in, looking as uncomfortable and out of place as he had the previous day.

‘Good morning, Matthew,’ Josephine says brightly. ‘I hope you slept well?’

‘Aye, thank you,’ Matthew replies, and Marilla can tell that he’s lying, can tell the soft mattress and blankets were too luxurious for him too.

Which sets her to thinking about Muriel again. To Muriel, and the way Marilla has spent the past months seeking reasons to see her, to speak to her, to spend time with her, inviting her to do things together for no reason other than a desire to share things with her, to make her happy, to be near her. To picking berries and making jam, and dancing with her, and even inviting her on a trip to Charlottetown, for goodness sake.

Her hand halts, teacup halfway to her lips.

‘Are you quite alright, dear?’

Marilla blinks, sets her cup down in its saucer with barely a sound and meets Josephine’s concerned gaze. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replies, amazed to hear that her voice is steady.

Josephine smiles, and Marilla has the unnerving feeling that those sharp, bright eyes can see right through her, can read her thoughts.

I’ve been courting her.

Marilla pulls herself together, pushes thoughts of Muriel as far to the back of her mind as she can, engages in polite conversation with their hostess as they finish breakfast, because even with Anne’s influence Matthew is still taciturn. She’s relieved when she’s finally able to leave the table and retreat to her room to prepare for their journey home.

She’s all ready to go, just pinning her hat on, when there’s a quiet knock on the door. She opens it to find Josephine on the other side, Marilla’s basket – now empty of pastries – in her hand.

‘The most delicious plum puffs indeed,’ she says with a smile as she passes it over and, to her surprise, clasps Marilla’s free hand in both of hers. Her gaze is just as piercing as it was across the breakfast table, and this time Marilla is certain Josephine knows what she’s thinking. ‘She courted me,’ Josephine repeats. ‘And far later, I realised I had unwittingly been courting her, too. And even if nothing more had ever come of it, we would each have enjoyed each other’s company and made a firm friend.’

‘But more did come of it,’ Marilla says softly, almost captivated by the love – and pain – in Josephine’s eyes.

Josephine nods, and leans a little closer. ‘Her friendship alone would have been wonderful,’ she murmurs. ‘But to have all of her love was more than I could ever have dreamed. I think you’ll know if she’s worth the risk, but remember that it never has to be all or nothing.’

*          *          *

Marilla had wondered if she would feel different when she woke this morning, back in her own bed, but she didn’t. It’s like when she realised she had loved Rebecca. The knowledge that she is in love with Muriel has settled into her soul – into her bones – with a sort of unwavering certainty, another missing piece that has settled into its rightful place. The last months – years, even – have been cast in a new light, and Marilla feels like perhaps she’s never really known herself until now.

She had expected to miss Anne so much that it would hurt today, the first full day without her, but instead she feels an immense sense of peace as she goes about her chores, a near constant smile on her face that makes her glad Matthew is out in the fields with Jerry for the day. Because while he hasn’t said a word, Marilla knows her brother isfeeling Anne’s absence like a wound, and would be bound to notice that she isn’t.

It’s more than serenity, though. When she takes a batch of shortbread out of the oven, it seems to smell richer and sweeter than usual. Sitting on the table in a square of sunlight to cool, it seems to glow. The birdsong outside, that she’s heard almost every day of her life, sounds more beautiful. It’s like she’s woken up in one of Anne’s stories, where everything is better than it really is, like she’s never fully experienced the world until now.

She knows Muriel will be tired this afternoon, what with it being her first day back teaching, her first day spent in the company – and noise – of a schoolroom full of children after an entire summer off. But Marilla simply cannot keep away from her any longer, feels it’s something of a miracle she’s been able to hold herself back until now, when she’s spent every moment since they left Charlottetown longing to see her.

It isn’t until she sets out for the school with some shortbread in her basket – until she’s almost there, until she passes the first students heading home – that she starts to feel nervous, nerves mixed with excitement, her heart fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird.

And then she sees Muriel, standing on the steps waving off the last students, and Muriel sees her and smiles, her whole face lighting up, and Marilla wishes she had Anne’s vocabulary and imagination so she could find the words to explain how she feels, how Muriel makes her feel.

*

Muriel senses that there’s something different about Marilla today, but as they sit beside each other on the steps again, she can’t quite put her finger on what it is. She seems lighter, somehow. Happier, although that doesn’t seem quite right, quite enough. Muriel puts it down to the success of their quest for information about Anne’s parents, listens in astonishment as Marilla tells her about their trip to Charlottetown, the disappointment of the letter, Marilla’s spur of the moment decision to catch the ferry to visit Mrs Thomas, the discovery of the book with the inscription and the portrait of Anne’s mother.

‘Well, haven’t you had quite the adventure,’ she says when Marilla has finished.

‘Because of you,’ Marilla says softly, gaze dropping to her hands clasped in her lap.

‘Me?’ Muriel frowns.

‘I was so scared of losing Anne if she found out where she came from, until you brought me to my senses. I don’t think I could ever thank you enough.’

Muriel’s hand is clasped around Marilla’s before she even realises she’s moved, but when she tries to draw it back she can’t, because Marilla’s fingers have closed around hers. Muriel looks at their hands, then looks up to find Marilla’s gaze on her, soft and clear and earnest. There’s a moment of perfect stillness, and for one heart-stopping moment Muriel inexplicably thinks that Marilla is going to kiss her.

She doesn’t, of course. But there’s something in her eyes that makes Muriel’s heart skip, makes her stomach feel like it’s filled with butterflies. She blinks and forces herself to look away but can’t bring herself to pull her hand from Marilla’s grasp.

‘On my walk yesterday, I noticed the first blackberries are ripening,’ she says, once she’s taken a few breaths to clear her mind.

‘Did you now?’ Marilla asks, the corners of her lips quirking slightly.

‘If you happen to know anyone who might be interested,’ Muriel teases.

‘I’m sure Rachel knows of any number of young bachelors with some time on their hands,’ Marilla says, playing along.

‘Don’t you dare even think about it.’

‘Then I suppose you’ll have to make do with me.’

Muriel sighs dramatically, feigning disappointment, but she can’t keep a smile from her lips, the butterflies in her stomach redoubling their efforts as Marilla smiles in return, her eyes sparkling.

Chapter 15

Notes:

Happy Christmas, loyal readers! The rest is in progress, I promise...

Somehow, without realising, Muriel has chosen the blackberry patch Marilla most remembers from her childhood, the one she and Rebecca and Rachel came to most often. She stops under the shade of an ash tree, taller now than it was back then, and for a moment lets herself sink into the past.

Her head in Rebecca’s lap, Rebecca’s fingers in her hair. It’s just the two of them in this memory; Rachel must have been off somewhere with Thomas, no doubt having told her parents the three of them would be spending the afternoon together. Their mother had died by then. Time out of the house, away from the farm, had been rare, time with Rebecca precious.

Marilla remembers gazing up at Rebecca, hardly able to make out her face because the sun was so bright, but it didn’t matter. She knew every feature, every detail, better than she knew her own face, can still picture her perfectly now, all these decades later.

How did I not realise?

‘Marilla?’

Marilla opens her eyes and sees Muriel silhouetted against the perfect blue sky. She can see her hair, so much of it flying loose from under her straw hat, can’t see her face but realises she doesn’t need to.

‘Just a memory,’ Marilla says. ‘From a long time ago.’

‘A good one?’ Muriel asks, coming closer.

Marilla raises her hand to shade her eyes. She can just make out Muriel’s expression now – curious, and gentle, and fond, exactly as she knew it would be.

‘A good one,’ she smiles.

‘Come on,’ Muriel grins, holding out her hand. ‘Bet I can fill my pail quicker than you.’

‘Oh really?’ Marilla replies, arching her eyebrows as she takes Muriel’s outstretched hand. ‘We’ll see about that.’

*

Muriel doesn’t fill her pail quicker than Marilla fills hers. Not because Marilla is picking particularly fast, because she isn’t. And not because Muriel is moving particularly slowly, because she isn’t, and all her tiredness at the end of the first week of term seems to have vanished in Marilla’s company. It’s just that Marilla is beautiful in the sunlight and Muriel keeps looking at her, determined to make the most of these precious, peaceful hours together amid the busyness and stress of the start of the new school year, of Marilla and Matthew adjusting to life at Green Gables without Anne. Sometimes when she glances across, she finds Marilla is already looking at her.

By the time they stop for a break, neither of them has a full pail, although Marilla’s is definitely the fuller of the two. They sit beside each other, leaning back against the trunk of a tree, in the dappled shade of its leaves, their elbows nudging. There’s no one else in sight, nothing to hear but the breeze rustling the leaves and birdsong floating in the air.

She glances at Marilla, head tipped back against the tree, eyes closed, sunlight dancing across her face, and her heart swells almost painfully.

*

‘Would you like to come over for supper tomorrow?’

Muriel’s voice breaks the quiet of birdsong and whispering leaves. Marilla opens her eyes and looks at her, sees earnestness and hope and–

Oh.

She thinks back to Josephine Barry’s words, thinks of all the times Muriel has turned up at Green Gables unannounced, all the times Muriel has invited her to do things with her, all the time they’ve spent together.

She’s been courting me, too.

She can’t stop the laugh bubbling from her lips.

‘What?’ Muriel asks.

‘Nothing,’ Marilla smiles.

But Muriel tilts her head and raises her eyebrows. Heart pounding, Marilla tentatively places her hand over Muriel’s, careful to move slowly enough that Muriel could draw her hand away.

But she doesn’t.

Marilla watches as Muriel looks down at their hands, both peppered with thorn pricks and smeared with berry juice, then back up at her. She wonders if she can feel it, can feel that this is different to all the other times they’ve touched before, that this time it means something else, something more – that Marilla knows it means something more.

Just as tentatively, Muriel moves her thumb to grip Marilla’s fingers where they curl around hers, and Marilla thinks that perhaps she can. She lets out a breath and smiles – and then so does Muriel, her whole face bright, her shoulders dropping, and Marilla feels all the tension leave her body, feels a little light-headed from it, from the feel of Muriel’s skin, Muriel’s thumb gently holding her hand in place, Muriel’s eyes fixed on hers.

*

Eventually, wordlessly, they get up and continue picking. Muriel feels like she’s in one of Anne’s stories. Something about the low, glowing sunlight and long shadows feels almost magical, like they’re outside of the mundane world, like anything could happen. All because of the way Marilla looked at her when she took her hand.

All because of the way Marilla’s fingers lingered on her skin when they stood up, lingered until the last possible moment, like she didn’t want to let go.

All because of the way her heart and stomach flutter and skip each time she looks up from the brambles and finds Marilla already looking at her, ethereal and otherworldly in the golden light.

The way she looked at me, Muriel thinks, almost light-headed. The way she keeps looking at me. She- does she- But she won’t let herself finish the thought, can’t dare to even think the words.

And then, wordlessly again, their pails at least close to being full, they head for home, walking close enough that the fingers of their free hands brush between their skirts. Muriel feels Marilla’s hand slide into hers, squeezes it to try and take away some of the chill from the autumn evening.

They’re almost at the point where their paths diverge, near the end of the White Way of Delight, which is no longer white but becoming fiery with autumn, and Muriel knows she has to ask, even if it shatters what feels like the most perfect dream, even if it ruins everything.

Even if it means she loses Marilla.

‘This,’ she says, pulling Marilla to a halt and looking down at their clasped hands, her heart racing. ‘What does this mean?’

Marilla steps closer and lets go of her hand, and for a moment Muriel panics, flooded with the certainty that she’s entirely misinterpreted Marilla’s actions, that her imagination has conjured it all.

But then Marilla gently tucks escaped strands of Muriel’s hand behind her ear, fingers caressing her cheek. Muriel can’t help but lean into Marilla’s palm. She closes her eyes, shifts just a little so she can kiss the heel of Marilla’s hand where it rests beside her lips.

Muriel feels Marilla’s shuddering exhale as much as she hears it. When she opens her eyes, she finds Marilla is somehow even closer, close enough for her to see the deep, damson stains on her lips. Their gazes lock. Muriel leans towards her, until their noses almost touch, her eyes never leaving Marilla’s.

She doesn’t know which of them closes the final gap. When their lips touch, Muriel’s hand rises of its own accord to Marilla’s waist, as Marilla’s fingers slide around behind her ear and into her hair. She tastes sweet, like summer wine, and Muriel knows she will never eat blackberries again without thinking of this moment.

Eventually, Muriel has to break away because her smile has become too wide. She no doubt looks a fool, breathless and grinning, but there’s no one here to see except Marilla, whose smile rivals Muriel’s own.

Muriel reaches for Marilla’s hand and laces their fingers, bows her head to brush her lips across Marilla’s knuckles and feels her shiver at the touch.

*          *          *

Marilla feels almost like she did in the balloon at the county fair, like her feet aren’t touching the path, like she’s soaring above the ground, like anything might be possible.

Did I love her even then? she wonders, remembering how it felt to dance with Muriel, how they were barely away from each other’s side all evening. Before that? she wonders, as Muriel’s cottage comes into view and her stomach flutters.

When Muriel opens the door she looks slightly dazed, almost intoxicated.

‘I told Matthew you wanted help altering some clothes,’ Marilla says, remembering how difficult it was to keep her voice level, to hide how desperately she wanted – needed – to see Muriel again.

Muriel just stares at her in silence, but moves aside to allow Marilla in. There’s an odd look in her eyes, something a little like hope, a little like fear. Marilla doesn’t know what to say, so instead she draws Muriel to her and kisses her, like she’s wanted to ever since they parted.

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ Muriel breathes, with an almost delirious laugh. ‘I’d just about convinced myself that this afternoon had been a dream.’

‘No,’ Marilla smiles.

She seems unable to stop smiling, wonders what on earth Matthew made of it over dinner. For once she’s glad that Anne has gone, because the girl would have been bound to detect that something was amiss.

They gaze at each other again, with matching foolish grins. And then Muriel’s hands are framing Marilla’s face.

And then Muriel’s lips are on hers, and the world around them drops away, her awareness shrinking to the places where their bodies are touching, to the sensation of kissing and being kissed.

‘Is Matthew expecting you home tonight?’ Muriel asks against her skin, lips trailing across her cheek, her jaw, her neck.

Marilla pulls herself together enough to shake her head. ‘I told him I might stay, if it got late.’

She feels Muriel’s lips curve upwards against her neck, and then Muriel is kissing her again, and Marilla shivers.

Muriel’s lips linger on hers, and then she draws away just far enough that she can meet Marilla’s eyes, study her face. ‘Do you want to stay?’ she asks seriously, her hand finding Marilla’s.

‘Yes,’ Marilla replies instantly, fingers tightening around Muriel’s. ‘If- if you want me to?’

‘Yes,’ Muriel smiles. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she repeats against Marilla’s lips, between kiss after kiss after kiss.

Chapter 16

The year turns, ochre and crimson and amber leaves beginning to fall into drifts. The air becomes colder, crisper, and every morning brings a frost crunching beneath Muriel’s boots.

Just like last autumn, Muriel finds herself at Green Gables often, drawn to its welcoming warmth. But unlike last autumn, Marilla always welcomes her with a fond gaze and a lingering touch.

And, when they’re alone and unobserved, in the kitchen or the sewing room, Marilla reaches for her. And Muriel’s body, as it’s now allowed to after months of longing, comes willingly into her arms.

It’s enough, mostly. And when it isn’t, they find an excuse and retreat to Muriel’s cottage, where even Rachel still knocks and waits for an answer instead of letting herself in.

A Saturday in November sees them in Muriel’s kitchen, a batch of shortbread baking and smudges of flour on Muriel’s face. Marilla shakes her head fondly, catches at Muriel’s hand as she passes and raises her own to gently brush the dust from her skin.

Muriel smiles and, just like that first time in the White Way of Delight, shifts to kiss the heel of Marilla’s palm. This time, though, her eyes are open and fixed on Marilla’s, and Marilla can’t do anything but kiss her.

And Muriel can’t do anything but step closer, fingers of one hand lacing between Marilla’s while her other slides around her waist and pulls her in. She smiles against Marilla’s lips, smiles wider when Marilla’s hand slips around the back of her neck, fingertips sneaking into her hair.

‘The shortbread,’ Muriel murmurs eventually, into the scant space between their lips.

Marilla hums in agreement but doesn’t let her go, chases her mouth and kisses her again.

Muriel hadn’t been prepared for this, this outpouring of physical affection, Marilla’s need to touch her, kiss her, like she’s trying to fit a lifetime’s worth into the precious time they steal alone together.

‘It’ll burn,’ Muriel warns, disentangling herself reluctantly.

She pulls the tray from the oven, sets it on the table to cool, only then lets herself look at Marilla again. She’s still leaning against the other end of the table, cheeks flushed and lips parted, her dark gaze fixed on Muriel.

Like a dam has burst, Muriel thinks, holding out her hand.

She’s about to lead Marilla upstairs when she hears a knock on the door. She knows Rachel’s knock by now, knows this isn’t it, doesn’t recognise it as any of her other semi-regular visitors.

She looks an apology at Marilla, who nods and lets go of her hand. Muriel watches her smooth her skirts, sees her putting herself back together, only hopes whoever it is doesn’t look at either of them too closely.

On her doorstep is a small, elderly woman with bright eyes, who Muriel has never seen before.

‘Miss Stacy, I presume? It’s a pleasure to meet you in the flesh at last. I’ve heard so much about you from Anne and Diana that I almost feel I know you already.’

Muriel says nothing, her brain scrambling to understand, still fuzzy from Marilla’s kisses.

‘Miss Barry,’ Marilla says from beside her. ‘What a surprise. Muriel, this is Diana’s aunt, Miss Josephine Barry.’

‘Josephine, please,’ she smiles. ‘I do apologise for stopping by unannounced, but Anne asked me to deliver something to each of you while I was visiting, and Matthew gave me directions. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time?’

‘Not at all,’ Muriel smiles. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you too, please come in. Would you care for some tea?’

To her credit, Josephine says nothing about the low level chaos in the cottage, sits in the chair Muriel offers and lays two small packages on the table. Marilla feels her eyes on them as they move around the kitchen, Marilla taking out cups and saucers while Muriel sees to the kettle and the teapot.

Again, Marilla has the feeling that Josephine can see right through her, that she knows exactly what’s going on, exactly what was going on moments before she arrived, exactly what was about to happen if she hadn’t–

No, Marilla thinks firmly.

She forces herself to focus on Josephine, on the conversation, on hearing about Anne and Diana and Cole, about her visit for Minnie May’s birthday.

Forces herself not to react to Muriel’s closeness, her gaze that Marilla swears she can physically feel.

She sees Josephine’s bright eyes flick between them.

She knows, Marilla thinks, and waits for her to say something.

But she doesn’t.

*

A fortnight later, and when Marilla collects Anne’s latest missive from the post office there’s another letter for her, in an elegant hand she doesn’t recognise. But when she opens it, she finds that the letter is addressed to her and Muriel, and her immediate suspicion is borne out by a glance at the signature at the bottom of the page.

She did know.

‘Josephine Barry has invited us for dinner,’ she tells Muriel when she sees her after school the following day.

‘Us?’ Muriel asks.

Marilla nods, hands her the letter and watches her read it, watches the crease in her brow and the surprise in her eyes.

‘Does– does she mean what I think she means?’

‘She does,’ Marilla confirms.

Muriel looks back down at the letter, reads it again. “I know Anne and Diana would be delighted to see you,’ she quotes. ‘And I thought you might both appreciate the opportunity for some Christmas shopping and time away from your responsibilities and duties – a brief period of freedom, if you will, among friends.”

‘Several years ago, Josephine Barry’s companion died. Gertrude.’

‘Jane Eyre?’

Marilla nods. ‘Josephine gave Gertrude’s copy to Anne, because she saw that Anne and Gertrude were kindred spirits, as Anne would say. And–’ Marilla hesitates.

‘What?’ Muriel asks gently, reaching for her hand.

‘I would never have realised this about myself were it not for Josephine, for Anne telling me about her and Gertrude.’

‘Then I have a lot to thank her for,’ Muriel smiles. And then she frowns again. ‘Jane Eyre,’ she repeats.

‘What about it?’

‘My postcard. You kept my postcard in the book you were reading, where you would see it every night.’

‘Did you think me foolish when you saw it?’

Muriel shakes her head. ‘I felt hope,’ she says quietly. ‘That maybe you felt something more too, that maybe I wasn’t alone in what I was feeling for you.’

Marilla is about to reply when she hears Matthew’s boots on the porch, instead just squeezes Muriel’s hand before letting go.

Matthew nods at Muriel when he comes in, a brief smile on his lips that anyone else might think faint, but Marilla knows it means volumes.

‘Muriel.’

‘Hello Matthew,’ Muriel smiles in return.

‘That from Anne?’ he asks, looking towards the letters on the table.

‘One of them,’ Marilla replies. She hesitates a moment, glances at Muriel before adding, ‘the other’s from Josephine Barry. Yes, I know,’ she smiles at his surprise. ‘She’s invited Muriel and me to stay, for a dinner she’s having and an opportunity for some Christmas shopping.’

‘You going to go?’

Marilla looks at Muriel, tilts her head in question. Muriel smiles and nods. When Marilla sees the spark in her eyes, she has to look away.

‘If you’ll be alright?’

‘I’ll manage,’ he says gruffly, almost grudgingly, but Marilla knows that isn’t how he means it.

Even out of the corner of her eye, Marilla can see Muriel’s smile widen.

‘You’ll reply?’ Muriel asks.

Marilla nods. ‘I’ll post it tomorrow,’ she promises. She doesn’t dare look at Muriel.

‘Alright. Well, I’d better be off home before it gets completely dark. Plenty of marking to be getting on with,’ Muriel adds.

Marilla gives her a moment then follows her towards the door, waits as she pulls on her coat. She takes Muriel’s scarf from where it’s been hanging, and when Muriel turns to her carefully loops it around her neck, her hands lingering.

‘Two whole nights away,’ Muriel whispers. ‘Together.’

Marilla nods and smiles, fingers gently brushing the side of Muriel’s neck under the guise of straightening her scarf. She leans closer, rests her forehead against Muriel’s for a breath and then makes herself step away.

‘She’s a fine woman,’ Matthew says when she comes back into the room.

‘That she is,’ Marilla agrees.

Matthew doesn’t say anything for a while, but Marilla knows her brother and recognises the silence as thoughtful rather than the end of the exchange.

‘She makes you happy,’ he says eventually.

‘She’s a good friend.’ There’s silence again, and Marilla glances up to find Matthew looking at her. ‘What?’

‘Never seen you look at Rachel like that.’

Marilla looks away, turns away, fingers twisting with anxiety.

‘I don’t mind,’ Matthew says quietly. ‘I want you to be happy, Marilla. ‘You’ve given up so much – so much of it for me. I don’t want you to give up time you could be happy now, with Muriel, because you’re worried about what I might think.’

Marilla feels tears pricking her eyes, swallows hard and tries to blink them away.

‘Do you love her?’

Marilla nods.

‘And she loves you.’

It’s not a question, and Marilla turns in surprise to find Matthew smiling gently.

‘That’s good enough for me,’ he says, voice gruff with emotion. ‘Got to see to the horses.’

He leaves without another word, and Marilla sits down heavily, struggling to comprehend what has just happened.

*

‘Would you like to stay after supper on Sunday?’

‘Stay? As in overnight? At Green Gables?’

Marilla nods.

‘What about Matthew?’

‘He knows,’ Marilla says quietly.

‘You told him?’

Marilla shakes her head. ‘My brother is clearly more observant and perceptive than either of us gave him credit for.’

‘That or we haven’t been careful enough,’ Muriel mutters.

She thinks about Rachel, about the looks she’s directed at her – at them – over the past months. If anyone in Avonlea was going to say anything, she’d have expected it to be Rachel. Josephine Barry is different, a kindred spirit who recognises the possibility of two women loving each other, who would see things invisible to others, invisible to Avonlea.

Matthew, though?

Muriel remembers saying goodbye to Marilla the day she told her about Josephine’s invitation, remembers pressing their foreheads together in place of a kiss, remembers her hand lingering on Marilla’s waist. She wonders if Matthew saw, wonders if he’s seen the way they’re closer now, the way they exchange more touches, more lingering glances. The way Marilla smiles at her.

‘He gave us his blessing,’ Marilla says, breaking her from her worrying.

‘He did?’

Marilla nods, reaches for her hand. ‘We don’t talk often, not like that, and never before Anne.’ She hesitates, and Muriel waits patiently until she’s ready to continue. ‘If someone had told me how much my life would change in just a few years, who I would be now, I would never have believed them.’

‘I think you always were this person inside, Marilla,’ Muriel smiles. ‘You just never had the chance to become her. But I, for one, am very glad you have.’

She draws Marilla to her, kisses her cheek and then holds her close.

‘And,’ she says softly, ‘if you’re sure, I would very much like to stay on Sunday.’

*          *          *

It’s still almost dark when Muriel wakes. She feels the mattress shift beside her, rolls onto her side to find Marilla looking at her in the scant pre-dawn light.

‘Morning,’ she smiles.

‘Good morning,’ Marilla replies, her hand finding Muriel’s waist beneath the blankets.

It’s so different to the last time we shared this bed, Muriel thinks as she moves so she can kiss Marilla.

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, as the sky outside pales and the weak winter light spills into the room.

‘I have to sort Matthew’s breakfast,’ Marilla says eventually, breathlessly.

Muriel nods, brushes her lips to Marilla’s one more time before drawing away from her. She watches as Marilla gets up, as she dresses quickly in the cold room, as she unbraids her hair.

‘Are you going to get up as well, or just lie there and watch me?’ Marilla teases as she starts to form her bun.

‘Well, I know which I’d prefer to do,’ Muriel smiles.

But she gets up, shivering, dresses as fast as she can, pins her hair as Marilla goes downstairs, follows her and walks into the kitchen just after Matthew.

Breakfast feels a little awkward, not quite as comfortable as supper last night.

It’s new, though, Muriel thinks, recalling how taciturn Matthew used to be, how long it took for him to become used to her presence at their supper table, how easy it feels now.

Once he’s headed out to the barn, they gravitate back together again. Muriel feels like a planet drawn to a star, her body unwilling to break from its orbit around Marilla. They kiss in front of the stove, but Marilla’s touch warms her far more than the fire.

Muriel barely registers the sound of the door opening, or the approaching footsteps, too lost in the feel of Marilla in her arms, Marilla’s lips against hers, Marilla’s fingers in her hair. But then–

‘Good morning, Marilla!’

At the sound of Rachel’s voice they spring apart, and Muriel almost frantically pats at her hair, watches Marilla doing the same, hopes they both look innocent and presentable.

‘Muriel, what a surprise. Rather early for a visit, isn’t it?’

Not too early for you, Muriel thinks, but bites her tongue.

‘I was just dropping off a book on my way to school, and Marilla insisted I come in for a cup of tea,’ she says instead. ‘A pleasure to see you, Rachel, but I must be going now.’

*

Marilla walks Muriel to the door, but doesn’t dare touch her for fear that Rachel might somehow see.

‘Are you alright?’ Muriel asks softly as she buttons her coat.

Marilla nods.

‘I’ll drop in on my way home?’

Marilla nods again and makes herself smile, but she knows her worry must be clear.

Muriel’s hand brushes her elbow briefly, hidden between their bodies where Rachel couldn’t possibly see, and then she’s gone. Marilla watches until she’s through the gate, raises a hand in response to her wave and then takes a deep breath, steeling herself.

Rachel has made herself at home at the kitchen table, as usual. Filled with anxiety, Marilla wants to pace but forces herself to sit down as well, to make it seem like this is just a normal Monday morning, like there is nothing for Rachel to concern herself with.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Rachel speaks, her voice softer than most people are accustomed to, a softness even Marilla doesn’t hear often. ‘I know, you know.’

‘Know what?’ Marilla frowns.

Rachel huffs, and Marilla knows she’s barely keeping from rolling her eyes. ‘What she is to you. What you are to each other.’

Marilla feels panic flood her. Her heart, which had just about settled, begins to race again. It must show on her face, in her eyes, because Rachel reaches to touch her hand.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’ There should be admonishment in her voice – disapproval, at the very least, moral judgement at the worst. But there’s just a gentleness that surprises Marilla, laced with concern.

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ she replies, caution seeming to be the best approach.

‘Marilla Cuthbert, how long have we been friends? And how many times,’ she continues, before Marilla can answer, ‘have I made successful matches based on my observations?’

Marilla opens her mouth to protest, to deny, but closes it again when she sees Rachel’s expression.

Because Rachel Lynde, Avonlea’s bastion of morality, is smiling softly at the thought of two women together, and Marilla is struck entirely dumb by it.

‘Are you certain about her, about this?’

‘I am,’ Marilla manages, the thought of Muriel making her smile, as it always does.

Rachel nods and pats Marilla’s hand, her normal self again. ‘I will abide no gossip about this,’ she says firmly, and Marilla’s certain she’s delighting in having surprised her so thoroughly. ‘Which is not to say that I fully approve of all Muriel’s modern ways and will not stand my ground against her when I feel it’s called for,’ she adds quickly. ‘And I don’t want her getting any ideas about using you to help her sneak disruptive, progressive methods past me.’

‘Heaven forfend,’ Marilla mutters.

‘But when it comes to this – to you,’ Rachel continues, ignoring her. ‘If anyone says a word, I assure you they will regret it.’

Marilla stares at her, taken aback.

‘Which is not to say that I approve,’ Rachel repeats. ‘But you’re my oldest friend, Marilla, and I can live with it to see you happy.’

Unexpected tears prick Marilla’s eyes at this declaration, at this sudden, partial amnesty.

‘I retain my own right to comment as I see fit. In confidence, of course.’

Marilla swallows down the lump in her throat. ‘Of course.’

‘I wouldn’t want you to think I’ve turned soft.’

‘Never,’ Marilla says, suppressing a smile.

‘Are you going to offer me tea, then?’ Rachel asks, as if this conversation hadn’t just happened. ‘Or am I going to have to make it myself?’

Chapter 17

Notes:

So, if you're still here, hi! Um, at least I'm posting this after such a long delay that it's now seasonally appropriate? There will be one more (bonus!) chapter to come, and I promise it's almost all written already and unless there is whatever the opposite of a miracle is in the next week, it will be up in time for Christmas!

It’s dark well before they arrive at Josephine Barry’s townhouse, their train inexplicably running late. The electric lights in the hall shine warm and bright through the windows in the door as they walk up the front path between low banks of shoveled snow.

‘Miss Barry is already changing,’ Rollings says after they’ve apologised, taking their bags and leading them up the stairs. ‘But she is very much looking forward to seeing you both at dinner. She asked me to tell you not to rush on her account. Mr Cole has an engagement this evening, so dinner will be informal.’

He shows them into a bedroom, instructs them to take their time and to ring the bell if they need anything. Marilla thanks him, though she’s sure he knows as well as she does that she would never either keep Josephine Barry waiting nor use the bell, but her eyes are on Muriel and she can practically hear her thoughts.

One room.

With one bed.

In a house with goodness knows how many empty bedrooms for guests.

Even after all Marilla told her about Josephine, it’s clear Muriel had barely dared to hope for this, hadn’t allowed herself to hope for it. Muriel turns to her, and Marilla swallows down a teasing I told you so at the look of wonder on her face.

*

Most of the conversation over dinner is between Muriel and Josephine. They do indeed turn out to be the kindred spirits Anne proclaimed they would be, and Marilla is glad of it. She’s rather too distracted by memories of the last time she was in this house, at this table, in the bed waiting for them upstairs – by the memory of the realisation she had here – to contribute much to the conversation, even to really follow it as they flit easily from topic to topic. Not that they need her: they’re both talkative, both modern and well read and well-travelled in a way Marilla knows she will never be, even with their influence and Anne’s, and Marilla thinks it possible they might never run out of new and interesting things to discuss.

Every now and then, Muriel catches her eye and Marilla feels her heart flutter. Every now and then Josephine catches her eye too, and Marilla’s almost certain – again – that she can read her thoughts.

‘My Gertrude would have liked you, Muriel,’ Josephine says with a smile. ‘I can see why Anne speaks so highly of you. Please, feel free to use the library and borrow anything that catches your eye.’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’

‘Not at all. Gertrude amassed quite the collection, and she always liked to share the books she loved with her friends – and I have no doubt she would have counted you among them. Now, I’m afraid I’m going to be very impolite and retire early,’ she apologises.

But the glance she throws Marilla makes her certain Josephine is anything but sorry, assures her that the other woman can indeed read her thoughts and is doing this for them. Marilla is sure she ought to feel embarrassed, but she’s only filled with gratitude at being understood like this, at being offered this precious gift of time together, alone and safe.

‘This is where I realised how I felt about you,’ Marilla says, almost the moment the bedroom door is closed.

‘It is?’

Marilla nods. ‘When we stayed after seeing Mrs Thomas. It was– it was as sudden as an electric light being switched on, but somehow like I’d always known and just hadn’t seen it.’

‘I realised that afternoon upstairs in the barn, painting the signs for the protest,’ Muriel says quietly.

Months before, Marilla realises with a pang. ‘I’m sorry I took so long.’

‘I’m not,’ Muriel smiles, reaching for her hand.

‘No?’ Marilla frowns.

‘I would have been content with your friendship. Which is not to say that I’m not delighted to have more, you know that I am. And also not to say that I was resigned to it. Your friendship wasn’t, would never have been, lesser.’

‘No,’ Marilla agrees, thinking of Josephine’s words from that morning, only a few months ago and yet somehow feeling like a lifetime. She steps closer to Muriel, gently strokes her cheek. ‘But more is wonderful.’

‘Yes,’ Muriel smiles, her lips almost against Marilla’s. ‘It is.’

*

Marilla wakes early the following morning, just like she did last time she slept in this bed. It’s darker this time, months later, but that isn’t the only difference. Because while the bed still feels large, is easily large enough that they could have slept on opposite sides with clear space between them, Muriel is within touching distance of her. And Marilla can’t help herself, reaches across the scant few inches to touch Muriel’s shoulder, to run her hand down Muriel’s arm, coming to rest in the dip of her waist, where it feels like it belongs.

Muriel shifts slightly, rolls onto her back so she can look at Marilla.

‘Good morning,’ she says softly, smiling.

‘Good morning,’ Marilla replies.

She kisses Muriel, stops but then remembers that she’s not at home, doesn’t have to start the day’s bread or prepare breakfast or milk the cows, doesn’t have to do anything except turn up to sit at an already laid table and eat food someone else has made. So she kisses Muriel again, deeper, deeper still when Muriel hums and smiles in approval. Marilla’s hand strays over Muriel’s skin, soft and warm with sleep. She gradually trails lower, until her hand rests on Muriel’s hip, fingertips just edging into curls.

‘Is this alright?’ she asks, lips against the skin of Muriel’s neck.

‘Yes,’ Muriel replies, voice still coloured with sleep.

*

Muriel remembers the first time they slept together, that night in her bed after picking blackberries. Remembers both being half undressed, lips reddened now from kisses instead of berry juice. But when Muriel’s hands went to the laces on Marilla’s corset, Marilla stopped her.

‘I don’t-’ she stammered. ‘I can’t- I’ve never-’

Muriel kissed her again, gently stroked her cheek and smiled. ‘It’s alright.’

Marilla had been hesitant then. Such a difference, Muriel thinks, to the sureness of her hands now. Because in the intervening weeks, Marilla has made a study of her body, has learned how and where to touch her, has set hands made both strong and delicate from decades of kneading bread and shaping pastry and embroidering fabric to giving Muriel pleasure.

She turned out to be a quick study. Marilla twists her fingers just so, a knack she has perfected, and Muriel shudders and gasps against Marilla’s lips.

*

They spend the day wandering Charlottetown, arm in arm. When they walk through the gardens this time, Marilla isn’t preoccupied with worry and Muriel tells her about the gardens in Boston, the ones on the postcard she sent. Marilla thinks about the tulips Muriel planted outside her window, the crocuses they planted together, secretly thinks that however spectacular those public gardens must look when they’re in their prime, she wouldn’t swap them for her special, if slightly haphazard, beds at home.

‘Do you need to go in?’ Muriel asks later, as they pass the drapers, stopping to look in the window.

‘Not today,’ Marilla shakes her head.

She thinks of Muriel’s waistcoat, safe in her closet in a nondescript box no one would think to look in, all finished and ready for Christmas Day.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Safer if I don’t,’ Marilla smiles.

‘Probably safer if I don’t go in the bookstore too,’ Muriel says, a little ruefully.

‘It’s almost Christmas,’ Marilla points out. ‘Surely you could treat yourself to something new to read over the holiday?’

‘You’re a terrible influence, Marilla Cuthbert,’ Muriel teases.

But all the same, she allows Marilla to guide her into the little shop.

They take a light lunch in the same tea room as last time and then slowly browse their way through the rest of the town, making sure to be back at the townhouse well before Anne and Diana are due to arrive.

‘After all,’ Marilla points out, when Muriel suggests a detour, ‘it wouldn’t do for us to be the ones to ruin the surprise the others have managed to keep.’

*

When there’s a knock on the door that evening, the four of them are all sitting in the dining room waiting. Cole jumps up from the table and dashes out into the hall, almost beating Rollings to open the door. They hear a flurry of chatter, and then he comes back in with a girl on each arm, all three of them smiling.

Anne sees first Marilla and then Muriel, and her smile widens and she almost screams in delight, before running around the table to hug them each in turn.

‘What are you doing here? When did you get here? Did you know about this, Cole?’ she asks, far too fast for answers.

She whirls around, glaring accusingly at Cole across the table, but he just smiles smugly, and Anne is too happy to persist.

Dinner is a lively, noisy affair, far from what Marilla expected when the invitation arrived (although, thinking of what Anne told her about the soiree, she doesn’t know why). But it does her heart good to be in Anne’s presence again, to see her so clearly in her element, and she’s so glad the Barrys changed their minds about Diana, so glad to see Anne blossoming, so glad they could give her this experience, this chance for a better life, a life bigger than Avonlea.

After dinner, Cole steals the girls away to show them what he’s been working on since they last saw each other, and the adults retire to the library with tea. Muriel takes Josephine up on her offer to browse the shelves, and Marilla watches from the sofa as she trails her fingers along the book spines, every now and then pulling one out to look at it, watches the concentration and happiness on her face and in her eyes, grateful for the electric lights that mean she catches every nuance and flicker of expression.

When Anne and the others come back some time later, they’re sitting close on one of the sofas, heads bent together over a book Muriel pulled from the shelf. Marilla forces herself not to jump, not to pull away from Muriel like they’re doing something wrong, like there’s anything for Anne to see.

Because she hasn’t told her, not yet, hasn’t worked out the words, didn’t want to write them in a letter anyway because she wanted to see Anne’s face, wanted to know instantly what she thinks, couldn’t bear the waiting and wondering and worrying. But she can’t tell her now, here, even if they are surrounded by friends, even if this is the safest place to say it aloud, wants to wait until it’s just the two of them.

So instead she slowly sits back, turns her attention from the book to Anne as if she and Muriel are always like this, have always been like this, as if nothing has changed, as if there's nothing to tell.

*

Matthew is there to pick them up when they arrive back at Bright River station the following day, as is Mr Barry. Anne and Diana hug goodbye as if they’re going to be apart for months rather than seeing each other again tomorrow; Marilla would have thought them foolish not long ago, but after this weekend with Muriel always beside her she’s just as loathe to be parted. She finds Muriel’s gloved hand between the folds of their coats, meaning to draw her to sit beside her and Matthew but Anne gets there first and links her arm through Muriel’s, and they end up sitting together in the back of the buggy with their luggage, and Marilla forces herself to keep looking forward between the horse’s ears.

All too soon, they’re outside Muriel’s cottage. After Anne’s exuberant farewell, their own is subdued: a glance between Muriel on the snowy ground and Marilla on the seat, gloved hands brushing, catching, lingering a moment, a quiet goodnight, and Marilla fancies she can see her own reluctance to separate reflected on Muriel’s face.

And then she’s gone, and once her front door is safely closed behind her Matthew clicks his tongue and the horse moves off.

*

Back at Green Gables, while Matthew sees to the horse and buggy, she and Anne take their luggage upstairs. Marilla sets her case on her bed, unpins her hat, takes off her gloves and coat, knows as she does it that each action is a way of postponing talking to Anne. Knows too that she has to tell her now, before Matthew comes in, before they’re all together, before she loses her nerve.

Fingers twisting, she walks to Anne’s room and finds her looking out of the window – and somehow the room looks too small for her now, and Marilla is fully hit by the realisation that Anne is no longer a girl.

‘Good to be home?’ she asks, knowing she’s a coward for putting it off a little longer again.

‘Glorious,’ Anne beams. ‘Oh, I’ve missed Green Gables so much.’

‘And Green Gables has missed you,’ Marilla smiles. But it fades as she steels herself. ‘Anne, I–’ she begins, but realises that no matter how much she’s been thinking about it, she still has no idea what to say, how to say it.

Anne sees her worry, comes to her and gently takes her hands. ‘What is it? You’re alright, aren’t you? And Matthew?’

‘We’re fine,’ Marilla says firmly.

‘Then what is it? Tell me, Marilla,’ Anne pleads.

‘It’s– well, it’s about Muriel. And me,’ Marilla adds. ‘Muriel and I. We’re– we’re like Josephine. Josephine and Gertrude.’

Anne’s concern disappears in an instant, replaced by a wide smile. She lets go of Marilla’s hands so she can throw her arms around her.

‘I’m so happy for you,’ she whispers into Marilla’s ear, and Marilla holds her tightly as relief floods her body.

Chapter 18

Notes:

Happy Christmas!

The morning after their return from Charlottetown, Muriel is hunting for her scissors and string when there’s a knock at the cottage door. She knows it isn’t Marilla, because it doesn’t sound like her and because while Marilla might still knock (however many times Muriel tells her there’s no need) she also lets herself in, but she still feels a spark of hope. It’s extinguished the moment she opens the door, but instantly assuaged at the sight of her favourite student.

‘Anne!’ she beams. ‘You didn’t get enough of me over the weekend?’

‘Never,’ Anne replies.

And then, the moment the door is closed, Anne’s arms are around her.

‘I’m so pleased.’

‘For anything in particular?’ Muriel frowns. ‘Or just in general?’

‘For you and Marilla, of course,’ she replies, letting go of Muriel.

‘You’re truly happy?’ Muriel asks. Because while she might not have shown it, while she knows how open and accepting and loving Anne is to everyone, she’s been almost as nervous as Marilla about telling her.

‘How could I not be? I can’t think of anything more wonderful, more– more romantic. And Marilla is so happy. She loves you so very much, Muriel.’

‘She said that?’

Anne nods. ‘Although she didn’t need to, it was obvious. You do love her too, don’t you?’

Muriel can’t keep the smile from spreading across her face, knows Anne must be able to see it but also knows that she needs to hear the words. ‘I do, Anne,’ she says softly, seriously. ‘More than I thought I’d ever love anyone again.’

‘Good,’ Anne says, momentarily serious. ‘Marilla said that you’re coming for dinner on Christmas Day?’

‘Yes. If– if that’s alright with you?’

‘Of course it is,’ Anne says matter-of-factly, as if there’s nothing more natural. ‘And I would like to invite you to come over for dinner on Christmas Eve too, and to come to church with us and then stay the night at Green Gables afterwards.’

‘Have you asked Marilla about this?’

‘I don’t think Marilla would ever turn down spending time with you.’

‘Anne,’ Muriel warns.

‘Fine. Yes, I asked her, and she asked me if I was sure.’

‘And?’

‘Family should be together at Christmas,’ Anne says simply, and Muriel’s heart constricts almost painfully. ‘Will you come for dinner this evening?’

‘I can’t, I’m afraid.’

‘Why not?’ Anne frowns.

‘Because I know both Marilla and Matthew would appreciate some time together, just the three of you. They’ve missed you terribly, you know. And besides, Bash and Hazel have asked me to dinner, and that woman is a mean cook.’

‘She certainly is,’ Anne smiles, placated. And then she looks around the room, and frowns. ‘It hardly looks like Christmas at all in here.’

‘It didn’t seem worth decorating for just me,’ Muriel replies. ‘Especially when I’m hardly here. I promise you that I am in the Christmas spirit, though.’ She gestures towards the table, one end of which is covered in various sprigs of greenery and berries she’s gathered.

‘Are you making a wreath?’

‘Full marks,’ Muriel smiles. ‘Would you like to stay and help? I’m sure my front door would be vastly improved with your artistic input.’

‘Of course!’ Anne grins, instantly starting to struggle out of her coat.

*          *          *

In church on Christmas Eve, Muriel smiles at Bash and Hazel, but continues past her usual seat with them to the Cuthbert’s pew, where she sits sandwiched between Anne and Marilla just like she did last year. She feels Rachel’s gaze on her from across the aisle, where she is once again surrounded by her family, but when she looks over at her Rachel just smiles, and even though Muriel knows that Rachel knows about them she’s still taken aback by it, by the rare softness on her face as she watches them together.

This time Muriel is involved in the service, has been press-ganged into reading one of the short Lessons at the last minute when the pupil who should have been reading it lost their voice. As she stands at the front of the church, she looks out at the faces that have become so familiar over the past years. They still might not all approve of her, but Muriel thinks they’ve accepted her.

Avonlea certainly feels like home, she thinks, as her gaze lights on Marilla, and her heart feels warm.

And when she slips back into the pew, and they all stand to sing the final carol, Marilla’s hand sneaks, unseen, into hers.

Home, Muriel thinks again, her smile colouring her voice: ‘Sing in exultation.’

*          *          *

Marilla wakes to Muriel’s warmth against her back, Muriel’s arm draped over her waist, holding her loosely.

It’s still dark, still early. She doesn’t need to get up yet, even with everything she needs to do to prepare dinner for this evening. She can stay here awhile, luxuriating in Muriel’s presence, her closeness.

The best Christmas gift, she thinks, closing her eyes again and drifting back to sleep.

*

The next time Marilla opens her eyes, it’s starting to get light, and she feels Muriel stirring beside her.

‘Happy Christmas,’ Muriel says quietly, pressing a kiss to Marilla’s shoulder.

‘Happy Christmas,’ Marilla replies, rolling onto her back so she can brush her lips to Muriel’s, lingering longer than she means to, just like she always does.

*

‘I have something for you,’ Marilla says once she’s dressed, as Muriel is beginning to pin her hair.

She fetches the box from its hiding place in her closet, comes back to find Muriel clutching a small package too.

‘Open yours first,’ Muriel insists, holding it out to her.

So Marilla sets the box on the bed and takes it from her, gently pulls the sprig of spruce from the gift, carefully undoes the string and unfolds the paper. Inside is a book, bound in deep red leather, the page edges marbled, the title inscribed on the spine in gold.

‘Sense and Sensibility’, she reads.

‘I think you’ll enjoy it,’ Muriel says. ‘I did, anyway, so I hope you do.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ Marilla smiles. ‘It’s certainly the most beautiful book I’ve ever held, let alone owned.’

Carefully, she opens the cover, and her breath catches in her throat when she sees the inscription, in Muriel’s familiar hand:

Dearest Marilla,

Show me Eternity,

and I will show you Memory.

Yours, always. M.

Marilla silently holds out her hand, and Muriel is instantly there to take it, her grip firm and sure.

‘Always,’ she whispers.

‘Always,’ Muriel confirms, lifting Marilla’s hand so she can kiss her knuckles. ‘As long as you’ll have me for.’

Marilla smiles, runs her fingers lightly over the inscription, feeling the slight raised roughness of the ink. ‘Thank you. Now, your turn,’ she says, carefully setting it aside on blankets still holding the lingering warmth of Muriel’s body and picking up the box again.

Muriel takes it from her, carefully unties the wide ribbon holding it closed, and lifts the lid just enough to peek inside.

‘Oh, Marilla,’ she breathes, putting the lid aside and gently lifting the waistcoat from the box, gazing at it in disbelief. ‘You really shouldn’t have.’

‘Perhaps,’ Marilla agrees. ‘Although I believe I said the same thing to you last Christmas.’

‘Fair point,’ Muriel concedes. ‘It’s just as beautiful as I remember.’

‘It’ll look more beautiful on,’ Marilla says softly, voicing the desire she’s held for months now.

Finally, Muriel tears her gaze from the waistcoat and looks at her, a soft look in her eyes and a soft smile on her face. ‘It hardly goes,’ she protests, but they both know it’s only a token complaint.

She puts it on carefully, even though she knows it’s well made, knows Marilla’s stitching will be strong, does up the buttons. Marilla stands in front of her and settles her collar, moves behind her to adjust the cinch so it fits perfectly. She smooths her fingers across the silk, can’t resist slipping her arms around Muriel’s waist to hold her, smiling into Muriel’s shoulder when Muriel’s hands come to rest on hers.

‘It’ll be like your arms are around me every time I wear it,’ Muriel says quietly, and Marilla presses a kiss to the side of her head.

‘Happy Christmas,’ she murmurs, lips almost against Muriel’s ear.

‘Happy Christmas,’ Muriel replies, and Marilla doesn’t need to be able to see her face to know that she’s smiling.

*

‘You match!’ Anne exclaims delightedly when Marilla walks into the room later in the day, the scarf Muriel gave her last Christmas around her shoulders ready for dinner.

‘Excuse me?’ Marilla frowns.

‘You didn’t notice?’

‘Notice what?’ Muriel asks, turning around from lighting the candles on the tree.

‘How?’ Anne asks, exasperated. ‘Your scarf,’ she says, gesturing towards Marilla, when they exchange a blank look. ‘And your waistcoat. They match.’

‘So they do,’ Marilla smiles.

Muriel lights the last candle and blows out the taper, walks over to Marilla and gently touches the scarf. ‘I can’t believe you’ve spent all this time altering it and didn’t notice,’ she teases gently.

‘I suppose I was distracted,’ Marilla replies, too quiet for Anne to hear.

‘You look so good together,’ Anne pronounces, before she’s gone from the room with something about needing to add a final touch to her contribution to the dinner table.

But Marilla is too distracted to hear, distracted by the look in Muriel’s eyes and the smile on her face, and Muriel’s hand on her waist.

*

Dinner is joyful and delicious. Marilla finds it hard to believe that only a few years ago it was just her and Matthew sitting here, and the day hardly felt different to any other. Now, their table is full of food – Marilla’s own, the side dish of beans that Anne made following a recipe Mary taught her and that touched Bash so much it almost brought him to tears with the memory of their one Christmas together, the potatoes heavy and heady with garlic and spice that Hazel brought even though Marilla told her that she was a guest and there was no need – and of friends so close she thinks of them as family, the family she never thought she would have. She looks around at them, and her heart swells at the delight on their faces.

And when her gaze lingers on Muriel, as it always does, Muriel must feel it because she looks up and catches Marilla’s eye, and they share a smile until Gilbert draws her back into conversation. Soon enough, though, he and Anne only have eyes and words for each other, and Muriel looks at her again and they share a brief, knowing smile, and Marilla knows Muriel can see what’s growing between them as clearly as she can.

*

After dinner, all of them pleasantly full and warm and drowsy, Muriel gladly gives up her usual place beside Marilla on the sofa for Hazel, when Matthew offers to get her a chair insists that she’s fine on the floor. She sits with her shoulder against Marilla’s knee, her hand occasionally brushing Marilla’s leg.

Until Delphine decides that the attention of her father, Anne and Gilbert isn’t enough, that the four of them aren’t adequate for her game, and demands that Muriel joins in playing with the wooden farm animals Matthew made for her.

Muriel makes a pretence of refusing, but Marilla knows she cannot resist the girl’s smile. She watches as Muriel picks up the wooden horse painted to look like Butterscotch, clicking her tongue to sound like hoofbeats, watches her smile widely, her whole face lighting up, as Delphine laughs with joy.

And suddenly Marilla’s heart, which has been so light and full since last night, constricts so painfully she can only barely suppress a gasp. Because sitting there with Bash, Delphine sandwiched between them, they look like the perfect family.

I can’t steal that possibility from her, Marilla thinks, ignoring the swell of grief, pushing everything she feels for Muriel into a box and forcing the lid closed, ignoring her pain for the happiness of others. Just as I’ve always done, she thinks, glancing at Matthew and then looking down at her lap. She can feel Muriel’s gaze lighting on her again and again, can imagine the concern, the query, the hurt, but doesn’t dare meet her eyes.

And then later, when the others have gone, and Anne is outside saying goodbye to Gilbert, and Matthew is out in the barn checking on the horses and the cow, Muriel reaches for her in the kitchen and she shies away from her touch even though everything in her wants it.

‘This cannot continue,’ she says quietly to the floor, unable to look at Muriel for fear she’ll either change her mind or start crying.

‘I don’t– Marilla, what do you mean? I thought– I thought you were happy, thought we were happy?’

‘I am.’

‘Then why, Marilla? Please, tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.’

‘You can’t,’ Marilla says shortly. ‘But we have to stop.’

‘But why?’ Muriel pleads.

‘Because I love you!’ It bursts from Marilla’s lips, and hangs in the air between them. Marilla swears she can hear her words echoing around the room, and then everything goes silent and even her heart seems to have stopped.

‘I don’t understand,’ Muriel says, the slightest waver in her voice, and Marilla hates herself for putting it there.

Marilla doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t know if she can speak, but Muriel – dear, sweet, wonderful Muriel – deserves better than that. So she dredges the words up from the bottom of her lungs and forces them from her lips, willing her voice to be steady but knowing it won’t be.

‘You could have a family,’ she says simply. ‘A full and joyous life. I won’t keep that from you.’

Muriel’s hands come to rest over her own, stilling their anxious fiddling with the fringe of her scarf, but it isn’t until Muriel softly says her name that Marilla makes herself look up, dreading what she might see. To her utter surprise, Muriel is smiling.

‘Surely you of all people, Marilla, know that there’s more than one sort of family. And as for joy?’ she adds, gently but firmly drawing her close. ‘I have that in abundance.’

Notes:

Thank you so much for staying with me through what was already a very slow burn without my long periods of not updating! I appreciate every single kudos and comment, and I hope this happy ever after makes for a good festive treat x