Once upon a time, there was a very handsome man. Some people might think that he was handsome because he was their son, or brother, and they were biased. Some people also might think he was handsome because he was one of the famous Blythe family of Ingleside, who are all a very good looking people. It might sound like the thing of pride to say so, but it isn't really. Many people in the Glen and Four Winds District had said the same thing. It was simply an acknowledged fact.
This handsome man's name was Shirley Blythe, and he was a flying ace of the Great War. After the war he returned home and started the Four Winds Flight School and was celebrated all over the island for training some of the best pilots in the country. Shirley Blythe also ran pleasure tours, and for a small fee he took people up to see the red roads, and the neat fields, of Prince Edward Island by the air. He was very successful and he grew to be very rich, buying for himself the old Bailey house near Rainbow Valley, and renovating it to suit his bachelor tastes exactly. He filled it with all sorts of modern furniture, and built a garage for the all the cars he liked to drive, too fast, some said, around the Glen. The house had come with a pantry, but it was always empty, because Shirley never learned to cook. Susan Baker made supper for him every night, and sent one of the children up through Rainbow Valley to deliver it. When Susan died, everybody said that Shirley would have to get a wife—or else starve.
Shirley had vowed never to marry, but all the same, he did not starve. He bought a cookbook, and worked his way through the first few chapters, learning to make fish and the kind of stew that old Norman Douglas would have called 'macanacaddy.' But then, before he could move on to roasts, Shirley Blythe met a woman.
She was one of the tourists whom he took up in his plane and she had a slick, citified look about her. Shirley thought she looked very pretty, and as they were up in the air, he smiled at all of her oohs and ahs. When they were back on firm ground, he made a point to stop and ask her how she had liked the experience. "Oh, I loved it, Shirley," she said, familiarly, and he was puzzled, for he had not thought he knew her. The thought came to him that he wanted very badly to know this elegant woman in the drop-waist middy dress and the tiny, perfectly-trimmed navy blue cloche hat.
"Allow me to re-make your acquaintance," she said, offering chilly fingertips along with a warm smile. "I'm Irene English."
But Shirley Blythe had used to know her as Irene Howard.
Shirley had been at Queens Academy during the war, and then he had been overseas. When he had been home he had kept mostly to himself, so he only remembered Irene as his sister Rilla's friend. He did not know that Irene had nearly refused to sing at the concert in aid of Belgian children, or that she had been the one to cruelly break the news of Walter Blythe's enlisting to his sister, minutes before she had to perform in the concert. He did not know that Irene had a reputation for being cold and mean to other girls.
He only knew what she told him about herself: that she was a widow, and had been for five years. She had moved back to the Glen to live with her sick mother, but her mother was dead, too, now. She simply did not know what to do with herself, she said, and tears began to drop down her pretty pink cheeks. Shirley Blythe took her hand in that moment, he lost his heart. He could have had any girl on the Island, but his heart chose Irene English.
But because Shirley was Shirley, none of the Ingleside folk knew about his romance for months. Shirley was naturally close-mouthed about affairs like that and when he took Irene out, they drove to parties and things in fancier places, because Irene seemed to expect it. The family had no inkling that he was thinking of giving up his bachelor ways until one day in the spring when he asked his mother if he could have the little sapphire ring that Susan Baker had inherited from her own mother, and bequeathed on to him.
"Certainly you can have it," Anne Blythe said, looking down at her youngest son. "But the natural question is why you want it, Shirley?"
"Oh," said Shirley, off-handedly. "I need it because I am going to ask a woman to marry me, Mother. I can't do that without a ring."
When Anne Blythe told the story later she said that it was the surprise of her life—so much so that she had to sit down, hard, all at once, the breath gone from her body in a great gasp. "Who are you going to marry, Shirley?"
"Irene Howard," Shirley said. And Anne was too shocked to do anything more but go and get the ring, and press it into his hand.
Irene accepted the Susan's ring with great joy, but also managed somehow to suggest that it was not exactly of the type that would suit the wife of such an important personage. The little sapphire was supplemented with two diamonds, one on each side, and just like that, Shirley the bachelor became Shirley the fiancé. A wedding was planned for mid-summer, 1932, and when Rilla Ford heard the news, she marched into the kitchen and made a cake, from an old Susan-recipe, beautifully iced. And then she sat down and ate every bite, bitter tears running into the icing.
Sally Blythe had been sitting in the window seat of the parlor, writing so intently in her notebook for so long, that finally her grandmother's curiosity was piqued.
"What are you working at so diligently, Sally-child?" Anne Blythe perched on the seat next to the little girl with Jem's reddish hair, Faith's golden-brown eyes, and a full, quirky little mouth that belied a spirit all her own. "When school let out last week I seem to remember you saying something to the effect that you'd never open another book again."
"Oh, it isn't schoolwork I'm working on," said Sally, "I'm writing a story, Grandmother."
Anne had suspected as much, but she was not expecting the next words. "It's the history of our family, done in an epic style. I'm writing it as a wedding present for Uncle Shirley and…Irene. I am going to declaim it to them the night before the ceremony."
"Declaim it?" asked Grandmother Blythe, biting her lips in an attempt to keep from smiling. She knew from Sally's face that her 'epic' was no laughing matter—to her.
"Yes," said Sally seriously. "That's what you do with epics, you know. I thought it would be a nice gesture, and useful, because…Irene isn't one of us. She might like to know what kind of family she's marrying into. And to learn our history, and traditions."
"May I read what you have written so far?"
"Of course!" Sally handed the pages over, and Anne began to skim her words. She could not help from smiling in certain places. The part about her reaction to Shirley's romance was just as it had happened, but Anne knew she could never let the child read that out loud to her daughter-in-law…to be? She could not help putting the 'to be?' on the end of that sentence, but she knew she shouldn't. It was as though she was hoping, in her heart, that it would not come to pass. And Anne did not hope that—exactly. For all Irene's failings, she could not deny that Shirley seemed happier than he had in many years when she was by his side. Even if Anne was not sure about Irene, she could not deny that Shirley loved her.
And oh, the part about Rilla and the cake! That was true, too, but it must be cut. The 'Spider' of years gone by had, after three children, grown a little bit more like the roly-poly baby she had once been, herself. It suited her—Rilla would always be a beautiful woman—but she was tender about her figure, and would not like the episode with the cake to become commonly known.
"Every real writer needs an editor," Anne said carefully to her granddaughter. "I used to write myself, Sally—so I know something about it. Would you like me to go over your epic, and suggest little changes here and there—to make it a little more professional-sounding?"
"I was going to ask if you'd do just that," Sally crowed. "But you mustn't change too much, Grandmother, or else it wouldn't be my story." Anne smiled, thinking of authors all over the world who were quoting those same words to similar well-meaning folk. She promised gravely that she would try.
Sally looked pleased for a moment, and then her face grew troubled. "Oh, Grandmother, Uncle Shirley came in today to talk to us kids and told us it would mean a lot to him if we could start calling Irene 'Aunt Irene.' But somehow, I can't manage it. And I know that Walter and Cam and Helen feel the same way. We discussed it, and we even practiced saying 'Aunt Irene.' But it sounded so strange when we said it. 'Aunt' conjures up a picture in my mind, of a lovely, soft, comforting sort of person. 'Aunt Nan, Aunt Una, Aunt Di, Aunt Rilla.' Irene is so—well, she's so thin, all sharp angles, and she's not exactly warm, Grandmother. She doesn't fit with the type of aunt I'm used to."
Anne knew what she meant. She and Gilbert had done something of the same exercise before Shirley's engagement dinner, practicing welcoming Irene to the family in appropriately hearty and sincere tones. They, too, had not quite been able to manage it, but the good thing about Irene was that she had gotten over the habit of her youth, of finding a slight in anyone's remarks. Nowadays, so much of her time was taken up with thinking of herself that there was hardly any left over for paying attention to the words that came out of other peoples' mouths.
But still—she must find a way to comfort the child. To Sally, the marriage that would take place at the end of the month would mark the end of an era. The days of bachelor Uncle Shirley, free-spirited, adventurous Uncle Shirley, would be over. No more could the children run down the valley to spend the night in the 'dorm room' at Caraway, on no more moment's notice than a whim. Shirley had seemed to belong to them all, before—now he would belong to Irene.
And of all the children, Sally had been Shirley's especial pet. He would come to Ingleside with his brown leather aviator's jacket slung over his shoulder and sing out,
Come Josephine in my flying machine
Going up she goes! Up she goes!
It was his idea of a joke, since Sally had been christened Cecilia Josephine Blythe, for Faith's mother and grandmother. His plane was even called for her—Josephine, known affectionately as 'Josey' to uncle and niece alike. Sally would run to get her own hat and scarf and give Josey's painted nose an affectionate pat before Shirley boosted her up. Lately, since Sally had turned eleven, Shirley had started letting her take the controls sometimes, and Sally had loved the feeling, especially Uncle Shirley's appreciative smiles at her smoothness, her daring.
But Irene had put a stop to that. She wasn't exactly jealous of Sally. It was just that she liked to be in the middle of everything, and couldn't bear being left out. If Shirley and Sally went up by themselves, Irene would be waiting for them in the grassy field that served as runway, when they landed. She always made a point to ask them if they'd had a good time, but it was with a suffering air, as though she herself had been in the depths of misery while they were soaring away in the clouds. Sometimes she was even crying.
Sally had a tender heart, and could not bear to see anyone upset, even if it was only feigned feeling. Irene's sulks ruined whatever fun she had had. She had told Uncle Shirley that he must take Irene up, the next Saturday, to make up for their abandonment of her. Only Irene had liked it so much that she had wanted to go up the next Saturday, too. And the one after that. And soon, that was the habit—Irene and Shirley, instead of Shirley and Sally.
Two fat tears quivered on Sally's lashes. Anne wound her arm around the girl's suntanned shoulders. "Don't cry, dear one. You will always have a special place in your uncle's heart. Things with will calm down, and go back to the way they used to, after a little while. And who knows?" Anne dimpled. "There's still a while yet to the wedding. Maybe Irene will change her mind."
I shouldn't have said that, Anne thought, as soon as she had. But it was the feeling going through them all—Irene did seem very changeable in her moods, and once or twice, in the heat of an argument, she had threatened to do just that.
"And there's a silver lining to every cloud," Anne reminded Sally. "Because of this wedding, everybody is coming to the Island. All the aunts and uncles. The Fords from Toronto—Jerry and Nan from New Brunswick—you'll have all the dear cousins around you to play and chat with, for a good long visit."
Sally brightened. That was true. The Ford and Meredith cousins would be coming to stay for a month, which seemed like an eternity to Sally. And they would be coming soon—the whole of Ingleside was in preparations for them. Aunt Rilla and Uncle Ken would open up the House of Dreams, again. Uncle Jerry and Aunt Nan would stay at the manse, with Grandmother and Grandfather Blythe and Aunt Una. Aunt Di would be home from the reservation school out west, where she taught the Indian children. The last time she had come home she had given Cam an authentic Ojibwa tomahawk, and Sally had gotten a beaded headdress that made her the envy of the other girls at the Glen school. Aunt Di would stay at Ingleside with them, and sleep in Sally and Helen's room, which had once belonged to her and Nan.
But Sally would not be sleeping there—though she loved to sleep with Aunt Di, who knew such creepy, hair-raising stories to tell and never kicked. Sally herself would be sleeping in the Ingleside garret, with all the cousins. It was a tradition—camp beds were set up for all nine cousins, and they would whisper through the darkness to each other, sometimes laughing so much that Grandfather Blythe would climb the stairs to tell them sternly, but with a twinkle in his eye, to keep it down to a dull roar so that others might sleep.
Sally hugged herself, her good spirits restored. She jumped to her feet and lifted the window seat to stow her notebook. "You always know just the right thing to say to lift a girl's spirits," she told her grandmother, giving her a rapturous kiss. "I was going to stay inside all day and mope, but now I feel like playing again. Oh, I can't believe Claire is going to be here—in less than a week! And Amy! And Avery, and Gil, and Wynnie! I'm going right down to Rainbow Valley with the others—we need to make plans. And Grandmother…?"
"Yes?"
"You won't tell anybody about my epic? Not just yet? I want to work on it a little bit more before I show it around."
"Certainly, dear heart. My lips are closed."
"And Grandmother…might I take some of the cookies you made this morning with me when I go? I promise to share them, of course."
Anne answered in the affirmative, and Sally went out, humming. Come Josephine in my flying machine, going up she goes, up she goes…