Una Meredith was well on her way to sainthood. Even though her sister Faith's wedding reception had only started an hour ago, no less than fourteen of Glen St. Mary's most notorious gossips had managed to catch Una by the arm and ask loudly when her turn would come.
Una had smiled at the first few and said nothing, she knew they meant to be kind, but by the time number fourteen, Mrs. Fitzgibbon approached, her patience was wearing thin.
"Una, Una," Mrs. Fitzgibbon cried, "What are you going to do now that you've finished your degree at Kingsport? You aren't as pretty as your sister Faith, you know. And men are in short supply after the war."
"Stay at home I imagine," Una said. She looked at the center of the garden where Faith was standing with Jem, surrounded by family and friends. Faith's golden-brown curls were draped with foaming veil and her eyes were bright lanterns in her face. Jem had an arm wrapped around her and from time he would look down at Faith and stare and stare as if he would never stop.
Funny how brothers were so different, Una thought. She'd half expect to see that expression on Walter's face. It would suit his delicate features better, his poet's complexion and glossy hair. Jem in love was slightly breath taking, slightly ridiculous. Jem was better outdoors, playing with the dogs, wading in brooks, then painfully and achingly in love. That was for Walter, the poet…but Una couldn't think of Walter.
"Eh, you aren't secretly pining after some poor fellow that was killed, are you now?" Mrs. Fitzgibbon said.
Una winced. She tapped her bodice where she'd tucked Walter's last letter. I mustn't think about him, she thought. Not today.
Rilla Blythe who happened to be passing by with Kenneth Ford, stopped and put an arm around Una's shoulders.
"Una's going to have grand adventures Mrs. Fitzgibbon," she said. "You'll see."
Una smiled. Her face hurt. All last year she had been glued to her books, so glued in fact that she'd completed the two year course in one year, and she'd managed to almost forget about Walter Blythe. But here, at sister's wedding in Glen St. Mary, he seemed to be everywhere.
Later, people at Glen St. Mary's said that they'd never known what a force of nature Una was until they saw her at her sister's wedding. She seemed to be everywhere at once, pressing more cake on the guests, carrying out bowls of punch, coaxing crotchety old bachelors to dance, and untangling squabbling school children.
But Una didn't know what the people of Glen St. Mary's were saying, and even if she had known, she wouldn't have cared. All she knew is that she had to keep moving, because everywhere she looked she saw a slim grey eyed boy smiling at her. Walter stood under the trees while she served punch, winked at her when the matrons of Glen St. Mary's kept chatting away, and held her lightly in his arms as she danced with the old bachelors.
He's dead, and he never loved you, she told herself, but it was no use. Walter was everywhere, watching her steadily. Wait for me, his eyes seemed to say. Wait.
So Una waited. She danced her way through the wedding, saw Jem and Faith off to the train station for their honeymoon and when the last guests had departed, Una ran down to Rainbow Valley but the shadows behind the trees were empty, and when she called out to the air, no one answered. She lay down in the grass and stared at the night sky and the silent mocking stars.
Without Faith around to tease Una and prod her, the days dragged by. Even though Rilla was over nearly every day, her conversation was full of Kenneth Ford and her upcoming wedding—which Una preferred, silence would have been worse—and it wasn't quite the same as having a sister living with her.
Carl and Jerry were kind in their own way, but Carl was busy planning an expedition to Ontario to catch bugs and Jerry was off a-wooing Nan in that strange courtship they had which seemed to involve quoting Greek philosophers and quite a lot of screaming.
Una would have never made it through the summer without Rosemary and Mrs. Blythe. They would sit together on the porch, Mrs. Blythe reading poetry or the interesting bits from newspapers and Rosemary working on a patchwork quilt.
Una would bring out the family mending and listen to them talk. Mending kept her hands busy, and she could follow the conversation long enough to ignore the dull ache in her chest, but when Mrs. Blythe packed up her books to leave and Rosemary went off to visit her sister, Una was left in the house all alone. It was then that she felt the pain spread outwards from her chest, filling her lungs, and her throat would close up as if she were underwater and slowly drowning.
She blazed through the rest of the mending and took on the Ladies' Aid Society's extra baskets, but that too wasn't enough, so she busied herself cutting extra patchwork squares for Rosemary, until Rosemary begged her to stop.
One day when Una was sewing doll's clothes for some harbor children and Rosemary had been called away, Mrs. Blythe put down her book and said, "Una…I'm worried about you."
Una looked up. "What?"
"Una," Mrs. Blythe said slowly, "You're a ghost of yourself. You've lost so much weight I'm afraid you'll fade away. Now that Faith is married, why don't you do something for yourself? Strike out on your own."
"I don't know what I can do, Mrs. Blythe," Una said. "I'm not particularly clever or educated. I already had a year in Kingsport studying and I haven't any talents besides keeping house."
"Let me think about it," said Mrs. Blythe said.
After she left, Una stared at the doll clothing she had stitched. Through the window she could see the lush greenery of manse garden and the thick foliage of the trees. It was hard to believe it would be autumn in a few weeks.
Some weeks afterwards Mrs. Blythe appeared at the manse carrying a letter. "Listen to this," she said plumping herself down among the cushions. "It's from Leslie Ford." She unfolded the letter and read to Una:
Anne of Annes would you have a spare corner at Ingleside for a friend of ours? His name is Seymour Grant and he's a writer. He is the dearest creature imaginable. Well, dearest in a very strange sense of the word. But he's recently adopted his sister's little boy and they're both going to have a hard time of it. Glen St. Mary is one of the train stops en route to Seymour's cottage, and I thought they could spend a few days with you before going on. Also, Seymour's looking for a tutor. Would you know anyone suitable? Someone quiet, good with children, and self-sufficient.
"Una, what do you think?" Mrs. Blythe cried. "This could be your chance."
Seymour Grant leaned his head against the train seat. Next to him Anthony lay curled up into a little ball. Every so often Anthony would shake. Seymour reached out a hand and stroked Anthony's brown curls, but Anthony kept shaking. Seymour sighed. It had been a long trip to New York, and when he had arrived, he'd found Anthony in the care of an orphanage. The matron had seemed nice enough, but lord...everything else.
Seymour shuddered. It had been full of squalling children who all seemed hungry and dirty. Seymour wrapped his arm around Anthony in a silent apology, but no matter what he did, he could not forgive himself for being away when Anthony needed him. James had been killed in the war a few months before it ended, and Cilla had never been strong to begin with. The news of her husband's death had finished her off, and somehow the telegram had arrived after Seymour had left for a book tour in the States. Anthony had had to spend three months in the orphanage before Seymour had returned home, found the telegram, and rushed to New York.
Anthony opened his eyes. They were wide and gray, too large for his thin face. He uncurled himself and wrapped his arms around his knees. He was nearly all skin and bone.
"We'll be arriving at Glen St. Mary in a few hours," Seymour said. "Have something to eat." He pulled a sandwich out of his bag." It hurt him to look at Anthony's body. How had he gotten so thin? He had been such a plump baby.
Anthony didn't say anything. He'd hardly spoken to Seymour even though they'd been traveling together for a week now.
"We'll be staying with Mrs. Blythe, and hopefully she'll have found a tutor. I live alone on an island. It's quite out of the way, and I don't want your schooling to be neglected." Seymour continued.
Anthony stared at his feet.
Seymour curled his hands in his pocket. It was ridiculous, he'd given talks all around the country in lecture halls crammed with thousands of people, but he'd spent the past week feeling more nervous and inadequate than he'd felt in his entire life.
It was a relief when the train pulled into the Glen St. Mary station. Dr. and Mrs. Blythe were at the platform waiting for them. He liked the Blythes immediately. Dr. Blythe had gripped his hand, and had kept up most of the conversation as if he knew Seymour was too exhausted to talk, and Mrs. Blythe had taken one look at Anthony and wrapped an arm around him. She didn't say anything to Anthony, but every so often she gave him a friendly squeeze. Anthony didn't say anything either, but he looked happiest Seymour had ever seen him.
The Blythes lead the back to Ingleside and fed them a light supper. After they had eaten, Mrs. Blythe had shown Seymour to the spare room.
"Train rides can be exhausting," she said. "I'll read Anthony a story and put him to bed for you in the nursery."
Seymour was so tired he hadn't bothered to protest. Instead he'd squeezed Anthony's shoulder, smiled gratefully at Mrs. Blythe and collapsed onto the bed once she shut the door. Yet, he could not sleep. His thoughts whirled around in his mind. A week ago Anthony had been the chubby baby nephew Seymour dimly remembered. Now, Anthony was his for life, and Seymour could barely talk to him.
Seymour winced. He was a crusty old bachelor who wrote for a living. He lived on an island to avoid publicity, and when he wasn't on the island he was on tour or doing undercover research for newspapers. There was no way he could take an eight year old boy on some of his assignments and there was no way he could leave Anthony behind on the island.
The next morning Seymour woke up late and found that Mrs. Blythe had set up a brunch in the garden. The sun was bright and high and shone directly in Seymour's eyes whenever he looked toward Anthony, who was sitting next to Mrs. Blythe.
"Seymour," Mrs. Blythe began as she poured coffee and filled Seymour's plate, "I hope this isn't too presumptuous of me but Leslie Ford wrote to me…"
Seymour nodded and took a bite of his pancakes. They were warm and light, far better than the usual bachelor's fare he was used to. Anthony was humming, well not quite, but from time to time he would let out a sort of buzzing noise and Seymour felt perfectly happy.
Mrs. Blythe's voice was gentle hum in his ears. Over her shoulder he could see the garden gate and beyond it a red path that lead to the center of town. There was a pale girl wandering down the path. She had so much hair it was difficult for Seymour to get any impression of her features, but her figure was slender and neat and her white dress shone against the lush greenery of the landscape.
She drew closer and stopped at the Ingleside gate. Seymour could almost make out the shape of her face, but then she bent her head to open the garden gate. Who was she? Perhaps Mrs. Blythe's daughter, but no, wouldn't she be inside the house already? A close friend then.
The girl walked to the side of their table and stood behind Anthony. When Seymour turned his head to look at her the sun burned his eyes, forcing him to blink.
"Seymour, this is Una," Mrs. Blythe finished. "I thought she could be Anthony's tutor.
Seymour squinted up at the faceless girl and tried not to grimace.
"Oh no. No, she won't do at all," he said.