Sunday morning, Di and Tricia lined the children up in front of them before leaving for church. This was extremely necessary, for nearly every week someone was mussed or filthy.
This week, for a change, everyone was neat and tidy—and smiling, though Bran was scowling at the short trousers suit he was forced to wear once a week. Di smiled with pride at the sight of all of them. They were all dear, but some were particularly close to her heart.
There, at the head of the line, was Peter Campion, tall for his eight years, golden-haired and formal, tightly holding his little sister Polly's hand. Peter and Polly had just come to the Home from England in the last six months. Their parents had been killed in a train accident in London; the children had no other family in England, but it was discovered there was an aunt living in Toronto. Accordingly, to her the children were sent, only to discover upon arrival that she, too, had died. Di had taken them in, promising Peter she would never separate them.
That promise had been harder to keep than she'd imagined. There were many families who would have been more than happy to adopt little Polly. With her deep gold-flecked green eyes and auburn hair—truly auburn, the shade Di and her mother had always longed for—framing her heart-shaped face, the two-year-old was already a beauty, with a sweet and gentle spirit to match. But there were few who were willing to take her stiff, silent older brother as well.
Peter was absolutely an English boy. He was quiet and reserved, very rarely showing any emotions. While Di admired his self-control, it did not endear him to many prospective parents.
True to her word, however, Di had refused everyone who wished to adopt Polly without Peter, and the two were never far apart. Peter was also a great help with the children, keeping order and calm even among the unruliest (such as Bran and the twins).
Then there was Katia—her full name was Ekaterina, but that was only used in very formal settings. Her family had been among Russia's aristocrats, and when revolution broke out in that country, they sent their baby daughter away for her own safety. Her nurse, supposedly a trustworthy family servant, stole the money and abandoned the child as soon as she reached Canada, and the Home ended up with another stray. Katia was also lovely in a very Slavic style—even at ten, her dark eyes and hair and high, broad cheekbones and full mouth were wreaking havoc among the hearts of all the boys at school. She was a gentle soul, but deeply troubled by the events that had torn apart her home and family.
Frederick Mercer was the other English boy at the Home. He was seven, small for his age, and not very strong. Nobody was quite sure what his background was or how even he had come to the Home—he had been there since the end of the War, and records of that time were sketchy. Freddy bore himself well, and never quite lost hope that someday his family would find him. He and Peter were close friends.
Nine-year old Olivia broke Di's heart every time she looked at the child's hard, bitter face. No child should ever have to believe she was unwanted. Di vowed that, no matter what else happened, by the time Olivia left the Home she would know that one person, at least, did care about her.
Elisabetta and Francesco were second-generation Canadians. Their father had been killed fighting for the Allies during the War, and their mother died shortly after. The rest of the family was still in Italy, so the ten and eight year olds, respectively, were left bereft.
Then, of course, there were Paulette and Pierre, two palpitating bundles of energy, and Bran.
Bran (pronounced Br-ah-n, with a long "a") Lewis had been left as a baby on the doorstep of the Home one night, tucked in a woven basket, wrapped in a coarse woolen blanket, with a note pinned under his chin, stating:
His name is Bran Lewis. He is Welsh. Please take good care of him.
There was nothing more. When Di told her family about this after she first came to the Home, Nan was thrilled, thinking it sounded like something out of one of her favorite romance dime novels. Mother, however, merely said in a sad voice that she knew many such stories from her time in orphan asylums, and none of them were romantic.
Despite his mysterious past, Bran was as happy and carefree as any parent-less child had a right to be. He was small, even for his five years, with a mobile, monkey-ish face, dark brown hair and eyes, and a surprisingly sweet smile. No matter how many times he caused her to want to tear out her hair, Di couldn't help but love him dearly. It wasn't fair to many of the better-behaved children, who rarely, if ever, needed a scolding, but Di's little Welsh boy held an especially dear place in her heart.
None of the prospective parents were ever willing to adopt him after one visit, and if the truth were told, Di didn't mind. She couldn't imagine life around the Home without her Bran.
Tricia came back from her bi-weekly Sunday dinner late that night, glowing with excitement.
"Di," she hissed, tapping on Di's bedroom door. "Are you asleep?"
As it happened, Di had been on the verge of drifting off to the Land of Nod, but she forced herself to sit up at Tricia's important tones and wipe the sleep from her eyes.
"Of course not," she said, sitting up and turning on a light. "Come in."
The younger girl slipped in, her modish pale blue dress and heels contrasting sharply with Di's yellow flowered cotton pajamas. "I'm sorry to disturb you so late at night, but I have the most wonderful news! My cousin Alan, Alan King—have I told you about him?"
Di frowned with concentration. "Is he the son of your favorite aunt?"
"Yes, Aunt Becca. She and Uncle Richard were my dad's only siblings. Alan is nineteen—only a year older than I—and he's getting married this fall!"
"How exciting!" Di said, getting into the spirit of things. While not interested in marriage herself, she did enjoy hearing about other people's matches. She knew that Alan and Tricia were very close. "Do you know the girl he's marrying?"
Tricia stripped off her heels and curled up like a cat at the foot of Di's bed. "I haven't met her, but Alan says her name is Anna Petrova, and she's from Russia. But oh, Di, I haven't told you the best part yet! Alan wants me to be a bridesmaid, and the wedding is going to be held on Prince Edward Island!"
"Truly?"
"Alan's father's family has a homestead down in Carlisle—do you know where that is, dearest?"
Di thought for a moment. She'd never visited Carlisle, but she had heard of the little community, tucked away in one of the Island's corners. "It's supposed to be a beautiful spot. Wait—did you say Alan's last name is King?"
"Yes—have you heard of him?"
Di laughed. "Not of him, but nearly everyone on the Island knows of the King family. Why, they're practically royalty!" laughing a little at the pun every Islander knew by heart. "In fact, there's a former King married to the minister in Avonlea—Rev. Craig. I wonder if she's related to your Alan?"
"Probably," Tricia acknowledged. "Alan's family is enormous. His dad—my Uncle Bev—has innumerable cousins. Oh Di, I can't believe I'm finally going to see the Island at last! I've heard you speak of it so often, and I've always dreamed of visiting, but never did I imagine that I'd actually get to see it. Will it really be as beautiful as you've told me?"
"More," Di said firmly. A pang of homesickness tore at her heart. She missed the Island—yes, enormously! Tricia would get to see an Island autumn; the trees would all have put on their most glorious show of the year, the apples would be heavy on their boughs, the harvest would be just finishing, the squirrels and birds would be preparing for winter, the very air would smell like woodsmoke and the wind would carry a hint of winter—Di swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat. She'd forgotten how much she truly loved her home.
Tricia chattered on, oblivious to Di's sudden attack. "One of Alan's aunts is going to be there too. Sara Giraud nee Stanley!"
That news was enough to snap Di out of her sudden melancholy. "Your cousin is related to one of the most famous actresses ever to come from Canada? The Sara Stanley who has performed before kings and queens in Europe? The Sara Stanley who married a French aristocrat?"
Tricia smiled smugly. "That Sara Stanley. And I'll get to meet her! Oh Di, I'm so afraid I won't know what to say. I'll just be a stupid little girl in front of her, I know I will."
"Nonsense, dear," Di reassured her. "I'm sure she's charming, and you'll make a fine impression."
The two stayed up late into the night, Di relating story after story of her childhood in Glen St Mary, and Tricia listening with eager ears, dreaming about her own trip to that magical place.
Even after Tricia left, Di lay awake for a long while. Telling stories of her youth had brought back memories she had long tried to suppress—memories of her darling brother, her especial chum, the confidante of her childhood and beloved friend of girlhood. Walter Cuthbert Blythe.
Nobody in the family spoke much about Walter anymore—though they didn't quite know why. Perhaps it was the shadow in Mother's eye when his name was mentioned. Maybe it was the way Dad's hand shook and he looked—yes, old. It could have been because Walter in death became such an ideal and hero for all that he had done that they could hardly remember who their boy-brother had been anymore.
Whatever the reason, talking to Tricia had brought it all back. Di remembered Walter reading her bits of his epic—the one he based on Marmion—as they sat in the sun-dappled hollows in Rainbow Valley. She remembered lamenting to him about her red curls in comparison to Nan's smooth, nut-brown pompadour, and him telling her that she was like a beautiful lily, lit with fire from the inside. He had made her feel beautiful then—she had never felt so lovely before or since. She remembered crying to him after Delilah Green betrayed her, and how he comforted her.
She knew that he and Rilla had grown close once the War started and she, Di, was busy with her Red Cross work and keeping Nan's mind off Jerry, but her relationship with Walter was stronger and deeper than her baby sister could ever imagine.
It was to Di that Walter told of his admiration for Faith Meredith—not love, for it had been obvious to all of them from the time they were children that Faith and Jem were meant for each other—but of how she embodied his idea of perfect beauty. It was to Di that Walter told of the kinship he felt with Gertrude Oliver. It was to Di he confessed his unaccountable shyness and nervousness every time he came near Una Meredith.
He had told her all his hopes and fears and dreams—how he wanted to be a professor of English at a university, yes, but also how he dreamed, one day, of being a famous poet, like Uncle Paul. He told her of the deep joy he found in beauty and the equally deep horror he had of ugliness.
And then—Di shivered, but she couldn't hold off the memory—the last memory before the War changed them all—or rather, the first memory of the change that was to come.
Di had wandered out alone onto the rocks at the lighthouse dance. She was rather tired of dancing, and none of the boys who wanted to keep her company appealed to her in the slightest. She wanted to be alone—to wander at her own whim, to enjoy the magic of moonlight over the sea and rocks, to forget for a little while the horrible threat looming over all their heads. She glanced up a little impatiently as she heard Ken's deep voice, followed by Rilla's awe-struck laughter. She didn't want to be bothered by her moon-struck little sister and the charming Ken Ford tonight. Di slipped away, unseen and unheard, to a little hollow in the rocks, where the sea foam almost touched the hem of her misty green dress.
She sat there, dreaming dreams of beauty and romance, and suddenly, out of a heart too full for any other expression, laughed a trill of pure contentment.
And then—something—grabbed at her throat, killing the laugh even as it rose. Oh, what was it? What was it? What was happening?
She heard the sudden hush up at the lighthouse, followed by a perfect babble of frightened voices. She knew she should go up and ask—but she couldn't. For the first and only time in her life, Diana Blythe was too afraid to face reality.
Then Walter slipped down toward the sea, his face very white in the dim light, his eyes great pools of haunted darkness. Di stood up.
"Walter—Walter!" she cried. "What is it—oh, what is happening?"
He turned toward her—perhaps he had instinctively been making his way to her all along. "The Piper has come, Di. It is War."
"Oh—God!"
It was no profanity—Di's cry was that of heart blindly seeking its Father.
Walter bowed his glossy black head. "I heard his music, Di. He will call us—all of us—Jem and Jerry and Ken and all—Shirley and Carl, too, eventually. The fight will last for years. Oh sister, I tell you I see it all! I'm frightened—frightened to the core of my being. This is—this cannot be real."
Di bit her lip. She too believed it couldn't possibly be real—but it was. "And you," she whispered tremulously. "Oh Walter…did the Piper call you?"
He hesitated and refused to look at her. "I'm not healthy enough to go, sister."
It was the first time Walter had ever lied to her. Di saw the truth—the Piper was calling, but Walter could not answer the call. She knew—he was the little lame boy in the story, the one who was shut out of the mountain. And she was glad—glad! She couldn't lose Walter.
And yet—underneath her gladness was a hurt. She knew Walter wanted to go—but just couldn't, and was despising himself for it. Anything—almost anything—was better than that.
She went to him, put her arms around him, and he rested his head on her shoulder. Neither ever quite knew how long they stood there like that, simply taking comfort in each other's presence.
"Hi—Walt!" came Jem's ringing tones down the shore. "Is that you there?"
Walter lifted his head. "Yes—Di and I are here."
"Una's got a headache, so we're heading back. Are you ready?"
Walter turned to Di. She nodded. The party, so far as she was concerned, was over anyway. "We'll be right there," he answered.
Before they clambered back up the rocks, Walter gave Di's hand a tight squeeze. "Thank you," he said simply.
Di made no response, but she was relieved to see the haunted look had gone out of his eyes.
Di wiped the tears off her cheeks. She still had Walter's last letter to her—the one he wrote the day before he'd been shot—but she couldn't read it. She'd read it once—after she got it—and couldn't read it again. It was such a typically Walter-esque letter—full of do-you-remembers and snippets of poetry and dear little secrets just between the two of them. Only at the end had the shadow fallen. He thanked her for that night on the shore—neither had ever mentioned it before—thanked her for not despising him and not telling him she knew he was afraid—and told her not to mourn him if the Piper piped him "west"—that it was what he wanted, not to be left behind in the old world of ugliness and lameness and miss out on all the beauties that lay ahead. He told her to keep faith with him and all those who fought—that they were relying on the steadfast and true girls back home to fight with them in spirit if not body—and signed it,
As always, your loving,
Walter.
She suddenly felt quite tired. As she snuggled down into her pillows, she thought sleepily that she really should visit her family again—it had been too long since she'd been home. Home—where her Walter was all around, and the memories might not hurt so much, and she could pretend, just for a little while, that she was a little girl again, instead of a staid old maid trying to keep approximately twenty children clothed, educated, happy, and most importantly—loved.