This chapter is the product of time that I could (ahem... should) have spent writing application essays. Why is it that we're at our most creative when we're the most swamped with work? It must be some kind of sick joke - I, for one, think that enough of my braincells are firing without making up plotlines on the side, but no...clearly, the braincells disagree.
Well, what's done's done - enjoy the fruits of my misspent time :)
5 May, 1915
For Una, waking up had never been much of an ordeal. She was generally able to rouse herself once the sun's first rays shone over the roof of the Presbyterian church and tickled her face. Una liked waking up. She liked the feeling of slowly coming to life again - almost like a personal resurrection. Good minister's daughter that she was, she reached for the Bible on her nightstand which acted as a calendar of sorts - today's verse was from the fifth chapter of the book of Acts: We must obey God rather than men.*
Una pondered this while she dressed, pulling on chemise, stockings, and shoes out of habit. Picking her corset off the back of the chair she had hung it over the evening before, she hooked the busk down the front and tightened the back laces until her figure had assumed the smooth shape that was fashionable now. Adjusting her breathing to compensate for the corset, she took a moment to rest before continuing her toilette.
If people obeyed God rather than men, she wondered, would this war still be happening? She didn't believe that God would ordain an atrocity of this magnitude. This war was truly man's war on itself. Una didn't consider herself a theologian or philosopher, but she read the newspaper - who didn't, nowadays? - and generally tried to keep abreast of anything that happened in the world...so long as it wasn't fashion. That was Faith's domain.
Sufficiently recovered from her corseting, Una buttoned herself into a petticoat and corset cover, as the sky outside slowly turned from rosy-gold to blue streaked with cream. Taking her cue from the sky, Una pulled on a blue dress she favored before sitting down at her washstand.
Now came the real ordeal of the morning: brushing and braiding her hair. Una's hair was long - and what's more, it was thick. Unbraided, it reached the seat of her chair in shiny blue-black waves. Once brushed out, Una rebraided her hair and pinned it up. Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she gave herself one last look in the mirror.
Una wasn't vain, nor did she have any false ideas about her looks. Faith was the beauty in the family, after all. But then, just as the sky turned blue and the sun shone through the lace curtains behind her, Una Meredith was quite satisfied with her appearance.
Mother Rosemary was already downstairs, standing at the stove with an apron tied around her waist. Hearing Una's light step, she turned to give her a smile as she did every morning.
"Good morning, dear. Sleep well?"
"I did." Una remembered the dark days when Father had been miserable about Mother Rosemary, when she had not been able to sleep for worry about him. She had a feeling that he had told Mother Rosemary about it early on, and ever since, that had been her customary greeting every morning. "What do you need me to do?" she asked, tying on her own apron.
"Set the table and make tea, please," Mother Rosemary nodded to the stack of plates on the counter, "I'll follow with the toast and eggs."
Breakfast in the Meredith household generally revolved around eggs and bread in some form or other. Some days it was toast, on others, pancakes. And on very special occasions, such as birthdays, it was waffles. Today, however, was a perfectly ordinary Wednesday in May - toast and the blueberry jam made last summer were quite sufficient.
Once the table had been set and the food prepared, the various remaining members of the household trickled into the dining room, taking their respective seats. Last to come in was Faith, the dark circles underneath her eyes speaking to another sleepless night - another day had passed with no news of Jem. Una had seen the tell-tale lines around Mrs. Blythe's mouth when she had seen her in town on Tuesday; Ingleside had no news, either.
Father gave Faith's short skirts a cursory glance before giving a quiet sigh and saying grace. Una knew he had long given up on trying to control Faith's fashion sense. As Una had told Walter during their picnic, it was a small miracle Faith's hair was as long as it was.
Across the table, Carl and Bruce were attacking their food with customary gusto, while at the head and foot, Father and Mother Rosemary had their usual morning conversation of what had to be done, when it had to be done, and who had to do it, in between bites of food.
But next to Una, Faith was buttering a piece of toast, her face a careful mask of composure. Anyone not looking too closely wouldn't have noticed the fine cracks in the facade. Faith had the remarkable ability to act as though life was perfectly fine, when in fact it wasn't. The less fine life got, the more elaborate her act became.
Una remembered when their mother had died - after a few days of utter devastation, Faith had quickly pulled herself together, looking for all the world as though life was quite normal indeed. Only her family knew of her charade - if they were looking. And Una was looking. Without a word, she reached over and plopped a heavy spoonful of preserves onto the bread.
"Eat," she whispered. "You'll be no good to Jem if he comes back and you're too weak to even greet him properly."
A snort of laughter and a muffled sob escaped Faith. Beneath the table top, she gripped her sister's hand tight. And Una, with her own worries about her own Blythe boy, gripped back.
After breakfast, Father disappeared into his study to work on a sermon, while the boys disappeared into the great outdoors to do whatever it was boys did when they weren't in school.
Una had just sunk her hands into a sinkful of hot water and soap suds when a shriek came from out front. Dropping her scrubbing brush into the suds, Una hurried towards the front door, thinking that somebody must have been hurt, when she collided with Faith on the front steps.
"Letters," Faith gasped, clutching a packet of them to her chest, "a pile of them!" She was grinning like mad, and her face shone with relief.
"Well, go on," Una prompted her, "go read them - and tell us what's happened to him."
A packet of letters, she knew, was a good sign. It meant that Jem was alive and writing - the army post must have had a hold up of some sort.
It was a relief to see Faith restored in this manner. Three weeks without letters had really worn at both of them - Faith, because she was worried about Jem, and Una, because she was worried about Faith. That was the problem with being everyone's mother - if they worried, you worried, too.
Mother Rosemary came into the kitchen, her knitting basket on her arm. "I hear we have news from Jem," she said, settling herself into a kitchen chair before pulling her work out.
Una looked over her shoulder. "We do. Faith's over the moon - she looks years younger."
Rosemary smiled before pulling out a pencil and paper, planning out the rest of the week's meals. "We'll have chicken and potatoes tonight, and I can turn the leftover chicken into soup tomorrow. Cod on Friday, chops and greens on Saturday, and a roast on Sunday. The roast will hopefully stretch into next week, although the way Carl eats…" she sighed. "I'm also going to bake monkey face cookies today - hopefully that will keep your brother from attacking any food meant for supper." Upon checking the pantry, however, Rosemary sighed again. "Can you run down to Flagg's, Una? We need more molasses, I'm low on flour, and I'm down to my last spoonful of raisins."
Una dried off her hands, reaching for Rosemary's abandoned pencil and paper. "Molasses, flour, and raisins," she repeated as she made a list. "Anything else?"
"A bottle of cream for the potatoes, I suppose. Only the milk was delivered today."
Una tucked the list into her pocket, removing her apron as she left the kitchen. In the sitting room, Faith was curled up in a chair, deaf to the world, engrossed in her letters. Well, thought Una, they would hear any news soon enough.
Pulling on her cardigan, she snatched up her hat - a different one than Monday's, that hat not yet having recovered from its soak - and pinned it on, returning to the kitchen to get the market basket. She escaped into the warm spring sunshine, lightly scented with lilies-of-the-valley, and set off down the road that led into the heart of town.
Una was just leaving Carter Flagg's store with her purchases when a hiss of a voice reached her ears.
"In a barn with that Blythe boy...if you know what I mean."
"And in the middle of the day, too - in broad daylight!"
"A minister's daughter should know better…"
"'Just a picnic,' I was told - hah! Those two have been joined at the hip since he came back from Redmond…"
"Well, you do know what they say about a roll in the hay…"
Una's face flamed brighter than it had in living memory. Turning on her heel, she walked out of the store with carefully measured steps, not looking back to see whom she had overheard...although she had a sneaking suspicion that one of the voices had belonged to Mrs. Hiram McDaniel.
Quietly stewing in her embarrassment, Una utterly failed to notice the other object of the town's gossip emerging from the post office.
"Una!"
She looked up - and there he was, coming towards her. "Good morning, Walter."
"We've just had news of Jem."
Una nodded. "So have we. A thick pile of letters was dropped off this morning, much to Faith's delight and relief. We have no idea what he's written, though - she's at home, re-reading them all."
"Are you headed that way?"
"Home?" Una asked, "Yes."
"Well, then allow me to carry that for you," Walter nodded to the basket on her arm.
Una's look could only have been described as one of disbelief. "You do realize it's not safe for us to be seen together, don't you?"
"Whyever not?"
Una tamped down a feeling of exasperation. Walter Blythe could be quite brilliant at some times - and quite dense at others. "Because of the barn."
"What about the barn?"
Una sighed. "Just as I was leaving Flagg's, I overheard some of the more gossipy ladies - and they were talking about us, Walter. In the barn." Her face grew even warmer. "The phrase "a roll in the hay" was mentioned."
"Oh, dear." Walter took the basket off her arm, ignoring her splutter of protest. "I wasn't expecting that to come of our picnic." He grimaced in concern. "I'm sorry, Una - you being the minister's daughter, after all. I didn't think anyone would think twice of two people taking shelter in a storm."
"Obviously, they did."
Walter sighed. "And it's worse for you than for me. I'm one of the Blythe children - we're respectable, yes, but there will always be something a trifle odd about the lot of us. You, on the other hand…"
"Yes - the minister's daughter." Una kept her voice low. "On top of that, I'm the minister's daughter who's never done a thing to raise a public eyebrow since 1907. And you remember how people talked then."
"I'm so sorry, Una."
She sighed. "Don't be. It isn't your fault - you didn't cause the storm, after all."
"I can't help feeling a bit responsible, though - I did suggest the barn."
They had reached a quiet stretch of road, safely out of sight of most of the town. "But what are we to do about it?" Una felt tears pricking at her eyes. Never - not once had she been gossiped about in this manner. And now - it was all so untrue!
"Nothing."
She looked at him, temporarily stunned. "I beg your pardon."
"Well, what can we do? Tack a notice to the church doors, informing one and all that the only thing Walter Blythe and Una Meredith did in that barn was talk about Noah?" Walter looked at her expectantly.
"The worst thing about this," Una tipped her head back to keep any wayward tears from leaking out, "The worst thing is that I won't be the only one affected by this. My entire family will be the object of scrutiny. All because the minister's daughter stepped out of line. My father could lose part of his congregation."
Walter reached out hesitantly and put a hand on her arm. "It will pass. At some point, something more interesting will come along, and they'll go off and tear another poor soul to pieces."
Una looked at the hand resting on her arm, seeming to wonder how it had gotten there. "Until then, I suppose we just bear our cross. This is not the kind of cross I ever envisioned myself having to carry."
"The only thing you can do with gossip, especially untrue gossip, is to let it run its course. We can't do anything about it, and before you know it, the old cats will be talking about Whiskers-on-the-Moon again."
Una shook her head. "Walter Blythe, I don't think I've ever heard you speak that way." She shook her head, admitting temporary defeat. "I suppose you are right - I hate the fact that I can't do anything about this, though."
They had reached the front porch of the Manse by then. Walter returned the basket, receiving Una's thanks in return. As she turned to go into the house, Una turned back.
"I do have to wonder how anyone heard of it - after all, the road was deserted."
"Who knows?" Walter shrugged. "The ways of gossip are mysterious - although I have a theory that gossip travels more quickly than anything known to man - even light." He tipped his hat, turning to go. "Good day to you, Miss Meredith - chin up."
Una watched him until he disappeared around the bend before going back into the house. Walter might not be harmed by the gossip, but she and hers would be. And she had a feeling that she would not be sleeping very well until it all died down.
*Acts 5:29
This chapter's title is taken from the song, "Before I Grew Up to Love You" (Lyrics and music by Max Friedman, 1917)
For anyone wondering about Una's bible/calendar system: the book (Old or New Testament) corresponds to the month, the chapter to the day. It's not foolproof, of course - some books don't have 31-plus chapters. In that case, use verses.
Thanks here are due to all of you reading this, and to alinyaalethia and kslchen especially. The former is better acquainted with the Meredith clan than I am - and knows more about Presbyterianism than I do, making her quite helpful when trying to tackle my characters' religious views. The latter, of course, is my beta reader. It is thanks to her that my characters do things in a vaguely historical context and act appropriately.
See you soon-ish (after all, the Lusitania has to sink at some point)!
Wyth wynne,
Anne
