As ever, many thanks for the reviews. In response to one, I think the end is drawing nigh, I'm wary of spinning this out over-long but having conceived of the ending, did not want to rush into it in this chapter. You should see how and why when it comes, which I should think would be in the next chapter, two at the most.
The end of autumn, full of fierce and fiery splendour, saw Rilla into her own home and away from Ingleside, and Una watched her go regretfully, for they had become firm friends and her own circle was not so wide and varied as Rilla's. Of course she promised to call on her often, but somehow Una knew this would not be quite the same. A divide had sprung up and it had to do with the conversation she would not have the day they poured over her hope chest.
Then the restriction on sugar was lifted and the death-knell sounded for the nearly-savoury Osborns and Una found she was almost sorry. Never for a moment did it occur to her that when Bruce flew out the front door after tea with two ginger-molasses biscuits it was to run up to Ingleside and proclaim the news of the restoration of adequate sugar to the Manse kitchen. Bruce, full of the feeling of achieving something good, never thought in his turn that Ingleside would have the news already because Susan has made a batch of fudge in celebration, and they did not let on. It was in this merry ignorance that he extended an invitation to tea to Shirley.
When he came round, Una caught herself hunting out the curiously unsweet biscuits that have played such a role in their getting to know one another. Of course there were none to be had, and that was why she finds herself apologising for perfectly good baking. But he laughed and said,
'I'm sure they're good in their own right.'
Una hoped they were; it occurred to her then that he had no acquaintance with her baking out of wartime and nerves made her hands uncertain as she poured out tea.
'They have no memories connected with them,' she said and handed him his teacup.
'Not like the Osbornes.'
'Or the lilacs,' he said and added, 'they are just as they should be. I wonder, will you ever be able to put out tea-things without apology?'
She almost apologised for this, but caught herself in time.
'It's just that I'm good at apologisomg,' she said.
'Nonsense, you're good at lots of things.' Una found she did not know where to look.
When Christmas came in its turn they agreed to go over the way to Ingleside. It was Mrs. Dr. Blythe's invitation, and there really wasn't much point in having it separately, Una realised, because Faith had been absorbed by the Ingleside family and Jerry was about to be. Carl was pleased because he was fond of Susan's cooking, which was not to say he disliked his sister's or Rosemary's, only that he was used to it. They knew enough to know it was absentmindedness rather than maliciousness that caused him to say so, and they laughed good-naturedly when Bruce said he would rather have a small Christmas with his mother's goose and Una's shortbread. On one level, Una thought she wouldn't mind a quiet Christmas at the Manse either, and she was half-tempted to send the others off minus herself and Bruce. Going to Ingleside meant sorting out a host of parcels and she had no idea where to begin. For the most part, Rosemary had ideas of what would suit and Una was grateful for these. They sat up in her room talking them over and Rosemary said,
'Don't you think you ought to get used to doing this?'
'What makes you say that?' Una asked, tracing the pattern on her quilt.
'I don't believe for a minute you need telling,' said Rosemary gently.
It is just possible Rosemary was right, and she knew it, because certainly the sticking point was a gift for Shirley and Una did not ask Rosemary about that, almost-mother or not. She worried it out in her own time, not expecting anything herself, but wanting a way to finally say thank-you for the conversations and cups of tea. In the end, she devoted an afternoon to initialling four sensible square handkerchiefs with a straight hem, because there was no danger of mistaking the gift for forwardness on her part. Bruce came in while she was working at them and sitting down at her feet said comfortably,
'I told you you'd go away too.'
She was uncertain what to do with Bruce so decided levity is best.
'You said I'd go away 'soon.' I don't know how you define soon, love, but that was July, yes? And I'm still here for Christmas.'
Bruce had never been good with teasing, not even Una's gentle sort.
'You said it was only half past three then, and that was the end of September.'
Still, he looked at her in a way that seems to ask, do you mind and so she smiled at him and said he was right, that really she would miss him if she did go away. It didn't quite chase the question out of his eyes, but he relaxed and clambered up beside her to inspect her work.
'Will they do, love?'
'Oh yes, they're nice and neat and without anything extra. Why do all mother's handkerchiefs have lace at the edge? Yours don't.'
This last said simply and the answer to that unasked question, at least, was uncomplicated. Una worked her own handkerchiefs as a child and supervised by Aunt Martha. Lace was not an option. She did not say this to Bruce, although it would not have taken much effort. Instead she said, and she is not afterwards wholly convinced it was herself who says it,
'Oh all mother's have handkerchiefs like that, mine did too.' This was true enough, but Bruce, ever thoughtful is prompted to say,
'You will want ones with lace then, eventually?'
'Don't be a goose,' she said laughing.
'I'm not,' he said earnestly. She would like to laugh again, but she knows Bruce would think she was laughing at him. So she worked at her stem stitch, careful to keep her working thread below her needle, and said anxiously,
'I'm not –Bruce other things come first. None of them has been so much as been thought of.'
'But they have,' he said just as anxiously.
'I know you've sometimes thought of them Una, you just don't say. And I know…' but he had stopped because he was startled by seeing so much colour in his sister's cheeks and so he slipped his hand into hers, taking it away from her sewing, and said,
'But they will come, I'm sure they will.'
She closed her eyes and shook her head to clear it.
'They haven't yet,' she said, herself again, and Bruce was relieved to feel things have gone back to normal.
Christmas itself proved just as overwhelming as she had anticipated. It was good to be as close to all together as they could be again, but there was too much talking and questions she did not feel she could answer. How, for instance, was she supposed to answer Susan sensibly about father's sermon? No, she didn't think candles especially 'Romish,' and what would Susan do with that information? Never mind that they have always had an Advent wreath. Nor could she say, when Nan waxed lyrical about the season, that Christmas was her favourite time of year, because privately she, like her father, preferred the solemnity of Advent. Christmas always felt…what? Anticlimactic perhaps. It was not like Easter, which blossomed radiantly and joyously out of the sombreness of Lent, each one enriching the other. She thought Jerry might understand all of this, and would likely say something about the symmetry of the liturgical year, but she knew Nan would not and so made a non-committal noise and asked after Nan's mother. Nan, Una was relieved to discover, did not seem to find the inquiry out of place, in spite of the fact that she could have quite easily sought out Mrs. Dr. Blythe if she had wanted to. Rilla, hovering at the edge of this conversation, did notice but rather than say so, she steered Una away from Nan and says ,
'Everything all right? You look thoughtful.'
'Do I?'
'You do. As if you were unravelling the meaning of the world. Are you?' Rilla beamed at her.
'No, but I may slip out for a minute. You won't mind?'
'Not at all,' said Rilla fondly. 'There are rather a lot of people, aren't there? Go on, I won't tell.'
It was cold out, but it was bliss to stand out in the cold after the warmth of the Ingleside drawing room. Besides, she didn't mean to stay out long.
'Whatever possessed you to come out without a coat?' Shirley said and drapes a shawl over her shoulders.
'I didn't realize –'
'They talk, an awful lot, my family, much as I love them.' He leaned on the veranda rail.
'Do you mind me following you out?'
She did not say that she had been assuming she had failed to notice him out already. Although her version did not account for the shawl. She pulled it about her now, it was reassuringly thick.
'Thank you for this,' she said now, but he only shakes his head and says,
'But I haven't given you anything. I was only being sensible.'
'It was a good thought,' Una says firmly, and he was reminded of the imperatives she used to administer casserole.
'I still think you ought to have something properly seasonal to thank me for,' he said and reached into his coat for a small flat box.
'It isn't terribly much I'm afraid.'
'And you accuse me of apologising,' she said, opening the box to discover a set of simply elegant combs.
'I thought they would suit you,' thiswithout looking at her.
'Thank you,' Una said and gave him one of her rare, chaste kisses, exactly right in that moment, and simultaneously pressed the parcel with the handkerchiefs into his hands.
'How did you know I was wanting more?' he asked, equal parts gratitude and curiosity.
'I was lucky. Bruce assures me they will do –'simple and neat' he said. I could always –'
'You will leave them as they are,' he said decidedly. 'They are exactly right.'
He put an arm around her and drew her close for a moment and kissed her on the forehead. He did not entirely trust his family not to come creeping out of the woodwork.
'We ought to go in before we're missed,' she said and folded the shawl over her arm. He takes it from her saying,
'Rilla will wonder how you came to have it,' and she laughed properly for the first time that evening because she knew this to be good, sound sense.
