Chapter 3
After the one eventful day that brought unexpected visits from both her mother and brother, Rilla's life falls back into an accumulation of sameness. She gets up and gets dressed in the mornings to spend the day looking out of the window at the world turning by, interrupted intermittently by Susan bringing her food. In the afternoon, she sometimes manages to gather enough concentration to answer a letter or two, writing to either Europe or Kingsport, though there's not all that much to write about when one is stuck in their room all the time.
Still, she makes the effort, especially for Jem and Walter and the other boys she knows who're overseas, stuck as they are in a world far beyond her imagination. With little else to write, she mostly fills her letters with window observations, though obviously without mentioning that they're solely observations through a window. For all her two older brothers know, she stood right at the lakeshore when the Over-Harbour boys beat the Glen boys at hockey, was right there when little Amy MacAllister kissed the cheek of a befuddled-looking Bruce Meredith before running off, and was a front-side spectator to the chaos that old Mr Crawford's runaway cow caused in Rainbow Valley while trying to evade re-capture.
After one and a half years of war, she's gotten good at writing amusing letters, full of light and funny anecdotes, so it's not too difficult to make her letters seem like everything is as it should be. When writing to her sisters in Kingsport, it's not as easy, but the letters exchanged with them have always lacked both frequency and insight, so she doesn't suspect it will raise any suspicious if her letters are both a little rarer and sparser than before.
Thus, between sleeping, eating, window observations and writing letters, her life takes on a strange equilibrium. Her room is as much safe haven as it is prison and after a while, everything outside of it becomes more and more unreal. Even the war, about which no news reach her up here in her room, starts to feel as far away as it has geographically always been, only now, it feels emotionally further removed as well.
The world continues turning without her, while she is in her room, waiting for – for what? Forgiveness? An absolution? To wake up from this strangest of dreams to find her life back to normal?
Whatever it is she's waiting for, it comes to her on a day when she doesn't really expect it and in the form of a person she never expected at all.
It's afternoon already and the day, so far, was uneventful. She got dressed in the morning, and while her clothes don't sit the way they used to anymore, every morning anew she's pleased that she can get them to close. She had to cut off some buttons of her blouse and resew them to sit closer to the hem to get it to close comfortably, mainly because it's not only her stomach changing shape, but other than that, getting dressed isn't overly difficult, or it hasn't been since she gave up on the corset.
For lunch, Susan brought one of her favourite dishes and afterwards, Rilla finished a letter to Walter that had been sitting on her desk for two days. She's just moved her chair back to its accustomed place by the window, when a knock on the door calls for her attention.
"Come in!" she calls out, expecting Susan with fresh laundry.
It wasn't a bad day and she's in a fairly good mood, accordingly, but when the door swings open to reveal her father, her good mood disappears in an instant. In fact, seeing him feels like being doused in cold water, an altogether unfamiliar feeling that startles her.
"Father?" she asks tentatively, because in the two or so weeks she's spent up here in her room, she hasn't seen so much as a glimpse of him.
"Will you please come downstairs?" His voice is oddly formal, in a way she's heard him use with strangers, but never inside their own home.
To deny is, of course, not an option, so she nods quickly and puts down the chair in the middle of the room.
Her father turns without another word and Rilla surmises that she is to follow him, so she does. It feels a little strange, to leave the sanctuary of her room again, but the rational side of her always knew she couldn't stay here forever. She wonders, as she walks down the stairs behind him, what he could want and why he came to get her today of all days, but then his previous words about an 'examination' echo in her head ominously and she decides it's not a thought path she feels comfortable following.
When he leads her into the library, she is therefore quite relieved, because while she only has a vague understanding of what such an examination could involve, she's fairly certain it cannot properly be done in the library. She doesn't have much time to feel relief, alas, because the moment she steps into the room, she sees that the two armchairs by the fire are occupied by her mother and an unfamiliar woman.
Instinctively, Rilla stops dead in her tracks.
Who is this woman and what does she want?
"Come inside, please." Her father's words are courteous enough, but there's an impatient edge to his voice and Rilla hurries to do as told.
Nervously, her eyes keep flitting over to the woman by the fire, but she senses that no introduction will be happening, at least not yet. Instead, her father sits down behind his desk and clears his throat.
Rilla remains standing, valiantly trying to ignore the dizziness creeping up on her.
"I'm asking you a final time for the name of the man responsible for your condition," her father states, very plainly, all the while watching her closely through narrowed eyes.
Rilla presses her lips together and doesn't answer.
A second passes and then another, before her father nods, curt and business-like. Clearly, he didn't actually expect her to answer. "Your mother said he's in Europe with the army?" he asks instead.
This time, Rilla jerks her head up briefly in confirmation.
Because even if she were to say his name, she knows that he's too far away to save her now. She realises, too, in an abstract sort of sense, that there's a time window to make things better and that it's closely swiftly. Too swiftly, certainly, to wait for the return of a man fighting a war that shows no signs of being won.
Again, her father nods, his expression one of a person being told what they expected to hear anyway.
"We're very disappointed in you, your mother and I," he states. "Do you know that?"
Rilla swallows. "Yes." Her voice sounds all wrong.
"We thought we raised you better than that," her father continues, "and we're very disappointed by the way you broke with our values."
There's a part of Rilla that wants to protest, wants to point out to him that no-one ever told her not to allow a man to kiss her and lie on top of her on a couch, but she's not so dim as not to know that arguing would only make it worse. Besides, if she's being honest, she recognised, even then, in an abstract way that what she was doing was wrong.
She knows, from snatched conversations overheard between Nan and Di, that Nan kissed Jerry Meredith before he left for Europe, and she even saw herself Jem kiss Faith Meredith when stumbling upon them in Rainbow Valley long before war was ever a possibility. Kissing, she thinks, is probably alright under certain circumstances, but it's not alright to go further. She understands that and she understood it then, but she didn't know where the line ran and by the time she realised that the line had been crossed, she just didn't know what else to do.
Therefore, she remains quiet, itself a somewhat unusual occurrence for her, but after a fortnight spent along in her room, she's learned more about silence than ever before in her life. Silence, in this case, is certainly preferable to arguing, though she understands too late that an apology would have been even better.
When she does, she wants to open her mouth and blurt out said apology, but her father is already talking again, "We thought we raised you to be more virtuous than this, so we were quite shocked to see that it isn't the case."
Her apology dying on her lips, Rilla only nods mutely.
"However," her father carries on, his voice still eerily calm, "the situation is what it is now, and we must decide what to do."
Shrinking slightly under his unyielding gaze, Rilla takes several deep breaths to calm herself, though with little success.
Has the time come for her punishment?
Her transgression, horrible as it clearly was, cannot go unpunished, this much she knows. She wasn't sure when or how the punishment would come, but consequences must be faced, even in a house like Ingleside. She had, perhaps, a small hope that being confined to her room for two weeks already constituted punishment enough, but in reality, she knows it's too childish to provide adequate consequence for an act that wasn't childish at all.
Truth to be told, she can't fathom what could be adequate punishment and looking at the stern face of her father, she's not sure she wants to find out.
"What's done can't be undone," he states, before pausing for a moment to allow the words to sink in. "We must now find a way to limit the damage."
Damage?
Rilla shivers involuntarily.
Over by the fire, her mother makes a strange noise and when turning her head, Rilla sees the unfamiliar woman reach out and put a hand on her mother's arm. She wonders, briefly, whether it means that they know each other?
Her question is answered right away when her father asks, "Do you remember your Aunt Dora?"
Aunt Dora?
Frowning slightly, Rilla looks back at the woman. She knows about Aunt Dora, of course, twin sister to Uncle Davy, but she can't consciously recall ever meeting her. Uncle Davy, yes, he was there in Avonlea, back when they still used to visit regularly, but Aunt Dora is a figure of brief mentions too unimportant to recall in detail.
"Dora lives out west with her husband Ralph," her father explains. "She's sister to Uncle Davy. They were raised by Aunt Marilla, just like your mother was."
Hurriedly, Rilla nods to show that she understands. "I remember," she confirms, not wanting to admit that the name is really all she recalls.
She expects her father to explain quite why Aunt Dora is here and why she is allowed to be privy to the conversation they're having, but instead of receiving further explanations, her questioning gaze is merely met with an expectant one. At first, she's confused, unsure about what's expected of her, but then her upbringing catches up to her. She might have fallen into disfavour, but clearly, it doesn't absolve her from observing the common rules of courtesy.
"Good day, Aunt Dora," she therefore greets the unfamiliar woman they call her aunt. "I hope you had a pleasant journey. We're honoured to have you with us."
Keeping her face perfectly straight, the woman called Aunt Dora inclines her head in what Rilla suspects is a greeting. Looking back at her father, she just catches his tiny nod of… not approval, no, but something like acceptance. At least her manners can be relied upon, it seems.
"Dora is here at your mother's and my invitation," he informs Rilla. "We requested her assistance and she has been gracious enough to offer her support in this delicate situation."
Rilla blinks, confused. What sort of support can be had from an honorary aunt living far away in the west?
"Obviously," her father continues, "you can't stay here. Dora has kindly offered to take you in during the coming months."
"But –" Rilla blurts out, before clamping a hand over her mouth, thus stopping herself. She is in no position at all to protest her parents' decision, much as it goes against her nature to be quiet in the face of a situation that is starting to feel increasingly unfair.
Her father, obviously agreeing with her assessment that she should not dare to contradict him, raises both eyebrows tellingly.
"Sorry," Rilla mumbles, before biting her lip to try and stop herself from speaking prematurely again.
"Do you have a question?" asks her father in that deceptively calm way of his. It almost sounds empathic, but Rilla knows him well enough to see how tense he is under his outwardly collected demeanour.
Still, this is her moment to ask the question she very nearly blurted out earlier. Mindful that there might not be another chance, she gathers together her remaining scraps of courage and reminds herself inwardly that she is no coward and has never been.
"I don't – exactly – understand why… well, why I can't stay here." She's irritated with herself for stammering, but it's the best she can do.
Her father studies her for a moment, as if needing to find out whether she really fails to understand or whether she's being contrary for the sake of it. Seemingly satisfied that it is genuine confusion apparent on her face, he mellows a little bit.
"People will talk," he explains. "For your own sake, this is not something we can allow them to talk about, not even hypothetically. We certainly can't ever let anyone find out the truth about this situation."
Rilla knows all about how people talk. She's spent many an afternoon sitting at her mother's feet while the housewives of Glen St. Mary gathered in the Ingleside living room, ostensibly to knit or sew, but really to talk about everyone and their neighbour. She shudders at the thought of being the subject of these conversations.
"Can't we simply say I'm ill?" she suggests anyway, pleadingly. "I'll stay in my room until it's all over. I promise! I won't come out and I won't be difficult about it. You won't even notice I'm there!"
She hates to be begging. Pride is second nature to her and pride itself abhors to beg. There's also sheer desperation, alas, and Rilla finds that when it comes to all that, desperation beats out pride handily.
If there's a chance that begging might help her, beg she will, but even as she considers how she can emphasise her point, her father already shakes his head. Just seeing the small movement suddenly makes it harder for Rilla to breathe.
"Everyone will start to wonder what the matter is with you," he points out. "They already do, Susan told me. For now, we can say you have a cold, but if we keep you inside for weeks on end, people will think it's something serious and they will want to know what it is."
'What does it matter to them?' Rilla wants to cry. 'Let them talk! I don't care!'
But the sheer terror creeping up on her keeps her mute.
"No." Her father shakes his head, his mind clearly made up. "There is no other way. You can't stay here. Dora has been kind enough to offer you a place to stay and we're grateful she has given you this opportunity."
"Won't everyone wonder where I am?" asks Rilla desperately, a final attempt to sway her fate. "Won't they talk about my disappearance as well?"
There's a hint of annoyance on her father's face, but he answers her anyway. "Not if we give them a good explanation for it. We will tell them that you've gone to support your aunt whose husband and older sons have enlisted and who needs help in caring for her younger children. No-one will think to question it."
Daring a glance at Aunt Dora, Rilla thinks that she doesn't look any younger than her own mother does, and she wonders how this aunt can have a husband young enough to enlist. But then, she remembers, Uncle Davy must be at least a decade younger than her mother and if Aunt Dora is his twin, she can't be much older than forty either. If her husband is her age, he does indeed meet the age requirement, which allows a maximum age of 45 years, as Rilla well knows from the recruitment posters that were hung up even in the small village of Glen St. Mary.
Of course, focusing on the riddle of Aunt Dora's age is easier than focusing on the consequences laid out by her father's words. After all, the mere thought of going away, of leaving Ingleside, of leaving her beloved island, is plainly ridiculous. It is, in fact, too ridiculous to even entertain. Surely, her father must see it, too?
"I understand what you're saying, but…" She trails off, flailing around for a polite way to form her thoughts into words. Finding none, the words just burst out of her as they are, uncensored and accompanied by a laugh of disbelief. "I can't leave, father! This is home. I've never lived anywhere else. I can't go away. It's… it's just… I can't!"
Her father, alas, remains unperturbed, refusing to be shaken by either temper or desperation and certainly not receptive to pleading. "You will have to."
Rilla shakes her head, first just once, then again and again. "Is this my punishment? Do I have to leave because I've been bad? Am I not allowed here anymore because of what I did?" Her hard-won decorum has dissolved now, replaced by a feeling of terror at what is happening to her – and at her absolute inability to stop it.
"You have to leave because there's no other way," her father responds, now oddly tight-lipped. "Tomorrow, you are to accompany Dora to her home, and I will hear no more words on the matter."
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow?
Feeling tears spring to her eyes, Rilla stares at her father, willing him to relent and soften the cruelty of his words. He, however, just looks back at her, unmoving and unmoved, completely sure in his decision. It is clear to anyone watching and certainly to his daughter that there's no way for him to be swayed.
Realising this, Rilla whirls around, driven by pure instinct now. Seeking out her mother's gaze, she silently implores her to intervene, to see reason, to make undone what her father decreed. Surely, her mother must understand if her father does not?
Fear restricts her throat and clouds her mind, so no words will come, not words of reason and not words to plead. She only manages a desperate cry for help, age-old and forever used. "Mother!"
A long second passes and Rilla hardly dares to breathe.
Then, very slowly, her mother shakes her head. "I'm sorry, darling," she chokes out in a strangled voice. "It's for the best. It's the only way. I'm sorry." And with just these few words, her decision is clear.
It hits Rilla like a punch.
There's no help to be had here.
She must leave.
She cannot stay.
The moment the realisation sinks in, it feels like the ground is dropping away beneath her. She's flailing, helpless, and then she's falling, with nothing and no-one to hold on to.
To Guest No.1:
Shirley is indeed a secret favourite of mine, too! He creeped up on me a little, but I really started to enjoy writing him as a character when I wrote 'A part of you belongs to me' and I've had a soft sport for him ever since. He will, accordingly, also play a role in this story and I can already promise there'll be more screentime for him in it than LMM ever gave him - though admittedly, that's setting he bar rather low ;). It'll be a little while before he makes his second appearance, but we will definitely see him again and he will play an important role in supporting Rilla as she figures out how to move forward with her life.
To Guest No.2:
We grow with our challenges, don't we? ;) As expressed in the preface to this story, I entirely agree that for the Perfect Blythes (of whom LMM herself seemed to grow sick by the time she wrote TBaQ), all this is certainly a detour from form. For me, that's what made it especially interesting though, because with a situation like this in the time they lived in, there were no perfect solutions. Letting Rilla stay and raise an illegitimate child would ruin her reputation and make her life incredibly difficult, while also causing all sorts of problems for her family. Consequently, it seems lke the easier choice to send her away and avoid the drama, but that comes with its own set of emotional problems. In this situation, there's no way for Anne and Gilbert to win, and while Rilla is too young and inexperienced to see that yet, I found it a very interesting premise to explore.
To Guest No.3:
To me, at this stage, Rilla is very much a child and she's very much acting like a child, too. Add to that that she's scared and confused and completely out of her depth, and you end up with some pretty illogical and immature behaviour from her that yes, can absolutely be frustrating at times. In my stories, I tend to put a lot of emphasis on growth and character development, which means my characters have to begin at a place where they can grow from. For Rilla, she's starting out firmly as a child and while she'll definitely grow from there, it's true that right now, she's mainly very immature and very confused - and that absolutely shows in the way she acts.