Chapter 7

"You're up early," comments Aunt Dora.

She says it calmly, like she's not even surprised, which is, in turn, not very surprising either. It is, as Rilla has learned in the last couple of days, not easy to surprise Aunt Dora, whose normal state of being is marked by a decided lack of excitement.

For her own part, Rilla jumps when being addressed thus. As early as it is, she didn't think anyone else would be awake yet, so to hear an unexpected voice startles her visibly. Turning quickly, she almost spills the glass of water she's holding.

"I, uh, I couldn't sleep," she replies. "It's later here than at home." Frowning, she hesitates briefly, "Or is it earlier?"

"The Island is three hours ahead," Aunt Dora informs her as she moves past Rilla to light a lamp. It's not yet six o'clock, so it's still dark outside and the kitchen so far only illuminated by the moon. When the lamp lights up, Rilla blinks at the sudden brightness.

It takes several moments until her eyes have gotten used to the light and she can see properly again. When she does, she observes that like herself, Aunt Dora is already dressed in her day clothes, ready to start the morning.

"You're up early as well," she remarks, before biting her tongue. She doesn't think Aunt Dora appreciates her speaking spontaneously, and while silence comes easier to her than it did only weeks ago, her nature is normally talkative. She must take care not to speak out of turn and annoy her aunt even further.

Briefly, Aunt Dora looks up from where she's filling the kettle with water. "There's a lot to do," she tells her niece. "I was gone for nearly a fortnight and the work doesn't do itself."

"Of course," Rilla replies quickly. "If there's anything I can do…" She trails off, unsure how her offer will be received.

Aunt Dora takes time to light the stove, before looking back up again. "What do you suggest you do?"

Rilla hesitates. "I'm not a good needleworker, I'm afraid, but I can knit," she finally offers. "Susan also taught me to cook a bit, though I'm not a very good baker. However, I can dust and sweep and help do the laundry, if something like this needs doing."

Again, Aunt Dora doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she sets a teapot on the kitchen counter and carefully measures how much tea to fill inside the pot. Once done, she takes a teacup from the cabinet above and, after a brief pause, reaches up to get another one to place it next to the first.

"How is your handwriting?" she asks suddenly.

Not having expected this reply and, after the long silence perhaps not expecting a reply at all anymore, Rilla starts, confused. "My handwriting?"

"Yes, your handwriting." Aunt Dora, clearly, doesn't appreciate having to repeat herself. "How is your handwriting?"

"Fine, I think," Rilla answer, despite still not understanding why she's being asked this at all. "Teacher used to say my writing is neat and pleasant to look at. Once, we had to copy a text from a book and she gave me a picture of a little dog because she felt my writing was prettiest."

She remembers how proud she was about the praise and that ridiculous picture with the kitsch-y dog and its oversized bow on it. That day, she practically skipped home in excitement, hardly able to wait to share her achievement with her parents and Susan. It was well-received, she recalls, with her mother praising her copy of the text and Susan offering to pin the picture of the dog to the wall in her room, but before long, her siblings also returned from school, with Di bringing news about top marks in a maths quiz and Walter presenting her mother with a new poem he'd written, and her own little triumph was lost in the larger successes of her sibling. It was a rare taste of bitterness in her childhood and the first time she realised that neatness and hard work counted little when contrasted with brilliance. Her small heart burning from the injustice of it all, she angrily threw the picture of the little dog in the bin when she thought no-one was looking, but when she returned from school the next day, it was there in her room, pinned to the wall above her desk. There, it stayed, a daily reminder of her limits and missed successes, until the edges were frayed, and the sun had stripped it of all its colours, the red garish bow having faded to a faint pink and the little dog only discernible by its outlines anymore.

Shaking her head slightly, Rilla shakes the memory of that picture from her mind. "My handwriting is fine," she repeats, very plainly, because she knows it's no cause for pride. It was a bitter lesson, but one she learned well.

Aunt Dora briefly studies her face, then nods her head briskly and turns for the door. "Take the tea and join me in the office," she commands before striding towards the door.

With the lamp leaving alongside Aunt Dora, Rilla scrambles to pour hot water into the teapot and place both pot and cups on a tray before it gets too dark to do so. Having retired to her room immediately after her arrival last night, she doesn't know her way around the house and only because she stumbled into the kitchen by accident this morning, it doesn't mean she will find the office on her own as well.

Thankfully, when she steps into the hall, there's a light shining from a room two doors down to her left. Carefully balancing the tray, she does, as expected, find Aunt Dora in that room, already sitting behind an imposing wooden desk.

"Place the tray here and close the door," she tells Rilla, gesturing to a chest of drawers by the door.

"And now, sit down over there," she adds once the younger woman has done as told.

'Over there' is a smaller desk pushed against the wall next to the still-dark window. Sitting in the middle of the desktop is a long list of names and numbers as well as a stack of plain envelopes. Briefly, Rilla glances at her aunt, still not sure what her task here is supposed to be, but obediently sits down in front of the desk anyway.

"The first column lists the names of the mine workers," explains Aunt Dora from her seat at the main desk. She can't see the list from where she's sitting, Rilla realises, but clearly knows its contents by heart, for she continues without pause, "The second column holds their fortnightly wage. Some of them received loans from the company, which are deducted from their wage until they're paid back in full. The partial deductions are in the third column and the fourth column lists what remains of their wage after deductions."

Rilla looks down at the list briefly. It's all just as Aunt Dora described. "I think I understand."

"You are to copy the contents of the list onto the envelopes. One envelope for each line," adds Aunt Dora. "I will add the money to the envelope so our workers can collect their wages tomorrow."

"Of course." Rilla nods and picks up the fountain pen sitting on her desk. It's a nicer pen than she's used to writing with, more reminiscent of the pens her parents use or those her siblings received when leaving for Queen's.

"Well, then, get to work," Aunt Dora tells her, clearly as disinclined to waste time on unnecessary talk as she normally is.

Running a finger down the list briefly, Rilla tries to gauge how many envelopes she has to label, but when she realises that the list consists of not one page but several, she gives up on it and simply takes the first envelope from the stack by her side. Carefully, she copies down the name and numbers from the first line of her list to the envelope, making sure to use her neatest handwriting, before handing the envelope to her aunt.

She continues like this, copying the information on one envelope after the next before passing them on to Aunt Dora. There's a brief moment of pause when the tea is done and Aunt Dora tells her to pour them both a cup, but they drink it while working, to get as much progress done as quickly as possible.

It's mindless work, yet requires concentration so she won't misspell the names or get the numbers wrong. It also doesn't take long for her hand to start clenching, unused as it is to writing this much since leaving school, but she carries on regardless. She might not want to be here and she might try her best not to think about why she's dependent on Aunt Dora's kindness in the first place, but she recognises that she has to be grateful that her aunt took her in at all. If it was because of this that Aunt Dora fell behind on her work, it's only right and proper that she helps her with it.

Close to an hour passes in silent working, until Aunt Dora comments suddenly, "Your handwriting is truly quite pleasant."

Startled at being spoken to after so long a silence, Rilla raises her head. "Thank you."

"Normally, we'd have one of the clerks do this, but it seems that there was a misunderstanding, and it wasn't done in time," explains Aunt Dora and gestures at the rising stack of labelled and filled envelopes at her side.

"Mr Andrews must be grateful that you're supporting him in this," Rilla remarks while checking the spelling of a name she just copied to the envelope in front of her.

It's an innocuous remark, said without much thought behind it, but when Aunt Dora pauses for a long moment before replying, Rilla turns to look at her. Finally, her aunt states, "My husband is a good man. He has many qualities and talents. Bookkeeping isn't one of them."

She says it stiffly, with a slightly pinched expression on her face, and just by looking at her, Rilla can tell that her comment touched a nerve. She can't tell why, at first, but then she remembers how well Aunt Dora knew the contents of the wage list she couldn't see and observes how at home her aunt looks at the imposing wooden desk, and the truth starts to dawn on her.

Ralph Andrews might carry the title of Manager of the Mine, but Aunt Dora is the one truly managing it.

"Certainly, he must be pleased to have your support," she intones carefully.

There's a brief pause, until Aunt Dora nods slowly. "Indeed," she agrees, her voice thoughtful.

Realising that this, more than ever, is a moment to bite her tongue, Rilla doesn't say anything in return, merely turning back to her desk and picking up the next envelope. After doing a double take to ensure she's not mistaken, she proceeds to write down the name of the unfortunately christened Martin Martins on it.

"It was thanks to Ralph's sister Jane that we moved here." When Aunt Dora speaks again, it's as sudden as all her remarks have been today. "Her husband, Mr Inglis, has a stake in the mine and suggested Ralph as the manager to his business associates. With the family farm going to Ralph's brother Billy, we were grateful for the opportunity to make a life for ourselves, even if it meant leaving Avonlea."

"How long have you lived here?" asks Rilla curiously, feeling encouraged by her aunt's untypical openness.

"Almost twenty years," answers Aunt Dora, sounding like she is surprised by it herself. "Ralphie and Willy were born in Avonlea but have not recollection of it. The younger children never knew another home."

Just like she never knew a home that wasn't Ingleside, Rilla reflects. She feels a distinct pang at the memory of home, though as she only learned last night, she reminds herself, her feelings aren't only caused by herself anymore.

She'd like to ask about it, these strange feelings and the changes she's discovered in her own body, but there was never anyone to talk to. Of course, she also did her best to ignore any and all changes, and is, in fact, doing so even now, but she can't deny that something is happening beyond just the extending of her midriff. She not quite feeling like herself anymore and while it was easy to write off the constant tiredness, the frequent leg cramps and even the occasional nosebleeds to the consequences of travelling and the emotional stress of leaving her home, Daisy's comment last night opened her eyes to the fact that some of it might also be down to her special condition.

Certainly, if Daisy is correct, the strange flutters she's been feeling have their root not simply in an upset stomach.

She's not sure whether Aunt Dora is the person to talk to about all this, and frankly, she'd prefer to ask advice from someone more familiar and less austere, but here in this mining village at the foot of the mountains, there's no more familiar than this strict, unemotional honorary aunt of hers. At the very least, Aunt Dora herself seems more open to talking this morning than she has been before, so if there's one moment to try and broach this most uncomfortable of subjects, Rilla supposes the moment is now.

"Aunt Dora?" she asks tentatively, moving forward before her courage has time to desert her again. "Can – no, may I ask you a question?"

There's a brief moment of silence as Aunt Dora, undoubtedly, tries to gauge the consequences of allowing questions to be asked. For her part, Rilla sits quietly in her chair, her back very straight and her hand clutching the pen tightly. She waits, holding her breath, until – "By all means."

It is, admittedly, not the most welcoming of answers, but with her expectations having become what they are, Rilla latches onto it anyhow. At the very least, she decides, it's no outright denial, so she will take what is on offer.

"Recently, I've felt this… this fluttering," she states, choosing her words carefully. "At first I thought it was just an upset stomach because of the travelling and… everything, but then, last night –" Here, she breaks off, before deciding in a fraction of a second not to mention Daisy. "Last night, I thought… maybe it's because of… you know…" She gestures vaguely towards her midriff, finding herself unable to put the unspeakable into words, still.

"The quickening," replies Aunt Dora, knowingly and quite as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

For Rilla, alas, the word is completely unknown. "Quickening?" she repeats, rolling the syllables over her tongue experimentally.

"It describes the moment when an expectant mother can first feel the movement of the unborn baby," explains Aunt Dora and while her tone of voice is as clipped and prim as usual, she doesn't sound as exasperated as Rilla feared she might.

"So, the fluttering is really… it's really…" Helplessly, Rilla breaks off and looks at her aunt.

"It's the baby moving inside of you," the older woman confirms.

Of course, the information shouldn't come unexpected, because Daisy said as much the night before and it made sense in a way not even Rilla could deny, but to hear it spoken out loud by someone who must know for sure, still knocks the breath out of her. For a young maid like Daisy as well as for herself, it's just theory, but Aunt Dora has five children, almost as many as her mother, so certainly, Aunt Dora must know. In turn, it means there's no denying it anymore if Aunt Dora says so, that there's truly a baby moving and growing inside of her.

"You need to breathe," comes the voice of that same aunt and only when she speaks does Rilla realise that she did, indeed, stop breathing for a moment. She takes a quick gulp of air and then another, before very slowly letting go of the air again as she tries to calm herself.

"Are you telling me you never heard of the quickening before?" Aunt Dora wants to know and while there's a distinct undertone to her voice that Rilla can't place right away, the plainness of the question helps her focus on the situation at hand.

"I don't," she admits. "I'm sorry."

Aunt Dora tsks audibly. "Don't tell me that you have no idea what to expect at all!"

Instinctively, Rilla shrinks a little in her chair, drawing her head lower between her shoulders. "I… I… No. I'm afraid not. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"And you a doctor's daughter," mutters Aunt Dora, a note of disdain in her voice.

When Rilla looks at her aunt briefly, she can see that her mouth is set in a thin line. The disappointment is palpable and upon seeing it, Rilla finds that she is desperate to alleviate it somehow. She's not entirely sure why the opinion of this aunt, who is barely more than a stranger still, is important to her all of a sudden, but important it is, maybe because despite everything, Aunt Dora is still the one person here that she knows best.

"I never had much cause to learn about it," she explains quietly, her voice shaking slightly. "I didn't think it would affect me until I was older and, well… married."

Aunt Dora clucks her tongue in reply. "Of course you have no idea! No girl your age knows anything about this and rightly so. Given your special situation, however, one would think someone had prepared you for what to expect."

Rilla blinks, her thoughts needing a moment to catch up with her aunt's words until she realises that for once, the disappointment isn't directed at herself. Instead, it appears, Aunt Dora means… could it be she means her parents?

Before Rilla can reply one way or another, her aunt sighs wearily and murmurs something too quietly for Rilla to hear. Out loud, she asks, "Which other changes have you observed?"

Having spent months trying her best to ignore any and all changes happening to her body, the question is both unexpected and a little unsettling for Rilla. She senses, instinctively, that once she begins acknowledging what is happening and stops ignoring it any longer, it will all become much realer than it was. She's not sure whether she's up to facing it yet.

Still, she can't let this moment slip past her either, and she knows it, much as it terrifies her.

"I… um… first, I didn't need my special cloths anymore, and I was dizzy and I couldn't eat my breakfast in the morning because I felt sick," she relays as the memories of those first weeks comes back to her. "I don't feel as sick anymore, but I'm more tired and… I've gained weight." She gestures at her abdomen and her bust, where the weight gains are the most noticeable to her. "Recently, my legs have started cramping often and sometimes, my nose bleeds without warning. I don't know, there might be other things as well, but I've been trying to… I don't want to complain."

"An honourable intent, if a foolish one," declares Aunt Dora briskly. "All the symptoms you describe are certainly caused by the delicate situation you find yourself in. I would like to tell you that it gets better, but you can look forward to swelling, back pain, heartburn, soreness and many other uncomfortable symptoms." She presses her lips together briefly. "I never understood the women who claimed to enjoy the state of being with child."

Listening to her, Rilla feels her heart sink. So far, it was the end of her 'delicate situation' that she felt too terrified to face, but from what her aunt says, the upcoming months will already be uncomfortable enough.

Is this punishment, she wonders, for having been bad? And if it is… why did a virtuous woman like Aunt Dora have to suffer through it, too?

A/N: The story and I will be taking a somewhat spontaneous holiday break. Regular posting will resume on June 13th. I hope to see you then!

To Anne Shirley Blythe:
You're very welcome and thank you for taking the time to read my story and review it! I always try to reply to all my readers, because like all writers, I do truly appreciate getting comments on my writing and learning what my readers think. Since your PM feature is disabled (which is perfectly alright, don't get me wrong!), if it's alright with you, I'll just reply to you like this =).
What's been interesting about creating the village that the Andrewses live in, is that in many ways, it's a totally foreign place to Rilla, and yet, the small town aspect of it is something that she's familiar with from home. She will venture outside in the next chapter and encounter more of the inhabitants of her temporary home, and there are definite similarities to Glen, different as this village is in other ways. Certainly, as the newcomer, there's a lot of interest in her and not all of it is kind or harmless.
Aunt Dora did come through with answering at least some of Rilla's questions in this chapter, I think, and gave her more information that might be helpful to her. That doesn't automatically turn her into a kindred spirit, of course, but that doesn't mean this new place is entirely bereft of people who're willing to help Rilla. We saw a little kindness from Daisy in the previous chapter and there are other people as well who will come through for her. A certain isolation is part of her journey right now, but to make it a completely lonely time would have been too depressing, I think.

To Guest:
Yes, Daisy is indeed lovely! We have only seen a glimpse of her so far, but there'll be more Daisy in upcoming chapters, and yes, she will prove herself to be a Kindred Spirit to Rilla. Certainly, she's the one person in this new place who is unwaveringly sympathetic to Rilla and is supportive of her for no other reason than Daisy being a good person.