14

She would be the last to show up in this story, and with a scrubbing board too. Una Meredith, the short, solemn one in a family of gigantic personalities; the dutiful saint, the good girl.

"Hello Ken."

Una looked up at him briefly as manners required. Saw the scar that the neighbourhood was talking about obscured within a two-day beard; the open collar, the bare feet, the lazy smile - yes, he was exactly how she remembered him being.

"Are you looking for Rilla?" Ken asked.

"No - that is, I believe I've found her. The cart," she explained.

Una pointed out to the road where it stood under the looming lombardies, her little brother patting the horse.

Ken followed her hand. "Is that Bruce? He's grown a lot."

The boy returned the wave Ken sent him before racing up to join them on the porch.

"You're a Captain," he said, sizing him up. "Jem was made a Captain too."

"Only Jem did it the hard way," Ken said, squatting down. "He had to rise through all the ranks. I was already a Lieutenant when I joined up."

Una frowned at this. Bruce nodded like a Sphinx who was surprised if not entirely pleased that this mortal had worked out a riddle.

"Can I give the horse one of my plums?" he said to Una.

"That's for your lunch," she said.

"I have food," said Ken. He stood up again and leaned an arm on the front door. "Rilla brought a whole box."

"Thanks, but no. We didn't come here to dine; we came here to work." Una clutched the washboard to her chest as if to underline her point. "If you would be so kind as to show me the way to your linen closet, I'll get started on your towels."

Her determined expression told Ken at once that he had better not try and talk her around. Dithering on his doorstep would only take up more of her time.

Bruce went back to the horse; Una ducked under Ken's arm and entered the little house. It was a simple three up-three down as she recalled, with a kitchen at the back and the wash house around the side.

Ken gestured to the armoire squashed next to a very dusty piano, and then jogged up the stairs. It wasn't until he reached the sixth step that it occurred to him how odd it was that Rilla had not come down. Una was a good chum of Rilla's and had turned up to do the work that Rilla planned to do herself.

He pictured Rilla with each proceeding step he took, her face flushed with exquisite embarrassment as she tried to erase any proof of impropriety and shared a secret laugh with him on the landing. Lucky it was only ol' Una, she would never tell! And then a quick kiss before she got on with the scrubbing and he got on with his report.

But no, Rilla was sitting cross legged on his bed. Not crying, nothing so obvious and melodramatic as that. Her pale, oval face was quite set, like someone who has come to a few conclusions herself.

"I see now," she said firmly, when he walked through the bedroom door, "that you're not convinced I'm ready, and I know that it's my fault."

"What – no." Ken sat on the bed and took her hand which was cold and still.

"Please don't try and make me feel better, it's up to me to fix this and I must work out how to do it myself."

Ken tried to squeeze some life into her hand, and when that didn't work, he offered some empty, predictable consolation about her having nothing to prove. If he had only said he loved her it might have made everything better. Instead, he made it worse.

"Let's talk about this later. Una Meredith is here with Bruce."

"Perfect," said Rilla, though she was anything but, having forgotten in her haste to go to the Manse that morning and tell Una not to come. She wrenched her hand from Ken's and left the bed. "Please tell them – tell them I was called away, I'm not in the mood to do your laundry right now. Oh, and they'll have to find their own way home because Jem is expecting the cart."

And there she was, the Rilla of old. Pouting, cross and indignant. Ken remembered how to do this now because she was the girl he remembered.

A sound came out of his throat like something between a laugh and a huff. "No," he said, "I'm not going to do that." He crossed his arms to show he meant business.

"Fine," said Rilla, she started making the bed in the mechanical way women do when they pretend that nothing is the matter.

Ken watched her, waiting to see how long she could keep up the pretence; if she would place those brutally plumped up pillows against the bedhead or throw them at his head.

Rilla was waiting too, for Ken to leave the room, how could he just stand there? There was nothing left to do now. The quilt was folded down and the ugly embroidered cushion was carefully balanced on a corner between the two pillows while Ken stood between her and the door. Still watching.

"Nice job," he said, the laugh was even more obvious. "Now let's go down and give Una a hand."

"You can't order me about, you're not the Captain of me."

"Oh yes, I am, and I will. Your chum is down there doing my laundry. You can sulk all you like, Rill, but you're not taking our quarrel out on her."

"This is not a quarrel, you've been beastly to me, Ken Ford."

"And no doubt I'll be beastly again. I never said I'd make a perfect husband, but I hope you think I'm worth a shot because I don't know who I'd be without you."

Ah, that had done it. Rilla's frown gave way to wide-eyed wonder; her mouth fell open and she took in a breath. This was the look Ken expected when he knocked on her door. God in heaven, she was gorgeous.

"Do you mean you…"

"I do," he said.

"And did you just say what I think…"

"I did."

"Oh Kenneth!"

Rilla flew into his arms, and there was no awkwardness this time. No tumbling over the crate and Willoughby rushing in and the romantic reunion muddled up with introductions and explanations. No pressure on Ken to make their kisses prove anything except the pleasure they took in each other. No fear on Rilla's part that she had no idea what she was doing.

This was solid, reassuring and very real, based on the foundations of their past. And they finally believed they could build from there. So what if the first attempt was shaky, so long as they kept faith and kept trying. Wasn't that what Walter's poem was all about?

...