Chapter 4

Susan holds up Rilla's second-best Sunday dress and contemplates it.

"There is little possibility of you needing your good clothes out west, but we also can't risk a situation when you do need them and don't have anything proper to wear," she ponders.

Rilla stares at the dress, silent. 'The west' sounds very strange and very far away indeed and the thought of her going there is too absurd to fathom.

"I assume they do have churches out there," Susan remarks and briefly looks over at the girl sitting on the bed.

When no response is forthcoming from Rilla, Susan shakes her head slightly. "They must have some place to worship, I suppose," she concludes, still considering the Sunday dress. "Whether they're good, Presbyterian churches though…" She trails off, sighing.

The sigh makes Rilla uncomfortable and she shifts a little on the bed. She doesn't feel as strongly about the differences between Presbyterians and Methodists as Susan does, but she's been going to church on Sunday ever since she can remember and the thought of a place without churches is concerning in the strangeness of it.

Her thoughts having clearly followed a similar path, Susan sighs again. "The west is a lawless, Godless place," she remarks mournfully. Clearly, she considers the first point to be negligible and the second to be utterly unforgivable.

Lowering the dress, she looks over to Rilla and something about the pale, trembling girl makes her relent. "Your aunt lives out west though," she points out valiantly. "Surely, she is a Christian woman."

Rilla blinks, not knowing whether to agree or not. They might call her her aunt, but she has no memory of this Aunt Dora she will now have to live with.

"Yes, indeed. Your Aunt Marilla raised her and while she had an odd way of organising a kitchen, her faith could not be faulted," recalls Susan with increasing surety. "A woman raised by Marilla Cuthbert must be a good Presbyterian."

She barely remembers her Aunt Marilla either, having been so little when she died, so Rilla can neither agree nor disagree with the statement. She nods anyway, in recognition of Susan's attempt to cheer her up.

Thus encouraged, Susan returns the nod with conviction. "For your aunt's sake, we must make sure you won't give anyone cause to find fault with your attire." She puts the second-best Sunday dress on the pile of clothes to be packed.

Reaching out, Rilla runs a finger along the collar of the dress. "I'm not sure if it fits." Her voice is slightly hoarse.

"No, not at the moment, but it will in a few months," declares Susan practically. "In the meantime, I got some of your mother's old clothes from the attic. They've been up there since you were born, but we had them packed up well. They just need a good airing and some mending and they'll be as good as new."

Silently, Rilla strokes over the soft fabric of her second-best Sunday dress. It's not her favourite, but she supposes it must do. At this very moment, everything must do.

Susan looks at her searchingly over a blouse she's folding. "Of course, your mother's old clothes aren't as fashionable anymore as they were, but they will do for the west. We're hardly in a position to afford vanity anyway."

This is said, naturally, for the benefit of a girl whose fondness for pretty clothes was never a secret. Susan apparently expects her to protest, for her inborn vanity to take over, but no protest is forthcoming. Instead, Rilla just nods, being far too exhausted, too stunned, too bewildered by everything happening to care much about what, exactly, Susan is putting into her father's old suitcase.

They spent the better part of the previous hour packing, or rather, Susan did the packing while Rilla watched, unable to do much of anything. The older woman waited for her when she left the library, her father having dismissed her and her mother not having intervened. Clearly, Susan had been informed about the plan beforehand, because she immediately took Rilla upstairs to start packing.

There is, Rilla finds, a small comfort to be had in the practicality of packing a suitcase. She just has to concentrate very hard not to think about why that suitcase needs to be packed and instead focus simply of the act of packing it, and it all becomes just a little bit more bearable. To do and not to think is, sometimes, the easier option and, Rilla reflects absently, it proves to be one advantage of her never having been much of a thinker.

Having folded the blouse, Susan picks up a skirt for perusal.

"We will make sure you're dressed properly," she states with resolve. "No-one will have any cause to think unfavourably of a daughter of Ingleside."

Rilla starts, raising her head. "What about –" She interrupts herself, not finding the words, and instead gestures towards her rounded midriff.

Susan purses her lips. "I'm sure the Doctor has thought of it." It sounds as unconvinced as it sounds unconvincing, but while they are known to disagree about the progress of the war, time and experience taught Susan that one can hardly go wrong when putting their faith in the Doctor.

It is a sentiment that, mere weeks ago, Rilla would have agreed with whole-heartedly, but that was before her father announced her imminent departure to a place and a fate unknown. Now, she doesn't know what to agree with at all anymore.

"He's sending me away," she murmurs. There's not even any accusation in her voice, just pure bewilderment at what is happening to her.

"It's for the best, I'm sure," Susan tries to placate her. "If the Doctor says so, it must be for the best."

"But the west is very far," Rilla protests weakly. "I don't… I can't imagine… I've never left Ingleside."

Susan reaches out and briefly pats her cheek as she walks past the bed. "You spent time in Avonlea, don't you remember? Your siblings and you lived with Miss Cuthbert at Green Gables for several months when your parents were on their European tour."

"I was small. I remember very little," Rilla admits. "And Avonlea isn't so far away."

"Avonlea is still on the Island," agrees Susan. "Whereas the west…" She trails off, shaking her head mournfully.

There's a brief moment of pause, before Rilla ask faintly, "Do you know what it's like, the west?"

"I saw pictures in a magazine once," Susan replies. "There are high mountains and large forests. It is different from the Island, but I thought then that I'm sure it's a pretty sight to see."

"Do you still have the magazine?" There's a sliver of hope within Rilla at the thought of maybe learning more about this strange, far-off place she's being sent to.

"No, of course not." Susan shakes her head curtly. "It wasn't my magazine to begin with. As you know, I don't have time for such frivolities as magazines. It was just something I picked up once by accident and leafed through."

Rilla nods. "Yes, yes." She feels a little disappointed, even while realising that it's irrational. She has bigger problems than a missing magazine and besides, if no miracle happens before tomorrow, she will soon get to see what the west looks like with her very own eyes.

Involuntarily, she shudders at the thought.

"It'll be alright, you'll see," promises Susan as she folds a pair of stockings. "Mrs Andrews will look out for you and before you know it, all this will be nothing but a bad memory."

Somehow, Rilla rather doubts that. All this, it feels too monumental to be forgotten anytime soon, or really, anytime at all.

Sighing, she surveys the pile of clothes that Susan set aside to pack. "Why are you helping me, Susan?" The question escapes her lips before she had chance to decide to even speak it.

Susan turns, looking puzzled. "Of course, I'm helping you. Susan is always there to help, don't you know?"

Rilla shrugs, keeping her eyes averted. "I was… I was bad, wasn't I? To get myself into this… situation… It's not something good girls do."

A long moment passes while Susan continues folding clothes and Rilla waits, increasingly anxious. Finally, the older woman replies, "What is done, is done. We must make the best of it now and if the Doctor decided to send you west, that must be the best. So, I'm helping you pack." She says it calmly, like it's a very obvious thing and there's no reason to question it at all.

Still, Rilla remains uncertain. "But aren't you… disappointed in me? Everyone else is." She takes a deep breath. "Mother and father are."

"The Doctor and Mrs Dr Dear are doing what must be done," Susan states loyally. "They're trying to protect you after you were taken advantage of so cruelly."

Rilla opens her mouth to protest, to tell Susan that she wasn't taken advantage of, that she wasn't forced, that she didn't do anything to stop what was happening – but then finds herself closing her mouth without a word. It's wrong, possibly, to lie by omission, but right at this moment, Susan feels like the only kind soul left in the world, and Rilla can't find it in her to alienate Susan, too. She senses that, if Susan knew the truth, she wouldn't look upon her so kindly, and selfishly, she doesn't want that to happen. Possibly, she isn't strong enough to face the world all on her own.

"You must be grateful to your parents," Susan tells her, her voice not without sympathy. "They're doing what's best for you."

Rilla nods, not having it in herself to protest anymore, but secretly, she's finding it hard to believe Susan's words. Being sent away to a strange, seemingly lawless place doesn't feel like it's the best thing to happen to her, and when she thinks back to her father's stern face and her mother's silence, it seems even less so. How can it be a good thing when it feels so wrong?

She doesn't put voice to her thoughts, however, and indeed tries to push them as far away as possible. It's not so difficult while Susan is there, bustling about the room and talking about this or that, but when night falls and she's alone in her bed, the thoughts come back to haunt her. When she closes her eyes, she again sees the disappointment in her father's expressions and the stricken expression on her mother's face, and if that wasn't already enough to give rise to despair, the thought about leaving home would do it all on its own.

Thus, it's hours before she has cried herself to an uneasy sleep and when Susan comes to wake her the next morning, she is tired and pale, her eyes puffy both from lack of sleep and too many tears. Still, she puts on a brave face when getting out of bed, silently grateful that Susan doesn't remark on her appearance.

Rilla gets dressed with care, knowing that she must look the part on this particular day, and also, foolishly, trying to draw out the time until her leaving. There's a train meant to take her away, she knows, and she's in no hurry to meet it. Therefore, she takes her time getting dressed and when she's done, she remains standing in the middle of the room, taking it all in.

It's not a remarkable room, she knows. There are larger ones in Ingleside and while the furniture is practical, it's not fancy or ornate. Still, it is her room and it was an odd combination of prison and sanctuary to her as of late. She's not entirely sure whether she's sorry to leave it, but she's certain that she's terrified.

Still, the knock on the door comes all to soon and while she expects Susan, it's her father's voice calling for her to hurry up and come downstairs.

At first, predictably, her instinct is to hide, to curl up in her bed and close her eyes and hope that somehow, it will all blow past after all. Even as the impulse registers though, she knows that it's as silly as it's futile and that hiding won't accomplish anything. There's no place to run to either, so she's left with no option but to go down and face whatever lies ahead.

Her pride, therefore, is all she has to cling to, and cling to it she does. She throws back her head and straightens her shoulders, because no matter how awful she feels, it's her own choice whether to let it show or not. It seems it's the only thing left that she can still decide on her own.

Downstairs, her parents and her aunt are waiting for her, as is the old suitcase that Susan packed the day before. Susan herself is nowhere to be seen, but the distinct sounds coming from the kitchen are proof of her presence in the background.

As she walks down the stairs, Rilla surveys the three adults waiting for her down in the hall. They're all bundled up in coats already and in her father's hand, she spies one clearly meant for her. It's not one of her own, she thinks, but she's not entirely sure whether her coat would close properly anymore. This other, larger coat will hide the evidence of her transgression because clearly, no-one in Glen St. Mary may ever know about it.

"Good morning," her father greets her calmly.

His face is set in the grim expression of someone resolved to do what needs to be done, unpleasant as it is. Behind him, her mother doesn't appear like she slept anymore than Rilla herself did, her face pale and her eye rimmed by darkness. Only Aunt Dora looks calm and well-rested, almost detachedly so, like whatever is going on in front of her eyes hardly affects her at all.

"Good morning," Rilla echoes, fleeing into formality in light of this most unfamiliar of situations.

She reaches the foot of the stairs and accepts the coat her father holds out to her. It is, indeed, too big for her, but it hides her body whole from prying and curious eyes, so she suspects it will do.

"Are you," she swallows awkwardly, "are you going to come with me to… to the station?"

"We are," confirms her mother. As if following an impulse, she reaches out to straighten the lapels of Rilla's coat, but catches herself just in time and pulls her hand back again.

"Our story is that you're accompanying your aunt to support her in the absence of her husband," her father iterates. "Naturally, your mother and I wouldn't let a daughter of ours leave without saying goodbye, so we must be seen to send you off. Otherwise, people would talk and we can't allow that."

No, of course not, Rilla thinks almost mutinously, because surely, the absolute worst would happen if people talked.

She doesn't say that, naturally. Catching herself in time, she doesn't even really allow herself to think it, but she can't deny that it makes her feel a little more like herself. She's not a bad girl, she doesn't think she is, but it also isn't in her nature to cower, so the little spark surging through her, if only for a moment, gives her a measure of strength, enough so to propel her out of the door.

She doesn't look back upon leaving Ingleside behind. In fact, she very firmly looks forward, not turning around as she walks down the steps of the veranda and making sure not to turn even when entering her father's carriage that is waiting for them. She holds her chin high and looks straight ahead during the entire short drive to the station, taking care not to meet anyone's gaze.

"You're taking the train to Port Borden," her father explains to her matter-of-factly as he navigates the carriage along the main street of Glen. "From there, you will take the ferry to Cape Tormentine on the mainland, and then the train west. It will be a journey of several days to reach the province of Alberta."

Alberta.

Rilla considers the name. It's the first indicator of where she's going except for 'out west' and while the has no real understanding of the province of Alberta either, at least it's something. It doesn't sound like too bad a place, with a name like that, she thinks – she hopes.

Still, she'd rather not leave at all and thus, when her father stops the carriage at the train station, she feels her throat constrict and her stomach flip uncomfortably. This, she supposes, is that.

Stiffly, she climbs from the carriage, her inherent stubbornness making her refuse to see the helping hand offered by her father. She does let him take the suitcase that Susan packed the previous night, because while she might not be particularly clever, she knows that appearances must be upheld and while a hand can be overlooked, her lugging a suitcase around would certainly set tongues wagging.

Therefore, she simply follows her father who is carrying her suitcase in one hand and her aunt's bag in the other. Said aunt is walking behind her, she knows, her mother by her side. No-one is speaking a word.

In fact, the only creature who appears to be even halfway happy about their presence at the train station is Dog Monday, who trots from his kennel upon hearing them. Sniffing Gilbert's shoes briefly, he carries on towards Rilla and sits down, looking up at her expectantly.

"Hello, Monday," she greets him, crouching down to scratch his left ear.

'Hello, Jem's sister,' he seems to reply. 'Are you here to leave in the smoking, snorting monster like Jem did?"

"Yes, I'm leaving, Monday," Rilla answers, moving her hand to scratch the other ear.

'Are you going where Jem went?' Monday queries further. 'Can you tell him to come back?'

"I'm sorry," Rilla apologises. "I'm going somewhere else."

Monday licks her hand in consolation. 'No matter. If you do happen to see Jem, tell him I'm waiting until he comes back.'

"Of course," Rilla promises.

'Thank you.' Monday inclines his head slightly. 'If you can, come back as well, please.'

Leaning forward, Rilla drops a kiss between his faithful eyes, before briefly burrowing her face in his fur. "If I can, I will," she whispers.

Her eyes suddenly sting and she gets up abruptly, turning away so neither dog nor people can see her. Monday briefly nudges her hand with his nose in goodbye, before trotting back to his kennel. He lies down with a soft sigh and places his muzzle on his paws, ready to resume his long wait. His one upright ear remains pricked and his eyes are fixed on a spot in the distance.

Following Monday's gaze, Rilla sees, not far away, an oncoming train, hooting twice to signal its entry into the station and her own imminent departure.

With a final look at the faithful little dog, she moves to walk closer to the edge of the platform, when she suddenly feels a hand on her arm. Turning quickly, she finds herself face to face with her mother.

There's a loaded moment of silence and Rilla thinks her mother might say something, but while part of her is morbidly curious to hear what there could be left to say, a bigger part decides that the chance for words is past.

"My train is here," she therefore announces loudly and as cheerfully as she can manage. "I better go."

Slipping her arm out from under her mother's hand, she walks towards the train now stopped beside the platform. From the corner of her eye, she sees the stationmaster pick up her suitcase and hurry to bring it on the train for her. Following behind her, she assumes, is Aunt Dora with her much smaller bag, but she doesn't turn around to check.

If she's being sent away in shame, the least she can do is go with her head held high.

To Guest No.1:
I also had to think of that cake incident often while plotting this story. It's such a Rilla thing to do and yet, as you point out, what a small thing to have happened compared to the situation she's in right now!
I'm pleased you agree with my choice of Dora as the person to sent Rilla to =). I also considered having her go to Vancouver to live with Stella Maynard, but felt Dora was a better choice because she's the closest thing to family they have, and people liked keeping things like this in the family. Also, Dora is such an interesting character for me as a writer to involve into this, because she's not openly demonstrative and also puts a lot of importance to society's expectations, so while she's willing to help Anne and Gilbert, there's not a chance of her approving of Rilla's situation.
Canon Rilla really is very innocent and naive, especially at the beginning of the book. Caring for Jims and losing Walter are two events that cause her to mature, but since neither event has happened in my story (yet), she's still very innocent and mostly untouched by the bad things happening to the world. There's the war, of course, but it's far away and she hasn't truly been touched by it personally yet, so while it has made her grown up somewhat, she's still mostly a child in many ways.
Anne and Gilbert certainly have difficult decisions to make and I think that at this point, no decision they could have made would have been perfect. Sending Rilla to live with Dora is an attempt to keep things under wraps and to protect Rilla's reputation and the family's reputation both. Is it hypocritical of them? Perhaps so. Rilla would probably think so, if she knew more about her parents' engagement, since she sees their decision as punishment, but to Anne and Gilbert, it's an attempt to limit the fallout of a situation they can't fully control anymore. I'm not saying they're right in what they're doing and there will certainly be consequences to this decision, but they're coming from a place where they think that sending Rilla with Dora is for the best - even if Rilla herself isn't able to see it at this point.
Unfortunately, 'A part of you belongs to me', the story I mentioned that feature a big dose of Shirley, only exists in German as of yet. I'm German and it took a while for me to be comfortable writing in English, hence why my earlier stories are all in German. I keep meaning to translate 'Apoy' and life keeps getting in the way, but... someday. Someday, I'll get around to it!

To Guest No.2:
I must admit that I don't know when sex ed was implemented in schools in Canada, but with a tiny village school like in Glen, where pupils of different ages were likely still taught together, I could imagine that they where reluctant to broach such a controversial subject (as it certainly was then) with children. Rilla left school before she turned 15, too, so would probably have been considered to be too young to be made aware that such a thing as sex even existed. I agree that if someone had sat her down and told her about the birds and bees, she likely wouldn't be in the predicament she's in now, but it's a conservative place she lives in and besides... if someone had sat her down, I wouldn't have a story, so I'm ultimately quite glad that no-one did ;).

To Guest No.3:
No, consequences can be a really annoying thing - as Rilla is currently learning the hard way. I really think that this truly is news to her, because she never really had to face up to the consequences of her actions before. She's largely portrayed to be a good and well-behaved child, who, while vain and frivolous, generally toed the line, so I don't think she ever experienced many consequences to what she did. In canon, she's first confronted with that fact when she brings Jims home in that soup tureen, but since that never happened in my story, her pregnancy might well be the first time she's having to deal with consequences at all. She has a steep learning curve ahead of her for sure, in this as in other matters.

To Guest No.4:
Indeed, no mention of letters from Ken, or anyone besides her siblings, though Rilla does make some veiled remarks about other men who've gone to war, without going into detail about who that could be. The Meredith boys are a possibility, but there might be others, too, that Rilla doesn't even want to think about too much at this point. We've seen how she's skirting around the issue of her child's father and how firmly she's stuck in her phase of denial, so it's possible that he is writing to her and she just doesn't want to acknowledge it. Though you're absolutely right that if he isn't even writing, it's even more of an idiot move after he's already shown himself to be... well, "problematic", to put it kindly.