oh look i'm back again with my oldest hobby, reading a book and latching onto a pairing that the author in no way intended to happen. it's a rilla/carl fic! when i first read rilla of ingleside, i read that passage about rilla and carl being childhood best friends and immediately thought they should've gotten together instead of rilla and ken. lol at me. "best friends who vow not to marry" just sings to the part of me that loves rom-coms, and i always liked that their friendship hinted at a side of rilla that's totally different from the vain, frivolous person we see in rainbow valley and the start of rilla. (she's not afraid of any of his bugs!)

anyway i needed something to bounce my brain off of while working on other fics and finally got this (kind of) into shape. so here we go :D

fic title and this chapter title are both from "a world alone" by lorde.

one: all the double-edged people and schemes

So Ken was home—and he had not even written her that he was coming. He had been in Canada two weeks and she had not had a line from him. Of course he had forgotten—if there was ever anything to forget—a handclasp—a kiss—a look—a promise asked under the influence of a passing emotion. It was all absurd—she had been a silly, romantic, inexperienced goose. Well, she would be wiser in the future—very wise—and very discreet—and very contemptuous of men and their ways.

Word from Ken comes, eventually, and Rilla wishes it hadn't.

Dear Rilla, it starts, not Rilla-my-Rilla, and that is how she knows.

There had been a raid, he writes, and he'd been wounded. They sent him to a hospital in England to recover. At the hospital, there was a nurse…

Rilla reads it once, her skin cold all over. It can't be true. Then she forces herself to read it again, because maybe she was wrong. But the words are the same, every time: It's not fair to you, Rilla, and I know I've gone about this horribly. I can only beg your forgiveness. I only tell you this now, in a letter, because it wouldn't be fair to let you waste any more time on me…

Rilla's laugh is almost hysterical when she reads that. Is that what all those years that she spent waiting, praying, were? A waste? How long had it taken him to forget their promise after he'd arrived in France? A week, a month?

So he is married now, he writes, and he doesn't wish for her to hear the news from anyone else. How very kind, Rilla thinks — but the bite in the thought is gone as soon as it's come, smothered by shame. Oh, why, why hadn't she been more — more coy, less starry-eyed? When he asked her to promise not to kiss anyone else, why hadn't she extracted a similar promise from him?

The letter is postmarked from Toronto. So he is home — home with his new war-bride. She must have met Uncle Owen and Aunt Leslie. Do they like her? Do they know that Ken had once said pretty words to another girl, that that girl had been Rilla?

How did they fall in love? Did it all mean nothing to Ken and never did, or did he stop caring somehow, Rilla slipping from his mind and affections like so many grains of sand? She's not sure which is worse.

She knows she shouldn't think of it, but she does anyway: pictures Ken in the hospital, laid up, lonely. Pictures a nurse, who's taken on the look of a girl from a film, holding his hand, seeing his scars, listening to all the things he'll never tell Rilla. He'd written once, It's ghastly business here, but that's why I fight — so it will never touch the shores of Canada, all you sweet girls. A line from one of Shirley's recent letters comes back to her, too, unbidden: It's hard to explain if you aren't here yourself.

For a wild moment, Rilla wonders if she should not have gone overseas, too, like Faith. Everyone said they were doing their part staying home, supporting their boys, keeping faith — but what if that wasn't what the men wanted or needed, after all? How unfair it is, to have only done what everyone told her was right.

She throws the letter down, then thinks better of it and picks it back up, folding it neatly and putting it back in its envelope. She won't act like the child that Ken so clearly thinks she still is — not that it matters; he's in Toronto; maybe she'll never have to see him again…

Or — oh, no. He's married now. He'll have to bring his bride to meet his people, won't he? And they'll stay in the House of Dreams. All of Mother's stories about how romantic the little house is, how perfectly it set the scene for Uncle Owen and Aunt Leslie's romance and Mother's own days as a young bride…they all seem faintly sickening now.

She leans her elbows on her window, her head in her hands. The sun is setting in Rainbow Valley, the first few green leaves clinging to the trees, young vines twining around each other. The world is still turning, growing back tentative and new after the war.

The house is silent. For a moment Rilla thinks perhaps she hears a footstep on the front porch, and she waits to hear the doorbell ring — but it must be her imagination, for nothing comes.

Mother learns of the news first. She raps gently on Rilla's door a few evenings later, then enters with a letter in her hand.

"Dearest," she whispers, "I just received this letter from Leslie Ford…about Kenneth and his little war bride?"

Rilla swallows. She nods.

Mother is next to her in an instant, enveloping Rilla in a hug, surrounding her with the powdery, floral smell that always makes Rilla feel like a child, safe in her mother's arms. Rilla leans her head on Mother's shoulder. A few tears slip out, then more, then more.

She only meant to have a little cry, but Mother is so comforting, her hand making warm circles on Rilla's back. The tears keep coming, all the hurt and humiliation and grief, yes — she shouldn't miss him, she knows, how faithless he has shown himself to be — but oh, how beautiful it was at the time. She can't forget the way he'd brushed her cheek, the look on his face when he'd told her You are the sweetest thing. She'd never been able to talk to another boy as she had him — she'd written to him about her thoughts, her dreams, things she'd never told another. And no one had ever spoken to her as he did, the things he'd said…

She thought he'd cared. Some part of her only wants it all back, would do anything to have him care again, undignified as it is.

"You did nothing wrong," Mother is murmuring. "It was shameful of him to ask you to keep your lips for him and not keep that promise himself. I've half a mind to tell Leslie — "

"No, don't," Rilla says. "It won't make anything better."

"That boy," Mother says with a sigh. "He always was too handsome for his own good. My poor baby — the first heartbreak is never easy," she adds, stroking Rilla's hair.

A laugh nearly rises to Rilla's lips as she leans against Mother's shoulder. Is this her first heartbreak? Was that not when she lost Walter, her brother lying in an anonymous field in France? Was it not when she lost Jims, the child she had raised from infancy? And what does Mother know of heartbreak, anyway — she met Father in the schoolroom!

That is the thought that stops her tears. Is she, Rilla, the first person in this family to be jilted? She won't let them pity her — not Mother and Father, not Jem who had only ever kissed one girl before Faith (and Mary Vance, at that!), not Nan who has only ever loved and been loved by Jerry. She won't let them look at her as though she is some pathetic, unworldly creature, led on by a handsome older man. They don't know a thing!

"I'll be alright," she says, straightening. "I only need a little time to — get used to it."

"Would you like me to break the news?" Mother asks. "Your father doesn't know you were engaged, but he knew Ken was writing to you. As do Susan and Mrs. Elliott."

Oh! What Miss Cornelia will say!

"If you would," Rilla murmurs. "I just…I can't…"

"I know," Mother says soothingly. "I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of a speech about the nature of men from her right now, either."

Rilla smiles at that, and Mother kisses her on the forehead before she leaves.

She won't let anyone pity her. But that does not mean, when Mother closes the door behind her, that Rilla doesn't fold into herself and let the tears fall again.

"I suppose I'd better go with Una," Rilla says, "and take up Household Science too."

It's only her, Jem, Mother, Father, and Susan at the table tonight. Nan and Di are at their respective schools and Shirley is not home yet. Only Jem is here, where he's assisting Father until he can go back to Redmond in the fall.

Mother smiles encouragingly. "I think that's an excellent idea."

"Agreed," Father says. "It's a good course, Household Science. Nutrition — chemistry — economics. You'll be able to give Susan here a rest when you come back during breaks," he adds with a grin, thoroughly enjoying Susan's protestations that she would never let any of these blessed children do work that she is perfectly capable of doing herself.

Rilla waits for Jem to tease her, but he just smiles and nods. He still jokes, sometimes, but he doesn't jump to make fun as often as he used to. Rilla is trying to get used to it, tells herself that of course Jem is not as they remember him five years ago. Even if it weren't for the war, he is turning twenty-six this year — an age more somber and serious than twenty-one, where one might be married and have a career and perhaps children. And Jem probably would have all those things, wouldn't he, if not for the war? How strange to think of it.

"Then I guess we'll all be going in the fall" is all Jem says. "Rilla, myself, Shirley…Nan and Di?"

"They graduated last year," Rilla points out.

"Ah, right."

Rilla doesn't know if it's a comfort or not that Jem seems to forget time has moved on here, too, just as they often forget that he is no longer a laughing youth. He talks of Nan and Di as though they're still in their first year at Redmond or refers to several since-married girls by their maiden names. Although it's just as funny, she supposes, that he never forgets that Shirley is no longer a boy of sixteen at Queen's. Perhaps it's easier for him because Shirley was over there, too.

Most of the time it's amusing, but sometimes — when he starts to say things like, Walter would, and then stops — those times are not nearly so.

"It's only a pity all the girls have already graduated," Jem says. "Nan and Di wrote that they'd been sharing a nice place with Faith ever since they were Sophs, but now you'll have to find somewhere to board all over again."

The discussion devolves into everyone at the table debating where Rilla ought to stay and what the boarding costs would be and, in fact, whether it's a good idea for Rilla to find a place of her own to board at all, being so young…

Rilla presses her lips together and tries not to roll her eyes. Across the table, Mother catches her eye and gives her a sympathetic smile.

"I think I'll run over to the manse to look over the bulletin with Una and Carl," Rilla says, rising from the table. "Do let me know if you figure out my living arrangements by then."

Jem chuckles. "Just looking out for you, Rilla."

Not Spider, Rilla notices. Impulsively, she leans over to squeeze her brother's hand before heading off to the manse.

Her plan for a new, if not somewhat lonely, future in place, Rilla walks over to the manse with the Redmond bulletin and application tucked under her arm. The air is damp and clean from the recent rain, the paths through Rainbow Valley soft under her boots.

The flu had come to the manse in the winter, and it had been a hard time for the Glen — fear that they might lose the Reverend and Mrs. Meredith, that something might happen to quiet, sweet Una, and Bruce, who was still so young. Morbidly, it reminded Rilla of the time Carl had gotten pneumonia when they were children.

But this time, Carl was the only one who had been spared — he'd been away and had to stay over-harbor until the flu passed. Mother said she wished they could've taken him in at Ingleside, but they were under quarantine themselves, what with Father attending patients day in and day out.

Carl opens to the door to her, and Rilla wishes the sight of his eyepatch didn't still give her a shock. She hasn't seen much of Carl, although he's been back since Christmas and it's now early spring. He'd been over-harbor while the manse was sick, of course, and then Rilla had heard he'd taken a trip or two to visit old friends and some of the extended Meredith clan in Maywater…

But clearly he's returned. "Marilla," he says, with mock formality, just as he did when they were children.

"Good to see you, Carlyle," she says, trying to smother her smile.

He breaks into a smile, too, and steps back to let her in. "Una's here," he says. "If you were wanting to speak with her."

"This call is for both of you, really." She taps the papers under her arm. "Have you sent your application off to Redmond yet?"

"Not yet."

"Shall we work on it together? I have no idea what they mean by 'Are you in good health?'. Do you think we're allowed to lie?"

Carl chuckles, his gaze flicking over her. "I think as long as you don't have the flu, they'll be happy to take you."

Rilla sighs. The world doesn't feel at all as though it's being righted after the war — sometimes it feels like everything has only gotten ever more difficult. The flu, their boys returning home so changed, the fact that prices soared during the war and are showing no sign of coming down…

But she knows it's hardly news that everyone is struggling, and it won't put anyone in a better mood thinking about it, so she bites the complaint back. "Well, that's good," she says. "I was afraid I was too much of a dunce to get in."

"Never," Carl says, giving her shoulder a little bump as they go to find Una.

Something wistful tugs at Rilla, as though she's missing him — which is so very odd, since he is right in front of her. It's only…she'd nearly forgotten how good it is to be around Carl, how easy his presence is. She's glad he's back. She's glad they'll be going to Redmond together.

Carl fetches Una from upstairs, and she gives Rilla a small smile as she comes into the hallway. She's horribly thin, even thinner than she was before she'd gotten sick. Mother and Susan and Miss Cornelia cluck their tongues every time they see her, but no one thinks about Una Meredith's health much further than that. Una prefers it that way, Rilla knows, though she wishes Una would let them make more of a fuss over her.

Una has already sent her application off, of course, and she volunteers to make tea and bring out some biscuits while Rilla and Carl fill theirs out. She's off to the kitchen before either of them can tell her to sit down.

"Is Una recovering well?" Rilla asks idly, penciling her name in at the top of her paper. Father's already told them that Una is improving with impressive speed — "Stronger than she looks, that girl" — as long as she takes the summer to rest. Rilla supposes Una will be perfectly well rested in body come September, if not in spirit. Perhaps it's only because she knows, but it seems to Rilla that everything about Una is slower, quieter. She never stays late at Ingleside or at church; she's even less talkative than she was before, even among their friends.

"Your father says…she's doing fine," Carl says slowly. Then, suddenly, he leans over, his voice low. "Well — actually — that's what I was thinking of asking you. Does Una seem well to you?"

Rilla's pencil skids to a stop, leaving an unattractive tail at the end of Bertha. She hadn't been expecting Carl to notice such a thing. Carl is good, Carl is kind, but he's never been overly sensitive to silent glances and intimations unsaid — Rilla knows this from the many times she tried not to "speak" to him as a child.

"My father says she should be fine," she repeats, mumbling as she tries to focus on her paper. "As long as she rests this summer."

Carl frowns, tapping his pencil against the paper. "She just seems…different. She sounded the same as ever in her letters, but seeing her again…I don't know. She hardly ever talks about anything. She feels very far away from us — even from Dad and Rosemary."

Rilla tries to smile at him. "Well, I imagine it's a shock, after you were away for so long. None of us are probably as you remember."

"Not you," Carl says. "You're just as I pictured you, every time I read your letters. In a good way," he adds, when Rilla raises her pencil like she's going to throw it.

For a moment, Rilla wants to ask what he means — in a good way? Does he mean that her letters were mature, womanly, and she is, too? Or does he mean that she's the same Rilla he remembers from years ago, silly and vain?

She shakes her head, uncomfortably aware that she only wants to know these things because there's a sudden sort of gaping need for assurance within her, and oh, how small and pathetic it makes her feel. She won't fish for compliments from Carl, nor from anyone — she must retain a little bit of dignity, at least. She turns her thoughts back to Una instead.

"The war was hard for her," Rilla finally says, quietly. "I don't mean — not that it was so very hard for us, at home — not like being over there — only that she was doing so much, helping so many people who were without their husbands and sons…"

It's not untrue, and she's relieved when Carl nods. "We'll have to distract her this summer," he says, glancing at the kitchen doorway. "Make sure she gets some rest."

Una returns then, rather precariously balancing a tray loaded down with tea and as many biscuits as were in the manse pantry — although they'll be somewhat bland, Rilla knows, the town still suffering from a lack of sugar and butter.

Carl jumps up to help her, but Una deftly weaves around him and settles the tray down. "Don't trouble yourself," she says. "It's fine."

Carl raises an eyebrow at her — slightly disconcertingly, as the eyebrow he's always been able to raise is above his eyepatch now. "I'm not an invalid, you know."

Una gives him a look, and Carl looks back, and Rilla busies herself writing down her age and intended course of study. She's seen Carl argue with Jerry and heard him complain about Faith, but he's never been so much as curt with Una. The Merediths always seemed to get along so easily — not like the way Rilla's siblings, apart from Walter, all teased the life out of her when she was young. It's rather unsettling to be in the middle of their taut silence.

Name of high school? She has to leave that blank, unfortunately, and sit the entrance exam before the term starts. Mother will be thrilled to put her through a course of reading to prepare. Rilla's sure that she and Father won't hear of Rilla only taking a few classes — if she is going to college, she'll have to do it properly and graduate with a B.A. like the rest of her family. Rilla smothers a sigh. Well, the way things are going, she and Una might as well get their proper degrees and become the spinster matrons of an orphanage together, or something equally horrid.

"Are you nervous about going?" she asks, trying to distract Carl and Una, who are still quiet, tension strung between them.

"Oh…a little," Una says. "It will all be so new — and I haven't sat an exam in years — but Jem says it's not as bad as all that. And I suppose it's exciting, too, to learn — and do good work —" She breaks off, ducking her head the way she does when she thinks she's said too much.

"Carl?"

Carl shrugs a shoulder. "Not really. It'll be a good change of pace. I'll be glad to be back in Kingsport, start my studies again…start moving on with everything."

Moving on. Rilla nods. If Carl is ready to get on with everything — if he and Jem and Jerry can go back to college and make something of themselves, after all they must have seen — then Rilla can do it, too. She has to.

notes n fun facts:

- obviously it varied by school, but "household science" (or home economics, or domestic science) was generally a full department, that offered a four year course and awarded graduates with a bachelor's degree at the end. again depending on the school, it seems like the entry requirements were a little more lax than other courses of study, but students usually still had to apply and sit an entrance exam or provide a diploma of some kind.