have been hacking away at this chapter since the summer and was hoping to get it posted around the same time as canadian skating nationals because i thought it would be funny, but clearly that didn't happen! someone write an AU where the blythe/meredith boys are incredibly tall and inconsistent figure skaters.
title from "say yes to heaven" by lana del rey.
in the storm
march 1921
The train rumbles steadily around them as they pass through Quebec, the sun beginning to set on this leg of the journey. They set off from Toronto early this morning, Walter and Una and Rilla and Ken, on their way back to PEI for Faith and Jem's wedding.
The compartment is quiet; just Rilla and Una inside. Walter and Ken have gone off to the lounge car to smoke, although they'll be back soon enough — Walter can only make it through two or three cigarettes before he starts feeling unwell. Ken can smoke like a chimney, but he's kind enough to stop when Walter does, at least when it's just the four of them.
Una doesn't mind Rilla's husband, although she still doesn't feel as though she knows him very well. Ken barely spoke to her when they were children — Walter told her later that Ken thought he was likely to make Una cry somehow, with his jokes and pranks, and he didn't want Jem and Jerry to thrash him. He still doesn't speak much to her beyond pleasantries, but he's quite nice, rather quiet around her and Rilla, as though he's lost in thought — although Walter says he wasn't much like that before the war, either.
Inside the basket on Una's lap, Pearl meows. One of the church ladies' cats had had kittens this past winter, and Una immediately agreed to take one when offered. She and Walter both grew up with animals, and their house had been wanting one too, she'd realized. Walter had given the naming of the white kitten to Una, and she'd promptly settled on Pearl. She'd liked the name ever since she once read it in a novel, but it didn't seem quite Christian enough for a human child. A baby is a much more serious thing to name — that has been on her mind, too.
Una shifts the basket away from herself slightly, leaving some space. It's early yet — she thinks she can see a slight curve to her belly when she undresses, but perhaps she only wants to see one. She and Walter had a long, excited talk about names the night that they'd first realized they were to have a child, but they haven't actually, properly settled on any yet. Walter had rattled off favorite poets and writers, before conceding that they'd likely have to name the child after one of their relatives — but there are already two Annes in the family; Walter assumed Jem would likely stake his claim to Gilbert; Una supposed they ought to leave John to Jerry and Nan. Faith? She wonders if a daughter would feel overshadowed by her brave, beautiful namesake. Cecilia? Would it be selfish to take her mother's name, too, when Una already has her dress, already was the last of her siblings to see her alive?
Rilla and Ken know — Rilla was naturally the first person Una had told of her suspicions, and, well, Una didn't tell Ken, but she assumes Rilla or Walter likely did. The only other person who knows is Alma Scott, a girl columnist who works with Walter. She came across Una swaying with nausea at a party and had thankfully ushered her to privacy before Una disgraced herself in front of Toronto's literary scene.
Rilla is across from Una, reading Canadian Woman and nudging Una whenever she comes across something of interest. She looks young and pretty, as Rilla always has — she's started waving her hair in the new style and folding it under to look like a bob, though she says she certainly doesn't plan to cut it all off, at least not yet. Una, for her part, can't even contemplate such a thing — she's always thought her hair was one of her better features, and Walter likes it, too, judging by his fondness for unpinning it whenever he gets a chance.
Una idly scratches Pearl behind the ears, wondering if the cat will take to the baby. She wants to utter the thought aloud, but Rilla's presence gives her pause. Rilla has been lovely, had hugged Una and whispered that she was so very happy for her, but — Una wonders, still. Rilla has a tendency to go quiet around babies and small children, wistful in a way that Una recognizes and…oh, Una doesn't know what to do, she has never been the one who has something that another person wants. So she has tried not to speak of it too much — and in truth, she is a little afraid, afraid that being too joyful will make it all go wrong.
It will do them all good to be in the Glen again, she hopes, together with their families. Perhaps it will make things easier. They haven't seen — truly seen — each other in so long. Goodness, Father had sent along a photo of Bruce with his last letter, and he'd looked so gangly and adolescent in a football kit, not at all the chubby, butterfly-chasing little boy Una remembers him as.
"I wish I could come back with you," Rilla says with a little sigh. "We have to stay a whole extra week to visit all of Ken's people, and then there are some of my friends — and some to whom that word does not apply. The former Ethel Reese invited us for a visit, although I suspect it's just to get a look at Ken one more time. How many more days are you staying, again?"
"Just three," Una says. "Aunt Ellen invited us for lunch, so that's one whole day gone, and then the next we might call on some of Walter's old students, and then…" She trails off, getting the sense that Rilla is not following Una's plans for their homecoming. "Well, that's it for us, I suppose. What else are you thinking of?"
"Do you think I ought to visit the Andersons?"
Una looks over at her. Rilla's magazine has slipped to the side and she's staring out the window, at the rise and fall of the trees and the fiery orange sky.
"Of course you should," she says gently. "Jims would love to see you again."
Rilla fiddles with her sleeve. "I haven't heard from Mrs. Anderson in a while," she says. "I've been writing to her, but she takes ages to reply. I'm not sure she knows I'm coming."
"I'm sure she's heard about the wedding."
"I suppose." Rilla is still tugging at her sleeve, and Una frowns. It isn't at all like Rilla to be this way. If she wants to see Jims, Una is surprised that Rilla hasn't simply resolved to do it. "I'd like to call on them, but — well — I wouldn't want to impose if they're all settled in together."
Una tilts her head. "I don't see how you would be imposing."
"I just…well, it might be confusing for Jims, don't you think? There was an article in the Home Journal recently, saying that babies shouldn't be 'mothered' by too many people — otherwise they won't know who to look up to when they get older. Look at Shirley," she adds.
"Shirley?" Una repeats, brow wrinkling. For all their close companionship as adolescents, Shirley never admitted such a thing to her — then again, Shirley never talked much at all, and certainly never about his own feelings.
"Oh, you must have noticed — he was so apart from the rest of us. I adore Susan, but — sometimes I think — perhaps it wasn't fair of her to take Shirley with her when the rest of us went to Avonlea. Or perhaps it wasn't fair of Mother and Father to let her. If Mother ever took us out — to look in the shops or to go to town, or anywhere — Shirley would walk with Susan instead. Even when she wasn't around, he wouldn't listen to Mother or tell her when he was hungry or sick — he'd just wait until Susan was there and run to her. If…if Jims ran to me instead of Mrs. Anderson, I'd feel awful."
Una wonders if Rilla truly fears Mrs. Anderson's envy, or if she fears seeing Jims run to Mrs. Anderson instead. But — "It would be worse for Jims if he never saw you again, I think. If he remembered you and wondered where you'd gone."
"I want to think so, too," Rilla says quietly. "But I don't…I'm terribly afraid I'm being selfish."
Una reaches over to squeeze Rilla's hand. "You care for Jims — that isn't selfish at all. And I think you should see him."
Rilla gives her a wan smile. "I'll think on it."
She had never pictured herself getting married before Faith. Whenever Una thought of their future weddings, as a child, she always saw herself as a bridesmaid, watching Faith and trying to memorize her movements so that she could follow, as ever. Sometimes, in Una's most extensive daydreams, she thought perhaps she and Walter would be standing there, behind Faith and Jem, and their eyes would meet and Walter Blythe would see her for the first time…
Instead, Una's wedding band is catching the spring sunlight as she sits on the Ingleside porch, gathered with Faith and Rilla and Di and Nan — Di came from her school over-harbor; Nan and Jerry up from Charlottetown. Pearl is climbing from lap to lap, inspecting her new company with wide blue eyes.
It's been a while since they were all together — perhaps never, Una realizes. Rilla was too young to run around Rainbow Valley with them in those years before Jem went to Queen's; Faith has been in England the last few years. And yet, here they are all now, gathered on the porch the way their mothers used to — drinking tea, Nan quite pregnant.
"Oooh," Nan says, shifting in the porch chair. "I must say, I am awfully ready to have this baby. And I still have at least two months to go. You know the doctor thinks it might be twins?"
They all gasp in delight. "Do you think it might be two girls?" Una asks. "Like you and Di?"
"Oh, I hope so," Nan says. "I'd love to have girls — and don't give me that look, Di, I am certainly going to name one after you! But truly, I'd be happy no matter what. I love this baby already, whoever he or she is — or if there's more than one. And at the exact same time, I'm also in this sort of — permanent state of terror that I'm going to make a hash of motherhood."
Faith eyes Nan with just a little concern. "We would have postponed the wedding, you know — "
"Oh, don't even speak of it," Nan says. "It's such a short trip from Charlottetown, and the doctor says it's all going well — swimmingly, that was the exact word he used. Dad said quite the same the last time we were up here. Besides, I'd hate for you and Jem to wait any longer to be married. You've both already been so patient."
Faith takes another sip of tea, a smile flitting across her face before the cup covers it. She has said and written a few things, over the years, that make Una suspect that patient is not quite the right word for her sister and Jem. Perhaps it should shock her, but — well, they'll be married by the end of the week, so what is the point? It's not as though it's any more shocking than anything else Una has learned about the world in the past seven years.
Besides, she might even understand. It was hard enough to wait for Walter to finish his degree in Kingsport. Una can't imagine seeing him on leave, watching him go back to the front, knowing each time might be the last.
"Listen to this," Di says, unfolding the newspaper. The crinkling noise alarms Pearl, who leaps to the floor with a yowl. "'Glen Notes' — Helen Clow is off to Queen's — passed the entrance exam with top marks — "
"Oh, I taught her piano," Una says, delighted and yet horribly conscious of the counting of the years. If Helen Clow is old enough to go to Queen's now — no, she won't bother adding that up.
"Jack Douglas and little Dottie MacAllister are engaged," Di reads.
"They can't be," Nan says. "How old are they?"
Una recognizes most of the names Di reads out, but none of them are particularly familiar to her — boys and girls who were years younger than her at school, little girls whom she used to direct in the church choir. There are a few engagements and marriages for Una's old schoolmates — the Notes cheerfully remind everyone that Jem Blythe and Faith Meredith, at long last, will be married this week — but otherwise it seems that they are mostly settled. Una looks around at them — her and Rilla and Nan married, Faith about to be, Di steady in her teaching job. She's been working her way towards principalship of the school, she'd mentioned recently.
Nan makes a face when Di is done. "It feels like it was just yesterday that we were the ones coming home from Redmond and Queen's," she says. "Goodness, we barely read the Notes at all during the war. Doesn't it feel like — sometimes — that we were in one of those fairy worlds — where you spend one evening having a feast and dancing, and when you come back to the human world, it's been ten years?"
"Mrs. Drew told me the other day that I'm lucky Jem's so set on me, because I'm nearly thirty." Faith draws her legs up in her chair and smiles thoughtfully. "It's funny. I did get so used to being…I don't know, not responsible — heaven knows I felt like I was on a sinking ship with a single bucket most days — but…I suppose I didn't feel frivolous, when I was overseas. Surrounded by all those men fighting for our country, watching the doctors and the nurses at their work — one couldn't feel laughy and young and carefree. And yet, I suppose I don't feel grown-up, either. Whenever I think about being 'the doctor's wife,' I think — surely that can't be me, I'm just a baby! Then I remember I'm indeed twenty-six — 'nearly thirty' — and I'm meant to be counted as one of a mature age."
"You ought to come to Toronto," Rilla says. "It's not that uncommon there. Some of Ken's university friends — and all those girl writers Walter works with, isn't that right, Una? — aren't married yet. In fact, they act like there's something wrong with me that I am."
"You married Ken Ford," Di says. "There is something wrong with you."
Una is glad to see that their little circle seems to have brightened Rilla up some; she's chatting comfortably with her sisters and Faith, smiling when they tease her for being too finely-dressed for the Glen in her new city clothes. She tells them about the bright lights and busy streets, going to the pictures and dancing with Ken. Rilla has taken to Toronto more than Una has — naturally; Una never expected otherwise. But neither marriage nor city life has changed her much; she is still good-hearted, loyal Rilla, too sweet to notice — or care — that while people are enamored with Ken Ford's beautiful, somewhat mysterious bride from an unheard-of town in a distant province, they are less enthralled with quiet, plain Una.
"If you're shabby, so am I," Rilla had declared, one night after some publisher's wife or another had made a comment about Una's dress. She flung an arm around Una's shoulder as they made their way to Ken's car, a little tipsy on the Scotts' illicit liquor. "We'll just be two bumpkins together. Sit out all the dances. Bring a quilt to sew!"
"Oh, don't worry about me," Una said. "I don't mind it. And Walter isn't so fond of these parties, so it's not so very often. You shouldn't be a wallflower on my account."
"Don't be ridiculous," Rilla had said, her clear gaze meeting Una's. "You're the only one here I can talk to — really talk to. I need you, too."
The teacups have been abandoned several minutes ago, and without saying a word, Di gets up to gather them.
"Let me help," Una says, following Di into the Ingleside kitchen even as her friend tries to wave her away.
"Oh, you don't have to," Di says. "You're our guest — although you've always spent so much time here, you never really feel like one."
"That's why I want to help," Una teases gently, picking up some of the extra dishes in the sink. "It's so good to see you again, Di. I can't believe we last saw you right after the wedding, and now it's already spring. Has Walter cornered you to talk poetry yet?" Di is still Walter's favorite critic. He reads his drafts aloud to Una sometimes, and she likes to think she has an ear for rhythm, if nothing else — but Di is much more thorough and knowledgeable.
"No, I think he's been too busy helping Jem and letting our parents — and Susan — fuss over him whenever you two come up. And I'm busy making sure Faith doesn't ruin that dress before she makes it down the aisle," Di adds with a little laugh.
"You'll have to come see us again soon, then," Una says.
Di's smile is faint. "Oh, I'll think about it, but I'm going to be so busy this coming year. I really want that principalship, you know. I think I'm winning over the school board, but some of the parents won't hear of it. They think I'm both too young and too unmarried — worried I'm going to run off and abandon my post or tempt away someone's husband or something equally heinous." She rolls her eyes. "The old cats can't conceive of a woman with no wish to be a bride."
"Oh." Una blinks up at Di — willowy and rather taller than she is. She's noticed, of course, that Di has never mentioned having a beau or even an interest in having one, but she's always felt it would be insensitive to ask about. "You don't wish for it — at all?"
"Should I?" Di asks, just a little sharply. "Maybe if I ever meet someone I like enough, but…on its own, I suppose I don't really see the appeal."
It is not such a strange thing to say, Una will admit. Rilla was right that plenty of women in Walter's circle are unmarried; the girl columnists and female authors. At their dinner parties, they often debate the benefits of marriage, invariably coming to the conclusion that perhaps it was all very well and fine for their mothers, but it's certainly not a necessity now, and not particularly worth the time for any woman who values her independent thoughts and movement — any married company present excluded, of course.
"It's not so unusual," she says finally, not wishing Di to think her unsympathetic.
"If only everyone else saw it that way," Di says. "Isn't it funny, Miss Cornelia pestering me about getting married? Of all people! Sometimes — when they just won't stop trying to convince me — I think of saying…"
She hesitates, then plunges on. "It sounds terrible, but sometimes I think of saying — even for the girls who want to marry, there just aren't enough men left, haven't you noticed?"
"Yes," Una says softly.
"But you can't say that, especially not to older folks."
"No," Una says. "You can't. I've noticed that, too."
In the morning, Walter wakes before anyone else does, the white spare room cast with gray, cloudy light. Next to him, Una is breathing evenly, her lips slightly parted in sleep, lashes dark against her pale face. Walter reaches out, idly playing with the end of her braid, before pushing himself out of bed. He should be here when she wakes, in case she's feeling sick, but he wants to take a walk this morning. He's been feeling restless ever since they came back to the Island, too many thoughts churning in his head.
He and Una are staying at the manse — Susan insisted two more mouths weren't a problem, but Ingleside is already playing host to Nan and Jerry and Di — Shirley when he arrives — even Rilla and Ken, who come up from the House of Dreams so often that they might as well be staying at Ingleside. Faith is over there most days as well, bent over house plans and books with Jem, discussing how to decorate and which routes he'll need to take to reach his patients. It seems a kindness to the reverend and Rosemary, too, to let them have Una while she's here.
Besides, Walter likes the manse. It's calmer than Ingleside, not only for the fewer occupants. The remaining Merediths are all rather quiet by nature; there is a stillness about the house that Walter likes. He breathes it in as he slowly walks down the hall, careful not to make the floorboards creak.
He hasn't stayed over here since he was a child, following Jem whenever he wanted to play with Jerry. The final time, Walter remembers, Jem and Jerry had spent the evening kicking around a football and devising plays that eventually morphed into imaginary military strategies. Walter's attempts to contribute largely went unheard, so he had retreated in self-exile to sit in silence with Carl. At fourteen, he didn't think he had much to discuss with a ten-year-old, and then even Carl had abandoned him to go on one of his moon-sprees with Rilla. How innocent they'd been.
He passes the door that Una had pointed out as her childhood room and idly pushes it ajar. Inside, he catches a glimpse of a bookcase, empty but for a Bible and a shepherdess figurine. Had Una been in this room, that night? He can't recall her or Faith's presence — perhaps they had gone to Ingleside or perhaps they had simply been staying out of the boys' way. How strange to remember a time when his wife had barely been in the periphery of his vision — Una's Aunt Martha must still have been alive then — so was Jack Frost the cat; good Lord, Walter hasn't thought of him in years. There were no aeroplanes, no automobiles on the Island yet. Another world.
Down the stairs, out the door and onto the lawn, then he turns the wrong way coming out of the gate, briefly forgetting that the manse faces the opposite direction to Ingleside. He takes the road, the long way around Rainbow Valley instead of through it, nods when the milkman trundles by, the only other person awake this early.
How beautiful the Glen is in the early spring, pale green buds fighting to open on bare branches. The still-slender trees create patterns in their reflections on the water, against the pale sky. Walter had almost forgotten it all. Toronto is beautiful, too, in its own way — the way the lake laps right up to the edge of the city, waterways and parks twining with grand man-made buildings and sculptures — but sometimes Walter craves nature alone, craves things that are unspoiled by human pride.
He ambles up the road towards the harbor. As he approaches, he inhales the damp, clean morning air, the faint tang of salt that's missing from Toronto's lakeshore. The only sounds are the birds and the rhythm of his cane, muffled by soft, thick dirt of the road. His thoughts drift farther as the houses grow sparser. He thinks of Jem and Faith, smiles wryly at the memory that once, he (rather dramatically) thought that he might not survive witnessing their wedding — the final, irrevocable proof that Faith had chosen Jem and always would.
He and Una have never spoken of it — Walter sometimes wonders if she knows, the way she seems to know so many things without being told. He is content to let it lie, though. What would be the point of saying, A decade ago, I fancied myself in love with your sister?
And now Jem and Faith are to be married at last, after so many years. Their courtship seems like it happened in another lifetime. Another smile touches his lips. Do people still court? He's not sure that's the word for what he often sees the boys and girls on the streets of Toronto doing. Is he very old, to be scandalized by the young in this way? But no, he isn't scandalized, exactly, not like the elderly women at Una's church (his church too, really, but he can't think of it that way) or his superiors at work. He understands perfectly the desire to grasp life where it still is, to think that the old world has burned down, so why bother with convention? He only finds it incredible, sometimes, that their youth is not like his own, that he has already passed into the age where his upbringing must seem like a picture book.
What will the world look like for their child, when he or she is old enough to take part in it? Will they have accomplished their grand mission, to build a new world, one that is wiser, less complacent, that remembers their sacrifice and is worthy of it?
Jem is sure of it. Walter less so. He has published another volume after Battle Landscapes, a mix of war poems and other, scattered poems he'd been working on over years. It had been received well, although much of the critical praise had mentioned that Walter was expanding to topics beyond the war. One had remarked, Blythe offers promising new perspectives when exploring fantasy and folklore, but regrettably, the strongest writing in the collection still belongs to his war poems. Though well-written as ever, Blythe returns again and again to view the war through the same prism we were treated to in Battle Landscapes. Ultimately, one rather feels that they've read this poem before. The reader ought to remember that Blythe in fact only served a year overseas before a leg injury returned him to Canada…
This close to the shore, the sea mist stings his skin. Do forgive me, Walter thinks bitterly. I apologize that even a mere year over there is impossible to forget. The war is already fading, becoming simply a topic of conversation, a plot for novels — one that people are already growing tired of. They're paying their pension to the soldiers that lived, they are building memorials and putting plaques up for those who died. What more can they do? Wasn't living through the war penance enough?
Walter hates when they ask him what more he wants, because he doesn't know, he doesn't know if he wants apologies — though he knows he doesn't deserve them — or just for the world to stop turning, though he knows that he can't ask that, either. It's only — what the hell did all those men die for, to be buried again in memory? This is why he has to write about it, isn't it? How else can he atone?
He just…he has more to say. He's not sure he'll ever be finished.
Turning back, he follows the Glen road until it takes him to Rainbow Valley. The familiarity of it strikes him deep, this piece of land that has not changed at all. He pauses just inside the grove, feels the trees around him, with all their ancient secrets, the faint whisper of the grass. When he begins to walk again, he does so slowly, not wishing to disturb this fragile communion.
Under the crunch of leaves and branches, a faint melody reaches him. It sounds like an instrument, not the whistle of a lad out for an early morning stroll, which is odd. Walter peers through the early morning fog, wondering who might be out here playing music.
He stares until a figure forms in front of his eyes, holding a flute, drifting through the trees. Walter's breath catches. It can't be him, not again. Walter hasn't seen him in years, not since that night in Courcelette, when he'd called Walter to follow him west and Walter had almost answered.
And yet here he is, his song familiar and horrible and enticing. He comes closer and slowly, appearing through the fog, a parade follows — young boys, dressed in uniforms Walter doesn't recognize — and girls, this time, some of them in dresses, some in overalls, some in uniform, too. They wind through the trees, unseeing as they pass, entranced with the Piper's song. He has the audacity to wink at Walter as he goes by.
"Do you think Nan will have twins?" Una asks. "Don't they run in families?"
Walter shrugs a shoulder, not even looking up from his notebook. "I'm not the doctor of this family," he says. "I suppose she might."
The lamp is burning in the manse's spare room, the two of them in bed, silence only broken by the scratching of their pencils. Pearl was prowling the hallway earlier, but Una suspects she's now in Carl's room — probably sensing that mice used to live there.
Walter is at work, as he always is; Una is copying out recipes she wants to keep from the Canadian Home Journal. This issue hasn't made it to the Island yet, so Una offered to give hers to Mrs. Blythe — Mrs. Dr. Blythe, not to be confused with Faith's soon-to-be name, or Una herself. Once she's done with the Home Journal, she wants to look through the Eaton's catalogue for new sheet music. She has been thinking of offering music lessons again, to supplement their income, especially with a baby on the way. Of course, Toronto is host to much more accomplished music teachers — but she thinks the women in her neighborhood and church might take her up on it, those who only wish to have their daughters play well enough. It wouldn't be so strenuous, if she were to offer them at home…
"If she does," Una says lightly, "I suppose she'll need to have two names, and we'll have to strike another off our list."
She hopes for a smile, but Walter just grunts in response. Una frowns, wishing he could be just a little more enthused. He is the only person she can speak openly with about the baby, for the moment — besides her fears that it is too early, she doesn't wish to distract anyone from Faith's wedding with the news.
"Is your draft giving you trouble?" she asks quietly.
Walter sighs, pencil tapping against the page. "A bit. I've got to write something new to fill out this next volume, but being back in the Glen just reminds me of the damned war, and some critics have made it abundantly clear they're sick of that. Horribly inconvenient to remind everyone of the past few years — ruins their day, you know."He laughs harshly. "Sometimes I don't know if it's even a good idea to bring a child into this world."
Una pulls back. "What do you mean by that?"
Walter stares down at his notebook. "Sometimes I wonder if we're being selfish," he mutters. "Or arrogant. Humans built the world that the war came out of — we cheered and applauded until it wasn't convenient to do so — and we think we can build something better from the ashes?"
"Did something happen?" she asks. This mood of Walter's isn't entirely unfamiliar, but it's usually brought on by something — a letter from a former comrade, a news story that bothers him.
Walter is quiet for a long moment. Then, he murmurs, "I saw the Piper. In Rainbow Valley. Leading another march, another parade of boys and girls to lose their youth. It's going to happen again one day, Una."
"Oh." It all becomes clear to her in that moment. Walter has always placed so much importance in that vision he had, so long ago. Her husband is rather like that, she's found — he sees patterns and magic and fate in everything. At times, it's sweet — the way he'd once held her hand and showed her that they both had scars on their left palms: his from a brush fire on the shore; hers from burning herself on a hot pan once. It was a small thing that tied them together, a sign that they were meant to find each other. It almost makes Una's heart ache, how Walter notices these things about her, how he makes their love seem like something beautiful and fated.
But other times…Una chews her lip. Walter can be almost a pagan sometimes, convinced his dreams and visions are real. Surely only God knows what's in the future. Una politely drinks champagne at parties and no longer blinks when these Toronto writers swear in front of her — even the women! — but she is still a Presbyterian minister's daughter, deep down. And besides, she hates to see Walter brood, hurting himself over things that only might be.
"The Piper isn't real, Walter," she says gently.
His gaze snaps to her, betrayed. "I saw him before. You know I did."
"You thought he was piping you 'west', the last time," Una reminds him. "But it didn't happen. You lived."
"That was different."
"How so?"
"Perhaps I did die that day, in some way. I wasn't the same person when I came back. You know that, too."
"Yes, but…" Oh, she hates arguing — with anyone, really, but especially Walter. He is so well-read, so clever — in the rare event that they disagree, Una always ends up feeling like she's being turned in circles by all his big words and finely woven arguments. All she can think of to say is, "We can hardly do anything about having a child now."
Walter sighs. "That wasn't what I meant."
"What did you mean, then?"
He just shakes his head. "Never mind it. I'm in a foul mood. I'm sorry."
He doesn't say it like he's truly sorry, nor does he reach for her the way he usually does. Una holds herself stiffly, staring down at the recipe she's copying and refusing to look over at him. She wants to say something else, not sulk like a child, but all the thoughts swirling in her head sound acidic and selfish — why can't you be happy about this? Why must you let the war overshadow this? — and she doesn't trust herself to speak. She knows, she does, that Walter never means to hurt her, but — she just — she suddenly feels horrible and sour and really, if nothing else, Walter ought to apologize first for implying he no longer wants this baby she's carrying. So there, she thinks, punctuating the measurement for sugar so firmly that she breaks the tip of her pencil.
They sit in tense silence for several more minutes, until Walter turns out the light with a heavy sigh, not bothering to ask if Una is ready to sleep.
After a moment, she feels a feather-light touch on her hip, and she turns into his embrace. Walter's hand comes to her hair and they hold each other, not in acquiescence, only in acknowledgement that they've reached a stalemate.
some mildly angsty walter/una content! as much as i love writing sappy romance, i also wanted to somewhat explore their more negative traits and ways they might have conflict as they live together, so that's what we're getting here.
other notes & fun facts:
- when LMM started drafting RoI, she mentioned being worried that people were tired of hearing about the war. which isn't to say some writers didn't have success writing about it, but war fatigue was also very real. i was also kinda inspired by eurovision 2021, where a couple of entrants submitted sad songs about losing people to COVID, and the internet's reaction was basically like "quit bringing the mood down :/" time is a flat circle, etc.
- speculating on names kinda got me thinking it's funny that rilla is the one who names her kid after gilbert — not jem, who's the eldest son and the one who follows in his dad's footsteps as a doctor. in canon, it totally makes sense that jem names his first son after walter, but kind of curious he still goes for "jem jr." over "gilbert" afterwards! (although equally interesting, i guess, that anne names her first two sons after her father figures, but doesn't go for "bertha marilla" until her third daughter.)
- governesses and nannies were still pretty common (among those who could afford them, anyway) in the 1920s, so "you should parent your own children" probably wasn't a trendy take — but humans are always looking for ways to invent and reinvent the wheel, and i'm sure at least someone was putting that opinion out there in journals and articles. i like to think that it might've struck a chord with one of the blythes if they read that. (i am a "shirley and rilla were close in age and were the only siblings living at home for at least a couple of years after nan and di went to queen's, they really should've been closer" truther, tbh.)
