A/N: This story takes place in an AU of its own, unrelated to the Doctor's Wife series. In this AU, instead of proposing after recovering from typhoid, Gilbert and Anne renew their friendship. Anne stays at Green Gables, and Gilbert goes away to medical school, then finds work at a hospital in Prince Albert. Though the story is completely different, I've tried to keep the LMM world and characters more or less intact. Thanks for reading!
December 2nd, 1892
First table on the right, Dining hall, Royal University, Prince Albert, SK, Canada, Earth
Dear Anne,
I tried not to laugh at your latest letter, honest I did, but you've made that command quite impossible. The way you described Lavinia masticating your latest edition of TheTales just did me in! When will you learn not to bring your papers outdoors? Or, if you must, at least try to keep them out of reach from the animals. You know you oughtn't take your writing with you when you're supposed to be focused on your chores. But enough scolding: tell me, how was the latest chapter received? A story fit for a prince surely made a breakfast fit for a cow.
Alright, alright, I'll stop teasing (for now). I should let you know that Doug was cross at me for guffawing right across the wall from his bed while he was trying to nap. He got his retribution when I came back to my room after the night shift, and he proceeded to slam every door and drawer in his own room at five minute intervals, for a whole hour. So if I am poorly rested, it's really all your fault. There, are you satisfied, now? Sometimes, I think that I would rather like to move somewhere more private, but the cost of such accommodations is a bit high for the salary I receive now. Maybe next year, I'll have moved out of the staff lodgings, and into a house where I'd be free to laugh at your letters as loud as I wish.
But in all seriousness, I'm glad you've started the rewriting already. There used to be a time when such a disaster would have discouraged you altogether. Remember how long it took for you to get over your precious Averil? Months of brooding, claiming that all your artistic sensibility had perished overnight. You're made of tougher stuff now, Anne Shirley! I do wish you'd let me read your final draft once it's completed. The reason you are acting so shy about this tale in particular, when you made me review all the others without reservation, is still a mystery to me.
Unfortunately, I will not be able to come home for Christmas this year. Same as last year, we'll be celebrating here with a concert of hundreds of people coughing - no one here has been able to make any proper diagnosis yet, but at least it's not tuberculosis again. Still, we've all been asked to stay on for the time being, in anticipation that the situation may escalate. I came to the University to ask Dr. Locke to run some samples for us: the sooner we know what we're up against, the sooner we can start helping people. It doesn't seem so bad - the fatality rate is still low - but it's mighty sad to see the wards full of mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters who would like nothing more than to be with their families for the holidays.
Not all is grim here, though. Last Sunday, Rosieu (one of our best nurses, I'm sure I've mentioned her at least a couple times) burst into the doctor's lounge and announced she was retiring within a day's notice. It's not unusual for employees (especially the younger, newer blood) to want to quit after a short time here: no one can quite conceive how noisy the moans and occasional screams make a hospital, or how aggressive patients can get under duress, or how putrid the facilities smell, before spending at least a full week here. Well, Rosieu's been here for about a year, and as I've said, she's one of the more accomplished on our team, so we were shocked to see her go. When she shared her reason, we wouldn't believe her at first - she announced that she was pregnant! Some of us laughed, others scratched our heads, trying to make out the joke that was clearly hidden somewhere. As it turns out, 'Rosieu' (as we've been calling her) is actually 'Rose U.', and the 'U' stands for Ullmann, as in Dr. Ullmann! No one had any idea they were married, let alone to each other, and for over a year! We congratulated them both, once we'd gotten over our astonishment, and teased Rose ULLMANN all day. She took it all in stride, of course: I've never seen her without a smile on her face.
It's sweet news like this that reminds me that come death, disease, or misery, life simply goes on. Those of us who witness human mortality on an almost daily basis must jump on the occasion every time there's anything remotely worth celebrating. Otherwise, I'm afraid we'd wallow in a despair so deep, we'd never get out.
Still, the Ullmanns' happy news feels a bit weird to me. I truly am delighted for them, but to have someone work beside me, assist me during operations, discuss patients' conditions with me, and not to know she was with child this whole time! And that her husband would be fine with her working! Not that Dr. Ullmann would stand in the way of her progress, but he that he wouldn't mind exposing her to all the dangers that come with a medical career...
Times are changing, I suppose. Women are free to do as they want, make their own choices in life. I should be glad for the equality, but I'd be lying if I said I was entirely comfortable with the notion. It's been a man's responsibility for so long to manage his family, to make the hard decisions, to provide. If this is taken from men, what is left to define our role in marriage?
I'm starting to understand now why you said you would never marry. I am disgusted at myself for thinking this way. Of course, women must not be considered inferior to men. We have female doctors here who are just as qualified as men, and it boils my blood to see them treated with only a fragment of the respect (and of the pay, for that matter).
Still, I wish you would find your happiness one day. From your written accounts, all of our friends are in the family way, or getting there. Don't you want your own chance at happiness? A family, someone with whom to share the holidays? I can see it now, a boy and a girl, both redheaded and adorably freckled, with an insatiable curiosity, a penchant for adventure, and a real talent for mischief...don't you want that, Carrots?
I imagine I've ruffled you sufficiently for a four-paged letter. I would go on and apologize for another two pages or so, but I'm afraid I've not the time - the results from the samples I've requested are in, and after my shift is done, the board will be interviewing candidates to fill in Rose ULLMANN's position. I can usually get out of hiring sessions, but the director has requested my presence specifically - said he wanted to have a word with me afterwards, probably - hopefully - about my research.
Write me of Avonlea. Have you seen my parents lately? Mother says that Dad is feeling better, but I wish he'd taken another week of rest before returning to the farm. And how are the Keiths? Please give Dora my regards. Any news of Davy?
Please, do not trouble yourself over a gift for me. I need nothing, and spend little enough time in my own room that I don't get to enjoy my few possessions here. But if you really want to give me something, do consider sending me that latest chapter, the one you're guarding from me for whatever cause.
Your chum always,
Gilbert
December 8, 1892
Green Gables, Avonlea, PEI, Canada
Dear Gilbert,
I'm very glad that you found my latest scrapes amusing, and not the least bit sorry that Douglas is punishing you for laughing at my expense. Please send him my regards, and do extend my congratulations to Rose Ullmann for her wonderful news. I wish her and Dr. Wilburn all the best.
And no, I do not wish a child of my one, leave two: I have no interest in the 'family' life, not in a world where women are expected to choose between children or a career. We may be freer than our mothers, and have more options than they had, but women are still not free. Can't you see? We still yield to the law of man. Do you honestly believe men are defined by ruling their wives and children? And another thing: you protest the unjust treatment of female doctors. How about nurses, maids, nannies? Is their work not so important, that they would deserve respect as well?
I hope all is well, and that you are healthy and happy. If there really is to be another epidemic through Christmas, your parents will be terribly disappointed. Please stay safe, and let them when you might be able to visit.
Sincerely,
Anne
December 10, 1892
Left side of the bed, the small bedroom upstairs, Green Gables, Avonlea, PEI, Canada, Earth, Universe
Dearest Gilbert,
I apologize for my last letter. You're probably vexed with me - and you are well within your rights to be - but please, don't stay so. We promised not to hold grudges anymore, did we not? That if one of us asks for forgiveness, the other must always grant it. So that's what I'm doing: please, Gil, won't you forgive me?
To be clear, I am not apologizing for what I said. I am not repentant for defending women's rights. I do, however, regret the way in which I did. You expressed an opinion, and I lashed out like a cat. Not only do I admire your frankness regarding your own thoughts and feelings, but it was I who suggested that we could communicate freely, without fear of being judged! I never meant to address you so curtly or uncaringly. For that, I am more sorry than you could imagine. See, I'm not too proud to admit that I am clearly in the wrong, and undeserving of your pardon (though I really wish you would issue it anyway).
I suppose the subject of children is a sore one, but you couldn't have known, unless your mother keeps you up to date with PEI gossip? No, I suppose she wouldn't. Well, the Andrews have welcomed their fourth grandchild to the world, courtesy of Billy. A beautiful baby boy, 6 pounds and 9 ounces, with chestnut brown locks, and his mother's nose (thank goodness for that - imagine an infant with that Andrews' bumpy ridge!). Mrs Harmon is proud as a peacock, and has been giving accounts of the birth to absolutely everyone she runs into. Josie is expecting her second child as well, and has been flaunting her round belly around town. Whenever I see her, she is lurking around the pharmacy with that same smirk that used to infuriate me back in our school days. When she tries it on me now, I simply smile at her and ask about her parents' health: but others passing by take the bait, and then are roped not only into fetching her salts or helping her get into a buggy while she clutches theatrically at her swollen stomach, but also into pretending that they care while she prattles on about her condition - which, by appearances, seems to be a perfectly regular pregnancy.
You are not the first to have pointed out that I am the only one of our circle of friends not to have gotten in the 'family way'. Well, except for poor, dear Ruby - and oh, how I feel like throttling those insensitive biddies who'll say, "But even she was engaged, dear!" It's nearly as insulting as when they remind me that I won't stay young forever, that childbearing really is easier before one reaches thirty. And don't I feel lonely in Green Gables? Isn't it time I sell it, or at least marry someone who could help run it properly, instead of hiring seasonal help?
No one seems to accept that I am happy the way I am now. Green Gables is my home, and I am keeping it as best I can. I visit Rachel and your parents, of course, and the Wrights come visit when they can - Freddie and Small Anne stop by after school on occasion, and Diana insists on having me over every Sunday for dinner. The place does feel empty with everyone gone, but I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. And when my imagination fails me, I must cede to reality.
Enough about me: how are things at the hospital? Have you figured out what you're up against yet? I really hope it isn't tuberculosis again - I hate to think you in the way of danger. I know, I know, "risks of the job," etc. But please do take care of yourself, would you? I shan't be funny in my letters anymore, if it means Doug would let you sleep in peace. An overworked doctor is of no good to anyone, now, is he?
I hope you are quite well, and give you permission to be as cross with me as you wish in your next letter - so long as you forgive me in the end, I shall endure it. If you haven't done so already, please write your parents and tell them when you might be able to visit. Your father is well, but let it not be Easter before they get to see you again.
Your dearest (and have I mentioned 'very sorry'?) friend,
Anne
PS: The gift enclosed is not the manuscript you requested (you might have guessed as much judging by its size). I'm still rewriting the chapter, and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to share it. If I ever do manage to perfect it, you may find it when it is published with the rest of the Tales.
December 22, 1892
The chair with the leg that wobbles, Kitchen, Green Gables, Avonlea, PEI, Canada, Northern America, Earth, Universe
Gilbert, dearest,
Have I offended you? I can't help but think that I have. It's been nearly two weeks in waiting for your reply. I know that the mail might be delayed by snow and ice, but surely not this much. I did apologize, Gil, did you not receive my second letter perhaps? Or was it not enough? If that is the reason for your silence, I'll apologize again.
Then again, you might be very busy. Have you identified the disease yet? I know epidemics tend to keep your hands full, but after the fright you gave me (gave us all) during the tuberculosis break out last year, you swore you would always write at least once a week, to let us know you're well. Please make good on your promise, put me and your parents at ease by giving us news.
With only three days until Christmas, this will not reach you on time, but I feel I ought to say it anyway: Merry Christmas, Gilbert. I hope Doug lets you get some rest (wish him merry Christmas for me), and that you manage to find many things worth celebrating over the holidays.
Here is my new chapter - it is the only copy, so please treat it with care. Don't show it to anyone else, and keep it out of reach of hungry cows, please.
Your best friend, and soon to be twice-published author,
A. B. Shirley
December 24, 1982
Anne Shirley barged into Green Gables, disheveled and fuming. Couldn't she have one day that wasn't marked by catastrophe? she simpered. Just one single day, without making a mess with her signature clumsiness. Was it truly too much to ask?
She stomped into the foyer without removing her boots, leaving a trail of sludgy snow prints on the floor, adding them to her ever-growing mental checklist of things to clean up. Once in the washroom, she bent toward the looking glass to inspect her face: the Anne reflected back to her was a bit muddy, and her cheeks blazing red with hot anger, but no bruise was forming (yet). Still furious, but a bit relieved, Anne shucked her disgusting clothes and filled the tub with the heated water left over from this morning. It was tepid - she'd make do.
As she scrubbed herself vigorously, Anne felt her temper rub off with the muck. She wasn't to blame, and neither was Portia: cows, regardless of how elegantly named, would remain cows. And they would go about their business, relieving themselves wherever they so chose. And if Portia had chosen to defecate right at the barn entrance, and that due to lower temperatures, said leavings had been frozen, well, that was just nature's idea of a winter prank, wasn't it? And if Anne had stepped on said trap and suffered a wipe out, it would serve as a lesson to pay attention to where she was going, rather than daydreaming while walking. A lesson she'd hoped to learn years ago, but was still having difficulties mastering.
The bathwater, which hadn't been very warm to start with, cooled rapidly: Anne finished her ministrations quickly, and wrapped her shivering form into a bath sheet. She was in the process of getting dressed when a rapid series of knocks at the door made her start: was she running behind already? She'd promised the Wrights she'd be over for supper, but the sun hadn't even begun to set...
The urgent knocking resumed, and Anne hurried toward the door, fastening the last collar buttons as she walked, dodging the melted puddles of snow her boots had left behind.
"Diana!" she exclaimed, recognizing her friend through the screen door as she swung it open. "I didn't see the time go by, am I late?"
"Oh, Anne!" Only once Diana had cried those words, did Anne notice her friend's misery.
"Diana, what is it? What happened?" Her arm went numb with fear. "Is it - the children? Fred?!"
The beautiful, devastated woman could only shake her head as more tears spilled rapidly down her face. Anne's chest heaved now with shallow breaths. She knew something was horribly, horribly wrong. She didn't know how, but it had something to do with the way Diana was looking at her, and reaching to grasp Anne's arm tenderly with a shaking hand. She knew, unconsciously, that the look of pain in Diana's eyes was for her.
"What is it?" she asked again, ice infiltrating her veins. "Tell me, Diana," she commanded - or begged, or both: she couldn't tell. "Tell me what happened!"
Diana's quivering lips pursed, and she sniffed through her tears. "It's Gilbert. He died this morning."