2
If Rowena Blythe has reasons to doubt that promise, she soon begins to believe. After a pot of one of Mrs Blythe's 'wild teas' Anne hitches Rebel to the Blythe's painted sleigh and fetches her trunk from Green Gables. Fred is in the yard and gives her a wink, then carries on guiding his wedge through a log. It's clear what she intends to do, no point asking when the shutters on the east gable window need mending. Anne responds with a white-teethed grin. So, the curtains were crooked and the sheets were all blue, the farm and its buildings never looked better. Fred had doubled the potato harvest, tripled the number of ewes, and conjured cream from the cows so thick almost every Avonlea housewife frequented his dairy.
That afternoon Mrs Blythe smears his butter onto a sticky bit of fruit cake. Going by the empty shelves in her pantry she hasn't had guests for a while. The cake is dense with stem ginger and overpowered by cloves –it must be one of Mrs Lynde's. She made the same for Marilla when Matthew died, but that would mean… surely not. Could this cake be eighteen months old?
'It must be,' Rowena muses, and slides back in her chair. 'I haven't baked a thing since John passed. Not even when Gilbert comes home.'
Anne knows why. She can tell by the air in the room, dank with a chill the fire can't touch, that Rowena hasn't lived in the house for some time. No wonder she shut the door to the cottage before Anne could get inside, she must be sleeping in there.
'There's no stove in the cottage, as I recall. What are you living on, fresh air?'
She certainly looks like a sharp cold wind: a mistral dressed in squally greys, her hair an icy white. It was the shock that did it. One Saturday morning two Junes ago John and Gilbert went out to pick early summer beans. Only Gilbert came back, his back bent with the effort of trying to carry his father. They say his mother's hair turned white by Sunday. Straight too, Anne thinks, noticing the way it falls from a centre parting to cover her ears; the only kink in it is the knot at her nape. Those same 'theys' once whispered Mrs Blythe was a witch. No one whispers it now. The hair, the dress, the cat... the only thing missing is the broomstick.
Rowena raises her eyebrows and coughs.
'Very astute, Miss Fontaine, what else have you deduced?'
'That I'm going to have to change my pen name. It seems like everyone knows my secret.'
'I would know if that was the case -don't look at me like that, Anne, I may live like a hermit but I still go to church. If anyone in Avonlea knew the truth you wouldn't have made it as far as Barry's Pond before they set the pitchforks on you.'
'She's not popular then?'
'She has no sympathisers, put it that way,' says Rowena, her papery skin crinkling with a long disused smile. 'Still, it's a shame for all that. A syndicated columnist the likes of yourself should be celebrated not hidden.'
'Is that so, Doctor Lavendar?' says Anne, archly, referring to the advice column Mrs Blythe writes for the Charlottetown Echo.
Rowena attempts another cough but she isn't be able to hide it this time, and bursts into laughter.
'Confound you, Anne Shirley, there really is no besting you!'
'No, there's not,' Anne agrees. She shuffles off her chair and kneels at Rowena's feet. 'And there's no use in trying. I've had my fill of the Wright boy's ham hash -delightful though it is- so I'm coming to stay with you.'
'Is that why you brought that old trunk?'
Anne nods.
'It has all my worldly possessions,' she quips, 'except one. I left my typewriter with Diana-'
'I don't believe it!'
Anne rocks back on her heels and looks very pleased with herself.
'Miss Fontaine is taking a long vacation -I even heard rumours she might be retiring.'
'Well, she's quite the catch,' Rowena concedes, 'it wouldn't surprise me if she traded her Miss for a Mrs one of these days.'
Anne scoffs in the manner of Marilla -the spinsterish one.
'I doubt that, she's far too much for one man to handle!'
Rowena takes Anne in her arms, but the girl will not be held for long and runs to the porch to retrieve her trunk from the falling snow. A moment later her pointed face appears at the parlour window, one brown finger scratching figures in the frost: a star, a triangle, a crescent, like the patches on her son's quilt. A black tom jumps up on the window ledge and chases Anne's finger, knocking down a photograph and cracking the glass. Rowena picks it up and holds it to her chest; her son in his cap and gown and holding the Cooper Cup.
'That's what I'm afraid of,' she says.
The two women rub along quietly for the first week. Mrs Blythe does not move into the main house and Anne does not ask her to. The door to the bedroom she shared with her husband for twenty three years remains closed. Sometimes Anne would skip past it quickly, certain a scream lay within. She takes over the spare room but often ends up in Gilbert's, mainly due to his desk. While her typewriter might be out of bounds that doesn't stop her wanting to write. Articles for Harper's mostly, but they come out as clever, self-conscious things and always end up mentioning Joe. When that happens she heads out to Lawsons and brings back sacks of flour, almonds, glacé cherries, sugar, raisins, molasses, mace, and starts to bake. The house takes on a plummy smell, the air is no longer dank but spicy, and Rowena finds herself lingering longer after meals. The open fire in the cottage is a fickle thing; the stove cranks out good dry heat and soon the two women are jostling over who will rule the kitchen.
It's a battle Anne is happy to lose, all she wanted was to give Mrs Blythe something to look forward to. Once upon a time she had taught Anne all about feast days; how to live by the moon and sing up the sun, yet she had forgotten the best festival of all. For the rest of December they prepare for Christmas, and talk of little else. A party, yes! For the Wright boys whose folks were in Saint-Quentin, for the Lyndes whose offspring never came home, for the Gillis' and still unmarried Ruby, and for Gilbert. In fact most of the work was for Gilbert, for he was his mother's North Star, but Rowena had made so much food by then she had to invite everyone else.
When she isn't cooking she worries about whether he will be able to cross the Strait, but reports are the ice is solid and regularly taking sleigh boats across. Anne shares Mrs Blythe's relief when they hear this. Yet when they leave Prayer Meeting and head toward home she quietly owns to another feeling, the one she felt when she caught sight of Gilbert at Kingsport station. Part of her feels that same disappointment, when she half hoped Gilbert would not be able to come. The monstrousness within her heart shames her, and she shuts it away, like Rowena's room, and pretends it isn't there.
You wouldn't know it if you saw them together, after spending five straight minutes anchored in his mother's arms, Gilbert spends most of Christmas Eve talking with Anne in the covered porch. Rowena sleeps in there now, and he sits cross legged on the daybed and cradles her pillow on his lap.
'She still not sleeping in her room, I take it?'
Anne huffs. 'Well I had to save one challenge for you!'
For a moment Gilbert thinks about socking Anne on the head with the pillow, but he can't stop fingering the lacework -where has he seen that pattern before? Finally he says, 'You did more than I could.' He doesn't sound sorry for himself, his hazel eyes flick over the girl in the turquoise rocker and he remembers the lace at last. Anne had the same on her drawers.
'True,' she admits, not willing to meet that gaze and closer still to taking the pillow and pummelling him. But she can't, they're not children. Gilbert is a man of twenty-four -how can that be? The death of his father saw the last shreds of boyhood fall from him like leaves from a tree. She always thought of him as evergreen, but, no, he's deciduous like her. This winter he is lean and vigorous when he should have been soft and pale from all those hours in the lecture halls, the lab, the library. Perhaps he carried his library with him, it would explain why his sleeves fit so snug round his arms.
She claps her hands and leaps from the chair. 'Come! Let's light the candles on the fir!'
They avoid each other after that, it's not hard to do, there's so much to get on with before the guests arrive. The Wrights come first, an hour early, not that this worries Rowena, they are like her own sons. They crowd round the table and heap their plate with pies, their own gift pride of place in the centre of the table. A perfect pound of butter, gold with carrot and embossed with the Cuthbert's old butter stamp. The Lynde's arrive promptly, just as they ought to, and the Gillis are late because Ruby had five feet of ribbon to stitch along the hem of her best wool dress.
'It's from China,' she announces, 'Davy Rossi sent it to me,' and she strokes the scarlet silk as though it was his face.
Mrs Lynde's face bulges at such a demonstration, all ready to tell young Ruby that it's rude to boast, or flirt, or whatever she was doing -there was something unwholesome about it. But before the words get out of her mouth it is crammed with the shortbread Anne wafts under her nose. This gives Mrs Gillis the chance to say, 'Davy's very fond of my Ruby. Very,' and nod her head till her wattle wobbles.
She was almost one and twenty, was Ruby, and the fairest girl of all. It had troubled the Gillis' that she hadn't been taken, while plainer girls like Jane and Josie and Dora were already mothers. Luella Gillis took comfort that Ebba's girl, and Marilla's, were also on the shelf. But they weren't pretty like Ruby was pretty, it seemed like such a waste. Till that Davy came on the scene. He made Ensign, too, a proper Officer, no doubt to prove his worth to her darling daughter.
Gilbert hides a smile, or rather it turns into a frown. He recalls a similar ribbon in Anne's hair; and it worries him a little that he knows her wardrobe so well. It comes of hardly seeing her. She lives like a picture in his head, and if she didn't write him many letters he had her accounts in all the papers she wrote for. He wonders sometimes if it's Anne he loves, or if it's Claire Fontaine.
That shameless hussy comes up after pudding as they gather round the piano. After Rachel belts out God Save the Queen, the Wrights counter with À la Claire Fontaine, the French Canadian's cri de coeur. Laurent's bright soprano takes the breath from all their chests. Thomas Lynde slinks behind the fir tree and quickly wipes a tear. His wife is not so sentimental but neither is she about to talk politics on the Lord's Birthday. That lady journalist, on the other hand, the one writing them lies in all the papers, there's no harm mentioning her.
'Who's her mother, that's what I'd like to know. What sort of bringing-up did she have to be gallivanting about all over the country like some no good soldier of fortune. And her opinions! Sensationalist muck! She couldn't be Canadian, that's for certain. She's a Yankee, mark my words, stirring up trouble like they always do!'
Fred leans on the piano, his great paw cradling his chin.
'Well, someone has to,' he says darkly. Gilbert knows that tone, and leans against his mother's chair, observing him with interest. 'Women and children were starving out there waiting on McDonald to make good his promise. It's a crime what he did to my people-'
'Your people?' Rachel snaps. 'Fred Wright, you're no more Metsie than my left elbow. Your father's kin hales from Aberdeen and more sensible folk you could not find. Why you want to associate yourself with that rag-tag lot-'
'Métis!' Fred says, interrupting her, 'and there are many of 'em who claim Scottish blood-',
'Yes, but mixed with all that other lot, Indians and French trappers and the like. It's not natural them mingling like that. And neither is this Claire Fontaine. It sends a dangerous message to our girls, they'll grow up thinking they're too good for home when homemaking is the most important job of all. When it boils down to it, be a carter or king, everything a man does he does for the good of his wife and his home.'
Fred winces, he can't argue with that when all he wants is a home with Diana. Still he can't bear this shrew-faced scold to win the day and does the only thing he can think of, and calls on Anne. She's a journalist -not as sensational as Miss Fontaine, but still- her work had taken her as far as Regina, surely she had something to say.
Fred isn't the only one who is curious. All eyes turn to her, if they hadn't already, excepting Ruby, who rolls hers in dramatic fashion.
'What would Anne know about it? Homemaking, what a bore! Give a girl an adventure I say, why should the boys have all the fun, right Anne?'
'I- I-' Anne falters for a moment, knowing she is going to offend someone, just not the someone everyone is expecting. She takes a gulp of warm tea and sets it down carefully. 'Well, I... I really can't fault Mrs Lynde's opinion, what use are our achievements if they don't serve the people we love? For all Riel's radical ways I believe all he wanted was to serve his home.'
The room goes quiet as she speaks which makes the next disruption more jarring, as Fred slams the lid on the piano and orders his brothers into their coats.
'Fred, I didn't mean I agreed with everything...' Anne pleads.
She follows the boys to the door; Mrs Blythe hastening after them, telling them to stay. Fred stops buttoning his coat. He is the same height as Anne, and his brown eyes bore into her, dark with disappointment.
'There are some round here reckoned you were Claire Fontaine and I used to wonder if they were right. But not anymore. That girl is never afraid to speak the truth when she knows it; you're just another mealy-mouthed reporter.'
Anne opens her mouth to explain when Gilbert rushes past and heads out the door.
'Ma, I'm going after him-'
'Gilbert, wait,' Anne cuts in, 'I don't need you to defend me-'
Gilbert halts on the porch and gives her a sideways glance. 'Yes you do,' he says.
It's after midnight when Gilbert returns. Anne leaves a lamp burning right by her door so he would know she was awake. When he tiptoes past she springs out of bed and follows him into his room. It's different with him in it. Before the room was like a painting of itself. Now even the fire in the grate comes alive; faded stripes on the wallpaper shimmer in the light like living things, and the curled up cat deigns to open an eye.
'Fred's fine,' says Gilbert, unravelling his scarf. 'Get some sleep, we can talk in the morning.'
Anne tightens her kimono around herself and perches on the chair near his desk.
'I can't, Gilbert, please hear me out. I swear to you I had no thought of myself when I said what I did. Tell me you don't think that, at least.'
Anne must have been dwelling on this for some time for she has come to a conclusion Gilbert cannot make sense of, and he tells her as much.
'But isn't that what you think? That I deferred to Mrs Lynde in order to protect Claire -I mean me- I mean...' She pauses and rubs her eyes, working her fingers into her sockets so roughly that Gilbert can't help himself, and tugs her hand away.
'Don't do that, you'll damage your corneas-'
'My what?' Anne says, looking up at him. Her hand is still in his.
'You need them to focus,' he says, drily, and squeezes her fingers. 'I wonder though... This might sound strange, but did you- did you suffer any hurt when you were away, because your irises... they're different.'
'I know,' Anne says, and then, 'I did. Just not the hurt you're thinking of.'
Gilbert nods, and lets her go. He thinks about whether he should continue undressing and gets as far as his tie before he senses her close behind him. Fred's right, she really does move like a wind.
'Gil...' she whispers, just as softly, 'could you... could we lie together? You know, like we did in our snow cave?'
'You want to make a snow cave now?'
It's a measure of how much he adores her, because he is this close to hunting out a snow shovel at one o'clock in the morning. Anne shrugs.
'Here will do,' she suggests, and moves nearer his bed. His curtains are open and the black sky that frames her looks like a blackboard. 'Just for a minute... I'm so tired, Gil, and I know I won't be able to sleep.'
He hasn't met this Anne before. The one who worries what he thinks of her and is clearly afraid of her dreams. She looks small and wretched, and he's struck with a memory of the first day they met. He had teased her -about what, her freckles, her hair?- and she whacked him with something or other. The teacher stood her in front of the class and savoured the pleasure of shaming her, but Anne refused to cry. It was five years before Anne forgave him that tease and they've been friends for five more, even lovers for one dreamlike summer. She calls him her brother now. Well, that was her job wasn't it, to make words mean what she wants them to mean? But he never tries to pin her down because you can't pin down the wind.
There's no question of him lying with her, not with Ma in the house; nor is this the right time to bring out his ring. So he does what he wishes he had done back then, when she stood before the class that day. He squares his shoulders and takes a breath and simply stands there with her.
...
* the cottage, Doctor Lavendar and the Charlottetown Echo are first mentioned in Anotherlea, as are Gilbert's quilt, bilberries and snow caves. The sleigh boats feature in The Windy Willows Love Letters
* the butter description is from Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House in the Big Woods -in winter they used grated carrot to colour the butter yellow.
* Ensign is a Second Lieutenant
* Métis refer to people of predominantly French and Indigenous descent. Riel was Métis.
* McDonald was the Conservative Prime Minister of Canada at the time. He ordered the militia into Saskatchewan to take down the North West rebellion.
* Mrs Lynde's opinion on homemakers is inspired by a quote from my beloved C.S. Lewis.
...
julie: Hmmm, when readers say there is a lot to unpack I get antsy. I think I posted the last chapter before it was properly ripe, but never mind. I loved what you said about rootlessness; how people are living away and sleeping in different places to what they should be. I remember thinking, Huh, is that what I wrote, clever me! Please keep the artistic analogies going if you can. I am already wondering what you will make of this chapter :o)
Lizzy: hello my dear, thank you so much for reading! I'm so happy you enjoyed 'roving reporter Anne', I feel like I could write a creditable essay on the North West Rebellion now. I think it's time I admitted to myself that my heart lies with historical fiction.
Guest: you and I need to get together and talk third wave feminism -or is it fourth, I lose count. I haven't seen Anne with an E, my feeling is that it's a fanfic, and that's cool, I mean that's what we all write here. But it's someone's version of Anne, it's not Anne. Maybe I should PM you and we can talk 21st C revisionism of 19th C literature -I think you better sign up ;oP
wishwars: a reader after my own heart. Yes Diana was and always will be Anne's first love. I got the idea about Diana becoming a teacher from one tiny line in AoGG about Diana's head always being in books. While she never admitted she wanted to be in the Queen's Class I definitely got that impression, so I thought, Ok honey, let's give you a shot.
Janey: The Cooper Prize goes to you! Yes, Far from the Madding Crowd is the inspiration. Thank you! I was beginning to think no one was going to guess. I'm chuffed you like my stories and even happier that I have managed to lure you from lurk-land. There will be two book binding chaps in Anne's shop that need names soon. Get you thinking cap on because I want you to choose them. They're the peevish, precious sort who are always trying to out do each other, if that helps.
Kim: Yes Jane got fat and Josie got thin. She married my version of James A. Harrison (the deputy school inspector in Anotherlea) because I'm mean like that. Thank you for all your PMs, I have just got back from a trip away and in my spare time I selfishly worked on my story instead of replying to you. But now this is posted I'm on it. I hope Rowena lived up to your expectations, she's had some troubles too, but it won't be all bad, this is an Anne story after all.
Catiegirl: So now you know about the disappointment. No his hair didn't fall out, or his teeth, it's just the usual one step forward one step back dance these two like to do. Talk about get me in the heart by mentioning J.C. -ah! I know this generation will be all about that boy from Anne with an E, but for me the 80's Anne series will always be the defining one. Thank you again, I feel like I posted that chapter a little too soon so I am glad you got so much out of it. (It's since been tweaked because I can never stop tweaking. My stories are like rivers, you never read the same one twice!)
NotMrsRachel: You re-read Anotherlea? I could kiss you! There is no greater compliment, especially considering it's over 100 000 words. Mwa!
eliza: the brainstorming lasted all of three seconds, I was thinking Shakespeare and Thisbe came to mind. I'm afraid when it comes to writing I veer closer to the sadist's corner, but in the case of Mary Vance, I think Maud gave Mary exactly what she wanted, big, brash, look at me, windows. As to GB 'changing sides' maybe it was a case of supporting the person not the party? The world needs more of that, don't you think? :o)
FKAJ: I think the chapter you described is the chapter I wish I had written -lol! When I read your comments I can't help thinking, Who is she taking about, I wanna read her too! You described me as cinematic before and maybe that's it, I see it and then I write what I see. Maybe I should be writing screen plays. I liked the 'leak out the eyes' line too, I actually hopped out of bed and went downstairs and tapped it into my lappy when I thought of it. I could imagine Maud having a good chuckle over that.
Regina: I don't know if I can explain this properly but knowing you loved Anotherlea is different to knowing you love another one of my stories. I love them all, of course, but I think you could say Anotherlea is my Walter -a little more dear to me that it should be. I know it's a strange little story and it went places a lot of Anne readers don't want to go, but I love it for all that, so thank you for telling me you do too.
oz diva: Haha! I knew you'd miss Marilla, but you see, she's had her love story, and besides Anne is about to get up to some very unMarilla-ish things, and she just couldn't do that if Marilla was there. I am catching up on Kim's story but after that I will read yours. Your PM really touched my heart. I look forward to seeing where you took Miss Cuthbert :o)
A Fan: You're welcome so much. Thank you!
...
And thank you to everyone who is reading. I realise a sequel to an AU won't be everyone's cup of tea (except if you read Catiegirl, and let's face it everyone has) but it makes me happy to know you want to come along. I want to do my best for you :o)
The Cooper Prize this time goes to the person who guesses the colour of the stone in Gilbert's ring.
