Hester Gray's garden was a terrestrial paradise.
The last of the spring flowers poked obstinately through the ground, dots of vivid yellow, deep pink and royal purple amidst the tall grass. Little white petals poked timidly from their buds on the cherry trees, permeating the air with a delicate fragrance. The rosebushes remained dark green and brown for now, little heads stubbornly shut against the cool April breeze.
While Anne fancied the garden still to be haunted by its namesake, Gilbert saw the ghosts of their own past selves: the copper haired girl sitting in the grass, eyes shining green as she slapped the arm of the young lad reclining next to her who munched on an apple, teasing her between lazy bites. They would have been laughing over their long passed feuds, or weaving dreams of continued studies in a distant future.
Looking back, he was surprised not to feel the least bit envious of that Gilbert. Except perhaps for his limber constitution, he reflected with a grimace as he shifted forward a bit. Sitting on a thin quilt spread out on the ground was not as fun at his current age as it had been then. But present-time Gilbert, while less supple, had acquired valuable wisdom. His naivete had been traded in for a deeper understanding of the world, and a newfound humility had replaced the cocky arrogance which had earned him many indulgent smiles and softened reprimands in the past.
No, Gilbert didn't envy that boy. He wasn't even sure he liked him all that much - especially not after what he'd seen yesterday.
Anne had tried to explain life at the orphanage several times over the years: Gilbert, in all his arrogant superiority, had credited her recollections to the memories of a confused child, embellished by her boundless imagination.
Their visit at the orphanage had been a slap of reality to his face. She hadn't been exaggerating - in fact, she'd rather understated the crassness.
First, there was the smell - the stench of chemical cleaning agents, with undertones of boiled cabbage and waste. The mid-aged matron had shown them around the facilities (bleak and cramped), proudly stating that the children earned their stay by keeping them tidy. "Ain't no lazy scum 'round here, not under my care!" she'd boasted, setting Gilbert's teeth on edge.
After their tour, a handful of children had been summoned inside from the penitentiary that was the fenced court. They stood in two rows: six boys in one, seven girls in the other, all over the age of ten. "Can't have'em too young, not when you got y'own to mind. I know you said one, but you might take two - a boy's good for the farm, but a girl's better for babies. How many did you say you had? You might need two girls..."
Gilbert ignored the matron's nasally voice, repulsed by the fact that she was selling these teenagers as easily as if they were pigs at the market. He'd focused on the children instead: filthy faces, empty eyes, clothes that had more holes than pockets.
All things considered, Anne was handling herself rather well. She mostly listened and nodded, neither friendly nor rude with the matron, answering the occasional question when he could not find his voice.
"We'll need some time to think about it," said Anne politely as they got ready to go.
If the matron was disappointed that they weren't leaving with an armful of orphans, it didn't show. "You do that. Come back whenever, don't need no appointment."
They'd lingered outside the building, staring through the fence at the orphans who hadn't been summoned: young age and blatant injuries had prevented them from making the cut that day. Some halfheartedly kicked an empty tin around, but most wandered around lethargically, resigned the bad hand they'd been dealt. A fight broke out among the younger prisoners: there was screaming, punching, kicking, biting - viciousness like he'd never seen in a child.
Gilbert plucked a blade of grass from the ground and twirled it in his hands. It embarrassed him to remember how he'd stormed off like an angry bull, with little regard to the woman trailing after him.
"It's an outrage!" he'd fumed, stalking down the streets of Moncton, turning around the huge factory conveniently placed near its source of underaged workers. The acrid, polluted air did nothing to improve his humor. "Where's the town hall? Someone needs to be told about this: the mayor-"
"We haven't the time," called Anne from behind him, trotting to catch up with his furious pace. "Our train leaves in less than an hour. Besides, I'm sure the mayor already knows."
"Of course he doesn't," he'd spat viciously. "Do you honestly believe that a mayor would let this- this travesty - in his own city?"
"Politicians have agendas. Moncton is an industrial town."
"What are you saying?" his voice boomed down the street.
But she'd simply shaken her head. No clarification was necessary, anyhow - he had seen the ugly truth on the grimy hands and faces, heard it in the hacking coughs, the kind usually accrued over decades of habitual smoking.
Gilbert stretched out his legs and breathed in deeply, taking in their lush surroundings. This garden was their palace: every tree was a column that held up the sky, the ground carpeted in rich, green grass. He imagined an eleven year old orphan coming to the Island, exploring Avonlea, discovering goldmines...
"I'm sorry we never adopted."
Anne turned to him, startled by the statement that came out of nowhere. He went on: "You mentioned it in passing several times, before we got married. I never thought much of it - wasn't too keen on it, to be perfectly honest. Didn't see anything wrong with having children of our own - didn't stop to think about how it had been for you, if you'd never gotten out of there."
"But I have, Gil, and I've had a charmed life ever since-"
"And what of adoption?" he pressed on, self derision etched on his face. "I robbed you of that choice on our wedding night."
"Excuse me," she seethed in what he recognized as a dangerous tone. "I'd like to think I was a rather willing participant. I knew what might come of it. Just because I'd preferred the idea of adoption, didn't mean I wasn't entirely opposed to the notion of having children by... er, the biological way."
He couldn't prevent a small grin, but it was short lived. "I'll never forgive myself for hurting you."
"But you must," Anne pleaded now. "You can't let a... a misunderstanding dictate our future forever."
"What about you?" he asked. "Have you forgiven me?"
"Yes, of course!"
"Really, Anne? Because so far, you haven't been able to trust me to... bed you. Doesn't feel like forgiveness," he pointed out. "For this to work, you'll have to trust me again."
Had she not forgiven him? Was fear the only obstacle left, or had she nursed a grudge so deep, it lingered unspoken between them? She couldn't be certain now.
"We'll need to be open and honest with each other," she reasoned carefully.
Gilbert nodded. "I suppose we'd need to talk about certain things, regardless of how uncomfortable it makes us. And, as you said, we'd have to let go of our mistakes: leave them in the past."
"Even the really big ones?" she asked skeptically, but with an underlying sense of hope.
"Even those," he confirmed with the hint of a grin.
Anne bowed her head. After a moment of silence, she looked up at him from under coppery lashes. "I think I'm ready."
Gilbert's heart skipped a beat. "You- what?"
"But first, we are going to have a long talk."
"Aren't we talking now?" he recovered cheekily, earning himself a thwack on the arm.
"Properly. Indoors, preferably on chairs."
"Thank goodness for that - I'm not fit for this kind of sitting anymore."
"Oh dear, are you sore?" she asked with an air of concern. "I was going to ask you to kiss me while we were out here alone, with no one to find us for hours-"
His lips were on hers before she could finish the sentence. Anne threw her arms around his neck, calling herself all the names in the book for ever letting go in the first place, and swore to make things right before losing herself in his embrace.
The end? Not quite! There are still some loose ends to wrap up, but first, I need to fill in the gap left from that sexy week. I aim to push out three or four more chapters of Intimate in Our Own Way before resuming this story (in what I think might be a chapter or two, perhaps an epilogue of sorts). In the meanwhile, my other AU "Haunt Me on the New Year" continues. Thank you SO MUCH for reading and reviewing!
AnneNGil & Lavinia Maxwell: Hope the garden feels accurate! It's my first time writing about it...
oz diva: Point taken. I still think Marilla would get to her knees until it's absolutely impossible for her to get up - for me, she shows very little self indulgence. This chapter might have answered some of your questions, the following ones might enlighten further ;)
elizasky: Marilla was a real challenge to write - I adore her in canon, and hate to borrow her from LMM. I did my best to keep her as untouched as possible, even in the drastic changes of this AU.
Anne O' the Island: I know, I know, but I love purple thistles! And if you use them in a short stemmed bouquet, the thorns are avoidable :)
NotMrsRachelLynde: Thanks, I figured that Marilla finally needed some face time! I adore her, but hate portraying her, as I feel she's LMM's best written character.
TooTiredtoReadEnough: I guess both mothers are feeling protective - Mrs Blythe might feel that Anne brings Gilbert more pain than joy, while Marilla wants to give Anne whatever she needs (in this case, Gilbert).