Author's Note
I am VERY glad to get this chapter out to you all! It contains the last of our four linked Avonlea-set chapters but there will be one more before the end of this interlude.
Anne and Gilbert in the last chapter was a culmination of the previous twenty-three chapters, particularly for these versions who did not know one another and had no prior shared history. I was delighted to bring a long-anticipated set of scenes to you and also some precious canon and Bronte quotations. I had always wanted to link any I Love You between them to growth and understanding… and Jane Eyre. Thank you one and all for your lovely responses.
I do hope that this chapter does justice to another couple out there!
With thanks to elizasky for her beta read and love to all readers established and new.
MrsVonTrapp x
Chapter Twenty Five
A Fortnight of Halcyon Days
Part Four
Fred was embarrassingly overdressed for a noon-day picnic, as he was well aware, but the one saving grace of being perceived as so conservative in nature was that people were unquestioning and unsurprised when you then acted conservatively. It was just Fred being Fred; patently trying too hard to please Diana; or misreading the nature of an invitation; or just bringing forth that not-quite-endearing gormlessness that had made girls smile at him (when indeed they did smile) from Avonlea to Kingsport, with a bemused impatience. He was liked well enough, certainly, in the way of a kindly old dog; faithful, reliable and unprepossessing. But certainly not the type to inspire grand romance, and often not even mere curiosity.
If only they could conceive the unlikely truth of the matter; the beating heart that zigzagged around his chest, ricocheting off his ribcage, threatening to burst out through sinews and skin, to land on the lawn of Orchard Slope's back garden, at the delicately-shod feet of the elder young lady of the house.
Fred tugged at his stiff collar, made stiffer still by his mother's zealous over-laundering in preparation, and stood uncomfortably in his newly-constricting best suit. He frowned down at his shoes, polished to perfection in the pre-dawn after his sleepless night, now already worse for wear, tramping over gravel drive and mossy incline alike. He dared not follow Tom and Anne, joined by Jane and Priscilla, busily trying to shepherd Minnie May, Ralph Andrews, and Davy and Dora Keith around a makeshift and not at all genteel croquet game. Gilbert stood with a drink at a nearby table, eyes never leaving Anne, even as his ear was bent by Charlie on one side and Moody on the other. Ruby meanwhile sat in self-conscious splendour under the trees with Josie and Gertie Pye, giggling over the gossip of two provinces.
Fred, hovering ever closer to the house, swallowed with difficulty and checked his watch yet again.
Five minutes.
He caught Gilbert's eye across the lawn and received a muzzled smile and a wink of encouragement. Finally Diana emerged, bearing yet another tray that she began to offer round to those assembled. Fred was almost stricken numb to see her loveliness from this distance; it reminded him too much of years past, loving her from afar. Well, he had loved her up close too, now, and still feared he wasn't worthy to do either.
Gilbert looked back to him again and gave a surreptitious little nod, and then began to make a great fuss over Diana, insisting the happy hostess sit down for a moment and enjoy of her own hospitality.
Fred took his cue and disappeared with characteristic quiet into the house.
Anne had been following Fred's movements, as promised, with speculative interest for over half an hour now, even as she felt the steadfast sun beat down upon her, competing with both the heat of Gilbert's gaze and the warm presence of a croquet mallet-wielding Tom. When she looked up from a now-seated Diana, resting with some relief, to find Fred suddenly gone, she bit her lip with barely disguised excitement and hastily excused herself to fetch a fresh pitcher of water. She could take a circuitous route to the kitchen past the study, and the mere murmur of male voices would be all the confirmation needed to take to her friend. As she set off she was serenaded by a song bird, its sharp-sweet tune piercingly lovely as it punctuated her passage up the slope.
"Hello there, Miss Shirley," Gilbert materialised, frustratingly, at her elbow. "And where are we off to?"
"Gilbert Blythe," she laughed, "as you well know, I'm fetching some water."
"That's alright. I'll get it," he fell into step beside her.
"I'm quite capable, Gilbert."
"But pitchers are heavy. And the kitchen is a long way. Especially from this direction," he raised a dark brow.
"Then I'll carry it quickly!" she offered, a touch exasperated.
"Well, now, Anne-girl," his voice lowered provocatively. "As we are newly courting, even if it's still of a clandestine nature, I must insist that you leave all the manual labour to me."
Anne's blush at his tone fed the molten look in his eyes, and she was too-readily thrust back to their moments by a rogue apple tree at sunset, a mere two days ago, but already stamped on her soul as one of her indelible memories. But breaking through even this was her plain old name expressed in a very new way.
"A-Anne-girl?"
He gave a very Blythe-strength smile, slow and sensuous. "Well, until the proverbial cat is out of the bag, I can hardly go around calling you darling, darling."
She really didn't want to reward his audaciousness with further schoolgirl stuttering, though the reveal of himself as such an ardent suitor, freed by the exchange of those three little words, was unexpectedly mesmeric. She made to swallow, mouth suddenly very dry.
"Gil…" she breathed.
He smiled knowingly at his own name as endearment, but would not be dissuaded.
"Anne… I just think it's best if you don't go into the house yet. And I think you know why… though for the life of me, I can hardly know how."
"Gilbert…" she frowned up at him, auburn eyebrows meeting in consternation. "I don't even know if we should be having this conversation. All I can tell you is… she is my friend."
"And he is my friend," he argued stubbornly.
"A girl just likes to be a little prepared…"
"A fellow just likes to be a little surprising…"
"Well, a request was made of me, and I can't go back on it," she tossed her head airily.
"Ditto," he refuted, hands on hips.
After a moment's pause Gilbert took her elbow and led her, with a gentle determination, around the other side of the house, away from prying eyes.
"Is your challenge to me today going to be indicative of our entire courtship, Miss Shirley?" he demanded, though his excited look showing through his smug expression revealed it was not a thought he was at all averse to.
"When has our relationship ever played by the rules, Mr Blythe?" she parried gamely, through her legs were leaden and she leaned back against the boards of the house to better support herself.
"Touche, Anne," he chuckled, and then sighed lustily. "When I'm with you all I want to do is toss that rulebook." His arms came either side of her, and all she could register was the wanting in her for them to roam over her again. They were sheltered from the sun by the overhang of the eaves, and his eyes darkened accordingly, searching her flushed face and responding with a smile. "Especially now."
"Especially now?" she breathed.
"Peace…" he murmured in a velvety voice, eyes straying to her lips. "I will stop your mouth…" *
He made very good on the promise, leaning into her with only his own mouth making tantalising contact with hers. His kiss was irresistibly slow and tender, despite the fever behind it, and disappointingly brief, and his hands disappointingly absent.
"So, Anne-girl," his voice a betraying rasp as he broke away from her, "You don't have to like the name, you know…"
"I don't dislike it," she echoed his own words of the other day with a sly smile, struggling for composure, and his lips took one more liberty, kissing the tip of her nose.
"Well… how about a sample to help you decide? Beloved. Dearest. Dearest-And-Then-More-Dear ** Darling darlingest. My angel…"
Her ears thrilled to hear them, though her response was cautionary. "Because those are not going to attract attention at all, Mr Blythe. And meanwhile, what am I to call you?"
"Call me anything you want, my love, and I'll come running. Whistle for me if it comes to that."
"Oh, Gil…" she laughed, throwing her arms around his neck in wanton disregard for their tenuous hold on both propriety and privacy alike.
"I'll call you anything you want, Anne, if only I can call you mine," his response was made into her hair, which he began moving his lips over maddeningly, tracing a path that collided with the pulse behind her ear and then slid down to her white throat.
"Always…" she gave a strangled little breath, gripping his shoulders tightly and arching her neck to better align with his mouth. "And I… I… I rather love Anne-girl. Any… embellishment… is welcome on that score. My name alone is so ordinary."
Gilbert stopped his fevered exploration at that, which was probably just as well, and looked to her questioningly.
"You don't like your name?"
"I don't dislike it," she rolled her very-green eyes, "but I've always longed for something more… romantic-sounding."
He gave an indulgent smile, and shook his head.
"Anne… my darling Anne-girl… your name is the most precious word in the world to me."
His lips found hers again, before extracting himself with a tortured grimace, standing back so that they could compose themselves, or at least give the impression of such.
"Sweetheart, please talk to Tom when you can. Or he'll find us in a compromising clinch and rightly run me through."
"I will…" she wavered. "I know… I must." Her expression clouded, and he sought the sunshine in it again.
"I'd just rather you make an honest man of me, Miss Shirley. I have a reputation to uphold." He gave a grin and pushed back broad shoulders.
"Yes… I've heard a little of your… reputation," she smirked.
"Pardon?" he quailed instantly.
"Diana has told me some very entertaining stories of you all growing up."
"Well, Anne, you can't believe everything you hear…" he protested desperately.
"What was it, now?" she gave an exaggerated look of contemplation. "I think it was The Great Flirt of Av-"
He stopped her mouth yet again, most resolutely.
"I think we should be getting back, Miss Shirley," he breathed raggedly. "Though I am most reluctant to do so, but after all I was hoping to give my friend a minute or two, not twenty."
Her eyes widened. "Oh no! I was meant to…"
"Yes…" he smiled infuriatingly. "I know."
"Gilbert Blythe!" she yelped, wishing she could be more indignant.
"Come, love of my love…" he offered his arm, as if the two of them were returning from a pleasant stroll, his mouth upturned drolly, hazel eyes sparking in the sun. As they came back into view of the other guests they were puzzled by no sign of Diana or indeed of Fred, and Tom and Pris besides, and they looked to one another in wrong-footed surprise.
Josie Pye had often believed her finest schoolhouse moment had been the corralling and enforced first kiss of one Tom Caruthers.
There had been precious little to lust over in those days of rigid boredom and sanctimonious swots like Gilbert Blythe, who was too handsome for his own good or anyone else's, and who had always viewed her obvious interest in him with a smile too smug to be sexy, and a manner that didn't quite care enough to be condescending.
To see him trailing now after that insufferable redhead from Redmond made her gnash her teeth. But, no matter. She wasn't going to wait out years in vain hope, like pathetic Fred Wright appeared to be doing, approaching the little gaggle where Diana had just seated herself as if the hounds of Hell were on his tail and dragging her off to parts unknown. She had been more than a little surprised by Diana's acceptance of his clumsy overtures, these past months, but presumed it was some misguided attempt to get back at her awful mother.
Josie, still only half listening to Ruby and Gertie (and wincing at the blast of some bird warbling near her ear) flicked an annoyed glance at Gilbert and the interloper, who had just disappeared around the side of the main house, and then back to the newly awkward grouping by the lawn. Moody, who had been one of the few not joining the ill-conceived exodus to Kingsport, was now in conversation with Charlie, who was as ever the pompous windbag, now believing his tiresome pronouncements carried the additional weight of the scholar. Homely Jane was playing with the youngsters; Priscilla Grant, garrulous and too tall to be properly pretty, was attempting to engage Tom in some painful exchange.
Well… we shall see about THAT.
Josie made her languid approach towards them, enjoying, as always, the cat-and-mouse frisson of her interactions with Mr Caruthers. She had spent ten minutes, years ago, educating him on the art of kissing, and had enjoyed hours since in amused baiting of him, to the point where there was a time when he was almost comical in his attempts to flee her proximity.
Tom was the only one who still held any interest for her, visually if not conversationally, and the bizarre domestic arrangements out at Green Gables were rather compensated for in his looks and malleability. You could lead Tom Caruthers around by the nose and he'd thank you for it later, in the bashful schoolboy manner he'd never quite shaken. There was much about that scenario that held undeniable appeal. As did his widening blue-eyed look of mounting trepidation as she joined them.
"Er… good, ah, afternoon, Miss Pye," Tom stumbled and reddened, earning a surprising flash of sympathy from the girl next to him. "How do you do?"
"Well as ever, Tom," Josie purred.
"Do you know… that is, may I present Miss Grant, f-from – "
"Thank you, Mr Caruthers," Pris rescued, "but Miss Pye and I are old friends." There might have been an underscore of irony to the statement. "Nice to see you again, Josie."
"And you, Priscilla," Josie replied coolly.
"Please excuse us, Miss Pye, but Miss Grant and I were just about to make a quick tour of… the orchard."
"The orchard?" Josie smirked.
Pris was quick to swallow her surprise, catching Tom's haunted eye and agreeing gamely.
"That would be lovely, now, Mr Caruthers. Excuse us, won't you, Josie?"
Josie's displeasure was well masked as she watched yet another couple take their leave, but Charlie, Moody and Jane found her reluctant company gave way to some very cutting remarks about nothing in particular, until she snatched some lemonade and stalked back to her companions under the trees.
"I'm very sorry to have been so presumptuous in walking with you, Miss Grant," Tom began a little miserably, having led them firstly, in his distraction, to the opposite direction to the orchard, so that even the very vocal thrush they could hear seemed to call out its derision.
"Not at all, Mr Caruthers," Priscilla made very light answer. "You forget that I met Miss Pye at Queen's Academy, though Ruby and Jane, so I know something of her… shall we say… singular nature."
This earned a tiny, knowing smile. "I see. And of course, you've met Diana and Fred and Anne in Kingsport."
"Exactly so, Mr Caruthers. And yourself in Carmody."
He flicked a careful glance at her, smiling more widely, though still rather sheepishly. "Yes… I remember the day very well. Though I didn't think you had?" he teased gently.
"Mr Caruthers, I hope you can forgive me my gaffe. How was I expected to note you across a crowded hall at New Year's when I had only seen you two years before on my schoolhouse roof?"
"Indeed, Miss Grant," he allowed a soft chuckle.
"In overalls, mind you, and not a suit the very same as you are wearing today, except that one was blue and not charcoal in color, if I'm not mistaken."
Tom nearly stumbled over a tree root, his eyes agog at her faultless memory.
"You… you are not mistaken, Miss Grant."
She seemed to bite her lip to ward off her amusement, but in the same moment grew more serious. "Well, neither was I mistaken in the quality of your workmanship that day, Mr Caruthers. I rather wish… you had had the chance to come back to see your handiwork, and to receive my thanks properly."
The wistfulness in her voice caught him by surprise, and he colored faintly.
"I actually… have been back, on occasion," he ventured after a moment. "When errands or supplies have taken me to Carmody. I'm sorry I missed you. Perhaps… well… because I never had the gumption to actually go inside."
She considered this carefully, and her fair face fell. "I wish I had known that."
"You weren't to know the last time," his look was chagrined. "It was last September, and you'd already left…"
"For Redmond…" she nodded, and then seemed to sigh. "It appears we have been ships in the night, Mr Caruthers, with all our near misses." Her tone was lilting lament, though the smile that found him still held the hint of some mischief.
"It seems so, Miss Grant."
"Won't you call me Pris? Everybody does."
"Well, thank you. But only if you… would call me Tom."
The admission seemed a forward one, for he still didn't know her overly well, though she had an unfussy directness that reminded him of Marilla and that glint of humour in her tone and eye that was very Anne.
"And you're staying with Miss Andrews on this occasion?" he struggled for a foothold to the conversation.
"Yes…Tom. I believe I have done a great personal and public service in helping her decide on table decorations for her wedding during my visit, lest she be forced to seek opinions on the matter with all Diana's guests today."
He tried not to grin at her meaning. "I thought that, er, young ladies liked to talk of weddings?"
A shadow passed over her face. "Perhaps one needs to be talking of one's own…"
"I'm sorry, Miss– er – Pris. I didn't mean to offend you."
"You haven't, Tom. Mostly, I have had much of this talk from my mother of late. She is… not in the best of health… and would prefer to have me settled than pursuing an education. It is… rather a very old and worn discussion in our household," she added dryly.
"I am very sorry to hear it. Your… mother, of course, I didn't mean that you should not – "
"No, that's fine, Tom. I understand your point. My mother married very young and believes all women should do likewise. She is only trying to find comfort in what she knows."
Tom flicked her a blue-eyed glance, looking down at her hand in his arm, searching for any appropriate reply.
"I am sure she is very proud of you and your achievements, ah, Pris. A schoolteacher and now a college student." As Anne was and had been, both of them living a life that seemed larger than his own, painted on a wider, ever-changing canvas, whilst his remained steady but… static.
"Well," here Pris's look lightened, "my father's a dear, and he makes up for any… reticence on her part."
"And you are… enjoying your studies?"
"Very much. And, naturally, the new people I've me there. Particularly Anne." She gave a wide, engaging smile, which grew tentative. "I understand you knew her a long time ago?
Tom swallowed with difficulty. He was really going to have to better manage questions about Anne, though their connection was almost old news now.
"Yes… we, er, grew up in the same town in Nova Scotia… for a time."
Her look was unexpectedly probing. "It must have been very hard, to leave everyone behind to come here."
Tom blinked, astonished at her insight. Most people in Avonlea used to talk to him, if ever, about the many advantages he'd had in coming here, and what he had gained, forgetting that he had also lost.
"It was… hard to leave some of the people I knew there. Yes." He frowned, not knowing if she was waiting for more, or that he could even offer it. "I was very lucky to have the Cuthberts," he added, his sincerity throbbing from every pore.
"I am most sorry about the passing of your mother, Tom."
He cleared his throat. "Thank you. That is kind of you. She…"
"Yes?"
He shook his head, finding himself blushing severely. "Miss Grant, I – that is, Pris – it is only that your coloring reminds me of… well, you and Miss Gillis. Not that your coloring reminds me of Miss Gillis, though of course it is very similar, but only that… your coloring…" he swallowed painfully, thinking your coloring was that of my mother's, instead concluding lamely, "Your coloring is… very pretty." He sighed, feeling every halting syllable of his awkwardness.
"Thank you, Tom… I think," she smiled slowly, blue eyes sparkling with the tease.
They came to where the orchard branched out into fields, and beyond that Barry's Pond, and stopped to shade themselves amongst the apple trees.
"I'm sorry I have led us a rather long way…" Tom frowned. "I am very happy to head back, Miss, ah, Pris. I have taken up too much of your afternoon already."
"I am very happy to linger, Tom, I assure you! And I hardly think Charlie or Mr McPherson were exactly fighting for my company."
Tom turned to her, unexpectedly enjoying her merry, teasing aside, and finding a communion with her crooked smile.
"I am sure you are definitely mistaken there, Miss Grant," he offered generously, earning him a surprising blush that she, incomprehensibly, passed back to him.
"Well, maybe they, as most men, probably just need a little encouragement," she raised an eyebrow, and his blush darkened by degrees, and he could see her suppress a smile at his reaction. He faltered – it was not the baiting that Josie subjected him to, taunting and mean-spirited - but there was something in her open flirtation that he still found a touch disconcerting. Maybe because, astonishingly, it was actually directed at him.
Miss Priscilla Grant looked away, allowing him to compose himself, but then her eyes were drawn back to his, an unasked question in their clear blue depths, and he was struck by the comparison in her height to Anne; though Anne was tallish herself it was far easier to school his features from her than from the much taller young lady before him, and he felt the uneasy disadvantage of it.
His sandy brows rose above his own pale blue eyes. "You… you wish to ask me something, Miss Grant?"
Her face seemed to steel herself with her resolution.
"I wish to make a comment, Tom… or to tell a story to you. Or both," she responded cryptically, shaking her head in frustration. "I don't know how you will take it. But if I don't seize the opportunity today, I might never have another one, or it might eventually emerge from another quarter, and I'd hate to think that you… that you…" her face became shuttered, and she stepped away from him, to sweep her eyes over the apple trees that fringed the pathway back up the slope.
"Miss Grant… Pris…" Tom urged her. "I wish you'd tell your story, if it means some relief for you. I'd prefer that over worry about my feelings."
She turned back to him. "You say things like that, Tom, and I don't doubt Anne's long attachment to you for a second. Or… yours… for her."
"Attachment?" he asked warily, coloring again guiltily. "We… we are friends, certainly, but I…"
"I would not pry into your affairs, Tom. Though everyone sees the… attachment… you have for one another. It's rather lovely. And I believe I… may understand it, a little."
"Oh?" he breathed unevenly.
"I had a childhood friend… who died. We grew up together. I still feel his loss greatly."
He had thought her recount may have gone down a dangerous byway, and then hated himself to find it was one of loss, indeed like his own. "I am very sorry to hear that."
Pris nodded, sadly. "He was not unlike you in temperament, actually. He was kind and…very patient with me. He certainly needed a lot of it."
Tom smiled carefully at this, and they began walking again, back towards the house, companionably side by side, the sun ripening their hair and bringing a flush to their cheeks.
"How old were you?" he asked gently.
"I was ten; he a little older… People think… adults think… that you are too young to hold on to the memory… that the loss won't matter…"
"They're wrong," he interrupted, with some vehemence. "It is not too young. And it does matter."
Priscilla looked to him, nodding in firm agreement. "His mother was best friends with my own," she continued. "They still visit one another regularly, even after all these years."
Tom nodded thoughtfully.
"Even though the lady… the mother of my friend… she married into one of the founding families of our village, which is Spencervale, you know, she couldn't stand it after her son died, and moved to White Sands. It was bigger, of course, and didn't have any sad memories for her…"
He knew Pris's eyes were on him as he slowed, feeling a pinprick of unease but unable to quite place why.
"White Sands?" he echoed faintly. It was a strange, sad tale for her to be telling him; too intimate for their still-fledgling friendship, and at odds with the carefree spirit of the day.
"Yes…" Priscilla continued. "White Sands. But she didn't want her remaining child, a daughter, growing up alone… so she adopted another child…"
Tom had stilled completely, pausing to place a hand against the nearest tree, widening eyes turned from Miss Grant as she barrelled on, seemingly past the point of no return.
"The lady… my mother's friend… she didn't adopt a boy… that would have been too much, and too difficult. But she adopted a little girl. A beautiful little girl. I…I remember the first time her mother brought her over to us for a visit. And I've always remembered the story, the terrible story, even though I wasn't meant to hear it… of the day they all came over from Hopetown. Of this poor older boy and girl who… well, my mother's friend was very shaken by it all. She didn't know if the authorities would come for her, or if she had done something against the law. So she decided to never speak of it again, and swore my own mother to secrecy. But I remembered the story… and I remembered where he had gone to, the boy… to the pretty-sounding village, and to the farm with the colourful name."
Tom knew his tanned face had drained of all color, and felt himself suddenly exhausted enough to slide down the trunk and crumple to the ground. No no no… Would he never be free of the past? Would that one day haunt him forever?
He had averted his eyes from the too-clear, too-searching ones of Priscilla Grant's. He didn't know in the moment if he would prefer to be back with Josie, pawed at like a plaything, than face Pris's pity for him.
Well… possibly not pity. He darted a glance to her, his jaw clenched tight with denial. There was concern in her look, and understanding, and uncertainty about sharing this fractured, fraught tale, and hovering about her, humming on the air, some sort of… no. There was nothing else in her look.
He could feel the ready answers tripping up his tongue… What a story there, Miss Grant… I hope your mother's friend does well now… Shall we get back to the others? I think Diana will be preparing dessert.
She hadn't mentioned any names. She was giving him a chance to ignore it. To get on with his life. To forget what she knew.
"I… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shared that… story. Excuse me, will you, Tom?" Pris's face was crestfallen as she stopped wringing her hands, and instead gathered her skirts in them as if to flee.
"How long have you known?" Tom croaked.
"Known?" Pris halted abruptly.
His heart thundered in time with his too-quick breaths. Say it. Don't say it. "How long have you known that the story… was about me?"
Her pause was torturous.
"I've known it was you, since Carmody…" she offered quietly. "Gilbert introduced you as his friend from Avonlea, but it wasn't until… you told me yourself you lived on a farm there, called Green Gables."
"That… that was nearly three years ago." He ground out.
"Yes. You act surprised…" she tilted her chin, in a manner that was disconcertingly like Anne's. "Are you surprised that I've never told anyone, or that I waited so long to tell you?"
His eyes finally found hers again. "No… of course not… I'm not at all surprised that you would keep it to yourself. Forgive me, please…" He pressed his hand harder against the trunk of the tree, as if he might try to have it absorb him. "And… Anne?"
"Anne told us all some time ago that she was an orphan. I didn't think of any connection to you until you came to Kingsport and I saw you together. Especially, ah, that afternoon tea at Diana's."
He colored furiously, remembering the wonderful, enchanted days he had spent in that old city, but too painfully remembering the cross currents at Diana's, too, and of Gilbert's worryingly pleased look when he and Anne joined them again in the sitting room. He strove instead for a memory that wasn't connected to either.
"Mostly I remember… you praising my figurines…" he gave the ghost of a smile.
"Well, they deserve to be praised," Pris replied staunchly, with something of the spirit he better knew of her. "They're marvellous, Tom. You make them for a wonderful cause but they're… almost too good to give away…" She smiled to herself, as if amused by her next thought, "and it's good for Gilbert to be reminded he is not the sum total of perfection."
Tom's surprised laugh blurted from him before he could scramble to gather it back, and Pris giggled in response, and the tension of the moment delightfully eased.
"You should have gone to school with him," Tom remarked very dryly, almost rolling his eyes.
Pris did roll hers. "I met him at Queen's. That was bad enough."
Tom shook his head, chuckling as Pris smirked, though he enjoyed not the joint slight at Gil so much as the way the laughter lit her face and sparked in her eyes.
Tom shoved his hands into his pockets.
"Tell me then, Pris… how are Mrs Spencer and Lily these days?"
She gave a bright smile. "They do very well. The older girl, Violet, is a little younger than me and at Queen's herself. Lily is nearly thirteen, you know, and a real beauty. She has a look and a way about her that reminds her mother of my friend, which I know comforts her."
Tom was thoughtful. "I'm glad of that. The… the mix up was… I can't even tell you what that day was like. It's taken me a long time to… to be able to bear the memory of it. And it took Anne herself to… to help me to…" his throat closed over the words.
"To not carry the guilt around?" Pris asked carefully, looking like she already suspected the answer.
He blew out a long breath. "Yes…"
"You have nothing to feel guilty for, Tom. I can't know the difficulties you and Anne faced, at the asylum or afterwards. All I know is that Anne is well loved by all of us at Redmond, and she is thriving there." Pris's smile was briliant and proud, and a thing of beauty.
"I know how grateful she is to have friends like yourself, Miss Grant."
"I know how grateful she is to have you, Tom."
Flustered by her words, he indicated a hand and they continued back up the slope.
"Thank you… Pris," Tom managed after a time, "for keeping our story safe. I… I am in your debt."
She shook her head, smilingly earnest in answer. "There is no debt, Tom. Now or ever."
He nodded his gratitude, and as they looked ahead the back garden of Orchard Slope came into view.
"Well…" Priscilla paused, turning to him. "There could be something that I might ask of you…"
His sandy brows rose. "Anything I can."
"It's only… I wondered that… once I am back at Kingsport… if I may write to you?"
"You want… to write to me?"
"It's not for myself as it is for my mother…" Pris began to explain rapidly, her cheeks heating. "You see, she is forever asking if… well… I have any letters from anyone, or if I've formed any… attachments. Not of course that we are attached at all, naturally! And I would never intimate as such. It's just that most of my friends are already in Kingsport and so I don't get any letters, hardly. Which doesn't matter to me in the slightest, only it is awful to have to keep saying to her that…"
"Miss Grant… it would be an honour to receive any letters from you. And… to write to you in return."
He feared his embarrassment had made the acceptance sound like a solemn vow, but she merely broke into a relieved smile.
"But I have to warn you… " he continued, giving dire warning. "I am no wordsmith. And I struggle for subjects to talk about outside of the weather and crop rotation."
Her smile broke across her face, and the sun lit her hair the color of the fields below them.
"Ah, but you forget, Mr Caruthers; I am the daughter of a farmer from Spencervale. I might have quite a bit to say about those subjects myself!"
Fred stumbled out of the side doorway to Orchard Slope, blinking in the bright sunlight. The garden was bathed in a lustre of light now; a too-dazzling glare as his eyes struggled to readjust themselves. Perhaps that's what wearing rose-tinted glasses was; to see through a pink haze, rather than a golden sheen. Though he had always preferred to pin his hopes on scripture rather than romantic fantasy; "For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known." ***
He had spent his youth often overlooked and forgotten, as if a character in a well-loved novel arrived suddenly, unannounced, to the general bewilderment of those assembled… Hello there, Fred. I didn't see you. Have you really been there all this time? Gilbert had cast a rather long shadow in which to lose oneself, and sometimes he had preferred the cool concealment offered when trailing in his wake. But at other times, Fred had longed for the flicker of a flame illuminating him, even for a moment; to step out of the darkness. To be seen.
Of all the people he had most wanted to see him, he still couldn't quite believe that Diana Barry had been the one to peer through the dark, distorted glass; to see him as he truly was, and to know him. Not the red-faced, stammering schoolboy of yore, or even the underwhelming young man of average attributes and modest means, but a man as any other man, with hopes and dreams and desires; of care and commitment and curiosity and, perhaps, a little courage.
And he saw Diana now, too, and knew her; the loveliest bloom in the most splendid garden, but not a hot-house flower, to be trapped under glass; rather a wild rose standing tall, perfumed and proud, able to withstand sun and rain and wind, and be all the stronger and lovelier for it.
…but then shall I know even as also I am known.
He blinked again, and saw her, resting with her back to him, watching the youngsters and chatting to Jane, Priscilla and Tom. Ruby and the Pyes were still seated under the trees; Gilbert and Anne were, somewhat suspiciously, nowhere to be seen.
But really, he had eyes for only one person, and always had done.
…but then, face to face…
It wasn't going to be today; he was going to gain his permission, if it be so, and then he was going to plan, to rehearse, to pace up and down till his heart and his feet wore out, and then he was going to come back and do all this again. But his pocket held both letter and small velvet box, and his heart held her. Momentum and motivation carried him forward towards her, and he might need a miracle, too, but that part, at least, would be out of his hands.
Diana sat, enjoying the momentary respite from worry over the fate of her mille-feuilles and whether they had enough lemonade to last the warm afternoon. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Gilbert chased after Anne with a small, knowing smile; her house guest had come home awfully late from her afternoon with the Blythes, and wouldn't be overly drawn on how the day had transpired, but her starry-eyed look had given more away than an hour of salacious shared confidences, and her distraction yesterday during their picnic preparations had forced Diana to beg of her to stay away from anything needing to be weighed, measured or chopped.
Diana noticed Tom's eyes follow the two figures scurry back up the slope, before being thankfully drawn into conversation with Pris, and wondered about that, too, but her musings were cut short by a shadow falling across her, and then the sun flared again as it moved, and there was Fred, smiling determinedly and offering his hand and a walk together around the garden.
Her heart fluttered and then steadied; Anne would have let her know of any clandestine conversations afoot, and so she was able to accept eagerly and without undue concern for his firm stride or the sheen of perspiration on his brow.
They came to their walk, as she now thought of it; the pathway where the edge of the manicured garden gave way to the wildness of the field beyond, as it dipped towards the pond, now a rippling mirror for the promising blue of the sky. They had first walked this path in winter, boots crunching in the snow, their breaths clouding the cold air, and he had commented on the beauty of the snowy landscape, and then of the snowflakes, as crystals, caught in her hair. He had turned and looked to her, and she read his look as if for the first time, and as he settled her on the bench just now, in the merciful shade of a generous old beech, he gave that look to her again, and her astonished heart recognised it for what it was.
Fred did not sit; he took a step back, and then another.
"Diana…" he began.
Oh my goodness.
"Diana…" he attempted again, and after her dark eyes widened to saucers over the imminent and unmistakable proceeding – where on earth had Anne been after all? - she wanted to, immediately, spare him the certain agony of the declaration, even as she longed to hear the words, and it was important for him to be able to say them.
She found herself both belonging to the moment and outside of it; her girlish self having imagined this scenario so very many times, with varying suitors of unvarying charm and good looks… You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you… **** Her youthful, romantic heart had once spent a summer thrilling to the sentiment, looking about hopefully for anyone in Avonlea or surrounds who might be secretly struggling with the violence of his affections towards her.
Later, her dream-suitors became more nuanced; He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits… and elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire… ***** And even not without their faults, sometimes cold and stern, but never unfeeling, and learning as much of themselves as of the lady they loved; I wanted to see the place where Margaret grew to what she is, even at the worst time of all, when I had no hope of ever calling her mine… ******
But mostly, she found herself vacillating between the bounding enthusiasm of the boy next door and the quiet resignation of the mannerly, gentle professor; Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif back but a full heart and these empty hands… *******
She broke from her reverie, and looked properly up at Fred, whose own large hands, having done little but hold a pen these past months, were newly work roughed, as a son born of a farm called back to it. Those hands, having first reached for hers hesitantly, having supported her so securely, and having grasped her, in wonderful moments of abandon, so fervently, now shook as they unfurled a much-folded letter, and began to read from it, apologising profusely for the affront.
"Diana…" Fred began for the third time,
" 'I've loved you as long as I can remember…' " ******** His deep voice wavered with emotion, and he swallowed several times. "There is not a time in my life of any importance that does not belong to you. You are part of every memory I have, and every memory I hope to have. I can think of nothing more wonderful than to come hand in hand all the way through life, with no memories behind us but those which belong to us together." *********
He paused and looked to her, with an unbridled longing that made him lose his place, and to have to search for it again with a moment's panic furrowing his brow.
" 'Maybe I'm not good enough for you now, but I will be someday…' " ******** he proclaimed carefully. "There are many others who could give you all that you could desire, and without the wait and the work that we would face ourselves. But I promise you every minute of every day will be spent by me, trying my best to make you happy, and building a comfortable home for us, and loving and caring for any children that may bless us, and loving and caring for you…
…Whatever your answer may be, Diana, know that you are forever in my heart, and these months with you have been the happiest of my life, and I will never, ever forget that you looked at me and saw me not only for who I was, but who I could be."
He took a great, shuddering breath, and explained shyly, "there is a poem, too, but I… I thought… I wanted you to have my words to remember, such as they are."
In an instant all those literary heroes of her yesterdays retreated, fast fading into deserved obscurity, their imaginary throes of passion dull against the clear, bright resolution of his steady, steadfast love. If Fred had claimed she was the first to truly see him and to know him, then the same was equally true for her. Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways… *********
Perhaps it did as Fred did now, kneeling with a reverence reserved for royalty in his best suit, taking her hand with a courtly gentleness and gentility, and asking a very simple question, and in doing so laying his heart down. She had said to Anne, in her pride over his letter to her father, that she would know if they were made and meant for each other by the very act of his asking, but she realised her terrible hubris now, and was a little ashamed. All of Avonlea might think what a great catch Fred Wright had made in her, with the advantage all on his side, but she would know the truth of it; that she was the fortunate one, to gain the love and admiration of a man so gentle and kind and good, him declaring how he would work hard to deserve her, when the onus instead was her own.
These revelations were too much for the moment, which did not require a gush of great thoughts, but they remained locked-fast, safe in her own heart now, for the time when she might reveal them. Instead she tried not to be distracted by the slight frown of his troubled brow, which she wished to smooth with her hands; or the red wash of feeling sweeping his skin, which she wished to calm and to cool; or the tremulous way he asked his question, which she attempted to assuage with her resolute answer. Diana gave it unhesitatingly, with a breathless rush of joy that continued into their kiss, bending down and nearly bowling him over, as his relieved, delighted laugh grew and bubbled between them.
"Shall we go back?" Fred asked, voice husky in contemplation of her beautiful face, made rosy and glowing as they sat nestled on the rusted wrought-iron bench ten minutes later, still in awe of the moment and of the small, perfect diamond, glimmering through the trees ********* in multi-faceted promise.
"Soon…" Diana sighed, leaning on his shoulder, wanting to prolong this time that would ever be theirs; the first of those shared memories in an album uniquely of their making. "But I would rather like hearing the poem again. Perhaps… with actions, as before?" She looked up to him with all the love whose heart is innocent ********** but her delighted, teasing smile was knowing.
He reddened at her meaning, though he pronounced himself most happy to oblige, skipping over the first poem he claimed ever to have managed to memorise, lingering on some particular lines that most leant themselves to physical embellishment…
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Fred paused to kiss brow and temple and eye, brushing over the satin skin of the woman he still could not quite believe belonged to him.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place… **********
His lips lingered on each beloved feature he came to name, with increasing attention to detail, and an unscheduled diversion from raven tress to white throat until such time as the final stanza had to be abandoned completely to the wordless wonder of their new-discovered connection, and the I love yous so thrillingly exchanged, and the easy, surprising passion offered and answered.
They ambled back hand in hand, beginning their life together as they meant to go on. The garden was a pool of late golden sunshine, with butterflies hovering and bees booming, though their smiles threatened to outdo the elements, and the greeting awaiting them once they made their way up the slope was a joyful noise that echoed all the way back to the bench and the beech that had been the happy scene of their vow. *********
Chapter Notes
As previously, the title is taken from Anne of the Island (Ch 23). I promise you the next chapter will be a brand new title!
*William Shakespeare Much Ado About Nothing (Act 5 Sc 4). Have no fear; these two are also absolutely too wise to woo peaceably x
**Anne of Windy Poplars (Ch 12)
*** 1 Corinthians 13:12
**** Darcy in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice (1813) (Ch 34) Not that you need me to tell you.
*****regarding Edward Ferrars in Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility (1811)(Ch 49)
******John Thornton in Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South (1855) (Ch 52)
*******Professor Bhaer in Louisa May Alcott's Little Women (1868/69) (Ch 46). Not that you need me to tell you that, either.
And now a little note…
The following quotations are taken, in loving homage and somewhat cheeky plundering, from Gilbert's own first (failed) proposal, in the Sullivan series' 'Anne of Green Gables: The Sequel' ('Anne of Avonlea' in North America) and additionally his words to Anne regarding that wedding at the Stone House in LMM's 'Anne of Avonlea'.
Firstly, to Sullivan series Gilbert. My love for Jonathan Crombie and his portrayal of Gilbert is well known on this site. No one can not be moved by his depiction of that first proposal, and his breaking 'Please say yes'. It ends much more happily for Fred here, but I have tried to establish that, in my Anne never growing up in Avonlea, there was another boy who longed for a girl faithfully and over a long period of time (er...apart from Tom!) So I give Fred a little of Gilbert, here, alongside that poem x
Secondly, in my universe there is no 'Anne of Avonlea' - those years unfold quite differently - and hence (sorry!) no wedding of Lavenders and Irvings for Gilbert to comment on in not-so-vague allusion to his own circumstances, so again I give myself leave to give these lines to Fred, and some of the descriptions of that wedding to THEIR circumstances, as I believe it best suits he and Diana after all. And thus Diana, too, is given one of Anne's more important realisations from this chapter x
********Anne of Green Gables; The Sequel (Kevin Sullivan, 1987)
*********all quotations from Anne of Avonlea (Ch 30)
**********Byron 'She Walks in Beauty'