To the 308 readers of the magical, beautiful, inspiring little islands known as the United Kingdom, gura mie eu, mercie, thenks, tapadh leibh, diolch yn fawr and thank you! kwak.

Chapter twenty-eight

This is how wars start, why Troy was sacked, and Tybalt and Paris were slain. John Blythe might not be the best read, but surely even he knows that when it comes to true love, a man should never get in another man's way. He had no right, his father had no right, yet he called it the right thing to do. Well, Gilbert knows what is right. He stayed with Anne when she was ill, and nursed the girl in Kingsport. He went to Fred when he needed him, and rekindled his friendship with Davy – he even kept his fists in his pocket when he discovered his betrayal. He worked hard, all hours, day and night, to help his neighbours, and did the work his mother could not. He withstood hours of interrogation and saved the life of Martin Rossi.

That night Gilbert lies in bed, his body twisting in the sheets, his mind twisting with the bitter recollection of his father's disappointment. Bed her? He didn't bed her. He LOVES her. There is a world a difference between those two acts, and his father had sullied their secret world with his ugly, small-minded assumptions.

He wakes just before dawn feeling panicked and furious and marches up to the house. His one small hope is that his father kept his discovery to himself. He pauses outside the door to the covered porch, one hand resting on the handle. Inside he can hear pots and pans being crashed about in the kitchen. So he told her, it was as bad as that. The anger inside Gilbert ignites. Right? What right did his father have, telling Ma, and adding to her troubles? And now he wants to make it worse by sending him away? Well it's not going to happen, that much is certain, and arming himself with this new resolve Gilbert strides into the kitchen.

His father is not there, and his mother has not noticed him. There is an old stone sink in the far corner of the room and she drops a pot lid on it, then looks hard at May who sits upon the floor.

'Morning Mayflower,' Gilbert says, glad to have the wee girl between them. She is chewing the wooden rattle John made, and a long line of drool like a spider's web connects her rosy lips to the toy.

'Wait!' Ro exclaims. 'Watch!' and drops a wrought iron ladle in the sink. A clanging metallic sound fills the room; little May keeps chewing.

The furious heat inside Gilbert dissolves, and a cold, sinking feeling takes its place.

His mother starts shaking all over. 'She can't hear –'

'No Ma – of course she can, try again, I distracted her, that's all.'

Even as he says it, he doesn't believe it, May never looked up when he entered the room. He bends down and scoops her up, eyes seeking something, anything, that might be blocking her little ears. But they are pink and clear and perfect. It can't be true, it can't be…

Ro lifts the baby from Gilbert's arms and presses her to her bosom. 'I always assumed she was a deep sleeper – contented – absorbed in her play – all this time she couldn't hear – oh Gilbert, how could I miss this?'

For the next hour his mother says little else, her face blanched with a terrible guilt as she rocks the wee girl in her arms.

'I'm supposed to be a healer, I'm supposed to know these things, how could I have missed this, how!'

At first Gilbert focused on trying to find any evidence his mother was mistaken: whispering, squeaking, making low dull tones. Little May was oblivious. It occurs to him that he had missed this too, but while this realisation smarts, he knows it is nothing to what his mother will be feeling. She had never truly forgiven herself for looking away while Lottie drowned, and he knew, as did everyone, that May took some of the sting from that grief. To have cared for her for two months and never noticed till now… it is as if her stitched-together heart has been torn open again.

'It might not be permanent, Ma, perhaps there's something we can do. A cure, a remedy, in your book, or in mine, there must be something, surely.'

Ro can only shake her head, her face white to the lips. 'There's only one thing that can help now. May needs a doctor.'

'A doctor? Your mother hates doctors.'

Gilbert joins Anne on the stone back step of Green Gables, and rubs his hands together.

'I know. It's hit her hard. First her hand. Now this. I'm starting to think she will never go back to her work.'

'You're starting to think?' says Anne, eyeing him sceptically. 'It must have occurred to you before now; the whole village is talking about it, how when you go back to Redmond the stone cottage will close forever.'

'I don't care about that!' Gilbert snaps. What he means is that he doesn't want to talk about it – of course he cares, Anne could not love him and not know that. The hours he spent working on remedies, the notes he made, the studies. Herbalism has taken hold of him this summer, but he still believes it is a seasonal thing, that when September comes it will be over. What matters, what hurts his heart, is how to help May and his mother.

Anne takes his hand and opens it, gently kissing his palm. 'So what are you going to do?'

'Ma can't bring herself to call on Blair, she wants to take May to my uncle.'

'The one in New Brunswick or the one in the Glen, which one is the doctor?'

'The one in the Glen. David Blythe. He wrote to me recently, invited me to stay.'

'You never said –'

'I had no intention of going, but now…' Gilbert breaks off and withdraws his hand.

Anne stands, and after peering into the Green Gables kitchen, pulls the back door shut. Presently she sits, a little closer than before, and whispers, 'There's something you're not telling me, I know there is.'

Gilbert folds his arms and stares straight ahead. 'I love you, Anne, you know I do. But this concerns the Blythes.'

'Am I not a Blythe?' Anne says to him. 'Did you not say to me three days ago that whatever I faced you would face with me, because we are married now?'

'This is –'

'Different? You think my loyalty to Marilla is less than yours is for your mother and father?'

'No – I don't know,' he shrugs, impatiently. 'I don't have the words right now – '

The step they share has suddenly become too small and he strides away past the water butt and into the small orchard behind the house. Anne follows, as he hoped she would, and he halts by a flowering pear. A memory comes to him, unexpected, sentimental; a time when he and Anne were in the Rossi's caravan last year. There were logs of pear wood next to the stove and Gilbert made a soppy vow to himself that when he and Anne had a home of their own they would only heat it with logs like these: when they burn they smell of wild flowers.

Anne moves between the rows, blossoms catching in her hair. She is beautiful, every part of her; how can he explain himself, what will she think…

'Gilbert, what is it? Don't you trust me to understand?'

For a moment he flinches under her gaze. It would be so easy to keep walking, gather his thoughts, make a plan, see it through. One step after another, the way he has always done. If he does he knows she will forgive him, but it isn't forgiveness he needs. No, it's not that he doesn't need it. Gilbert believes he doesn't deserve it.

'It's not you I don't trust,' he says, hanging his head, 'it's me. My father knows… He knows about us, about everything. He wants to send me away, to stay with my uncle for the remainder of the summer. This morning it was all I could think of. But now...' and he lifts his chin; he will meet her gaze when he says this, his wife deserves that at least. 'Anne... I'm so ashamed. I love my mother, and she was dealt a terrible blow and I let her dote on May so I could work on what I wanted. I should have worked alongside her – I should have made her do it. But it was all too easy, too convenient to have her focused on something else. She blames herself for not noticing May's hearing loss sooner, and the thing is Anne, I blame her too. I'm afraid that night Margaret attacked her she took something else as well. The woman Ma used to be could never have missed such a thing. Of course she has excuses. But me? I have none. I missed it, I missed all of it, because I was too consumed –'

'With me?'

'You see, I told you I didn't have the right words to explain.'

'No, I understand you perfectly. And I love you so much it hurts.'

He did not know until that moment how rigidly he stood, how his muscles had all turned to bone, and his bones to rods of steel. Then Anne showed she understood him, and he could not stay up any longer. His head found her chest and her heart and its beat, and her love seemed to pump right through him.

It beats a little faster than usual, but then she is reeling with the discovery. Mr Blythe knows, perhaps Mrs Blythe too. What will they say when she sees them? No matter, she is part of the family now, whether they like it or not. It is not too late to make things right. And Anne is every bit as clever and determined as their son.

On the first day of July our two lovers stand together at Bright River Station. John is sitting in the buggy, puffing on his pipe. Ro is sitting in the waiting room, taking one last hug from May.

'This doesn't seem real,' Gilbert murmurs, taking Anne's hand in his. 'I was sure if anyone left Avonlea this summer it would be you. I never dreamed I would willingly leave your side. I don't even know when I'm coming back.'

'Don't think about that. Think about May, are you sure you know what to do?'

'If I don't, Aunt Jen will. As for the journey, so long as it relies on goat's milk and cloth napkins I think we'll be all right. It's only seventy miles to the Glen; hopefully May will sleep. And if she doesn't, well how hard can it be? Martin raised twins – you did too, as I recall.'

Anne grimaces. 'I will gladly take on any burden, but I do hope I have had my share of twins.'

As she says this a great warm wind gushes over the platform and sends Gilbert's hat flying. Usually this would annoy him, but right now he is thankful. He knows the colour of his cheeks would have betrayed him. He had been careless, not once but twice, and wonders if the carnelian ring will be returned to her finger in time for the full moon. He doesn't have a chance to wonder long, however. Steam shoots from the chuffing engine, and his mother appears with May in her arms.

'Don't let David give her any opium drafts.'

'No Ma.'

'And no strange contraptions either, to straighten her spine, or help with her breathing.'

'No Ma.'

'And no other colleagues poking at her. Only the ear specialist, do you hear?'

'Yes Ma.'

She passes the baby to her son, tears spilling down her face. 'Oh little girl, how I'll miss you…'

'I'll be with you, Mrs Blythe,' Anne says.

Ro Blythe sniffs, in a prickly manner that Anne is well used to. 'You may linger at my side all you like, Miss Shirley. I'm not going anywhere near the cottage.'

'Ho hum,' Anne mutters and winks at Gilbert, who is fighting May for his hat this time.

Ro gives him a hug then nods at Anne briefly, signalling her retreat. Tears fill Anne's eyes now, and Gilbert pats his pocket of his jacket. Where is it? He always keeps one there. Oh yes! He buried it in his trouser pocket the day of the eclipse.

'I've got something for you,' he says, softly, pulling out his handkerchief. 'Open it.'

Anne does so, and finding nothing but a clean square of Irish lawn grimaces again and wipes her eyes.

The heart pendant! Where is it, he is sure he kept it there. This is the perfect time to give it to her, and suddenly it has gone.

'Are – are you giving me this handkerchief, is that what you mean?' Anne says, folding it.

At that moment John appears – at his wife's insistence, of course – and the conductor blasts his whistle, right by Gilbert's ear.

'Here, hold this,' says Gilbert, and thrusts May into his hands, before placing his on either side of Anne's dear face.

'I'm giving you this,' he declares, and then in front of everyone presses his lips upon hers. The mix of heat and tenderness almost brings Anne to her knees. The soft groan when he releases her saying all he cannot say.

John stands there, mouth agog. The conductor has gone violet, and little May gurgles with glee. Gilbert salutes those two men, and clasping May to his hip, jumps into the carriage.

'I love you Anne Shirley! I love you!' he says, as the engine pulls him away.

'The impudence!' says the conductor.

'The scamp!' John grumbles.

'That boy!' Ro utters.

'Oh Blythe!' Anne grins.

Guest: Thanks, cool review, especially the callback to the line about Dr Dave. Did you spot all the hints about May? I'm dying to know how many readers suspected that. :o)

NotMrsR: holiday poolside, sounds fab. I did have fun writing my own police procedural. I have just discovered a Welsh one on N*tflix called Hinterland, which I absolutely loved! Have you seen it?

Guest: I am all for the hero being with his girl, but as this story is a romance AND an adventure, something had to get in the way. What matters is that the separation is on Gilbert's terms, not his father's, even if John Blythe gets what he wants. I am a reluctant convert to the Glen, but I love that place now, I hope it shows in the coming chapters.

Guest: I'm having fun writing about Gilbert in the Glen too.

Cate: Oh yes, this was a total tip o the hat to Lydia and Wickham, and I daresay Ruby and Davy would love the comparison! I had to go back and see what the last line was, and I agree, that's my one too :o)

Guest: Got to get the humour in there, it can't be all drama and hijinks!

Drink: There is nothing I love more than readers going, 'Ugh that character is awful', and then a day later coming back with, 'Actually they do have a point.' I like to keep readers guessing because that keeps them turning the 'pages', but I am utterly, totally, and completely AGAINST 'subverting your expectations'. If I have written this with any skill your inklings will turn out to be correct, but you still want to read along anyway because it's HOW they get there, not IF they get there, that keeps you hooked.

wow: If you read what I wrote to Drink then my response to you links perfectly. Because what you described is all about the HOW. How the characters learn and grow and fail and retreat and get back up again. When I think about who this Gilbert was in Anotherlea, and who he was in the opening chapters of Gilead, to who he is now, I can pinpoint each moment of greatness and each moment of failure, and it really excites me. To read what you wrote, wow, is so bloody satisfying, I just think, all those hours typing away at my table is worth it. Thank you!

Regina: Jury duty, I might need to hit you up for some tips later... Yes Charlottetown does need completing, there is so much more that needs to be said about that particular Anne and Gilbert. But the next thing I try (and I won't be alone!) will have a lot more laughs – and a lot more M moments too ;oP

FKAJ: Oooh, hello. I was just talking about you...

Lavinia: I hope you didn't wait too long :o)

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