Hi, sorry this post was a few days late. Something else took up my time this week and that was plotting out a new story with the best writing partner in the world, Formerly Known As J. We've been mates for a couple of years now, even got together and got nicely sozzled a few times (yes FanFiccers met each other In Real Life! Crazy!) Anyhoo, we've been mulling over this story for a while and have finally nutted it out, but we've never written a story together before and are not really sure how it will go. We're incredibly different in many ways, but in these things we both agree: We both love Maud, we both love hot, and we both love funny. I'll be sure to keep you posted, but for anyone who was wondering why I was late, all the spare time I usually give to this story went to another this week. Hope that's cool. kwak.

Chapter twenty-nine

The good news is that Anne finds the heart pendant just a few days later, the bad news is it is threaded around a black velvet ribbon that is circling Ruby's neck. Of course, Anne had no idea it had been intended for her, though she can't help mention in her letter to Gilbert that it is not the sort of keepsake Davy usually sends. Davy Rossi wraps his gifts in layers of meaning as well as paper, ensuring the recipient spends long hours pondering exactly what he means. He does like a girl to believe he is in love with her – even if he is never prepared to say it.

He as good as said it to Ruby however. The sweet pink heart declared it to the world, and if the world didn't catch on quickly enough, Ruby is more than happy to nudge it along by making sure every garment she wears shows off his token to best effect. Within the week all the young girls of Avonlea take to wearing collarless dresses and velvet ribbons. Anyone older than eighteen however, looks on the craze with a skeptical eye. Ruby might insist Davy is privateering on the China Sea, no one else can prove otherwise. But this cheap trinket is no diamond the size of a hazelnut, it isn't even a thin gold band, yet the last of the unmarried Gillis girls is now calling herself young Mrs Rossi.

What 'old' Mrs Rossi thinks about this no one is prepared to say, not Mina Pye, or even Rachel Lynde.

Ruby tried calling her Mother Rossi this afternoon,' Anne wrote. 'Every eye of the sewing circle dropped and every ear opened as they waited to hear what would happen. But rather than reject it outright, Marilla suggested Ruby call her by her christian name instead. Well, I may be sentimental enough to believe the heart pendant is a marriage token, but Marilla? I suppose she is a little addle-headed at the moment. Martin suddenly announced he wants to go to Trintorp to meet Dora's new family. He was reading the Echo to Marilla on Monday (to think just a year ago he couldn't read at all!) and was very taken by a story about a new steamer that can cross the Atlantic in as little as nine days.

Oh, that there was a way that could get me to you in as little as nine seconds...

Thereafter Anne described exactly what she would do once she reached her destination.

Gilbert had foolishly opened Anne's letter in the breakfast room, in the presence of his Aunt Jen and little May, and uses the excuse of choking on his coffee to dash back up to his room. He soon feels the lack of privacy here too, however, as Jen's Great Aunt Rhodaline stares down at him from the gilded frame of her portrait. Turning his back to her he attempts another adjustment. Today is his seventh day without Anne and he is seriously considering keeping a hat with him at all times to disguise the unpredictable rises in his trousers. He stuffs Anne's letter in his pocket and opens the tall sash window. His bedroom faces south and a coppice of oak and birch, that keeps the eight fireplaces at Acacia House burning. Beyond the trees a steep hill rises, matched by another on the other side of the St Mary river. Gilbert closes his eyes, breathing in the sweet smell of dew emanating from the shadowy valley, and then scaling the window sill leaps twelve feet to the ground.

The coppice isn't as thick as he thought, and he climbs the hill, working his muscles harder and harder till the ache he feels in his thighs outstrips the one throbbing between them. He is almost halfway up the hill before his lungs beg him to stop, and spying a flattish glade about the size of Saul Gillaley's bed, he sprawls on his back on the fresh, wet grass and opens Anne's letter again. Not long after he is unbuttoning his trousers, brow crumpling, fingers shaking he's that desperate for release, when to his horror he hears someone giggling behind a tall white ash.

Gilbert scrambles up quickly, and hears the giggle again, before catching sight of a woman's red bonnet disappearing into the woods. His first instinct is to run after her – to do what, exactly? – then he slumps down onto the grass and buttons himself up. It's now he notices a small sort of path, a trail really, leading further up the hill. At dinner last night his uncle had said this hill lead nowhere. The hill on the other side of the river lead to Lowbridge; the river itself lead to Harbour Head, and further to Four Winds Point. But there was nothing beyond the grand old neighbourhood of Upper Glen where Acacia House stood, nothing of note that is.

When Gilbert heard this on his first evening, he took his uncle at his word. He found David Blythe to be a hale yet willowy fellow, if not exactly jolly then learned and likeable. The man prided himself on his fine library, his well lit study and the antechamber attached to it, known in the Glen as the Laboratory. He took so much time showing his nephew these three rooms, there was no chance to investigate the rest of the house; dinner was about to be served after all, and a gentleman must get changed. Gilbert was thankful his mother insisted he pack his dress coat and bow tie along with his beloved old quilt, and suitably attired he dashed down the stairs – though the bannister was tempting – to seek out May and his Aunt. She had whisked the child from his arms the moment they first arrived, and informed him over the soup course that the dear sweet child was sleeping. This presented Gilbert with a perfect opportunity to talk about May's deafness, when David swiftly cut him off. Learned and likeable he might be, but he was also used to getting his way: from deciding on every topic discussed at dinner, to his rooms being situated on the sunniest part of the house.

That detail wasn't discovered until the following day, when Gilbert, sitting in the murk of the breakfast room with Jen and May, was summoned to David's study. The sunlight and warmth he found there lit up something inside him and he spent the rest of the day at David's desk or the lab or the library, enraptured with all that he found. It was the first time Gilbert had every book and piece of equipment at his fingertips, and if it wasn't, there was the maid to fetch it and bring it to him on a tray. All the while David sat at Gilbert's elbow, egging him on, or smiling benignly. On the third day David only had the morning to devote to his young nephew, leaving promptly for his rounds at a quarter past eleven. Again Gilbert enjoyed the sun streaming over the pages of each book, as he lost himself in John Tyndall's essay on capnometry, and Mary Treat's Chapters on Ants. He found another of hers, Injurious Insects of Farm and Field, and read it till late in the afternoon. His father would have been appalled to find Gilbert hadn't stirred from the house all day, but when David returned punctually at five, he was sincerely delighted. He then informed the maid to extend the four seater table and add four more chairs. Two gentleman were dining with them that evening; the third and fourth chair, Gilbert discovered, were because David liked everything balanced and neat.

That night Gilbert was easily able to hold his own thanks to his day in his uncle's library. There was none of the herb talk of the night before, or questions about the infant girl's ears, and Mr Eggers and Dr Lambert were suitably impressed. The next day it was back to the library and so it was for the rest of the week. Then Anne's letter arrived, and Gilbert's composure disappeared like the mist that hugged the hill each morning.

He folds Anne's letter and returns it to his pocket, head cocked as he studies the trail disappearing past the ash and further up the hill. He can't go up there now, not when there's a chance of bumping into the woman in the strange red bonnet – and not when she saw him with his trousers round his knees. Then again, there is no reason to suspect she lived up here. It was far more likely she was picking berries or seeking out her livestock. His uncle said there was nothing of note on that hill, but then his uncle also thought Gilbert should grow a nice moustache and a pair of fluffy sideburns while he was at it. He seemed to think Gilbert was eighty not twenty, and his body was beginning to feel it; stuck inside all day, crouched over a desk. The itch he felt earlier was not only due to Anne; his entire body longs to move and explore.

An hour later he has his satchel packed with his trusted tools, his flint, his knife, his penny pencil, some thread and hooks, a flask of water, and his great grandmother's blanket. His aunt had returned it to his room, no doubt because May had quilts and comforters enough. It feels good to have it with him again, and as he climbs higher and the winds grow cooler, he stuffs it down the front of his shirt. He has never been at such an elevation before. Prince Edward Island is rolling rather than mountainous, but the hill he climbs is steep and sheer. There is no way the woman in the bonnet could have gone this far.

With each step forward he feels more relaxed, more sure of himself; his gaze focused on his footsteps and not on the view beyond. It comes as a huge surprise then, when the path takes a steep drop downward, and he realises it is not the same hill rising before him but another, blue and purplish in the mist. He throws his blanket over a rotting log and sits; guzzling down half his water and enjoying the way the cool liquid spills over his chin and saturates his shirt. Within moments of catching his breath he detects a faint smell of smoke. It is not only mist that shrouds the trees before him, but a campfire. It couldn't be the bonneted woman, surely, even Anne would struggle to climb up here.

He barely has time to get to his feet when a man and a woman approach him, the woman's face all but obscured by her pointed red bonnet. The rest of her garb is modest, no jacket, no bustle, no lace, the one concession to beauty an exquisitely embroidered waistcoat, with stitches so fine Gilbert is reminded of...

'My blanket,' he blurts, pointing to it. 'The stitching is the same.'

The woman giggles again, her calloused brown hand going up to her mouth and surprisingly bright white teeth. The man next to her grunts.

'Where'd you get that?' he asks roughly. He lifts his old felt hat and Gilbert gets a good look at his eyes. They are differently shaped to his, in half moons like his mother, and there are two deep creases between his black brows that make him look like he is perpetually frowning. His large square hand reaches the blanket. Gilbert stands in his way.

'Why do you want to know?' he says stiffly.

'My people made that.'

Gilbert shrugs. 'Then they're my people too. My mother's grandmother was Nespe...' He realises now he never learned her last name. She was always Nespe, from the sandstone shores west of Avonlea.

'Nespe who?'

'Nespe Redrock,' Gilbert finishes lamely.

The man spits in a way that would make Fred Wright proud. 'Never heard of her,' he utters, then wipes his hand over his mouth, as if hungry, starving, to get at the blanket. 'Don't think you're going to convince anyone up here to sell you another for a bag of sugar and a bottle of rum –'

'Hey,' Gilbert cuts in, 'I know its real worth.'

'Which is why you use it for your little picnics,' the man finishes.

He turns to the woman beside him and motions for them to retreat. The woman ignores him. But it looks like the man is used to this and he trudges back down the hill and the campfire burning there.

'We met before,' Gilbert says, turning to her, 'in the clearing below? I'm sorry Ma'am, and beg your pardon, I had no idea you were there.'

He barely finishes speaking when the woman starts shaking her head, signalling she does not understand him. Gilbert is so flustered he can't help carry on, hoping she will somehow get his meaning. If she doesn't, if she tells that man in the old felt hat what she saw, it won't just be the blanket he'll lose, but a possibly a couple of teeth. 'I was lying down,' he says, placing his hands under his cheek, and tilting his head as if in sleep. 'I was... I was tired – sleepy, and I heard you,' here he cups his hand over his ear, and makes an awkward laugh. The woman laughs too, then stops suddenly, when she hears what Gilbert says next. 'I saw your bonnet behind a tree – the white ash – agamok.'

'Agamok,' she says, her brown eyes bright with comprehension.

Gilbert nods till his head feels like it's about to come off, and almost feels like laughing himself when she beckons him with a swift lift of her chin. He follows her past the log he had been sitting on, and she places her hands on a the trunk of a tree. Its thick brown bark like a basket weave that has been pulled open.

'Agamok.'

Gilbert glances at the white ash and nods again, then prods himself in the chest. 'Blythe,' he says and points to her, astonished to hear her say, 'Claudine.' It occurs to him she might speak French, but when he tries the little he knows she starts shaking her head again. For the rest of the morning they barely speak, though he and Claudine share a fascinating conversation. He learns that the hill they are on is called Wopk, or Morning Light, and that the felt hatted man is her cousin, Sam Sark. By the time Sark returns the two of them are talking with their hands about tree bark – or what she calls maskwe – and in particular bapkook, or the birch bark that is easy to peel. Claudine found him a perfect specimen, with bark like the finest parchment. Gilbert needs it to record everything he is learning, he never thought to bring his book with him.

Sark stands above them both, his frown so deep his eyebrows knit together, giving Gilbert the distinct impression he will not allow Claudine to sass him this time.

She presses her hands together now, and closes her eyes in sleep. Then cups one hand in a circle, arcing it over her arm like a rising sun.

'Sleep, dawn,' Gilbert says, repeating the sign. 'Tomorrow?'

'Agamok,' Claudine says again.

'You want to meet by the white ash in the morning?'

Sark grunts at Gilbert with reluctant admiration. 'You catch on quick. Deenie wants you to come with us, we're huntin' for young blue spruce.'

'For chest medicine?'

'For pain, gets rid of it real good. But you need the young cones, have to boil 'em straight after you pick 'em, then they have to soak for days. Takes a while, but the gum you get is powerful good. We know where a decent sized stand of 'em lie, 'bout a days trek from here. So what do you say, young Blanket, reckon you're up for the hike?'

A instinctive smile threatens to ruin the scowl Gilbert gives him, and he clears this throat and utters sharply, 'My name is Blythe.'

'That's what I said,' says Sark, grabbing Claudine by the elbow.

Together they walk down to their camp fire, the flames bright against the dark of the woods. Gilbert rolls up his blanket, and though he feels warm, stuffs it inside his shirt. Everything else goes into the satchel and he gives Claudine a final wave.

'Hey Blanket, we'll see you tomorrow,' Sark hollers, 'if you can keep your trousers up!'

...

* privateering means working on a ship as a private citizen rather than a representative of the Navy. Governments often commissioned privateers to capture others and seize property, with the promise they will take a share in the prize. It was a risky but quick way for anyone to make a fast buck, even Naval Officers who are supposed to be on shore leave ;o)

* John Tyndall and Mary Treat are well known scientists of the period. Treat's book on Injurious Insects was a massive bestseller. Tyndall was tight with Pasteur.

* Mi'kmaq words, phrases and names come from the website 20 000 Names from Around the World

...

Cate: that's a lot of love there, darling, you're making me blush :o) I was really curious to know what you would make of the letters, if it was something that resonated with you. I liked that fire scene too, though Laurie is a scream to write. I get why Maud was so taken with Davy Keith, even if her audience was all, Will you just write more about Gilbert please! Thank you for your generous encouragement, Catiegirl, you're such a boss!

Regina: glad you survived jury duty, love. And surprised you didn't pick up on May, I thought if anyone would, you would. It makes me feel proud in a way, to have smuggled in that little detail. As for the heart necklace, it doesn't have any of the special significance it had in the original story. There it was a symbol of Gilbert's humour and self deprecation as well undying love (nice work, Maud) but in Gilead they already love each other, so I am not so bothered by the idea of passing the token on.

Everyone: for readers who remembered the necklace had an adventure in RD, it's time to let you in on a little secret. It came about because I made a mistake. I thought Gilbert gave it to her during third year and Bertha Willis (magnificent between the lines writer extraordinaire) politely pointed out Anne received it in the fourth. As the mistake was already posted I had to invent a reason why it took another year for Anne to receive it, and that's how the mystery of the pink heart necklace (wonderfully narrated in Diana's diary, Journalette) came about, in RD4.

Guest: sorry to keep you waiting longer than usual, last week got rather busy but I got there in the end. Thanks for the nudge, it makes me happy to know someone is waiting :o)

GGG: Yes you are correct, nary a syllable wasted, and I mean that literally. When a sentence has no rhythm I get very pissed off. I'm kinda stoked no one picked up on May, I kept waiting for someone to say, why is she always sleeping through all that noise? It makes me glad to know the machinations of the other characters held your attention, there is no better compliment. I was also a reluctant convert to the Glen and felt the same way about Anne that you did. But writing CTA and MDAM and BA and TLOTWWLL and even PG helped me understand Anne so much more. Not saying Gilbert will end up in the Glen, it's just been very interesting to write my version of it.

NotMrsR: Have I told you how much I love your reviews, straight to the point. Yeah! The kiss at the end is a bit of a cliché, but you know he can't be earnest and upright (ahem) all the time. Cheeky Gilbert is the second best Gilbert (Naked Gilbert is obviously the best :op )

Guest: thanks. That kiss came out of nowhere, and when I thought it up, I thought, Shall I, shall I really? And then Gilbert said, kwak you have absolutely zero say in this, I am kissing my girl!

Guest: you can PM me and I will tell you everything, otherwise you'll just have to wait and see :o)

Lizzy: When I imagined this story I saw Ro and Gilbert spending all this time together in the stone cottage, and then it didn't happen. I knew why, but I also knew Gilbert had failed Ro in a way. In Kingsport he was on the verge of going home, and then he got home and forgot who made him take up herbalism in the first place. I think you have to do that though, strike out on your own, but it's just as important to have something to go back to :o)

wow: that's the vibe I was going for, bad ass Gilbert! You're awesome wow, thank you!

Guest: yeah, I think I said before it was important that he go to the Glen on his own terms. Characters, heroes especially, have to be active not passive, though I liked that Anne gave him a bit of a kick up the butt. Heroes need that too :o)

Drink: wins the prize this week for use of the word 'fricken'. You always make me smile :o)

FKAJ: Fearlessly taking a baby on a seventy mile train trip! Girl you are funny. Good thing I'm writing a story with you ;o)

Lavinia: thanks for the nudge, it means a lot to me. I'm all good, you know how you just get busy sometimes? Well last week was like that!

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