Chapter 20: Keeping Christmas


Gilbert paid a flying visit to the Patterson Street manse on his way to Avonlea, staying just long enough to present Olly Blake with a real, official cowboy hat (purchased from a shopkeeper who had likely never seen a living cow), shake his head at a too-tall Gordon, and assure Phil and Jo that all was well in Boston. He had had a letter from Dean Blanchard at Redmond: Professor Hawlett was retiring and the medical school was organizing a conference in his honor in June. Gilbert was invited to present a paper on his research, and, of course, he would come by for Sunday dinner while he was in town. Just like old times.


Christmas dinner was much the same as the year before, except that Gilbert and Davy challenged the children — from 14-year-old Fred Wright down to 3-year-old Emily Keith — to a massive snowball fight that left the youngsters exhausted enough to play quietly in the sitting room for the rest of the day.

Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Harrison had outdone themselves, loading the table with geese and ham and a truly overwhelming number of side dishes. Millie Keith's pies exceeded their reputation; Cora's plum pudding was the last word in puddings. Diana contributed several bottles of raspberry cordial, winking mischievously at Gilbert as she poured.

Over tea, Mr. Harrison gave a boisterous impression of Davy trying to move his largest sow to shelter during a rainstorm, succeeding only when a clap of thunder scared the animal into a reckless flight that sent Davy sprawling in the mud. Davy countered with the tale of Mr. Harrison's ill-starred attempt to re-shingle his milking shed, which had resulted in his nailing his own sleeve to the roof, slipping, and requiring rescue. Gilbert laughed until John Blythe had to thump him on the back.

Later, seeing that Dora was occupied in pacing the floor with a fussy Nan, Gilbert helped Minnie May clear a round of dishes. Returning from the kitchen, he spoke quietly to Dora.

"Dora, have you had pudding yet?"

Dora blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes. "No. Nan won't let me put her down."

"Give her here," Gilbert said, reaching for the flaxen-haired toddler.

To Dora's surprise, Nan did not resist this transfer. Grateful for the respite, Dora smiled her thanks and went off to find a chair and a cup of tea.

Gilbert smiled into Nan's round, blue-eyed face and beeped her nose with a long, steady finger. Nan was unsure at first, but gradually relaxed into the game. When she let out a gurgling giggle, Gilbert pretended to drop her, relaxing his arm and catching her an instant later. Nan shrieked with laughter and patted his face. He spun her in a circle and was rewarded with her delight.

The room was thick with chatter and bustle, a dozen conversations flying at once and someone always moving in or out of a seat. Through the confusion, Gilbert chanced to catch Cora watching him, an expression of curiosity on her face.

Gilbert felt inexplicably that he had been discovered in some private moment. But why shouldn't he play with Nan? He was only giving Dora a break. Embarrassed, he shrugged at his mother and turned back to Nan's cries of "More! More!"


The next morning, Gilbert was pleased to find Lone Willow Farm quiet. Mrs. Barry had mentioned within his hearing that Diana and the children would be coming to Orchard Slope to help put the house back in order, and Gilbert expected that this would be his best opportunity to catch Fred alone.

Sure enough, he found Fred in the barn, speaking softly to the cows.

"Hello, Fred."

"Gil! Didn't expect you today."

"Thought maybe you could use a hand with the chores."

Fred chuckled, scratching one of the cows between the eyes. "That's what children are for. I'm just out here visiting."

"Do cows make good company?" Gilbert asked.

"The best. You can tell them anything and they just go on calm as you please. Puts things in perspective."

"Must be nice."

Fred did not reply. If there was one thing he had learned from talking with cows, it was that people often managed to arrive at what they meant to say if they were given time and space and a sympathetic ear.

After a moment, Gilbert took a deep breath. "Can I ask you something, Fred?"

"Of course."

Gilbert exhaled. "It's only . . . I've been wondering . . . does Diana ever . . . talk about Anne?"

Fred started slightly to hear Anne's name from Gilbert's lips, but he covered well.

"Of course. Nearly every day."

"Really?"

Fred leaned against a stall and crossed his arms. "Sure. She'll mention a poem or a book that Anne loved, or tell Small Anne Cordelia a story about the mischief they used to get into, or say she's taking flowers over to the graveyard. Maybe not every day, but more often than not."

"I've never heard her do it," Gilbert said flatly.

"Not around you, no," Fred conceded.

"Do the two of you have some sort of list of topics to avoid with me?" Gilbert asked, a hint of irritation in his voice.

"I don't know that there was ever anything written down, exactly . . ." Fred replied, swiping a broad hand across the back of his neck.

"Why?"

Fred's face was flushed, but he did not shirk. "We were following your lead. If you didn't mention a particular topic yourself, we didn't either."

"And the main topic I never mentioned was . . ."

". . . Anne."

Gilbert grimaced. "I just . . . couldn't. But I've been wondering lately whether it might help to talk about her more."

"Has she been on your mind lately?"

Gilbert snorted.

"Sorry," said Fred. "Stupid question."

It was not quite warm in the barn, but it was cozy. The soft breath of the cows, the scent of hay, bright and fragrant with the memory of summer, the dim refuge from the piercing dazzle of sun on snow.

"You can always talk about her with me," Fred offered. "Or not, if you aren't ready. But it might be a relief to talk about her with someone who cares."

"Thanks, Fred," Gilbert said. "Maybe not right now. But sometime."

"Is that . . . it?" Fred asked, trying to read the expression on Gilbert's face and failing utterly.

"For now."

"Are you sure?"

Gilbert did not answer, scuffing his boot in the hay dust on the barn floor.

"Things going alright in Boston?"

"Fine. Same as always."

"Really?" Fred asked. "I would have thought something had changed."

Gilbert stopped his fidgeting. "What makes you say that?"

"You. You're . . . I don't know. Different. Or maybe the same, but like I haven't seen you in a while. You looked like you were enjoying yourself yesterday."

"I've always enjoyed Christmas," Gilbert shrugged.

"Have you?" Fred asked. "Well, you certainly seemed to be in the spirit this year. I don't remember much in the way of snowball fights or baby-bouncing in the recent past."

Gilbert exhaled. "So keeping Christmas means something's wrong with me?"

"I didn't say wrong. I said different."

"I'm fine, Fred."

Fred peered at his friend, trying to decide whether to give voice to his hunch.

"Gil?" he asked cautiously, "Did you . . . meet someone?"

"What? No!" Gilbert shook his head vigorously. "No, no. Nothing like that. No."

Fred scrutinized his face, unconvinced that his flush had anything to do with a brisk walk on a cold morning.

"If you say so."

Gilbert snorted. "Go back to your cows, Fred. They have as much to tell as I do."

"You know we'll always be right here if you need to talk," Fred said. "Or you could write. Cows don't get much mail."

"Thanks, Fred. But I really don't have anything to say at the moment."


On the last evening of the old year, Cora Blythe sat at her kitchen table with a cup of tea, waiting for Gilbert to return from the graveyard. It was still early, but John was already in bed, exhausted from a week of festive visiting. He had wanted to wait with Cora, but she had given him a stern look; he was too tired to resist.

It was full dark when Gilbert arrived, stomping his boots on the porch and shaking snow from his winter wraps. Cora rose from her seat and ladled out a bowl of steaming soup, cut a slice of bread, poured another cup of tea. She was back in her chair before he opened the door.

"Thanks," Gilbert said, dropping into a chair and digging into the hot food. His nose and cheeks were red and wind-blasted, his ears pink despite the cap he had worn.

"You stayed out a long time in this weather," Cora said, not quite scolding.

Gilbert shrugged and sipped his soup. "I don't go often."

He did not elaborate; Cora had not expected him to. There was little enough to say about that sort of visit, and less other people could understand. It was enough for her to watch her son eat, to see his normal, healthy color return to his face.

When Gilbert moved on to tea, Cora slid a plate of jam tarts across the table toward him.

"I had an interesting talk with your father a few weeks ago," she said.

"About?"

"Boston."

"Ah," Gilbert pulled a tight smile. "That talk. He finally cornered you?"

Cora chuckled, "I finally let him get it off his chest. It was bothering him."

"He just wants to make sure you're taken care of."

"I know."

"You'll always be welcome wherever I am," Gilbert said earnestly. "I hope you and Dad have many more years together, but my home is your home."

Cora smiled, but she did not need this reassurance. That Gilbert would fulfill his obligations was a truth so obvious it didn't need to be stated. What she needed were answers to questions she couldn't ask directly.

"Would you ever consider moving back to Avonlea?" she asked in a casual tone.

Gilbert hesitated a moment, though not, she suspected, out of indecision. "No," he replied. "I can't."

"What about Kingsport, then? Charlottetown?"

"No . . ." he said slowly. "I think I need to be in Boston."

"Harvard must be a very good job."

Gilbert pressed his lips together, but nodded. "Yes. It is. I . . . don't think I could leave it now."

Cora sipped her own tea. "In that case, I don't mind coming to Boston, should the occasion arise. Though I would make one request of you."

"Anything."

"When I die, bring me back to Avonlea. Bury me beside your father."

Gilbert neither spoke nor nodded. For a long minute, he sat, staring into his tea, not meeting Cora's eye.

"Can I ask you something?" he mumbled at last.

"Of course, dear."

"Why is Marilla buried next to Matthew?"

Cora sighed. "Because she asked it of me. The last time I visited, I asked if there was anything I could do for her, and she asked that I bury her next to Matthew."

"To leave space for me?"

Cora paused for a heartbeat, but answered. "Yes, I believe that was her intention."

Gilbert exhaled. "You know, I'm beginning to think Marilla didn't have much faith in me. A house to hide in if I flunked out of med school; a grave all nice and ready whenever I wanted it . . ."

Cora managed a smile. "People show their love in different ways, dear. She'd be very proud of you."

"I suppose I appreciate the gesture, even if it is a bit morbid."

"You don't want it?" Cora asked, observing closely.

"I didn't say that."

Cora sensed an opportunity and took it. "Is there somewhere else you'd rather be buried?"

"No."

"Do you think that might ever change?"

Gilbert sipped his tea, swallowed, did not answer right away. "Probably not."

Cora reached across the table and took his hand. "I hope it does."


Author's Note:

A special thank you to Beau2809, who explained to me that it was Marilla (not Cora or Diana) who arranged her own burial as another gesture of love toward Gilbert. Thank you for that insight, Beau2809 — I agree, and I wrote Cora's scene here for you :)

Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing! I have been excited about posting that concert chapter for weeks now and relished all your reactions. I'm so glad to hear that many of you had strong feelings about it, whether you enjoyed it or decided that things were getting too real with "Marbert" (thanks for that, Catiegirl).

Now is probably a good time to say that "The Sun and the Other Stars" will have 33 chapters and an epilogue.