The characters are created by LM Montgomery, and are her property... the original characters & storyline are unique to this story are copyright 2021, by Nell Lime.
AUTHOR"s NOTE: LeenerMS thanks for the review and enjoy some good laughs and sighs, especially today and Sunday. Anneomine Yes! There'll be some awkward explaining to do from Anne down the road to Davy and others. But it'll be a while ;D LOL. TLWtwl yes, it was Jane for a while, but this was the summer Jane married her rich man from out west, it was someone else, but I'd have to dig through, and I think if I remember right it was mentioned to be a man by Davy to Anne but I'm not certain, and truthfully not important to our story. So onto how awkward it is for Anne to be sharing a room with a man, not only a man but one obsessively secretly in love with her.
— Gilbert —
Saturday June 19th, 5:30pm
Boarding House, Brookfield, Nova Scotia
"Anne?" I woke, blinking as Anne rubbed her head that had bumped against mine.
She had that look of the school ma'am and was glaring at me. "Gilbert John Blythe how could you lie?"
"Lie?"
"Checking us in to this hotel as Mr. & Mrs. Gilbert Blythe. Really."
My mind whirled, but it was filled with dreams and snippets of dreams and I ached all over. And was cold. "Anne? I… Is this a dream? What are you doing here?"
She pulled back staring at me. "Gilbert…"
"Ma'am?" Someone was knocking at the door.
"Yes?" Anne went to the door, where a young man, likely fifteen came in carrying a copper hip bath. The young man sat it in one of the few open areas. I glanced about the room. The double bed on which I laid took up much of the room. To the right between it and the outer wall was a dresser, with in the other corner a small table with two wooden chairs. In the center across from the bed was a stove, the left of it a sink with a sink, something I'd seen once or twice before. A mirror stood above it with a small cabinet. The man set the tub between the sink and stove, lit the stove, and within minutes had the stove heating up an was out quickly with only a backwards glance that the small cabinet between the stove and sink that I could not quite see, housed some pots and more coal.
She sighed turning back to me. "What's done is done. You really don't remember?"
"This is a dream isn't it? I mean if you're here…"
"This isn't a dream Gilbert." Her voice had softened. "You're sick, and burning up with a fever. Well, I'll get the hip tub filled for you and give you some privacy to wash. She began to work across the room and I fell back to sleep. She woke me again, more gently this time, then like a babe while she flushed quite red, she helped me out of my outer things until I was down to my shirt and pants and undergarments. She'd then laid fresh drawers and my nightshirt and towel on the chair she'd moved next to the tub, a rag and a bar of soap and instructions for me to wash my hair.
I'd dragged myself to the mirror over the sink. I had flecks of dried stomach contents on my face, hair, and clothes, and my shirt was soaked with sweaty drench. Memories of that afternoon, running into Anne, loosing my stomach twice came back more clearly pushing the dreams out of the way in the fever. I pushed my way to the hot water, slowly finished undressing though I felt I had little energy left and sank down onto the floor next to the hip tub. I dunked my head, washing the worst of the speckles of my hair, then fell into the tub and washed myself.
Starting to doze again, I pushed the last of my strength to the bed. I'd just rest a second before I dressed. Landing on my stomach. I didn't have the strength to wrestle with the under garments and nightshirt.
I was back in my boyhood days. Back when I'd had the measles and had been stuck in bed in the dark so I wouldn't ruin my eyes. I remember my mother coming in to wash me, spreading a lotion to help with the itching as she whispered comforting words. How old was I? Six, Seven? She'd helped me wash in the gloomy dark even though it was high summer and likely noon. Then crawl into bed.
She was helping me into my nightshirt now. Only I remembered her singing and now she wasn't. My eyes blinked open. Oh, there was light in the room, late afternoon sunlight coming through a window, near a table that sat under it. I saw two suit cases and it wasn't mother dressing me. But the reddest Anne I'd ever seen. She was maneuvering my arms into the night shirt, blushing and mumbling on and on about Davy and twins. What was Anne doing in my room? At least I was lying on my stomach and from the feel of it a sheet was thrown over my lower half. But then I blinked as she lifted my head to slip the head opening of the night shirt down my head.
She'd struggled over me, leaning over to pull and shove the night shirt down to cover me. I began to pray she wouldn't turn me over. She did though and I did my best to think of anything but Anne. So I focused on Aunt Mary Maria Blythe and her last visit for Christmas. That helped a lot. And the sheet at least with a hazy glance down didn't cause the ultimate mortification of making my thoughts clear. So I fell back to sleep dreaming about Aunt Mary Maria and it wasn't a good dream. But then it was Aunt Mary Maria and I needn't say more. Well, she's really not an aunt, one of father's cousins.
The world then shifted away from Aunt Mary Maria and instead I was back to the day I returned to Avonlea school room and I saw the new face. The little redhead. I'd winked at her. She'd ignored me. I'd then reached over, yanked on her braid and hissed "Carrots."
The next thing I knew she'd broken a slate on my head and I hadn't even comprehended if it was hers or mine. And there began the fight to win Anne Shirley's favor and forgiveness. I spilled into other memories. Other dreams.
I dreamed of washing. One time that Mother had made me do the laundry. And I'd done a scrape almost on level with Anne Shirley's childhood scrapes. So glad she never learned of it. I'd used mother's good table cloth at the age of nine to make a cape. She'd made me do the washing and I'd rubbed a hole right into the center of that good table cloth.
Running water woke me then. And I blinked my eyes open to a sight that took my breath away. Hanging from a rope strung across the rooms were various clothing items and between the sink and the stove where the room was warmest, and the hip bath had been placed Anne leaned over in her dress, her shining red hair leaning over the tub as she washed it, hanging down perhaps nearly two feet. It'd been years since I'd seen it down. Perhaps back in our school teacher days the last time I'd seen it loose and down as she'd worn it up for years.
"Anne-Girl. Your hair is the most beautiful in all of Canada. It's like the sunrise on the Island shore." I smiled at her. I'd forgotten where that name came from.
She stared at me wide eyed, then yelped as she slipped suddenly and the next thing I knew she was soaking wet, sitting dress and all in the tub, and the splash from it even reached my skin which was a relief, from the alternating heat and cold I felt.
My eyes blinked shut then. And I was back to that night. Was it only that morning or was it years ago. Sitting beside, watching one after another of the patients die. Oh most recovered. But loosing them. Especially Little Anne. She'd fought so hard and lost everything. I'd not let myself sob yet. And now the grief overwhelmed. Just like I'd lost Anne I'd lost Little Anne. The cries of grief filled me. I didn't care who heard as I wailed. For I watch as Anne Gardiner leads little Anne away.
But then arms wrapped around me, rocking me in my fears and grief. My head was nuzzled into a bosom, and I thought of one of my earliest memories of nuzzling into my mother after I'd fallen from a tree as we waited for the Doctor to arrive, from my parents stories I was three then. Only this wasn't mother's everyday dress. But the most dainty and thinnest lawn, like a handkerchief, with dainty lace. Anne, my Anne. My dreams moved and shifted through various dreams, and nightmares, threatening to pull me into the void, but like an anchor, Anne held me tight as I slept.
—*—*—*—*—
Author's Note: Can you just imagine what Anne's mind is going through with Gilbert saying something poetic about her red hair? FYI Likely the next chapter will be posted tomorrow vs Sunday.