Hello and thank you for sticking with this story!

Love

MrsVonTrapp x

Chapter Six

I wonder if I've been changed in the night?

Outside in the dreamy darkness, Anne Shirley was living her own unique self-inflicted nightmare.

"Ours?" Gilbert repeated hoarsely, hazel eyes wide on hers, his dark brows making a disbelieving line above the faint shadow of what was once his ghastly bruise.

His face looked as shocked as it had that dread, dreadful day in the orchard of Patty's Place, when she had rejected him so cuttingly, and with so little care. She could barely bring herself to meet his eyes, now, any more than she had then, let alone answer the pleading question within their depths.

She rubbed at her bare arms, suddenly cold with the stark realisation of what she had just done. After years of safeguarding herself against the pain of Gilbert's presence – and later his absence - and numbing herself with the balm of Roy's attentions, she felt she had just ripped off her skin to expose her scared, stuttering heart.

"Anne?"

"G-Gilbert, I – "

"Anne?" The separate call for her seemed to bounce off the walls of the little courtyard, and they both turned towards it, startled as deer.

"Gil, I have to go…"

"But Anne!"

"If I don't they'll send Mother Gordon after me…"

"I don't care!" he offered unevenly, seemingly not in command of his vocal chords.

Her face crumpled. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry – for everything!"

He watched her go, frozen where he stood, head buzzing with the incredible and, only a month ago, seemingly inconceivable thought.

Ours.

Ours Ours Ours.

The Pool of Tears…

The pretty redheaded bridesmaid and lucky fiancée of Mr Gardner must have been a very firm friend of the bride, several matrons could later be found remarking, if her constant waterfall of tears that evening was anything to go by.

She cried when she caught the bridal bouquet, though it was hardly sporting for the bride to have aimed it so obviously in her direction.

She wept during the extended farewells of the newlywed couple, before they headed off to the finest hotel in town for the evening, and then onwards on a tour of Nova Scotia.

She dashed at her tears when the indominable mother of the bride broke down herself, finally succumbing to her joy-sorrow; when she was politely farewelled by other guests; and when the father of the bride had a kind and grateful word for her as the festivities came to a close.

And she was weepy every time the excellent Mr Gardner tried to approach her, though busy as she was with her important duties he was largely unsuccessful in this endeavour.

She was, by all accounts, still crying when those other young, merry girls – blonde and brunette - took their titian-haired friend in hand (or by a supporting arm each) and ushered her up the stairs, to all enjoy a final evening together in the bride's girlhood rooms.

"Anne Shirley, what on earth is the meaning of all this?" Stella asked incredulously, and a touch severely, shutting and barring the door of Phil's bedroom behind them.

"You've been weepy all evening, Anne, and your eyes are puffing up!" Pris added, tutting.

"Can't a girl be emotional at her friend's wedding?" Anne sniffed, with desperate dismissiveness.

"Emotional, not hysterical," Stella pursed her lips, crossing her arms for emphasis.

"Gilbert looked worried sick about you too, Anne…" Pris worried further.

"Oh please don't bring Gilbert into this!"

"He would seem to be the only one who might talk some sense to you," Stella admonished.

"Sense or not, even he wouldn't get through Phil's mother," Pris contemplated.

"Alright then, Anne, you've no choice then but to talk to us."

"Stella, darling… Pris, dearest… there really is nothing wrong that a good night's sleep won't cure…"

"You must be completely worn out," Pris nodded in sympathy, crossing over to give her friend a squeeze.

"We don't want to harangue you, Anne… we're just worried," Stella conceded, more gently.

"Please let's not have a few silly tears ruin our last night together…" Anne gave a brave, bright smile, hopefully banishing any further conjecture.

Stella and Pris were mollified enough to change into their nightgowns and join Anne in Phil's enormous four poster bed, where the three shared memories of the day and general reminiscences of the last several years, before Anne saw each of them tiredly wander off to the twin beds set up in the adjoining room. Which left only her, turning down the lamp and willing sleep to take her, and instead staring sightlessly - and now, ironically, dry eyed - into the endless darkness.

Gilbert stared sightlessly into the endless darkness, and willed sleep to take him.

If he slept, at least he would dream, and there was a more than average chance that his dream would feature he and Anne, and at least then he would have a chance to do and say what he clearly hadn't had the opportunity or presence of mind to attempt that evening.

What he might have actually done or said however still eluded him. Ours, Anne had whispered. She had been thinking what their wedding might have been like while rushed off her feet at Phil's, and whilst he had spent most of the evening pretending to be Roy. It was a thought he used to expend a reasonable amount of time on himself… his wedding to Anne Shirley, his one and only love. His one mercurial, maddening, frustrating and in every way impossible love.

His love… but could he now also be hers?

What did any of it actually mean?

He had spent a lifetime decoding her words and actions… deciphering every glare and gaze and glance… but how, now, to interpret her admission?

Ours.

Gilbert threw off the blanket to stalk to the window, pacing impatiently, with none of the outer calm Jo had exhibited the previous morning, or evidently enjoyed by the groomsmen next door, deep in blissful repose, if their steady snores were anything to go by. What he wouldn't give for his friend's advice now… or Fred's… or Diana's… or Phil's or Stella's or Pris's… virtually anyone who could enlighten him as to what to do, how to act, what to say. He had mistrusted his instincts regarding Anne for years, because everything he did seemed destined to end in disaster. But now they had begun again, and they were in a good, happy place, and he was paralyzed with fear lest he inadvertently destroy that again.

So what should he do? Wait for her to speak, to raise the subject again? Ask her what she was thinking last night? Randomly impersonate Roy at the next formal gathering to trigger a response?

I think you might do something better with the time… than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers… *

He groaned loudly in frustration, slumping back on the bed, head in his hands. If there was one thing he knew about Anne Shirley, it was that he couldn't back her into a corner or badger her into giving an answer. She had to come at things on her own terms and in her own time. Heck, he had even warned himself about this – let her write their story from now on…

His curly, mussed head shot up at the thought, bleary hazel eyes wide.

Let the writer write it.

Or, more accurately in this moment, write something to the writer.

A letter. He could write her a letter. Something she could digest in her own time and at her own pace. Something that did not demand, but merely explained.

Something that offered, but did not take.

Gilbert was in a frenzy now, riffling through the drawers of the little desk in the corner, thanking Mrs Gordon to the heavens for having the foresight to furnish even the former stables with writing paper.

He took out a sheaf, strode over to his bags and located his handsome fountain pen, the one the A.V.I.S crew had gifted when he first left for Redmond. He felt the ghosts of his friends and former schoolmates now, urging him on… or perhaps that was just the midnight hour talking, he chuckled tiredly to himself.

He wouldn't give Anne a sonnet, like Roy. He would give her himself. Every word, every joy, every sorrow, every regret… would be his and his alone, for her.

He wrote for hours, until he thought his hand would fall off, until he knew that he had dripped his soul onto every page; infusing every line with his love and longing.

It wasn't a medieval knight's cloak at her feet, or an extravagant courtly gesture. It was merely Gilbert Blythe writing to his old friend, wondering and wishing whether after all this time and all these false starts, they could still be something more.

Anne looked herself over in the glass the next morning, trying to read any subtle signs of difference; trying to fathom if any of the exterior she examined reflected the startling, sensational changes within.

How was a woman in love meant to look?

In love. The thought made her pulse flutter. In love… with Gilbert Blythe.

Gilbert.

She had seen him on the makeshift dance floor last night, and she had known. Known he was meant for her with a strumming certainty that had amazed her with its sharp, sudden clarity. Phil had said that she had known about Jo the first time she has heard him in the pulpit. Anne, though, had known Gilbert since the schoolroom, and the teasing boy was not always easy to reconcile with the man.

Not for the first time had she wondered what may have been different without Carrots and broken slates; without boyish bravado and injured pride. If she had first met Gilbert that drizzly day in the park by the pavilion, instead of Roy, where would they both be now?

Ours.

She had never really thought of that pronoun before in relation to him… that his and hers could actually be theirs. Or that instead of the me she had lived her life by, there could be an us.

It was staggering, stunning and… scary.

Why was she so scared of this, when she had spent two years without a moment's hesitation with Roy?

The truth was sobering. Roy hadn't meant this much to her… and so to have given him up did not herald devastation, but in the end was a relief, and she hoped, eventually, a kindness. Whereas Gilbert, she had belatedly realised, meant everything to her, and she had been the very last one to see it. To lose him now would be… unfathomable. And now that realisation… indeed, the revelation… was like a stab to her ribs... quick and painful and taking her breath with it. And all she was left with was not the exultation of her newfound love for him, but the fear it engendered in her. There were a great many people she had loved whom she had lost. Her parents… Matthew… Ruby. To open her heart to Gilbert – truly, completely, utterly – meant opening herself up again to the potential for loss. To love him was conditional upon the possibility of having to let him go… or to have him walk away.

How could she ever face him, when she had taken so long to face herself? And what on earth would she say?

Evidently, her solution was not to say anything.

Instead, she smiled inanely and nodded encouragingly through the farewells from Phil's parents; the shared cab ride to the station; the tearful scenes on the train platform when she, Gilbert and Pris farewelled Stella and Aunt Jimsie, going onwards to Vancouver; and the final parting at Kingsport as Pris rushed for the boat train to the Island and she and Gilbert doubled back to Redmond.

"Thank you, Anne. You're awfully good to do this," Gilbert ventured for the twentieth time, as he directed their coachman towards the male boarding house.

Smile, nod.

"I didn't think it fair to risk Pris missing the train by coming on this errand with us, what with her father travelling from Spencervale to meet it…" Gilbert reasoned.

Smile, nod, nod.

"These medical texts are essential reading for the summer, and if I pick them up from the boarding house today it will save another week's wait at least, and the postage to boot. It just obviously means…" and here he paused, choosing his words carefully, "that with our Kingsport train arriving so late, Pris herself will only just make the connection, and we would be locking ourselves into an overnight stay. I'm really so very sorry about that…" Gilbert tailed off, though he soon gave a self-effacing smile, "though I'm told that the Cooper recipient's quarters are a slight cut above the average, and I have use of the rooms outside of term time as well. I'm sure it will be very comfortable for us, considering… that is, I hope you'll be comfortable, Anne, and I'll just be down the hall in one of the dorms…"

Gilbert flushed slightly, wishing that Anne would say something – anything – and so spare him the horror of further manic babbling. But, no, just a nod and a smile.

He risked a look at her more closely.

"Are you sure you're fine with this, Anne? It's not too late to turn around and try to have you meet the boat train…"

This time an emphatic shake of the head, and Gilbert nodded himself, brow furrowed, and turned back to the window, his hefty letter burning a hole in his pocket.

He should just hand it to her… now, right now, and give her a chance to decide about him one way or the other. Anne seemed to have made it her mission to say as little to him as possible so far today – had he even heard her utter a single word? Was she regretting her lapse last night – the little pronoun that had changed everything?

He assisted her down from the cab, her slim fingers scorching his, and they walked past the common where he had sat with the girls and their sandwiches and lemonade mere weeks ago.

Inside, the boarding house was eerily empty, and he actually had to ring the bell twice before a very bored looking junior clerk, evidently stuck there over the summer, shuffled his way towards them.

"Hello, I'm Gilbert Blythe, formerly in Room 32. I believe there are some packages that have arrived for me."

This request took several further minutes to fulfil, with Gilbert trying not to drum his fingers impatiently on the polished countertop, whilst he noted Anne had wandered off to stare pensively out the large window by the sofa.

"Yes, here, Mr Blythe…" the younger gentleman huffed, hauling two hefty, tightly wrapped bundles to land between them with a thud. "I'll need to see your identification, and then to please have you sign and initial our paperwork. There was also a note left for you, hand delivered."

"Thank you," Gilbert nodded politely, not even taking the time to peruse the note before he had tucked his pocketbook into his jacket and turned back to Anne. Too busy in trying to read her expression whilst juggling the packages, the single slim envelope escaped and fluttered to the ground.

"Here, Gil," Anne lunged for it, as if forgetting herself and her self-imposed silence.

"Thank you," he gulped, staring into her large grey eyes properly for the first time since her admission last night. They widened but held firm on his, the gathering green fizzing against the smoky grey. They were mesmeric as ever, but he had not been able to hold her gaze like this for years… and to have her meet it, and then blush inadvertently and turn away, was a reaction that was startlingly new.

He tried to process this unspoken information even as he opened the letter, scanning it uncomprehendingly. And then… the sinking understanding of its contents.

"Oh, no…" he breathed, wandering as Anne had, and collapsing on the sofa, the books falling in two ungainly heaps on the floor, and he shook his head in denial as he searched the note again.

"Gil? Gilbert, what is it? What's wrong?"

He would have rallied at the sound, finally, of her voice, even with the edge of surprised worry to it, but he was too busy counting back over the weeks, cycling back over events since the end of the year.

He rubbed his palm over his face, processing.

"Gilbert?" she asked, more sharply.

"Sorry, Anne, I… I believe we are unable to stay in the medical students' building after all. It's currently closed for cleaning."

"Oh…"

"There's been… a small typhoid outbreak there."

"Oh! That's awful! That's…"

Her face went pale as her thoughts caught up to his.

"Gilbert?" she whispered.

"It's alright, Anne, I was never there…"

Her mouth dropped open. "Are you sure? What happened? When?"

"Yes, Anne, that's the most pertinent question – when," he nodded, as she suddenly paced before him. "We were given a tour of the medical building and the student lodgings just before our final exams. I never set foot in the place again, not even to see my allocated rooms once I'd gotten the Cooper. I was too busy. And then…" here he swallowed, and looked up to see her before him, stilled in shock with the shadow of panic in her eyes.

"Then?" she squeaked, clutching her throat.

"And then there was an informal gathering – and by that I mean a very unofficial gathering - of next year's class, the night after Convocation, for anyone still here. That's when the transmission occurred, apparently. Infected food, drink… they're not certain exactly how, but three people have gone down with it. They are asking everyone to monitor for any symptoms all the same…"

"Oh, Gil! But how can you be sure you're safe?"

He looked up to her, giving a small, lovely, sheepish smile.

"I know for a fact I wasn't there, though I was invited and meant to attend. But I was otherwise engaged that night, if you recall, in accosting you in the park and having a boxing round with Andrew Dawson back at Patty's Place."

"It was that night?" she gasped.

His smile turned into a grin.

"So it seems you may have saved me from a terrible fate, Anne Shirley," he stood slowly, enjoying the complex play of emotions on her lovely face. "You and Roy – and Moody, come to think of it!"

"Moody Spurgeon? What on earth?"

"It's a long story, and probably for another time…" he scooped up his packages and turned to her, his dizzy relief at the news of his near miss making him appear more cavalier than he felt. He had spent that day in bed, he recalled that much, wallowing in self pity, till a knock on the door had heralded his old school chum and unlikely saviour. And he still owed Moody a promise … he bit down on his secret smile. That thought was for another time, too.

"Oh, Gil…" she breathed. "The alternative to that night… if you had been there after all… it doesn't bear contemplating…"

"No," he sighed. "Typhoid fever is pretty insidious, as far as diseases go, and I feel for those poor fellows. They're years away from a vaccine, too, ** so at the moment all most of us can rely on is good hygiene, good housekeeping practices… and good luck."

"Do you think our luck is changing, now?" she offered uneasily, the question heavy with meaning.

His heart somersaulted in his chest, and he chuckled uncertainly. "It needs to change regarding our lodgings tonight, that's for sure!"

Her slow smile was marvellous and magical.

"Two adults out on the town. Where's your sense of adventure, Gilbert Blythe?"

He almost choked on his laughter, of the old challenge behind the tease.

"I'm warning you now, I'm not sleeping in an obliging cherry tree, Anne-girl."

"Spoil sport," she smirked, her eyes shining very green, as he took her arm and ushered her back to their waiting cab.

Chapter Notes

The chapter title comes courtesy of Alice in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter 2 'The Pool of Tears'. That chapter is also referenced later in the story.

*Alice again in Ch 7 'A Mad Tea-Party'.

**My sneaky and loving reference to elizasky's Within a Forest Dark, where her beautiful version of Gilbert has a very pressing reason to know all about typhoid vaccines. If you haven't read this moving, magnificent story I urge you to do so! You won't be sorry.

What I am sorry for is getting behind in acknowledging all the wonderful reviews and encouragement for my previous two chapters. I debated whether to delay this update by taking the proper time to respond to them all (being slow in this is one of my great failings). I hope instead you are pleased to get another chapter, and carry my thanks with you here until I can do so properly x