The Diana love was overwhelming! Do you know there is a novel about her by Libby Hawker called Diana of Orchard Slope? It's a retelling of Anne of Green Gables from Diana's point of view. Yes I have a copy, and yes it's darling!

CHANGE of HEART

…

Fred offered to drive Anne onto Green Gables, but Anne decided to walk. He thought she might, she was queer like that, the way she was always gallivanting about. He hadn't even bothered to hitch his horse.

Anne strolled along the edge of the road. The red earth showed through cart tracks in the snow and reminded her of the welts at her shoulders. Diana had missed that, fortunately, she had been too busy giggling. But at least she hadn't thrown up again.

On the way to Green Gables, Anne passed by the Blythe's little house and wondered if she should stop by. According to Gilbert they had no idea of his arrival. She noticed that while every other house along the road had a wreath or a bit of holly on their front doors, the Blythes had nothing. Of course, they were very strict Presbyterians, John Blythe was an Elder at church. Anne tried to recall whether it was usual for them to forgo festive decorations. But the only thing she could remember was Mrs Blythe telling her during Sewing Circle one winter, that Christmas wasn't Christmas without Gilbert.

Anne decided to hurry on, reasoning that if she did go to the Blythes she would only cause them worry. They would sit in anguished vigil waiting for his return and any message he might send would probably arrive after he did.

"He will come back, he will… he will…" Anne muttered under her breath as she marched through the snow.

She was so focused on her chanting that before she knew it she was at her own front door. A wonky wreath was pinned to it, made of fir boughs and alder pinecones. A perfect bow of stiff red taffeta was knotted to the bottom. Anne knew it was the work of the twins.

She breathed in deep and stepped inside. It was wonderfully warm and smelled of plummy spice. Davy was perched on the bottom of the staircase, or as Dora named it, the step of shame. Bruised knees showed beneath his short pants and his hair looked like it had got halfway through a hair-cut before he changed his mind.

Davy paid no heed to his confinement when he saw who had bowled through the door, and in one leap he was in her arms.

"But where's all your bags?" he asked, when Anne set him down. "Didn't you stop in Charlottetown?"

"No Davy," Anne said, "I'm afraid I didn't get a chance this time. Are you very disappointed?"

The boy thought about it for a minute. "Naw, I'd rather have you than a present. But, it'd be bully to have both!"

"Davy Keith, get back to your step," Rachel Lynde chided, and pulled Anne into her great, fat self. "Why look at you, so smart and stylish–isn't that Diana Wright's plaid skirt?"

"Let's go into the kitchen and I'll tell you all about it," Anne grinned at her. "Now where is my Marilla?"

…

Rachel was settling the twins for the night when Marilla came at Anne with her observations. She was well versed in the ways of her girl, and knew at once Anne's recounting of the last few days was very much meant for children's ears. Rachel's habit of conflating capers with calamity may have influenced Anne's telling too.

Her responsibility as neighbour was Marilla's chief consideration, and showed over her concern for the Blythes. She did not hold with Anne's decision not to tell them Gilbert was on the Island, though she understood Anne's motives.

"You think I should go back there?"

Anne was up to her elbows in bread and herb stuffing, and there were bowls of vegetables waiting to be scrubbed and set in salted water in readiness for the feast next day. She had wanted to finish this work as quickly as possible so that she might have the evening to make up some small gifts for her kin. Marilla had already pooh-poohed that notion, and may have saddled the girl with more chores than were necessary. All the better to keep Anne beside her than tucked away in her little white room.

"I haven't made up my mind completely. How long do you think young Gilbert will take?"

"As long as he needs to," Anne answered honestly, "he's never been one to give up."

"Indeed?" said Marilla.

There was a tone to her voice that made Anne want to scurry to the larder. She set a plate on top of the bowl of stuffing so quickly it made a little chip.

"Fiddlesticks!" Anne said. She hadn't been home a day and she had already reverted to Marilla-isms.

"You're tired out. I've made you do too much. Come sit by me," Marilla patted the sofa she sat on. "The vegetables will keep."

Anne sank onto the low soft cushions and herself into Marilla's embrace. Nothing, not the plumpness of Diana's hugs or Rachel's lung-squeezing ones, could ever match the feeling of being in Marilla's arms. It was as close to mothering Anne had ever known. No danger and no fear could ever find its target with Marilla like a shield around her.

"Oh, I'm so glad to be home."

"I did hear tell there was a small possibility that you wouldn't be coming alone?"

Anne did not bother asking Marilla how she had come to hear such a thing. The Avonlea grapevine had done its work, she had no other option but to come clean.

"It was discussed, yes," Anne said carefully. "But on reflection my friend decided not to come."

"And were you very disappointed?"

"Not too much…" Anne had been looking down at her lap, and now lifted her head. "As a matter of fact, not at all. I belong here, you see," she went on softly, "and my friend, as good as he is, does not."

Marilla remained silent, though her thoughts may have been guessed by the small upwards curve of her lips. They were generally set in a firm hard line which made the rest of her face look firm and hard too. But when she smiled it was like the sun peeping out from behind a cloud.

No, perhaps not the sun, more the moon, Anne thought. For Marilla's eyes were twinkling like stars.

"Get your coat on," she said gruffly. Marilla was not one to dwell on the sentimental.

"We're going to the Blythes?"

"And bring a bit of fir bough with you," Marilla ordered. "Their boy deserves to come home to some cheer."

…

Gilbert Blythe needed more than cheer when he was discovered in the Blythes' parlour. Murtagh was before the fire trying to start it and in his haste, had ended up filling the room with smoke. Marilla was waiting outside on the porch, but when the smoke billowed out the front door she came straight in.

Anne had gone in earlier after finding the front door ajar. Blue-grey smoke lay low about her; Gilbert lay low on a chaise. She fell to his knees before him and demanded to know what had happened.

"It's fine, don't fuss," Gilbert muttered.

"Broke his wrist," Murtagh said. "Dang fool got it caught 'tween the Naiad and a bit of ice. Heard it snap like a twig. Pardon me, ma'am," he added, when Marilla made her presence felt.

Marilla all but pushed him out of the way and attended to the fire herself.

"Turns out naming a boat doesn't bring good luck after all," Gilbert grimaced.

"Oh Gilbert, is the break very bad?"

His arm was jammed inside his coat and he wouldn't let Anne look at it. "It's my left hand," he told her, "at least I'll be able to write my exams."

Anne tried once again to remove it from his coat. Gilbert winced and shook his head. His eyes darted to Marilla.

"I don't want her to see," he hissed.

Confused, Anne asked Marilla if she would make up some tea in the Blythes' kitchen.

"Where are your folks?" Marilla asked Gilbert.

"They must have gone to Uncle's. Mother wrote a while back that he'd invited them to the Glen. I forgot all about it because I never intended to come."

"Did you not?" said Marilla, and her lips curled again before pulling Murtagh out of the room. "Come with me," Anne heard her say, "We need fresh water."

Quickly and carefully, Anne undid the buttons at the collar of Gilbert's tweed coat. Once she found what lay beneath it she understood why Gilbert wanted Marilla gone.

"Is that… my corset?"

"We ended up using it as a brace. I had to tear the bottom of your petticoat too. I needed something to bind it. I'm sorry, there was nothing else. You could take them back now–"

"Absolutely not. We must send for the doctor. All the same," she added, folding his coat over his chest, "we don't want you to catch cold."

They shared a look, one that spoke of all the times they had been involved in some secret or joke. Fervent 'do you remembers' were ripe on Gilbert's tongue. But he simply nodded and lay back on the chaise.

Marilla and Murtagh joined them presently, and served big mugs of tea. After that, it was decided that Anne should go to the Gillis's and ask Sam to raise the doctor. Once that was done Anne returned, with a great tureen of hot soup and a slab of the Gillis' Christmas cake.

"I brought fir bough, too," Anne said, sitting on the end of the chaise. She pulled it out from her coat pocket and held it up. "Some Christmas cheer," she explained, somewhat awkwardly when she noted the bemused look on Gilbert's face.

Murtagh dug a poker into the fire, Marilla sipped at her tea. Anne saw then what had driven them all to silence. The pine was smothered in mistletoe.

The bough was dropped. Gilbert caught it up in his good hand and inspected it in the firelight. "The dwarf kind, very rare. See there Anne, the berries look like pointed caps?"

Anne forgot to be embarrassed and inspected the mistletoe for herself. "I didn't see before, it was so dark outside and I was in such a hurry. Oh, they're darling…"

She went quiet, and Gilbert could all but see the beginnings of a new story weaving itself through her head. Here was the everyday beauty that only Anne could perceive. His chest swelled and he closed his eyes, he was too tired to hide it anymore without feigning sleep.

Marilla decided Gilbert had had enough excitement and Mr Murtagh had proved himself a capable if not creditable fellow. He liked his rum, she could tell that much by his purple nose. But she had checked his coat pockets while he was fetching water, and had settled for herself he had not brought that troublesome brew to this house.

While she was giving Murtagh some last-minute instructions concerning the doctor's arrival, Anne spoke to Gilbert again.

"Tomorrow, if you're well enough you must come for Christmas. I couldn't bear to think of you here all alone."

"I wouldn't be alone, I'd have Murtagh with me," said Gilbert, reprising a line he had given her before.

Anne understood at once, and smiled at him gently. "All kindred spirits are welcome at Green Gables," she said. When he raised her eyebrows at her, she went on. "Of course, Mr Murtagh, is a kindred spirit. He brought you back, Gilbert. He brought you home."

…

The two women got back to Green Gables to find the vegetables had been finished and the kitchen put to rights. Anne was free to go upstairs, and immediately set the work. She stirred the little blaze Mrs Lynde had made and sat down at her desk, before writing a story for each of the twins. Dwarves for Dora, and pirates with yellow teeth and purple noses for her brother. Marilla and Mrs Lynde would have to be content with the telling of these tales as their presents, but Anne knew that would be enough.

Enough for them, but not for Anne. She was feeling very unsatisfied. A nervous feeling that began when she removed her clothes, and bloomed when she slipped her nightgown on, was fluttering all through her. She went to her bottom drawer and drew out the soiled chemise that should have gone straight into the wash. Holding it up against the flame of the lamp, she made out the blackened shape of Gilbert's arm, and there, very close to her heart, the shadow of his fingers. Never once did he allow those fingers to roam, nor did he look the least hopeful when she held the mistletoe over his head. What happened to the boy who had such spirit in him he said he would burst? He was so very careful with her. Was it reverence he felt, or a sort of kindred affection? The constant not knowing unsettled her. And the more Anne thought she knew herself, the less she knew him.

The next day there was no time for quiet introspection. There was turkey to be constantly basted, a table to be decorated, presents opened, stories told, laughter and paper everywhere. As they sat in the sitting room after dinner, Anne was very close to perfect happiness. Her belly was fuller than it had been for days, and her hands and toes were toasty. Christmas was a lovely white one, and Davy hadn't caused one ruckus all day. Diana was growing her own wee miracle, and Gilbert was safe and home. There was just one thing she wished for…

When the sky grew pink at five o'clock, Davy was allowed to light the candles on the tree again. Dora was wrapping coloured paper around some pinecones, and pretending they were babies. The room rang with her singing. Not a lullabye, nor even a carol, but a chant she had learned from her teacher for the improvement of young minds. Marilla was in the kitchen debating whether she should pour some brandy over her pudding. Rachel did not approve of such things, but then Rachel preferred her own plum pudding.

Anne went to the door at a knock and welcomed Gilbert and Murtagh inside. At the sound of the latter's voice, Marilla decided against the brandy and hid it away with her red-current wine.

Davy's eyes flew wide at Murtagh's appearance, and even wider when he spied what the man had brought. A rough sword made from green wood that he had cobbled together that afternoon, and wouldn't you know it, a little boat made of hazel twigs just right for a baby pinecone.

Davy sat upon Murtagh's knee and begged him for another pirate tale.

"I'm no pirate," Murtagh looked hurt. "I'm a pearl fisher."

"Pearls?" Davy pulled a face. "Why do the ladies like them so much? Milty Boulter says they're oyster scabs."

"Davy," Dora scolded, "that's not true!"

Murtagh gave one of his viscous chuckles. "'magine you was an oyster all shut up and nothing getting in? Then one day something gets under your skin, see, and it bothers you something terrible." He wriggled his great weight in his chair and set the twins to laughing. "You try what you can to protect yerself, and believe me, this takes years. A pearl is a wound turned into something beyootiful."

"If you say so," Davy said.

Anne listened mesmerised, her hands at the little pearl necklace Matthew gave her. She noticed Gilbert looking pensive, his eyebrows tilted in a small and thoughtful frown. She drew him away and gave him a cup of punch, the sling that held his left wrist bright against his best blue jacket. Anne couldn't ask him about her underthings, and suspected he did not want to be asked about his injury either. So, she sipped on her punch; Mrs Rachel setting her rocking-chair to squeaking while loudly slurping on hers.

Anne cleared her throat. "Pearl fisher? I thought Mr Murtagh was a boatman?"

"Apparently, he has a schooner at a dry dock getting mended," said Gilbert. "That's why he needed the money. He works at Sealtooth Harbour most winters and sails away in spring…"

"Spring…" Anne murmured dreamily.

"Uh yes," Gilbert cleared his throat too. "He works the River Tay all the way over in Scotland."

"Freshwater pearls? That explains it."

"What does it explain?"

"You called your boat Naiad, and she dwells in freshwater not the sea. In rivers and ponds, even wells…"

Their eyes met, then quickly lowered. He stared at the pearls nestled against her collarbones. Anne began studying his tie. It was crooked and uneven, and while she knew she probably shouldn't, Anne could not help herself straighten it now.

"I–uh," Gilbert bent closer, "I left your–garments–in some brown paper in your barn. It could pass for a present, but I didn't want the risk of Mrs Lynde forcing you to open it."

Anne pursed her lips against a laugh. "I don't have a present for you," she said, then wished she hadn't. Gilbert was bound to ask her why she wasn't wearing hers. She had given every pocket a thorough search and did not find the pendant anywhere. "Oh, I know, let me get you some more punch!"

Gilbert's cup had barely been sipped, but he gulped it down quickly so that Anne might fill it up.

"Anne!" Mrs Lynde prized herself out of her chair and squeezed in between them. "Where's your manners, give this boy somewhere to sit."

Anne offered him the rocker.

"Poor boy, what a terrible thing," Mrs Rachel fussed, "it's lucky you weren't drowned…"

Stop calling him a boy! Anne wanted to shout, and was saved by another knock at the door.

In bowled their neighbour, Mrs Harrison, and a large contingent of Sloanes. Mr Harrison thought Christmas was humbug, and had stubbornly stayed at home.

"Seasons greetings," the Sloanes droned in chorus, and piled their hats and coats all over Anne.

"Have I got a tale to tell you," said Charlie, slapping Gilbert on the back. "Came in the iceboat this morning, broke the old record by half an hour. Father picked me up at the Harbour, and what did I find when I unpacked? My Chem. text was soaking wet!"

…

The Blythes returned to Avonlea five days later, the night before New Year's Eve. Mrs Blythe wouldn't have minded staying longer. Like many folk of her ilk she had an abiding love of the sea. While its sounds were ever present where she lived, the distant rolling of waves carried on a westerly wind; the Glen was nestled within walking distance to several rocky beaches and a magnificent old lighthouse. She often said she would like to retire there one day.

Her husband, John, liked a pretty view as much as any man, but not enough to keep him from the farm. Though they were both tired after the journey, within minutes of their return he jogged off to the barn.

He spent those first minutes on the frosty porch as Gilbert appeared in the doorway. The sling on his arm explained without words why the front path had been shovelled so poorly.

Margit Blythe drew her son inside and into her domain. The kitchen was fairly clean so far as young men's standards went, though she was running low on kindling. If she noted these small things it was simply because the big thing (Gilbert was even taller than John now, and the shoulder seams of his jacket needed taking out again) fair took her breath away. It wasn't until the tea was poured out and the fruit cake Mrs Dr. Dave sent with her was placed upon the table, that Margit found the presence of mind to lay into her son. Lots of 'why didn't you send us a message?' and 'you might have joined us there's' came at him, interspersed with tuts and disappointed looks. Gilbert would have to go back to Kingsport in three short days. It was not nearly enough.

"I wish you might have remembered my letter!"

"Sorry Mother, I wish I had too."

This was not entirely accurate. Gilbert recalled now why he hadn't been as keen as he ought to have been about a Christmas in the Glen. His Aunt Mary-Maria was spending Christmas there too. She also planned to come over to Avonlea after a brief stop in Charlottetown to collect her pug. She was discouraged from bringing him to Shore House as Mrs Dr. Dave had a fear of dogs. But Mary Maria kept her pining to herself as best she could, and had only complained of Snooty's soul-wrenching absence ten or twelve times a day.

Dr Dave was accompanying her. Mary-Maria insisted on an escort and he was amenable to a visit to town. They would be joining the Blythes on New Year's Eve. Gilbert would have to sleep on the chaise.

"But now I see that wrist of yours it doesn't seem right. Oh, you've put me in a pickle, that's what!"

"I'll be perfectly comfortable in the parlour, I've slept in worse places–"

"Oh yes?" Margit crossed her arms over her bosom. She was comfortably plump woman in the manner of Diana Wright, with fair curls that fell in corkscrews by her ripe red cheeks. They were looking very red now, and her brows were in high round arches. "Do tell, Gilbert, where else have you been dossing down?"

Gilbert sprang from his chair and cut them both a slice of cake. "I was meaning my ol' boarding house," he said smoothly, "the woman who runs it is nowhere as near as good a housekeeper as you."

Margit harrumphed. "I have not been your mother these twenty-five years for such truckle to work on me. What unsavoury places have you been frequenting–and with whom?"

Gilbert tried another tack. "You sound out of sorts."

"It's your Aunt," Margit sighed. "It's not that it's not–pleasant–to entertain family here, but I half-hope when she arrives in Charlottetown she stays there."

"For Snooty's sake, of course."

"Don't get me started on Snooty, I've had my fill on him from now till Easter."

"I am glad Uncle is coming with her. I always enjoy our talks."

Finally, Gilbert had said something to please his mother, and proved it when she cut him another slice of cake.

"He's very fond of you, dear, kept pestering me with questions about how you were doing at school. You have been keeping up with your studies, I hope?"

This had in fact been difficult for Gilbert, at least at first. He left his bag (which comprised of more books than clothing) at the ticket office in Sealtooth Harbour. The texts he kept at home were mostly old and out of date, and Charlie's chemistry book was in ruins. It was only when Anne suggested he come over some afternoons and study with her, that he had been able to make some headway.

No, headway was not the right word, and Gilbert was one for precision. As he lay in his bed that night, one hand behind his head, he tried to discover the perfect word to describe this new situation.

Surprising? Yes. Enlightening? Certainly. And tantalising and distracting and strange. If he didn't know better he could have sworn when he and Anne dropped into the icy sea they had come up for air in days long past. There he was sitting at her dining table just as he had been two Christmases before. Failing to memorise his Greek grammar table while trying to sneak a look at her. The first time he caught Anne staring back, he thought he must have had something in his teeth. But the second time he knew she meant it. Anne's cheeks had turned the most delicious shade of pink.

He turned over on his good arm, the flame on the candle next to his bed like a tiny diamond of light. And a groan came out from deep inside him. How many times had he promised himself he wouldn't think on that again?

"Son, is your arm bothering you?"

His father was passing and ducked into his bedroom. He was still in his overall.

"No Father, I'm fine."

John Blythe had learned the same lesson his wife had learned, and didn't believe a word Gilbert said. "You sure the Doc set it straight? I wouldn't mind taking a look, myself."

"Tomorrow, you and Uncle can pore over every inch of me."

"Wrists are tricky things, a lot of bones and sinew. Does it feel hot to the touch?"

Beneath the concern, Gilbert could hear his father's growing enthusiasm. Once upon a time, John Blythe had a notion of becoming a doctor himself, and was considered near and far as the man to go to when a sheep or a horse was ailing. As much as John trusted his neighbours to care for his animals, that was a reason why he never stayed away for long.

"I'll rebind it, if you like?"

"Tomorrow!" Gilbert repeated.

His father scruffed his hair and blew out the candle. Gilbert waited till he closed the door and striking a match, lit it again.

…

Closer, closer... inching closer. If you're finding it frustrating then imagine how Anne feels. It's a very tricky thing falling in love with someone whose heart you have already broken–and I have no intention of making things easy for her ;o)