CHANGE of HEART
...
On New Year's Eve Anne went along to Lone Willow for an early celebration. Diana said she couldn't possibly stay up past midnight, not when she was so tired these days, but she asked if Anne would come for the afternoon to eat all the leftover Christmas cake.
There was lots of talk about babies this time, and more about baby names. Diana liked Lysander, Ambrose, Lucian and Auberon for a boy, and Fred didn't like any of them. For girls, it was a simpler decision of whatever went best with Anne. Eulalia and Calanthe were Diana's current favourites, though yesterday they had been Primrose and Marigold, and might very well be Betty and Ethel tomorrow.
"Oh, Anne Ethel. Definitely."
"Don't tease, Anne, this is serious. Hmm, Fred dear, what do you think of Anne Ethel?"
Fred had been trying to sidle past the two women unseen. Which was not very likely when he was wearing a bright yellow slicker and a scarlet hat and mittens.
"Anne Ethel? Isn't that moonshine?" he said.
Anne laughed. "I think you mean ethanol. Fire-water," she went on to explain, when Diana's face crumpled in confusion. "Bootleg, rot-gut, bath-tub gin…"
"Red current wine," said Fred with a wink, then swiping the last slice of Christmas cake, scurried back outside.
"Fred's mittens," said Anne, as the backdoor banged shut, "where have I seen them before?"
"Gilbert's granny used to make them up for all the boys, don't you remember? Lovely and thick but always the same. A big star in the middle–"
"And little dots all around," Anne murmured. "Darling, how long do you think it would take you to knit up one mitten?"
"Who in the world needs one mitten?"
"I would knit up the other."
"You can still knit, can you? After all your time at college I thought you may have forgot."
"You can take the girl out of Avonlea…" Anne gave a good-natured laugh.
Diana dashed upstairs and grabbed her knitting basket, and the two young women set to work.
…
"So, has Gilbert spoken yet?"
Diana Wright had the talent for talking and knitting. Anne was always too busy counting the stitches, when her tongue wasn't poking out in concentration. She put down her needles and rubbed her hands. Her first thought had been to pretend she had no idea what Diana was talking about. But the more Anne considered it, the more she thought perhaps she did have no idea about such matters.
"We talk all the time but never about that. Lots and lots of 'do you remembers', it's as though he thinks I'm still sixteen."
Anne went on to describe how their study sessions in the dining room ended up feeling like a stroll down memory lane. How Gilbert was always pulling Davy and Dora into the room and making up paper boats instead of polishing his philology.
Diana was of the opinion that making paper boats sounded like a far pleasanter past-time, and put it to Anne that Gilbert was merely being friendly.
"Yes, he's very friendly. Too friendly…"
Diana's needles stopped their clicking. "Ohhh?"
"What?" Anne frowned at her knitting. "Have a missed a stitch?"
"I believe you want Gilbert to ask you–"
"I never said that."
"These mittens are for him, aren't they? Anne Shirley, you're smitten!"
"No, I'm not!"
"Smitten mittens!"
Diana laughed so hard Anne thought she might end up back at her blue and white basin.
"But Anne, you're not laughing." Diana wiped her eyes and sat back in her chair. "When I said before that Gilbert might speak to you, I meant it as a warning so that you might get a head start–"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Well, you do have a habit of skipping off whenever a certain person comes up. You can just about set your clock by it."
Anne squirmed. She could hardly say Gilbert infuriated her now, not after she had called him a kindred spirit. Then again, her bosom friend was being very infuriating.
Diana noticed that not one glib reply had passed Anne's lips, and her nose was most certainly down. She leaned forward in her chair; she could not believe she was asking this. "You're not really falling for Gilbert, are you?"
"Yes–no–I don't know. The truth keeps eluding me, Diana. Gilbert is the same as he ever was, and yet he's so–so... Different. If I knew how he felt–but I don't. All I can tell you is I no longer feel sure."
Diana (like Gilbert, and everyone in Avonlea) knew Anne Shirley to be a very certain sort of girl, and her opinion on love was very decided. Since the earliest days of their friendship Anne averred that no one but her Dark Ideal could ever win her hand: brooding, melancholy, divinely handsome, that was all she wanted. And whatever Gilbert Blythe's achievements he certainly lacked those attributes.
There was no waiting till the end this time, Diana jumped right in. "And when exactly did you start to feel unsure?"
"It's hardly something one can pinpoint, Diana. What would you say if I asked you tell me the exact moment it happened to you?"
"Oh that's easy!" said Diana, laying her mitten on her lap. "It was the day after that awful storm, the one where that thunder bolt struck that ol' house and it burned to the ground. Everyone's windows were blown in and you couldn't get a pane of glass anywhere. Then Fred turns up at Orchard Slope and offers to nail oilcloth over all our broken windows." Diana clasped her hands to remember it, and a smile made a nest between her dimpled cheeks. "I never thought about Fred in that way before. To me he was just Fred. Then I saw him in his carpenter's belt, filled with nails he bought himself. And even though Fred knew better than Papa, he let Papa boss him about. I knew then that was exactly what I wanted in a man. Modest, hardworking, always thinking of others." She burst out laughing. "Do you know when the windows were fixed I saved a little piece of the oilcloth–what a little dope I was! I think I still have it somewhere…"
Modest. Hardworking. Always thinking of others. Hardly the romantic rogue Diana always said she wanted. But it did not disappoint Anne, anymore. If anything, she longed for the same.
Diana observed Anne's expression which was troubled and dreamy by turns, and required no further answer. Anne was falling, and falling fast and Gilbert Blythe would be there to catch her. There was no doubt about it, in her mind at least, and nothing more to say on the matter.
She took up her knitting once more. "This star design in trickier than I thought. How are you getting along with yours?"
Anne held up her work for scrutiny. She was expecting Diana would tell her she would have to unravel it and start again. There wouldn't be time to finish it then, and she wouldn't have to give Gilbert this silly-headed gift.
"Your star looks like a flower," said Diana kindly.
"Is that wrong?"
"Not at all." Diana sighed and popped a candy-heart between her lips. She couldn't think of anything Gilbert would like more.
…
Anne only just got home in time to dress for the supper at the Blythes that night. Gilbert had asked her yesterday when he was supposed to be finishing one of Anne's quizzes. She had answered him yes, practically before the words had left his mouth. But instead of returning her heartfelt smile, he quickly turned back to his list of questions.
Up in her little white room, Anne flew about trying to think of what to wear. Her most stylish gowns were in her closet in Kingsport. Anne kept her homey, comfortable dresses here. The only gown that was suitable he had seen her wear on Christmas day. And she wanted to wear something special, beautiful even. She wouldn't admit to herself that beneath all her impatience and sudden disdain for every dress she owned, there lurked a tiny glimmer of a hope that tonight might prove to be significant.
Mrs Lynde thought so too, and stood in Anne's doorway as the girl raced about.
"An invitation to the Blythes, and on New Year's Eve at that."
She spoke with great authority, for she had seen Anne adjusting Gilbert's tie. No girl would ever attempt so intimate a gesture if there hadn't been an understanding between them.
Rachel would have preferred this understanding to have been declared before all that Christmas day. There was talk about. Not that a woman of such scrupulous sensibilities as Mrs Lynde would ever dream of indulging in it. All the same, she did not like general thrust of such speculation, insinuating that her Anne–who was as good and clever as any girl had a right to be–and the pride of Avonlea, Gilbert Blythe, had spent the night alone. That girl who did the Pye's laundry clearly hadn't been hired for her smarts. According to her, Gilbert and Anne set off on the twenty-third and didn't make the Clays till the twenty-fourth. When everyone knew that was the day young Gilbert went in search of that pirate fellow–and broke his hand into the bargain. Gilbert Blythe was practically a hero, and Anne… Well, anyone in Rachel Lynde's hearing had better not say that this girl was anything other than pure as the driven snow!
"You should send a thank you to the Clays," said Mrs Lynde, "for putting you up like they did."
Anne hadn't heard her, she was in the midst of taking off yet another dress and was soon down to her petticoats again.
"What's that there?" Rachel strode into the room and pegged Anne at her shoulder. She pushed back the straps of her petticoat. "Why is your skin all pink?"
"The raw skin scabbed up, but it's healing nicely now. It would have been much worse but Gilbert had the bright idea of smearing lard all over it–Mrs Lynde?"
For some unaccountable reason, the woman backed slowly out of the room. Anne huffed with relief. Perhaps she shouldn't have mentioned the lard. Was lard improper? The answer was a resounding no, but the memory of Gilbert's fingers inching under the strap of her chemise came very close to it. Was that when it happened? Diana could call to mind the exact moment with such immediate detail, it left Anne feeling foolish for not being able to do the same. Such an event should strike like Cupid's arrow–a bolt from the blue! But then lightning bolts have also been known to burn things to the ground.
A button popped off the next shirtwaist Anne tried on. She was down to her petticoats again. Did it happen when Gilbert undid her buttons–or when he saw her in her petticoat? But which one, the frilly one at the window or the lacy one dripping onto the rough wooden floor? That certainly improper, and the mottled blush on her décolletage was disastrous. Anne could not wear this dress either!
More outfits were dismissed and just as many memories. The gloves? Whose gloves, his or hers? The bed in the hotel or the one in the shack? The time she thought it was the pendant, or the time she hoped it wasn't? The sleigh ride, the tram ride, the moment she reached for him on the ice, or the moment she watched him leave?
Another dress was discarded, this one sat low on her shoulders and those pale pink weals could clearly be seen. An uncomfortable thought occurred to Anne then: that Mrs Lynde had left so that she might position her formidable self by the front door and demand some answers from Gilbert. That would be too humiliating, and worse–Anne remembered what Diana had said. Word was bound to get out about the night they spent together, and Gilbert, stickler for the absolute truth, would certainly tell Mrs Lynde if she asked him.
Not that Anne wouldn't have, but she could never be sure when she would not be overheard by someone who was not Marilla. For the first time, Anne wished herself back in Kingsport. She had forgotten all too readily that there were also downsides to living in a tiny village. It was winter that was the cause of it. Shut up inside all the time, and if you went out, all anyone had to do was follow your footprints through the snow to know where you would be. Oh, she wanted to be gone too, away from everyone's prying. So much for the dream she had held to herself of returning to Avonlea in order to be alone.
...
Anne yanked on the next dress she saw on the hanger, threw on her shawl, and grabbing her basket tiptoed out the back door. She expected to find Gilbert rolling up to the front gate, he said he would come for her at seven. The clock in the kitchen said five minutes past when she went by it, and there was no sign of him in the drive or down the lane. Anne was almost at his gate when she saw a light shine from the shadows. Gilbert's face looked harried and one arm was disappearing into a hedge. A strange snuffling sound could be heard, and in the pale beam of a lantern the squashed-up face of a tiny dog appeared from under a laurel.
"Who is this little creature?" said Anne, and took the leash from Gilbert, her hand brushing over his. He wasn't wearing any gloves or coat. "You shouldn't be walking a dog with a broken wrist."
Anne was this close to kicking herself. She sounded like his mother, and searched her thoughts for something else to say. Where were all the charming glances and confident opinions? Her mind was as blank as the snow-covered fields around them.
To Anne's surprise Gilbert lead her further away from his house. His brow creasing further with every step.
"Snooty belongs to my Aunt."
"Oh," Anne said. That explained his harried expression. "The dreaded Mary-Maria."
"Shhh!" Gilbert's hiss turned into a chuckle. "I don't want her to know that."
"You haven't been softening the truth, have you?" Anne pretended to look appalled. "That's not like you."
"I'll tell you what is like me," he said, and gave Anne a heart-stopping grin, "taking a moonlit stroll. With you."
He offered his arm, Anne took it shyly after swapping the leash to her other hand. The little dog attempted to race ahead, but he didn't get very far in such heavy drifts and soon came back and started sniffing, the leash wrapping around Anne's legs.
Gilbert bent down and resting the lantern in the snow began untangling it. As he did he noticed the dress Anne was wearing, a green one he had especially admired. He did not know much about female attire but he did wonder why this particular dress. It was made of a light green fabric dotted in pale blossoms. Like a cool wind through the orchard in early springtime.
They stood in the middle of the road like this, Anne tall in the lamplight and Gilbert on his knees. The curtains up and down Newbridge Road started twitching.
"There's something I have to tell you," he said, "I'm not sure you're going to like it–could you lift your foot, please?"
Anne could not have raised an eyebrow in that moment. Even the snowflakes seemed to freeze mid-fall, and a horrible lump was caught in her throat. An actual squeak came out of her mouth when a cat raced by them and into the fields beyond. She very nearly fell into the snow as Snooty trotted away from them and disappeared into another hedge.
Gilbert muttered something under his breath, then offered Anne an apology. "It's one of our cats," he called out as he ran in search of the dog, "that pug is crazy for them!"
Anne brushed herself down, conscious that her eyes needed brushing down too. They were wet with fresh tears of pure frustration. Anne had been sure that Gilbert was about to speak.
Others had been expecting it too. Mrs Sam Gillis popped out onto her porch. One of the Mrs Bells followed suit.
"Finally made you an offer, did he Anne?" Mrs Sam shouted. "We saw it from here. It was ever so romantic!"
"Timely too," Mrs Bell hinted. "Good to see it turned out proper."
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Anne said, with as much queenishness as she could muster, "goodnight ladies," and turning away trudged back toward the Blythes.
…
Dinner did not go much better. Anne had been seated at Gilbert's elbow, but he spent most of the meal talking with his father and uncle.
Dr David Blythe was a whiskery chap with fluffy sideburns and a handlebar moustache. He wore a strange little velvet cap with a tassel; when Anne first saw him she thought he was going to bed. Contrary to his appearance she found him to be a very lively fellow, and the usual humdrum conversation about Gilbert's wrist soon turned into something fascinating. Not that Anne had any particular knowledge of the disease they three men were discussing; some intriguing case of tropical fever that had never been seen in all Dr Blythe's years. They were debating over how such a rare case had been contracted. Gilbert was commanding in his opinions, as he so often was, but the respect he was shown by the Doctor especially, left Anne feeling proud and wildly admiring.
How confident Gilbert was, what a knowledge he drew on, how he argued his points so clearly.
"Ho-hum," said Mary-Maria.
She was nursing her pug on her lap, sure that he was showing signs of pneumonia. A strong odour of liniment emanated from her person, and her crochet needles made a constant click-clack all through dinner.
"Poor Snooty needs a coat," she announced, then glared at Anne as if winter was her fault.
Mrs Blythe scraped back her chair and asked for Anne's assistance in the kitchen.
"I only just enticed my cats inside when that Snooty scares them all away. Now I'm being told to shut them all up in the barn. My dear little pussemses. They gave me a very frosty reception when I got back from the Glen, wouldn't forgive me for abandoning them."
"I forgot about all your cats," Anne said, "when I was last here I never saw one of them."
Mrs Blythe hid a small frown with the twisting of a jam jar, and she spooned out the plum preserves. She had revised her opinion of Anne some time ago with the inexplicable refusal of her dear son's hand. From that moment, Margit Blythe was wont to characterise Anne as over-particular. Now she wondered if she wasn't merely as flighty as the rest of the girls she knew. How else to account for the summer dress in the middle of winter–or the fact that the last time Anne was here, little Nisse had fallen asleep in her sewing basket and wasn't discovered until she was halfway down the lane?
"I wonder if you've forgotten something else too? Your basket," Margit nodded to the one Anne had brought with her, which was sitting on the sideboard. "Didn't you say you'd brought something for dessert?"
The girl dashed to the basket, her skirts in a whirl. She confirmed her flightiness once and for all when instead of a pudding Anne took out some mittens.
"I forgot, I made these. For your son–"
"Did you now?" Margit said.
Her tone was all Gilbert's, her dry expression too. Though it changed very quickly, and a soppy look swept over her face.
"Selburose! Oh my dear, dear girl, what a thoughtful thing to do. I had no idea! That Gilbert!" Anne was clinched in a hug even tighter than Mrs Lynde's. "It all makes sense why he came home like he did. Of course, there was talk, but after–well, that business between the two of you, I paid no mind to that. I could not have been more surprised when Gilbert told me he invited you tonight," Mrs Blythe tapped her nose. "But now I understand."
Anne quickly pieced together that Mrs Blythe was assuming Gilbert had proposed. Everything about the woman's reaction made sense, everything but the moment that had driven her to it. What did a pair of mittens have to do with marriage?
There was no chance to ask and Anne would not have been inclined to if there had been, the whole thing was bordering on farce. Everyone thought that Gilbert had proposed to her, Anne even wanted him too. The only person who would not be drawn to the obvious conclusion was Gilbert.
Anne returned to her seat and sat there mutely while Mrs Blythe dished out great dollops of rice pudding.
"A big spoon for you," she said to Anne, and piled lumps of it into her bowl. The ladle working deeper into the dish, as though she was searching for something.
Anne stared at her pudding the way she had stared at the notorious custard, sure she could not get down one bite. The scent of vanilla and nutmeg perfumed the air and Mary-Maria was drawn to the table.
"Some people have very large appetites," she said, eyeing Anne's piled up plate.
"Please Miss Blythe, you must have a share of mine. I could never manage so much."
"I don't happen to like this pudding, as Margit very well knows. But she will keep making it every year."
"Come now Mary, once a year," John piped up, turning to Anne. "It's a Norwegian tradition."
"Excuse me, Mr Blythe," Anne leaned across the table, she wanted to keep her voice low, "do you happen to know what selburose means?"
"Aha!" John's teeth were white against his greying beard. "Quick, Anne, come with me."
Leaving the table, Anne followed Mr Blythe to the hall and a tall Cherrywood dresser that was there. He pulled open one of the drawers and digging in pulled out a bunch of mittens. They were all different colours and sizes, but one thing was the same. Mr Blythe picked out a matching pair and pointed to this detail now.
"See the design on the front there? That's the selburose. These are mine, and very precious they are too. Margit knitted them for me, oh a long time ago now."
Anne was used to John Blythe's more somber expressions. She only ever met him in church. His stiff collar cutting into his thick neck, his black jacket tight across his massive shoulders. Here in the hideous sweater Mary-Maria knitted for him, and a sentimental look on his face, Anne saw a side of him that was rather loveable, and a queer ache twisted in her chest.
"Oh, the star is so finely done–"
"It's not a star it's a flower. It's tradition for a girl to knit up some selburose mittens for the man she intends to marry. My Margit can walk and knit. Have you ever tried such a thing?"
"She can do one better," said Gilbert appearing in the hallway. "Anne can walk and read. Father, may I have a word with Anne? I won't be long."
His father answered by tossing a mitten at her. "In case you don't have time to knit one up yourself."
…
Thank you all for reading. I've so enjoyed writing this, but all good things (or in this case deliciously awkward things) must come to an end. Just three chapters to go now, I hope you're enjoying all the fun and hijinks, if you can't tell, that's my favourite thing about an Anne story. The ups as well as the downs. k