Timeline - Anne of Windy Poplars, The Second Year - March (Anne's birthday).
Allow me the latitude to connect this narrative to the of chapter 11, where Anne has a cold, but officially, that chapter is about April or so.
Readers-The Tomgallon curse is prominently featured in The Third Year of Anne of Windy Poplars.
Chapter 21: Disasters
Gilbert wished his powers included the ability to pull back the darkness of night. It was dismally bleak outside but behind night's drab curtain was a lantern of hope. He pushed his cheek flush to the cold window of Tomgallon's carriage and cast his hazel eyes up to make sure his faith in the stars was not in vain. He found those twinkling points smiling. Night might be ruling the hour but it would not always be so. The darkness was only a skin. The physician in Gilbert knew that eventually the sky would hemorrhage and sunlight would bleed out and cover all the dusk.
The tides would turn. Good would come from bad. And a curse would become a blessing.
If only Gilbert knew how to bring its fruition.
Curse breaking!
According to the Dean, to break the curse a sacrifice must be made. Someone lucky must be separated from their good fortune.
"Sacrifice?" Gilbert had repeated at the time, his breath was light and his throat was dry. "Sir, you can't mean. . ."
Tomgallon's face squashed any hope for misunderstanding.
It was so alien to him; to hurt someone; to lead them to harm. The proposal was against everything Gilbert had been taught about being a Blythe. He rather not have powers at all. He wasn't going to kill to settle a curse.
"It can be done in effigy, although, it would be better, and more effective if blood were shed. That's why I've been looking for a witch of your caliber. A healer specifically, but I was starting to feel desperate."
Although his jaw was loose and ready to speak, Gilbert sat mute, frozen by his new reality. Tomgallon was possibly insane.
"Sir? Anyone that knows me will tell you I am not capable of what you're suggesting. I heal people."
The Dean gave him a judging look. "You belong to a church back home. I remember your minister wrote a letter of recommendation when you applied for admission. You're familiar with Passover?"
"Of course," Gilbert answered, his mind now trying to recall the events of Exodus.
Tomgallon drummed his fingers as he explained. "The Israelites painted the blood of a lamb on the doorjambs of their home. The Angel of Death saw and passed over. Blood has always been an excellent medium to thwart evil. And you can bring someone back." The older man sort of chortled past any natural misgivings, hearing his own eeriness. He lit a new stogie and puffed. "There's really no one better than you to do this. Your powers are just amazing, Mr. Blythe. No one needs to die."
The man blew a satisfying smoke ring. It haloed over Tomgallon, and for a fleeting second, Gilbert saw him as the ancient dragon, the Great Destroyer.
"I am not going to do it, it's not how my powers work." Gilbert had insisted. Gone were his inhibitions not to tell the Dean anything about his abilities, he had to understand. "There are times I cannot heal. I get blocks, and I just can't. It's too much of a risk. What you're prepared to do is evil, sir."
"Evil?" There was a snort right before he bellowed. "You don't understand. You have no idea what this evil has done to my family, Mr. Blythe!" Dean Tomgallon's fist hit his desk and caused Gilbert's heart rate to triple.
The man looked like a bull, ready to charge.
"And I will, as I am sure you would, do whatever is necessary to protect my family." More quietly, "You went all the way to Summerside to heal your fiancée, didn't you? I respect that," He took a deep drag, again saying, "No one will be permanently hurt. Not with you presiding."
He tapped ashes off the end of his stogie into a tray.
"We just need to find someone extremely fortunate to be our lamb."
Inadvertently, Gilbert's head filled with thoughts of his beloved Anne-girl. She always had favor with luck, turning unhappy situations into better ones. Anne never saw the clouds, only the silver linings. It was one of the reasons why he loved her so much.
"And what happens when you do find this person?"
Gilbert coughed away the smoke. The reflex allowed him to bow his head, away from the Dean's scrutinizing black eyes.
"Simple, we bait a trap. Just need to have them stay overnight at the old Tomgallon mansion in Summerside. Here, let me show you what this curse has meant to my family for the last hundred years."
He drew out his family tree on a sheet a paper, showing Gilbert who had died or disappeared with giant 'X's. "Almost always in the month of March," Tomgallon repeated frequently. He announced the year with each crossing. "And usually, a female."
Gilbert's eyes glazed over the surreal scene and again he filled his head with thoughts of Anne. The memory of her smile and gray eyes muted Tomgallon's unbridled plans until at last, he was shunted off back to his dorm room in the Tomgallon carriage.
Helen Blythe still found the horizontal iron bar adhered to the side of the sinking ship unnaturally cold. She glanced down and saw her knuckles numb-white as she transferred her physical strength into the act of just holding on. She tried to mute the noise of crying children and the shouts of crewmen. It was a vision after all, and she was more than capable of adjusting some elements of it. She was out of practice. Eventually, along with the continuing sloshing sound of water, she forced these noises to blend into a strange harmonic motif. The foreboding music was underpinned to the melody of urgent conversation. The higher pitches were alarming enough, but the added discord of lyrics even caused the stars to vibrate.
"Help me! I'm going to drown. I don't want to die."
Helen heard again and again, like a phonograph with a skip. The shrill voice pierced her temples. Her headache grew wickedly strong as she mustered all her magical powers to remain in the vision. Helen's blue eyes instantly found Charles Sloane's face and Robert Wright predictably stood next to him. Both of them glanced towards the direction of the urgent pleas and then back to each other, their worry lines mirrored. They decided who would go with the slightest change in expression. Robert's brown eyes were more anxious and Charles' eyes blinked slowly as he acknowledged himself as the weaker of the two. Robert had the best chance of succeeding.
Finally, Robert spoke. "I'm the better swimmer and I have the knife. She might be caught on something. And we both can't go. Someone has to survive this. Avonlea wouldn't stand to lose both of us." He started to push against the crush of the frantic crowd towards the woman's voice.
"Robert!" Charles repeated in a predictable beat until his comrade turned to the sound of his name. "Take this!"
Helen's pride swelled as she watched Charles undo the ties of his life jacket, the very one his mother had commissioned for him, complete with "Sloane" embroidered on the front. Before Robert could object to this unbidden gift, Charles had tossed the jacket in his direction, over the heads of others. Robert caught the garment with the ease of catching a ball lofted into the air. Their old boyhood games had trained them well for this single event.
Robert called out to Charles. "I hope I see you soon, but if this is it, take care of Gertie, will you, Charlie? And my boy. Tell her, I love her."
Water splashed onto Charles as Robert once more repeated himself, "Take care of Gertie and Robbie" He looked away briefly and then leveled a truth he had been caring the entire trip. "He's really your child, you know. He's my son, but he's your child."
Helen tasted salt on her lips from her tears. She understood now why this vision had always cut off when it did. Fate didn't want her to know about Charles' illegitimate son. He had confessed his tryst with Gertie a long time ago. Helen wouldn't judge, as she, herself, was no innocent. They had discussed their weaknesses and promised each other certain latitudes. But he hadn't suspected a child or he would have told her. There was no mistaking the look of unexpected discovery crawling across Charles' otherwise disheveled appearance. In the midst of crisis, Charles was blindsided by unexpected insight.
"What?" Charles spoke in a whisper. Helen's powers were now so attuned to her fiancé's expressions that only she heard them. Charles reflected long enough that he missed his chance to watch Robert's heroic exit. The stampede to the lifeboat absorbed him and he boarded it in a stupor.
Helen watched as his lifeboat stop periodically to pull folks from the cold waters into the vessel. Charles, who never joined the church, whose own grandmother referred to him as a 'heathen', had closed his eyes as he worked his oar. Helen thought he looked to be in deep prayer.
"And God answered my prayer," Miss Marin reported as she lifted up her foot to show off her new-to-her boots. Mrs. Lynde stared at those shoes, thinking she'd seen them before. But the petite girl continued on, with a clear, high pitched voice. "Our Lord says, 'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find, knock, and it shall be opened unto you.' That's Matthew 7:7. If we all ask God to help us, He shall. We just need to have faith in the good he brings to each of us."
Miss Marin checked her father. He was standing next to her before the packed with people parlor room at Fred Wright's. Mr. Marin kindly smiled at his daughter as he pressed a cloth to the beads of sweat accumulating along his hairline. Miss Marin's eyes grew wide as she recognized her father's illness starting to present itself.
"Papa," she whispered, saying only to him. "You're not feeling well. Go get safe."
"I'm good, Pen," he whispered. Again, using his cloth on his forehead.
Mr. Wright and Mr. Blythe came forward now, they too saw Mr. Marin struggling against a forthcoming seizure. The wild look of concern Miss Marin had delivered the rest of the audience confirmed it.
"Hank," John said, "You need some fresh air, don't you?" He wrapped his arm around the failing man and supported his movements away.
Mr. Wright continued on with his prayer service. "Thank you, Miss Marin, for your testimony of faith," Preacher Fred said. "I understand you have memorized many parts of the Bible. Perhaps you can recite Hebrews, Chapter 11?"
"Yes Sir, The Faith Chapter"
Miss Marin started to speak the forty verses, slow and clear, and with one golden brown eye, she saw the Avonlea ladies reading along in their Bibles; and with her other eye, she watched Preacher Fred join Mr. Blythe in leading her father to the back of the room. She had this passage memorized thoroughly, it was one of her parent's favorite, and once upon a time, they used to repeat the verses together. She always had the sensation of being closer to God, and to her Mama, speaking these lines.
Miss Marin stopped talking as she heard what sounded like a yelp and a crash and she knew her Papa was on the floor again overcome with shakes. The crowd turned around to see Mr. Marin convulsing on the floor. Mr. Blythe and Mr. Wright were doing their best to keep him from striking himself involuntarily.
If it had been the first time she had seen her father overcome with such terrible tremors, she might have run to his side, but she had seen it many times, and she knew he preferred her to turn to the Lord when he was sick. There was little she could do to help him, other than offer pleas to heaven.
"Please, pray with me," Miss Marin interrupted her speech. "Please pray that Papa will get better."
Mrs. Blythe called the women to the front of the parlor. "Ladies, we've prayed hard tonight for God to bring back Charlie Sloane and Robert Wright. Surely we can offer more, as Sister Marin implores."
Miss Marin looked around her now. The kindly face of Margo, her black neighbor lady, was next to Mrs. Blythe. One of Davy's guardians, the talkative one, was on Margo's the other side.
"Heavenly Father," the talkative one started. "We thank you for bringing us together and we ask for the Holy Spirit's healing power for Mr. Marin. Amen."
"Humm-um!" Margo said. "Sweet Jesus—give us hope and light our moments of darkness. Lift this child up high on your shoulder. Shelter her through the storm. We ask and ye promise to give. I ask for all these fine white ladies, that their children be restored to them. May heaven resound my cries! And I thank you for your tokens of faithfulness. The girl's shoes. You are our great provider. We rely on your providence. Amen."
"Amen," the women said in unison.
"I don't know how to pray like this," the smaller voice of Mrs. Sloane said. Her good friend Mrs. Blythe encouraged her anyway, "But Lord, I need my son, my Charlie! Please bring him back to me. And help Robert too. And that poor sick man."
The women huddled in a circle and prevented Miss Marin from seeing the status of her father. She knew her father's attacks well enough to know that they didn't last long, and she thought that it might be over. She bowed her head and spoke her 'Amens' as the prayers were offered until she felt the hand of Mrs. Wright on her shoulder.
"Darling, your Papa is asking to see you."
"He's better?"
"Yes, he's recovering. Fred and Mr. Fletcher moved him into our guest room for the moment."
Miss Marin let Mrs. Diana Wright hold her hand as she was led away and into the fancy guest room. Mrs. Wright was kind but Miss Marin couldn't help the covetousness that overcame her as she sat next to her father on the plump bed. This was the spare room and it was the lap of luxury in her eyes. Mrs. Wright probably never had to pray for second-hand shoes. Realizing her sin, she cowered next to her father, who was the perfect example of faith.
"Papa, I thought you were going to get better."
"Honey. My sweet Li'l Cent. My Penny," Mr. Marin took her hand. "Looks like I'm not getting better, am I?"
Miss Marin sniffed, "No, but you just need the right doctor to fix you. I didn't like Dr. Spencer that much."
"Child, no doctor can fix me. I've been suffering the shakes for most of my adult life. I don't know why they've grown worse."
"Maybe Mr. Blythe's son can help? He's in medical school and he's a witch. A healer."
"And how do you know about Mr. Blythe's son?" Mr. Marin asked of his daughter. "Did his parents tell you." Mr. Marin smiled as he joked and Miss Marin giggled in return. It was common knowledge among them who couldn't stop talking.
She shook her head 'no'.
"Well then, you can't impose. We must have faith that Mr. Blythe will ask his son to help and also, keep in mind that there's a reason in all this. God is kind and wise and we're not to know His ways, but simply trust."
"But we help Mr. Blythe all the time with our..."
But Mr. Marin shushed her with a finger to his lip. "Don't talk about it, remember. Only people that know us and love us. I love you, Li'l Cent."
"I love you too, Papa," Miss Marin said as her head fell onto his chest. "Please don't leave like Mama did."
Mr. Marin lifted his arm and stroked her back, reassuring her with his touch.
Miss Katherine Brooke entered Principal Anne Shirley's office with a small collection of papers under her arm. Anne could tell from Miss Brooke's wardrobe selection that it was Friday. The pragmatic woman made the most of her small but now fashionably tailored wardrobe by assigning outfits to particular days of the week. The corduroy, dark brown skirt and matching bodice was worn on Fridays. She normally paired the ensemble with her cream blouse, but today she opted for a wine-colored blouse with a high collar and tangle of lace at the throat.
"Have you seen today's paper?" Katherine almost managed to whisper.
Anne smiled faintly thinking there was a hint of Mrs. Lynde in Katherine's inflection. Her statement had a certain spring in it that might launch the two of them further into more conversation.
"No, I haven't."
"Well, you better look at this then." Katherine handed over a copy of the Summerside Star. The headline: Ocean Claims PEI Passenger Ship.
Anne had to sit down to read the rest. Her pale forehead squished into lines as her eyebrows gradually rose. Katherine made no remarks and allowed the story to penetrate Anne.
The Ocean Island Passenger and Cargo Ship Company, based out of Charlottetown, finally declared a nautical disaster in the loss of their screw-ship steamer, the Princess Edwina. The cause of the shipwreck was not known. A few lifeboats with survivors were picked up by a cargo ship headed to London. The article continued on the next page, where a passenger list was published. Those with a star next to their name were known survivors: Those with a cross next to their names were known casualties.
"Anne, Charles Sloane is gone." Katherine pointed to another article, printed as an inset to the larger one. Sloane Saves Two Lives was its lead.
"Oh goodness!" Anne exclaimed. "This says Charlie gave up his life-jacket to a pregnant woman and helped her swim to a lifeboat, but then, he himself. . ." Anne felt a tear form and she found her hankie in her breast pocket. "Katherine, I can't believe it." She returned to her attention to the newspaper looking for more heroics. She felt quite exhausted from the variety of emotions overtaking her.
"There's no report on Robert," Katherine added. "But my guess is there is more news to come."
"I hope you're right." Anne shook her head in disbelief, "Robert's a few years older than me and I never got to know him like his brother Fred. Charlie Sloane, I knew much better. He was sweet on me at one point, and annoyingly self-serving at times, but still, I would never wish this on him. I'm glad he died so gallantly. I don't think I could have ever imagined him being so brave."
"Anne, I wasn't planning on traveling this weekend, but I'm going to head to Carmody tonight, check up on Helen."
"I think I'll go home too," Anne brushed her eyes once more, "Thank you for telling me, Katherine. I suppose the Aunties and Rebecca Dew saw this headline and decided to hide it from me. They probably didn't want to ruin my day." Anne carefully reassembled the paper and handed it back to her vice principal. Katherine took it but stayed in front of Anne's desk, immobile. Her eyes were betraying a glimmer of a smile. She had other news.
"Is there something else?"
But no sooner did she say that than Anne instantly knew 'what else' was as she recognized the sparkle of accomplishment beaming from Katherine. Anne wrote a letter of recommendation on Katherine's behalf to Redmond's Business School. Anne unloosened her smile so that she felt the corners of her mouth hook into the shallow of her cheeks. Katherine likewise responded.
"I know it's in poor taste right now to show my glee with this other grim news, but. . . " Katherine's cheeks pinked and she admitted. "I've been accepted to the business school and last night I mailed my letter of resignation to the board."
"Katherine Brooke!" Anne jumped to her feet in happy acknowledgment. "Your good news does help wash this bitter pill of disaster," Anne circled around her desk so she might give Katherine a quick, congratulatory hug. "I'm so happy for you! You're starting to live the life you've always wanted now and not just existing day to day."
"Well, it will be hard to tell Helen all this, but, overall, I think it's for the best, leaving teaching and learning something new and exciting, like typing and shorthand!"
"Of course it is!" Anne rubbed her back in support. "And you said you had no bends in the road."
Mrs. Lynde doubted her decision to visit Helen Blythe after Davy dropped her off in Carmody in front of Helen's Hems. Davy, being in a hurry, took off for his errand as soon as she had disembarked from the buggy. Rachel had tried to tell him to wait first but he wasn't listening. Davy existed in a state of distraction anymore. "Self-absorbed," Rachel had complained to Marilla. Now she was stranded on the porch of the 'closed for the day' dressmaker's shoppe without a place to retreat.
Instinctively, when circumstances befuddled her, Rachel put her hands on her hips and pouted. Her own mother, try as she did, could never break her of that particular habit. She peered into the much larger picture window to see if there were any employees milling about. The store simply was not operating that day. Given the news that the co-owner, Charlie Sloane, had died, that might have been a prudent decision on Helen's part.
Rachel retreated down the few steps from the porch and back to the sidewalk lining the edge of the street. She had a few coins with her and Helen's shoppe was centrally located and near everything. Rachel thought she might go get herself a cup of tea at the train station's ladies' waiting room. At least she'd be safe there. She knew the station master, Mr. Garvey, well enough. But the tea they served was a cousin to sludge so her feet were not quick to go.
Instead, she walked into the alley and found the side entrance for Helen's Hems. Taking a chance, she knocked, hoping that Miss Blythe would appear.
The door opened just a tad and a feeble, "Hello?" came out.
"It's me!" Rachel announced, "Mrs. Lynde. Would you please let me in?"
Mrs. Lynde's voice sounded like a bugle in Helen's ear, but, with unexpected obedience, and knowing that she needed some help, she allowed Mrs. Lynde to pass through her door and into her apartment.
It was past noon and Helen was still in her bedclothes, barely able to function. Helen backtracked from the door and the gleaming sunlight, protecting her eyes, as she attempted to make shade with her hands. She trembled from her activity. Her knees bowed to the floor as Helen marginally controlled her shaking collapse.
"Helen Blythe," Rachel voiced with great concern. "What are you doing up if you're feeling so poorly." Rachel was bending low over Helen, trying to reassure the younger woman as she quivered.
"I need help," Helen said, "I don't want to be alone. I've been resting near this door hoping someone, anyone would come."
"I heard you get sick headaches," Mrs. Lynde divulged. "Just stay right where you are and I'll get you a heavy blanket to block out the light. And you'll feel better under its weight."
Helen managed to point to the couch. One of Mrs. Sloane's log-cabin quilts was hanging on the back of it. Rachel had it over Helen in a flash. "You need to see Dr. Blair. He can give you a powder."
"I have seen him. Dr. Blair gave me a few packets to hold me over until my next visit, but I'm out now. I'm in no condition to call."
Rachel opened her drawstring purse. "I think I have one on me, actually. Marilla gets like this too sometimes. I keep one with me just in case we're stuck somewhere and she's overcome with a migraine. Will you take it with warm or cold water?"
"It doesn't matter. It's probably too late. I might not be able to keep it down."
"You'll have to sip it super slow then," Rachel said undeterred.
Mrs. Lynde was first and foremost, a mother, and couldn't help but minister to Helen over the worst of her headache. She felt useful and productive and had quite forgotten the reason for her call. Now that Helen was a little more steady, Rachel helped her move from the floor and to the couch. Helen sat with her legs perched out in front of her on the ottoman. As Helen rested with a bit of dry toast and more water, Mrs. Lynde closed all the drapes throughout the entire house, making it dark as possible. She even placed the accent pillows against the threshold of the front door to block off any light emitting from underneath.
"Thank you, Mrs. Lynde," Helen said. "I feel a million times better."
"Oh, you can call me Rachel," Mrs. Lynde returned instead. "And I'm glad I could help you, that's what. I came here today to check on you, see if the Ladies Aid could do you any good. What, with Charlie Sloane gone. He leaves quite the hole in Avonlea. He was a character, that's true and certain. But I don't suppose you want to talk about it, I'm guessing that's the source of your headache."
Helen felt two tears slip from her eyes. "I need to talk with Mrs. Sloane about Charles."
"She knows, Hon! Everyone in Avonlea does."
Helen sniffed and shook her head in disagreement. Through pursed lips, she mumbled, "No, she doesn't. No one knows what I do." Helen put her teacup of water down on its saucer. "Charles Sloane is alive. You see..." Helen forced her intense blue eyes onto Mrs. Lynde's. "You do know about me, don't you?"
"Helen Blythe, everyone knows about your seeing powers. I'm not stupid. I even know about Gilbert's healing powers, but I can't admit that to him. Gilbert doesn't know I know, or, at least I don't think he knows I know." Now Rachel's head was starting to smart. "It's all sort of immaterial at this point."
"In a vision, I saw Charles take off his life jacket—the one with his family logo on it. He gave it to Robert Wright. Robert must have given it to the woman that was rescued."
"You don't say," Mrs. Lynde heart lurched in her chest. "That would mean. Oh! Poor Robert!" She then thought next of Gertie Wright, his wife, and the insufferably cute child that called her 'Ma!'.
"I want to talk to Charles' mother and tell her that her son didn't drown, among other things. I was sort of hoping it was Mother Sloane at the door."
"Sorry! It's just me."
Helen chuckled. "It's quite all right. Can I talk to you about my vision? My entire vision?"
"Did you see Robert drown, Hon?"
"No," Helen answered truthfully. She nervously looked around plucking up the courage to tell her new friend the insight that plagued her.
"Robert told Charles to take care of Gertie and the boy," Helen waited for a response. Surprisingly, none came from Rachel. "The boy, Robbie, is actually Charles' son. I heard Robert tell Charles that. And Charles didn't know. I could tell by his reaction. It was a complete surprise."
Mrs. Lynde picked up Helen's napkin and toast crusts. "Do you want more water?"
"You don't seem surprised with this revelation that's been weighing on me. That's what's making my head hurt."
"Well, it's not the first time I've heard such speculations. Mr. Felder thought so too." When Rachel referred to their mutual friend, Helen's face colored. "You're friends with him too, aren't you?"
"A little."
"Or a lot. He writes to me every once and a while. He's more regular about it than my sons," Rachel explained. "You know, we speak the same language, he and I. He doesn't say exactly, but, I can put two and two together. Why'd you say 'no' to him and then up and tell Charlie 'yes'. That's the great mystery to me. Not the parentage of Robbie Wright."
Helen placed her hand on her head and Mrs. Lynde felt horrid for pressing when Helen was recovering from such a terrible headache.
"You don't have to answer me," Mrs. Lynde continued now apologetically. "I forgot myself there with this comradery we've discovered, such that it is."
"No, it's fine. I've been asked this before, just not so bluntly. You see, Charles, he convinced me that all the love he was capable of giving, would be mine. That would never be true with Gene. Even if he does love me more, he's divided." Helen stirred on the sofa, swinging her legs round to the free seats and turning the furniture piece into a lounge. "Gene needs someone that can handle his dual interests. I don't think I could tolerate that. There were a few other reasons, but, that's my best rationale."
"Yes, I can see your point there. May I ask you something else, Miss Blythe." Mrs. Lynde refreshed Helen's water as she spoke. "I admit, I have no right to ask you this and I don't want to embarrass you, dear. Trust me, I understand you better than you know, but, sometimes I hear things and I don't know what to think. I know you and Katherine Brooke to be nice, respectable ladies."
Helen thought she knew what Mrs. Lynde's question might be. With no little trepidation, Helen nodded that Rachel could proceed with care.
"All other things being equal, who would you marry, if you must."
Helen smirked. "It wouldn't be Charles Sloane or Eugene Felder or any other man."
Now Rachel flushed. "You think that's supposed to shock me," Her brown eyes actually kind. "I may know a thing or two about liking women over men. My daughter Constance was like that for instance. Although her reasons to marry seemed practical at the time, her marriage was miserable and drove her to suicide. And I regret not supporting her better, so to you, I'll tell you what I wish I told Connie so many years ago. Don't marry because you feel you have to. Financial security is not enough of a reason. Do it because you love them and they love you."
"Anne, I didn't see it happen, but boy, I heard about it." Dora softly spoke to Anne, as a younger sister to an older sister would. They were in Anne's Green Gable's bedroom. "When the ladies came into the nursery to pick up their babies, they talked about how Mr. Marin had a seizure."
"Isn't Mr. Marin the hired man of Mr. Blythe?"
"Yes," Dora affirmed. "Mr. Marin's daughter was there too. She's colored you know."
Anne took her hairbrush from the vanity table now that her hair was free of restraining hairpins. Her red tresses remained crimped from the kink of the braid. The angles soften as she passed her bristle brush through her auburn waves.
"She's mulatto, half black and half white."
"Anne, I get the feeling that Davy really likes her."
"What makes you say that."
"Well, he's my twin, isn't he? Sometimes I just know. Plus, he asked me if he could give her my old shoes." Dora rolled her eyes. "He left them by the door of her home when he knew they were out. He blushed a thousand shades of red when asking me. In the old days, he'd just take them. He then made me promise never to let her know it was him."
Anne blinked. Was her Davy-boy really turning into such a thoughtful fellow? "Let's say Davy does like her, it's not unheard of. It's challenging for us because we've been taught to think in terms of color, but really, there's no difference between the races, black or white, or aboriginal or Asian."
"Ralph thinks it's disgraceful," Dora frowned. "He's passed Davy and Miss Marin on the road a couple of times. Davy escorts her home to New Halifax. But I tell Ralph since Miss Marin showed up, Davy's a lot less critical of us. I think I like her if it's making Davy stop telling me who I can and cannot be friends with. Davy doesn't have a very high opinion of Ralph."
"Now Dora, Davy loves you and he really worries about you. And when he looks at you, he says you look like your mother, Mary."
"Really, that's funny, as sometimes I see her in Davy, but not so much anymore. His face is changing. His throat has an Adam's apple now."
"You two aren't children anymore. Speaking of which, did you improve your diaper count last night? Are you closer to becoming Mrs. Ralph Andrews?"
Dora nodded as she picked at her fingernails. "I'm at two-hundred and twenty-three now. It was interesting, changing diapers at the prayer service."
"Why do you say that?"
"I met a girl my age from New Halifax, only, she was really dark, both of her parents are escaped slaves," Dora reflected, "She's a mama and was nursing a baby when I arrived. And that's what she does for a living, she's a wet nurse. She thought I was crazy when I told her I couldn't wait to get hitched. She really had a lot to say on the topic."
"Well, I think those are things Marilla wants you to consider in your decision to marry so young. There's a downside too, it's not all rosy. Some women die in childbirth, you do know that."
"Yes, I know."
"So, you have to be sure that you're willing to put your life on the line for your husband. Is that how you feel about Ralph?"
Her face grew quite pale, "I think so."
"That's how I feel about Gilbert and I know so. And Gilbert would die for me, that's how much we love each other." Anne answered as she touched her circle of pearls.
Eugene sat crossed-legged on his bed as Gilbert paced the floor, running down the events of the night before. It had taken a complete twenty-four hours for Gilbert to unwind enough to tell Eugene what had happened. The file of miracles existed, but, Gilbert never read it. Instead, Gilbert decided to heal Andrew Tomgallon from a disease that would have certainly killed him. And he did it under the observant eyes of the Dean himself!
"Are you crazy?" Eugene pummeled to his friend. "Gilbert, that was beyond reckless! You could have healed him when he was sleeping, you fool! And you wouldn't be in this mess."
"I might have scared him. How would you feel if you were a small boy, sick and suddenly there was a strange man over you."
"You cured me in my sleep."
"And it still didn't stop you from knowing."
"That's not my point!" Eugene's pale eyes turned to an azure blue. He stuck out his hand. "That's it. Hand over your powers. You have no idea what you're doing."
Gilbert looked at Eugene, holding his hand out. Like that was going to work.
"Gene, it's not easy. I never asked for powers." Gilbert rubbed his face, leaving his hand cupped over his mouth for a moment. "But, you'd probably make a much better witch than me anyway."
Gilbert retreated to his side of the room, toeing off his shoes and gathering his bedclothes. He ignored Gene's conciliatory comments and changed.
"Gil," Eugene's voice was soft. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I'd make a terrible witch. I wouldn't be able to stay honest. Despite everything else, you're honest and not abusing the privilege. It's really one of the marvelous things about you."
Gilbert pulled his covers back and entered his warm bed. "I'm just a man like you are. If I'm so honest, why is it I can't stop wishing Tomgallon would just go away and never come back."
to be continued