Author's Note:
Thank you to everyone who, as one of my lovely guest reviewers AnneNGil put it, is along for this "wild ride". This might be one of the wildest chapters of all!
Special thanks to all my fabulous reviewers as well as those I can't thank personally; guests as well as bluebows, the too-kind geekloverlz, and Hestergray. I so appreciate you all stopping by.
Love,
MrsVonTrapp x
Chapter Three
We're all mad here
"Oh!" a collective gasp of horror sounded around the room.
"Argh!" Gilbert groaned, grasping his face and staggering backwards.
"Gilbert!" Anne turned to him, in dumbstruck dismay.
"Mr DAWSON!" Jo shouted, making a game grab for the assailant.
"Dawson?" Gilbert gave muffled question, hand trying to stem the tide and reaching vainly for a non-existent hankerchief in his pocket, having instead to requisition the nearest doily.
"Fiend!" the gentleman identified as Dawson thundered at Gilbert, pointing extravagantly.
"Monster!" Phil shrilled at the interloper, prepared to launch a possible defensive tackle.
"He's bleeding!" Anne shrieked, attempting to direct Gilbert to a chair.
"The cushions!" Aunt Jimsie warned desperately.
"I'll fetch a wet rag!" Pris offered level-headedly, leaving hastily in search of same.
"And I'll fetch the Constable!" Stella threatened impressively, with glaring eyes, to the man who was apparently Mr Dawson, as he was unceremoniously hauled by Jo to stand and be thus guarded, in the corner of the room, like a recalcitrant, bullying schoolboy.
"EXPLAIN yourself!" Anne turned from Gilbert to the tow-haired man, incandescent with rage.
"He stole my fiancée!"
"But Anne is engaged to Roy!" Dorothy offered spiritedly.
"Are you really after all, Anne?" Aunt Jimsie brightened.
"No!" Anne and Gilbert chorused in unison.
"This is most confusing…" Jimsie despaired.
"How dare you invite yourself into this house, harangue its residents and guests, and then proceed to attack another friend in this shameful manner?" Phil was magnificent in employing all the haughty Bolingbroke affront she had learned from her mother.
Jo Blake, the only one in the room with an actual fiancée at present moment, as far as he could ascertain, felt his heart surge with pride. The challenging residents of the Patterson Street slums would be no match for her.
"Whose fiancée are we talking about, then?" Pris tried to reason it out as she returned, handing the rag to Gilbert with a look of sympathy.
"Mine," the Dawson man made quieter but still mulish reply from the corner.
"So you won't marry Roy?" Dorothy directed to Anne across the room, who was hovering about Gilbert radiating, to his mind, a most encouraging concern. "Even for my sake?"
Anne threw her friend a sudden, lovely, distracted smile. "Dorothy my darling, you might have been the only reason I would have married him."
This pleased Dorothy immensely, but then her face clouded.
"He's bellyaching about Breach of Promise, I'm afraid."
"Is that why he sent you?" Anne was clearly exasperated, and trying her best to keep Gilbert and his bloody emissions from the cushions. "There was no promise, so how can I be in breach of it?"
"He claimed there was an understanding of an understanding, and that's almost the same thing."
"I don't understand…" Aunt Jimsie sighed.
"Breach of Promise!" Dawson bleated. "That's why I'm here!"
"Hush and we'll get to you!" Stella sent another daggered look towards the corner.
"Is it broken?" Jo enquired.
"Don't think so…" Gilbert was pinching the bridge of his nose tentatively, and delicately prodding the rest with his long fingers.
"Irretrievably!" Dawson muttered to himself almost as afterthought, physically deflating.
"Who are you exactly, and why are you here, apart from injuring innocent men?" Anne was scathing.
"I am Mr Andrew Dawson," he answered officiously, though not exactly helpfully, "and he is far from innocent!"
"Who?"
"Blythe!"
"Roy would agree with that, I'm afraid," Dorothy added.
"Gilbert had nothing to do with it!" Anne defended passionately, earning her an amazed and covertly adoring look from that very gentleman.
"He most certainly did!" Mr Andrew Dawson yelped.
"Who is or was your fiancée, Mr Andrew Dawson?" Pris demanded.
"Christine Stuart," Gilbert answered for him, sighing heavily.
There was, for a beat, an astonished silence.
"The Christine Stuart about to be engaged to Gilbert?" Jo puzzled, looking to Phil, who reddened and shook her head surreptitiously.
"You made a formal offer to my fiancée?" Mr Andrew Dawson choked out in dangerous paroxysm. "Wait until Ronald hears about this!"
"Ronald who?" Jimsie asked in patent bewilderment.
"Christine's brother," Gilbert, Anne, Phil, Pris and Stella answered for the room.
This information did not unduly assist Aunt Jimsie, Jo Blake or Dorothy Gardner, for that matter, and all looked to the blustering Andrew Dawson for elaboration.
"Miss Christine Stuart was my loving and devoted fiancée for over two years until this morning, when I was in receipt of a telegram sent by her, outlining her sorrow and regret and releasing me from… our engagement…" Andrew Dawson explained brokenly. "She said she had fallen in love with the very man who had been squiring her about Kingsport in my absence… whom I had trusted on the recommendation of her own brother…"
"You're in love?" Anne turned back to Gilbert, all eyes and voice quailing.
"No!" Gilbert vehemently denied, or as vehemently as one could behind a wet rag. He shook his head to further underscore his denial, a move which he instantly, wincingly regretted.
"Yes! Of course we are! Or were!" Dawson scowled.
"Keep your temper!" * Stella warned their unwanted guest.
"What sort of man entrusts his fiancée to the care of a stranger?" Aunt Jimsie now wondered, quite reasonably.
"Oh, there's no use talking to him," Anne added desperately, jerking her head towards the blonde visitor, "he's perfectly idiotic!" **
But Aunt Jimsie, after the initial shock, had recovered her wits, and was warming to her theme.
"You come in here unannounced and uninvited," Jamesina continued sternly in the direction of Mr Dawson, "amongst the young ladies I am housemistress and chaperone to, and create upset and havoc! By your own admission I am to understand you have allowed this man, Mr Gilbert Blythe, known and liked by us all, to escort, entertain and otherwise safeguard this Miss Stuart, most likely from the proceeds of his own pocketbook, based on the most tenuous of acquaintances… for two years?!"
Mr Dawson met this questioning with stunned silence.
"And this is the thanks you offer? In all my days I have not seen or heard the like of it! You could have abandoned Miss Stuart to a scoundrel for all you knew, never mind what her brother thought! If anyone has breached their promise, Sir, it's you! And let me tell you something else, if this is an example of your character and behaviour, not only are you not fit to wipe Mr Blythe's boots, it's little wonder you have been released from your obligations. I only marvel that it took her this long!"
After this rousing speech, Aunt Jimsie felt leave to sit down, next to a clearly admiring Dorothy, whilst the others remaining stood about awkwardly and agog, applauding her words and sentiments loudly in their heads.
"I… I…" Mr Andrew Dawson now flapped about, like the proverbial fish at the end of the line. "Now see here…"
"No, Mr Dawson," Gilbert interrupted quietly but commandingly, rising slowly to his full height and squaring his impressively wide shoulders. He put aside the rag, giving all a glimpse of his battered, bruising - but thankfully unbroken – nose. "You see here."
He took three long, sockless strides to stand in the middle of the room, glancing around at all those assembled before hazel eyes focussed on the reddening face in the corner. Gilbert's appearance may have given cause for humour – dishevelled; hair in disarray; bloody shirt; and sans socks, jacket and tie – but his authoritative manner brokered no smirk.
"Aunt Jimsie and all my friends here are too kind in their assessment of me, and I am fortunate indeed to have them speak so on my behalf. Although I cannot say my conduct in every facet of my life has always been without fault, certainly your accusations, Sir, are without any merit. I have indeed accompanied your fiancée to many events here in Kingsport and specifically around Redmond these past two years, at the behest of her brother Ronald, who was a good friend. I have always treated Miss Stuart with the utmost courtesy and respect. It is true that a close friendship developed between us, somewhat inevitably given your own absence from her life, and the fact that, particularly initially, she knew no one here."
He drew a breath, pausing to gather his thoughts.
"If Christine has developed certain… feelings… for me, I am sure they were only felt in substitute for those she could not bestow directly upon yourself," Gilbert asserted, more generously than Dawson deserved. "I don't know if absence always does make the heart grow fonder, in all truth. Sometimes people need proximity as much as a promise…"
His gaze flickered momentarily to his periphery, as if he might note Anne's response. Were the words for Dawson or for her? He hardly knew anymore. All he knew was that he had sought her love as the highest point of their connection, and yet every day thereafter he had been without her company and her friendship, was as wretched as he had ever known.
"But I do know that I never sought nor encouraged Miss Stuart's affection, nor would I return any such sentiments, flattering though they may be. And although I regret her broken engagement as I would to hear of any friend's such circumstances, I strenuously refute any responsibility you seem determined to lay at my feet. Though knowing the young lady as I do, if she rediscovers your love and admiration for her, coming all this way so suddenly, she may well rediscover her commitment to yourself. My advice to you, Dawson, would be to not try to force her hand into loving you… that only ends in a terrible heartache all of its own…" he swallowed with difficulty, knowing he was now crossing a line. "I learned that lesson the hard way myself, and I'm afraid with respect, Miss Gardner…" his gaze swung to meet Dorothy's, "that Roy must, too."
Gilbert might have heard a pin drop, then, but for the pounding between his temples, not to mention the residual ache between his eyes. The tension in the room had popped as if a balloon. Dorothy looked crestfallen, and Dawson shamefaced. Gilbert dared not look back towards Anne.
"May I show you the door then, Mr Dawson?" Stella offered with barely concealed contempt.
"Unless, that is, you'd first like to leave your card, so that Mr Blythe will know how to reach you in citing charges?" Phil added, almost gleefully.
The man's woebegone expression almost made Gilbert feel sorry for him. Almost.
"I… I…" Dawson stammered, casting a helpless look about the room, at the collection of stony faces set with the same resolve; to see the back of him as quickly as possible. "I will take my leave, with my apologies to all ladies present… and, er… the gentlemen," he quickly amended, remembering the unremarkable-looking man beside him who had posted himself as guard.
"I… I… give you my humble and unreserved apology, Mr Blythe…" he tentatively approached, fiddling with his previously discarded hat, and unsure whether the dark-haired man with the singular fashion sense might not still exact retribution in kind. "I beg forgiveness for my offence, and hope you will not judge me too harshly, given I was quite out of my wits with desperation and grief, and now feel the shame of my conduct and the neglect of my fiancée as has been pointed out to me."
Gilbert nodded curtly, acknowledging to himself that his own conduct towards Roy a mere hour or so ago was a sizeable blemish, and understanding something of desperate behaviour borne of panic and grief.
"Try again regarding Miss Stuart, Mr Dawson," Gilbert gratefully farewelled him, catching Phil's knowing little smile.
"If Mr Dawson will wait a moment, I will share a cab with him," Dorothy ventured, and the former but still moderately hopeful fiancé of Christine Stuart affirmed this dazedly, stepping outside before anyone could change their mind about him.
"I will take my leave of you good folk myself, with apologies for my own intrusion," Miss Gardner nodded to all in turn.
"Are you certain, Dorothy?" Anne whispered as she walked her to the door. "Mr Dawson is a most unpredictable creature."
"As are you, it would seem, Anne," Dorothy lamented, with the tiniest glimmer of a tease. "And I did so want you as my sister. ***
"Oh, Dorothy, I'm so very sorry!" Anne clutched her friend's hands. "I hardly know what to say to you!"
"I think your Mr Blythe said it all quite eloquently, myself. That you can't force someone to love you."
"Dorothy!" Anne paled. "He's not my Mr Blythe! Heavens, whatever do you think I was doing with Roy?"
Dorothy Gardner surveyed Anne somewhat amusedly. "Well, darling, isn't that the question? I have wondered this myself, given that you are so clearly in love with Mr Blythe."
"Dorothy!" Anne was aghast, and furthermore quite speechless. She took Roy's sister by the arm, urging her outside.
"Shall we go?" Andrew Dawson turned to them, offering so a touch impatiently.
"No!" both women answered resoundingly.
Mr Dawson frowned, made a fine show of consulting his gold pocket watch, and took slow steps to the gate, which he then leaned against rather theatrically.
"Dorothy, I don't know where or how you have come across such a notion, but I assure you I was faithful to Roy in word and deed the entire time I was with him!" Anne urged, unreasonably flustered.
"I know, Anne," Dorothy sighed. "That's the shame of it. You convinced everyone – Roy, me, even Mother and Aline. I'm sure you also convinced yourself into the bargain, what's more, probably right up until the fateful moment."
Anne, reminded of what had transpired at that fateful moment, released a pitiful whimper.
"Oh, Dorothy! We parted so badly!"
"Yes…" Dorothy now muzzled a smile, her roguish hazel eyes, **** so disconcertingly like another's she dare not mention, twinkling madly. "I am aware…"
At Anne's distraught expression, she gave a little laugh.
"Don't look so traumatised, Anne! You refused him; you didn't mortally wound him! I'm awfully sorry you won't marry Roy…But you are quite right. He would bore you to death. I love him, and he is a dear sweet boy, but really he isn't a bit interesting. He looks as if he ought to be, but he isn't."
"This won't spoil OUR friendship, will it, Dorothy?" Anne asked wistfully.
"No, indeed. You're too good to lose. If I can't have you for a sister I mean to keep you as a chum anyway. And don't fret over Roy. He is feeling terribly just now – I'm sure I'll have to listen to his outpourings every day - but he'll get over it. He always does."
"Oh - ALWAYS?" repeated Anne in a strangled voice. "So he has `got over it' before?"
"Dear me, yes," said Dorothy frankly. "Twice before. And he raved to me just the same both times… Of course, when he met you he vowed to me that he had never really loved before - that the previous affairs had been merely boyish fancies. But I don't think you need worry." ***
Anne kissed Dorothy's cheek, almost mournfully.
"I did care for Roy, Dorothy. I hope in time he might believe that."
"I know you did… you never had to convince me of that. But if you had looked at him even once the way you looked at Gilbert Blythe just now, I'd be advising you on my favoured seamstress for my bridesmaid's gown."
Anne opened her mouth to further protest such conjecture, but was interrupted by a great throat clearing from the direction of the gate, the audacity of Dawson's action after his preposterous conduct inside evidently lost on him.
Dorothy rolled her eyes and departed with Mr Dawson, Anne clearly hoping that not-so-gentlemanly gentleman would still end up marrying Christine, if only for the satisfaction she would feel in having them completely deserve each other.
Gilbert had been watching the door for Anne and simultaneously pretending he had any interest in assisting in straightening the room. Stella and Pris were huddled in the kitchen, supervising tea and rehashing events; Aunt Jimsie was worrying over the replacement of cushions; Phil and Jo, after their brave showing that evening, were whispering as lovebirds in the corner.
Anne was taking an extraordinarily long time in farewelling Dorothy Gardner; was that young lady making a final attempt to press her brother's suit? Was Anne having regrets after their calamitous evening, not the least of which concerned him being accused of coming between not one but, as Roy might have it, two engaged couples?
He wished he could think straight about any of it, but he was exhausted, and when Anne did reappear she skirted around him and refused to make eye contact. The quiet camaraderie of their journey home from the park and her staunch, wonderfully fiery defense of him in the face of both a symbolic and literal assault seemed part fever dream now.
"I must make my way back, too," Jo offered after a time. "If I don't make the last train I'll be camping out on your couch alongside Gilbert!"
Gilbert, who had been in grave danger of nodding off, roused himself at his name, and made largely ineffectual noises about accompanying Jo to the station on his way back to the college.
"Ahh… I don't think that's wise, Gil…" Jo offered.
"It's well after your boarding house curfew," Stella warned.
"I'm sorry Mr Blythe, but you do look like a dog's breakfast," Aunt Jimsie judged, harshly but fairly.
"They won't miss you tonight," Phil added, astutely, "and you can get lost in all the comings and goings tomorrow, as the students leave for home, or prepare to. It will be bedlam there and they won't even notice you. But turn up now, Gilbert, looking like you have been brawling in an alleyway, and they'll snatch their precious Cooper Prize right back off you."
"Stay," Pris urged kindly, in echo of her instruction to Anne back at the pavilion.
Gilbert flickered a look to that young lady, unusually quiet as she followed the path of the conversation.
"Anne?" he queried throatily. She might be preparing to accept Roy after all, for all he knew, and Dorothy Gardner was carrying back an urgent message to him as he spoke.
Anne colored, but held firm.
"I'm sure your shoes would rub cruelly if you tried to hobble back now," she smiled softly, and his careful, relieved laughter sounded loudly in his ears.
Anne had been determined not to venture downstairs, but she had departed for bed unaware she was still wearing Gilbert's old jacket, and it had sat on her chair accusingly, reminding her he would possibly be up and away in the morning before she even awoke, and could she really live with herself if he arrived back to his boarding house sockless and jacketless?
In the sitting room all was still, including the long, lean figure reclining under a blanket and resting his curly head – scandal of scandals – upon an immaculately embroidered cushion. Anne padded silently past and placed his jacket near his shoes where he would not miss it, quite prepared to be instantly, silently away again, back upstairs to the safety and serenity of her beloved blue room.
And yet…
She would just check his breathing, and there it was; steady and rhythmic, if a little noisier than she remembered it, given the injured appendage it had to first pass through.
And then…
She really should examine his bruising; ensue there were no forgotten cuts or scrapes; frowningly contemplate the blue-green shadow already shading his smooth skin, snaking along his nose and settling into the tiny ridge between his dark brows.
She really did not wish to note the smudges of fatigue beneath the sweep of his insultingly long eyelashes; the lean cheeks made leaner still under her close and careful inspection; the little indent that stretched into a dimple when he smiled.
And she certainly did not want to think on the boyish vulnerability of his face in repose… or the way his lips curved around a hint of humour, even in his dreams… or how those hidden hazel eyes had blistered in their hurt when she had refused and rejected him…
"Oh, Gil…" she sighed; a breathy lament that seemed to stir the curls falling across his forehead. Unthinkingly, she reached out to brush them back; oblivious to what she had done until she saw the pads of her fingers skating along his brow, with a seeming will of their own, and she retracted her arm as if her hand had been scalded, scurrying back upstairs without a backward glance.
A backward glance would have informed her that Gilbert had shot up, instantly awake as only a future medical student can be; watching red hair streaming down a white nightgown retreating at speed up the stairs…
And he, wonderingly tracing where her fingers had brushed him, and with the memory of his name from her lips, reverberating as an echo in the air.
Chapter Notes
The title of this chapter comes, fittingly, from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland's the Cheshire Cat in Chapter 6 'Pig and Pepper'.
*Alice's Adventures in Wonderland from the Caterpillar in Chapter 5 'Advice from a Caterpillar'.
**Alice's Adventures in Wonderland from Alice in Chapter 6 'Pig and Pepper'.
***All other quotations from Anne of the Island Chapter 39 'Deals with Weddings' except;
****Anne of the Island Chapter 36 'The Gardners' Call'.