Thank you all so much for being patient, I'm gradually realising that this slow pace has to become normal, now! I'm so glad that you have enjoyed the last few chapters. Now, I never planned to write our couple being apart for long, so I won't be writing a blow-by-blow summer for this pair- you can expect us to skip through it faster than we have the last six months! I'm beyond blessed at the way you have responded to this story and am so grateful for your messages and reviews.
Love, Cate.
Chapter 26
Wayside
Valley Road
Vaguely to the North of You
Honoured sir,
We've had so many firsts, Gil, and here is another: the first letter you have ever received from your wife. I shall attempt to make it memorable. Your own letters were a lifeline for me last summer- you made me laugh and kept me connected to both home and Redmond at the same time- I enjoyed them so much more than I ever told you, I think. Well, now I can tell you freely; keep up the good work, Mr Blythe. Mrs Blythe is at present writing from the parlour of Janet Sweet of Wayside, a cosy room stuffed with furnishings, and just made for two. It is shadowed by a large willow tree that Janet's father planted long ago- against the advice of his wife, apparently, who declared it much too close to the house. It is, really, however there it has remained out of respect, dwarfing the western side of the house- the overall effect inside is quite pretty, and the summer sunshine is muted into a grotto-like gloom that thrills me.
Your letter was waiting for me on Monday afternoon, a bountiful greeting at the end of my first day- and I am relieved to hear that your work at the paper is something you are enjoying. How are you finding your boardinghouse? Are you finding it as strange as I am to not have a brown ceiling as you sleep? Heaven forbid that we have grown accustomed to sleeping in our cave-like Mushroom!
As for myself, I can fairly state that I couldn't have found a better situation. The school is modern and well-equipped, and the board very pleased to have me here- I have a feeling that Esther was pushing herself for some time until someone could be found to take her class. She will be well in time, I believe; Janet tells me that she was very drained after a bout of pneumonia in the spring.
Wayside is a dear little home, and Janet the undisputed queen of housekeepers- who met me at the door at once with a cordial greeting for Miss Blythe, if you please. I confess that it took me a moment or so to respond that there was no Miss Blythe, only a Mrs- only to have Janet all aflutter, stating hysterically that she hadn't room for a husband as well!
After a good cup of tea, I was able to explain the circumstances of our time apart. If she thought it strange that we got married in the middle of college she certainly didn't say so, and she was most interested to hear about you, our plans, and our wee home in the city.
My room here is only a little bigger than our annexe, in fact, and over my bed hangs a cheerful picture of Robby Burns standing over Highland Mary's grave. It's not particularly comforting at the moment when the local gossip is that you have gone to a 'better place'- but more on that later. It's no wonder I have bad dreams. Why, the first night I was here I dreamed I couldn't laugh!* I have taken to re-reading your letter each night before I go to sleep, in the hopes that your natural cheer will dispel poor Robby's infectious misery.
The class has been going quite well, so far. Esther is a stickler for preparation and left her materials ready- all of the usual classes, of course, including half an hour each day for physical activity. I have been using these to take the children on nature walks, as Miss Stacey did with us. I look forward to our outings as much as the children do- I am convinced that the outside world is a wonderful teacher in itself. The children are coming around slowly, the poor mites; they are very attached to Esther. I have a shy little miss who has not spoken a word to me yet- her mother implores me to keep trying, she is sure the girl will warm up soon; a round little fellow who walks with the solemnity of a judge and cannot spell to save himself. His father is the local banker, and he insists on calling me Mrs Blythe most properly- the rest of the class need to be reminded to stop calling me Miss, at times.
I also have a ten-year-old lad with a shock of curly hair who is quite brilliant at mathematics- and of course, he is the one who torments the girls. You will guess who he reminds me of. I solemnly warned him that I once knew a fellow who behaved so and that such behaviour set him firmly on a path to matrimony with one of his classmates. Later I caught him eying the girls in the class with an abject look of horror, and he has subsequently been quite well-behaved for the past two days.
Meanwhile, my sojourn here is a pleasant one. The school is a pleasant walk from Wayside, and Janet is a pearl amongst women. She declares that I am much too thin for her taste, (and blames the demands of college on that) and is taking great delight in cooking all sorts of indigestible things for me to eat. I have a slight suspicion that there is someone whom she would much rather be caring for instead- a devoted gentleman caller who worships the very ground she walks on. I cannot fault him for that.
The gentleman in question is a Mr John Douglas- he is an older man who makes the word tall seem hopelessly inadequate. Not handsome exactly, but steady and strong, with a patient, humorous endurance in his expression- as if he would go to the stake if need be, but he would keep on looking pleasant until he really had to begin squirming.* I like him very much- and I feel that you would like him too, Gil. He persists in his bemusement that I am old enough to be married- a popular opinion here in Valley Road. It might also amuse you to know that most of the townsfolk are quite convinced that you are dead.
This will be the only time I travel to a new town in my dark grey suit- it seemed only sensible, with the soot from the train- as I am immediately supposed to have tragically lost you as soon as they see my wedding ring. ("Oh, but my dear! You must have been an infant when you married him…") On my first buggy-ride in town, Mrs Amelia Skinner clucked over me with great sympathy, and regaled me with stories of her own widowhood- and she assured me that since she had found romance again, I would likely do so as well. I was to keep my chin resolutely up. I did attempt to stop her tirade halfway through, however, it was rather like stopping a runaway horse. Eventually, I made her understand that you were alive and well and in Halifax for work over the summer. She was a little dubious about that: apparently, there are many 'indecent misses' in the big cities, and she exhorts you to be on your guard.
A working married woman, Gilbert?! Heaven forbid, out here. While the townsfolk are getting used to the idea, I find myself talking about you constantly to remind them that you are alive. Inevitably then, I get inquiries after your health, your meal preferences, what work you are doing at the moment. So please, keep sending long, newsy letters- it gives me all manner of things to talk about with them. And it makes it easier- it keeps you present with me. Writing to you helps, as well. I think you and I might be rather good at this...
You may laugh, and I make myself do so at times- however, I find that underneath the pleasant comings and goings here, I feel strangely alone, in a town bigger than Avonlea. I feel oddly halved. And no, I don't 'almost' wish we could have stayed for the summer, Gil- of course, I do. While our motives are pure- in the sense that we do need the money for next year- more than anything, I wish that you and I had been able to stay in Avonlea together. You said to me some time ago that you wished us to court properly- and I find myself wishing that we could do that here, on our island. We've never been together with time to spend at home. Perhaps we should plan to do that the summer after we graduate- especially with medical school looming so close the following year. I wonder if away from the constant work and pressure of college life we would find our roots again- and perhaps we would start afresh. Avonlea always seemed to be touched by a fairytale, to me- I have no doubt that in our hometown we would find ourselves, and each other again. As it is, we must wait to be together.
Miss Lavender made sure to remind me that they will not be home at all this summer, and suggested that you and I should stay at Echo Lodge if we ever wished for some time to ourselves while we here. I confess, I cried at the letter Marilla forwarded me- I would love nothing more than to set up there for the summer, to have our loved ones visit us there, and to make ourselves at home with the echoes and the woods. Miss Lavender is astute of course; she reminded me that we must remember to take care of our marriage in all of our busyness. To be doing so at a distance is certainly more painful that I could have expected.
In between my classes and other sundry duties here (and certain outings expected of a Presbyterian and schoolmarm- I shall, of course, attend prayer meeting with Janet this week) I have found myself imagining us there at the stone house. We go on our old walks and picnic outside in the sunshine each day. You remember the cool of the stone house in the summertime, the little kitchen- the fields surrounding it where wild strawberries and even wilder blueberries can be found. We might attend the bonfire that Moody's parents are having next week, or go to your parent's house for tea on Sundays. Davy would expect you to take him fishing, of course- and you would come home to me smelling of lake-water and lake-trout. Marilla and Mrs Lynde would come with Dora to the house, by buggy, of course- I shouldn't want the older women walking all that way in the heat.
You and I could even go to those places we were never bold enough to venture unchaperoned. No one could complain about us visiting the rocky shores near the cape now, and exploring the caves and abandoned lighthouse- no one could complain about us getting lost in the Haunted Wood, for that matter. Mrs Lynde never did approve of that. I imagine seeing your apple tree deep in the woods in bloom- you took me there just before we left Avonlea for the first time- you made me remember why we were stretching our wings. I have never been back there without you- to me, it always seemed to be your spot. If I were to go there alone, I fear that I would become either maudlin or else so cross at you for not being here that you may not wish to come home in September. We could go to Hester's garden, and row on the pond in the moonlight, and visit the new Mr and Mrs Wright in their home- and other times, simply remain at home before our own fireside.
When I was a child in other homes, fire was merely warmth and fuel- I learned at Green Gables that it could be home and haven, a place to dwell with those you love. Matthew would sit with his pipe working on harnesses and his tools, listening to me prattle about schoolwork and the girls and a particularly annoying boy who kept beating me at geometry. I would wager that you had no idea I was talking about you to the degree that I did: Matthew certainly heard your name quite often by our fireside. He and Marilla were my home then- as you are mine now.
On a Sunday afternoon in early July, Gilbert sat out on a rock overlooking the Atlantic ocean. Anne's most recent letter was in his hand, and the wind whipped around him crazily as he stared over choppy waves. He reached up the heel of his hand to roughly wipe away a tear, his jaw clenched as he battled the storm of raging emotions inside.
Anne's first letters when she had arrived at Wayside were everything he had come to expect from her. They were warm and full of description of the places and people she had met, introducing him to what would be her world for the summer. He'd wondered if she would begin to talk about the things that had concerned her over past months, however so far eight letters had arrived from her- he'd had to apologise in his last, knowing that he couldn't even pretend to match her output; eight letters in, and her writing was still cheerful, whimsical and filled with the spirit of the girl he loved. Gilbert was able to read in them more than she had written- she was doing well. There was a peace to her now, and inside, he began to relax, now able to turn his thoughts to his own work properly.
Gilbert had been pushed into a desk within minutes of his arrival, and would apparently be up to his eyeballs in punctuations and split infinitives for the next ten weeks, filling in for the editor's main proof-reader. The pace was relentless, and assignments piled up around him from harried co-workers, all needing work to be checked before it went to print. He'd checked shipping forecasts and trade news, advertisements and articles from journalists across Canada, an advice column and a story that was being serialized in the Halifax Times- all while disgustedly thinking that Anne could write a better one standing on her head. The atmosphere was energetic and driven, and the work almost second nature to Gilbert after two years of teaching, and three of university. On Saturday he would finish his work by midday, and amused himself by exploring the streets of the city in the daylight. When the sun began to set he would head for home to bury his head in his books again for the evening, save a blessed half hour to read and re-read Anne's letters before he went to sleep. So it had gone for three weeks now, and every day he was just as impatient to see if a letter was waiting for him.
On this particular Friday, he stood by as the housekeeper sorted the mail, shaking her head at his eagerness.
"Mr Blythe, you received a letter from her two days ago," she said reprovingly. "Your wife is teaching at the moment, isn't she?"
He smiled sheepishly. "Anne is a prolific writer, Mrs Andrews. I never know when she will find time to slip one in the mail."
The older lady handed the rest of the pile to Gilbert, highly amused as she placed Anne's latest in his outstretched hand. "Three letters in one week, My Blythe. I wonder that she has time to do anything on that island of yours."
Gilbert took the letter with a delighted look that he could not hide, and his hazel eyes were warm as he felt the weight of the envelope. Some of her letters had been long, some short, and he could picture her red head bent over the desk, her pen moving swiftly across the paper. The post office was beside the school, she had said, almost in apology- it was too easy to send the sheets she was working on at the time, rather than wait. She was busy, he knew- and glad to find herself so, in the sleepy inland town. She had her class, her own work from Professor Winston, and was keeping up a voluminous correspondence with the girls, with Green Gables and Diana- not to mention the hours that she spent writing to him. He couldn't help but smile at the way she teased him, slipping in little comments that let him know how much he was missed. For himself, he was unsurprised to find that her absence was tangible, and never more so than at night when he blew out his lamp. He sighed heavily, remembering what it had been like to wake in the darkness, Anne's warm body pressed tightly against his, even in sleep. That night together had marked a turning point for the two of them- and he could only hope that his wife was growing as ready as he was for the change that was happening now.
As Gilbert climbed the stairs to his room this night, a puzzled frown came over his face as he looked down at the letter. It was thick, even for Anne's standards- and there was something about the writing that made him oddly uneasy. The address was hastily scrawled, her name missing from the back of the envelope- and yet it was undoubtedly from her. He threw the other letters on his desk and locked the bedroom door, suddenly fearful that this was the letter he had been waiting for.
An hour later, a shaken Gilbert sat on his bed in the twilight, the strange, red glow of sunset filling the room. Anne's letter lay open in his hands, and a blank look was on his face as he stared out of the window.
How had he known her for so long without knowing this? How had she hidden it? He'd walked, and talked and learned with her for years, with no idea what secrets lay behind the grey eyes he adored. The panic rose in his chest as he realised how thoroughly Anne had buried this from everyone, including herself. He couldn't have known when he was a boy- but how dare he make fun of her all those years ago- how dare he assume that everyone's background was as comparatively free of pain as his own had been?
There was a knock on his door then, and Gilbert roused himself enough to tell a concerned Mrs Sadler that he wasn't hungry. His eyes returned to the pages before him with a heavy sigh. He'd been so desperate to see her open up to him- and he sickly realised that he was responsible for the vulnerable way she now wrote- putting herself through hurt to ease his mind. It was the biggest gesture of trust she could give him- and with a nightmarish feeling inside, he wished that he had never pushed her to share, at least before she was ready. Clearly now, she was. The gas lamp on the street was beginning to bleed into the dark room, and he raised the pages to read them again, determined to not miss anything.
Gilbert,
Please forgive my abruptness- I have started this letter so many times, only to find that there isn't a good way to do so. I've wondered for some time if I did you a disservice in marrying you without telling you about myself. We've been good friends for five years now- the same period of time I spent not talking to you, in fact. It should assure me that you know me very well.
I fear the reverse is true, sometimes. I hide from some things, you see. I should have scorned the person who told me that, once upon a time- and not so long ago you accused me of holding myself back from you. And I did.
I could give you all sorts of reasons why- I could tell you I was afraid, or that I didn't think we were well suited to each other, back then- I could even tell you that I went looking for my ideals outside of myself. All would be true to a degree. You told me that I never allowed my defences to fall around you- but you don't realise that they did, Gil. All but the biggest; and no one has ever been allowed behind that. Not Di, not the girls- and not you. We once talked about scars- and I remember that you asked me about mine. I didn't answer you, as I recall. You've seen more of them than anyone ever has, though- you just didn't know what they were. To be truthful, perhaps I didn't either.
On a recommendation from Professor Winston, I began to write something several months ago. I thought that perhaps I could write it for myself, or maybe I could set the record straight- maybe I could give a voice to those who grew up in environments as damaging as my own. And I tried to write it. I tried to put words to the pain, hoping to make it vanish from me altogether- and yet it didn't. Instead, it began to throb inside me in a way it hasn't done in years. I found more brokenness inside me than I have ever acknowledged. I wondered if I should show you the story then- and yet I was concerned that you would somehow blame yourself for what you knew, that I would always see the shadow of it on your face. I decided that I had to prove to you that I was fine- I didn't want you to think of me as broken.
A month ago- just before the ball- I burned it all. It said too much, and yet it didn't say nearly enough. I decided that I couldn't share it with anyone. I was so angry at myself for stirring it all up inside me again- not when I had worked for ten long years to leave the past behind. I decided that you didn't need to know, that we would simply go on as we were- but after our fight, my heart broke when I realised that it was all connected- you and I, my past, and our future- I tied you into all of that without telling you why. I didn't even understand it myself.
This is what I remember of my life before Green Gables.
Gilbert sat on his bed in the darkness, for a long time silent and unmoving. Normally by now, he would have changed from his suit, left his room for dinner, or settled onto his bed to read. He couldn't, on this night. Slowly, he rose to light the lamp on his desk, the pages fluttering to his feet as he moved. The last page containing few words other than her signature- Love, Anne. The image of the girl he loved pierced his heart then, her bright smile and silky red curls, her wit and her temper and her laughter- these were all Anne, and yet there had been something missing in his picture: now, beside her stood a shadowy girl, the one he had never known- Anne, young and vulnerable and hurting more than any child should ever have done. Gilbert lurched over to the washbowl to splash his face, feeling sick in body and soul, wishing he was with her, willing to do anything to remove the latent hurt from her grey eyes. Almost he wished that she hadn't told him, that he had never known.
He knew now.
He knew that she had worked: she had often told stories of the houses and the children, but more had sat on her young shoulders than she should have carried. It had been little more than slavery, working from dawn to dusk for people who demeaned her, demanding that she be grateful to have a roof over her head. Overworked and abused by the people she'd served; she'd been beaten, whipped cruelly when she was barely of school age after breaking something. She described briefly the way that Marilla had reacted to the long scars across her back- and been told many years later that Matthew had cried when he was informed about them. Gilbert's own shoulders shook now. His beloved girl had known hunger, injury, deprivation and neglect. There was no self-pity in the way that she wrote it- as a matter of fact, the letter was clinical and devoid of the warmth she usually wrote with. He thought that he understood why. She had separated this from herself- what was contained inside was a statement of fact, and only now could he see why she kept this part of herself so buried within.
Now two days after the letter arrived, Gilbert stood up and wandered down to the water's edge, the crumpled letter stuffed into his pockets again. He'd spent the past day trying to process what Anne had shared, somehow trying to align the two Anne's in his mind. He looked out on the grey water with stormy eyes, wondering how on earth she had survived. Of course, she had answered this herself in her letter.
I could read, thanks to the school that Mrs Thomas insisted I attend in the winter. I proved a quick study, and had soon read every book on the Thomas' bookshelf. Her father had once been a teacher, and had a few good books, including a selection of religious tomes, Classical Mythology, and what might loosely be described as fairy tales. I used to read them to the children at nighttime to get them to sleep- the oldest Thomas boy would make fun of me, saying that I was pretending to be better than I was. I vaguely remember being stung into telling him that I was better than I was- and was taught yet another lesson about giving cheek. School was harder to attend when I lived with the Hammonds, and I certainly couldn't keep up with other students- but I could best them in English. I suppose it was something I understood instinctively. I wasn't allowed to read there- however I found that I could recall the stories and poems I had read; and my own, of course, went with me everywhere. I hid in them when there wasn't enough food, or when Mr and Mrs Hammond were angry with me- or with each other.
I told you that I had never seen a real marriage, Gil. I saw pain and heartache- I saw violence and poverty and constant fighting between husbands and wives- and at the time, I believed that whatever happened in the bedroom must be bad. I made the children stay clear of their mother afterwards, in case they saw her crying. And I learned quickly that a person who is hurt and ashamed can be very, very dangerous.
I know that I dreamed of more. I dreamt of finding kindness in a family, of people who loved each other. Someone who wanted me exactly as I was. Heaven knows I was told often enough that no one ever would- hence my idea that a foreign missionary might one day take me as a wife- although perhaps my red hair might have made me a target for cannibals. I didn't think about that.
Gilbert couldn't help but chuckle through the tightness in his chest. He remembered the girl he had begun to know in school, even from a distance- the under-fed, too-thin figure; all elbows and knees and a sharply pointed chin. Plain, homemade dresses, bright eyes and red braids that made him overlook all of the other girls in their class. He loved her fire and her spirit, he loved the way she would stick her nose in the air when he sparred with her in class. He'd been just a boy, then, but it was the man he was now who ached for her presence- and learning of her past hurt him in ways he never knew he could.
I once said that the orphanage was the worst place I had ever lived- and I know that would sound strange. What could be worse than families who- and I only really began to understand this as an adult- were neglectful and abusive? And yet it was. It was still better than belonging to an institution. In those homes, I may have been unwelcome, but it was nothing to the soul-crushing sense that I mattered to no one- I was of no importance to the world, trapped together with other cast-off souls. Wearing cast-off clothing, eating cast-off food, all of us abandoned and alone. The idea of my parents had sustained me through my childhood- Mrs Thomas at least had remembered them, and I treasured up every detail she gave me, insignificant though they might have been to her. They were teachers in the local High school; they were very young, and apparently, I have my father's red hair. She supposed that I had my mother's eyes; something that was confirmed last summer, when I was given their letters in Bolingbroke. I wrote to you then, I know, Gil- I was so excited to be able to share with you that I'd found them, at last, in the pages of yesterday. I believed- no matter what happened to me at the other homes, I knew that they at least had loved me, and would have kept loving me had they raised me- they wouldn't have minded my absent-minded ways, they would have read me stories, and cared for me and taught me and tucked me into bed each night. I imagined that I still belonged to them, whenever I was alone. And yet, surrounded by so many people, it was only in the orphanage that I grew desolate. I was trapped, and as irrationally angry as a ten-year-old could be, at parents they had never known- and in that place, I was wracked with hurt that they had abandoned me. I knew that it wasn't logical- but I couldn't help but feel it, in the very core of my unloved heart. And yet something of them must have remained in me- something of me must have stayed- the spark that probably caused the orphanage a good deal of trouble. Perhaps that was why they chose me to go to Green Gables.
Gilbert rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling as he took a last look at the inky ocean. The sun would soon set- and he had been admonished to be home for dinner promptly that night. He turned to climb back up the rocks, stopping to view the vast grey city sprawled along the shoreline. He couldn't help but smile, then. No matter the surroundings, Anne would have been so interested in all of it- she may have been a creature of the woods, as he himself was, however, the spirit of adventure was strong in her as well- and he remembered the fun they had had exploring Kingsport in the beginning together. He swallowed hard, as he nodded at a couple strolling down toward the water. How desperately he missed her being by his side- being home. She was right. Home wasn't a place; it was just Anne.
The letter called into question everything he thought he had known about his wife. No, not everything- he knew her, he thought stubbornly. She hadn't been wrong about that. Still, what he didn't know had shifted his perspective. It made sense, somehow. Her very independence, her refusal to play the typical damsel in distress- how easily she had startled when they were younger: a fact he had often teased her about. She would share everything she had without restraint- and there was the protective, sometimes indulgent care she gave Davy and Dora. She had always been so grateful for her education, shaming his previous lack of concern about his own. He'd felt wretched when she had stopped going to school, seemingly because of him. He turned into the street the house lay on, a wry smile on his face. He'd made the mistake of saying that to her once after they had become friends- and then been treated to a discourse on why he, Gilbert Blythe, was not the centre of the universe. He remembered the way she often held the boys of their town at arm's length as they grew older- even the fact that she could keep a grudge against him for five years. Again, there was that wave of futile anger at himself. Why should she have forgiven him? Why should she trust someone who hurt her on the very first day they met? How could his inadequate apologies have ever been enough?
He walked up the stairs to his room, his hazel eyes showing his abstraction. There were a few lines that had made him shiver. An undisclosed excerpt of her life in brief lines- an unknown man had grabbed her in the trees behind the Hammond's house. She had been fortunate- Mr Hammond had been close. Nine-year-old Anne had been pushed back toward the homestead, desperately trying to block out the sounds of what was happening behind her as she ran. No one ever brought up the incident again. Even Marilla had never known about that, and Gilbert was almost sick in his anguish at the very thought of what she had endured. How close had she come to losing her innocence- or had she come close to losing her very life that day?
With an effort, he reined in his wild thoughts. This was her past, not her present. She was still his Anne- still the fiery girl he had married, the dreamy, impulsive girl who sought beauty in the world around her, who forced him to work harder than he ever had in his life to keep up with her in school. Matthew and Marilla had rescued her, she had found love and acceptance with Diana; and thanks to Miss Stacey, she had taken her rightful place in the Avonlea schoolhouse. He lay back on his bed and sighed. No doubt as the daughter of two teachers, Anne's scholastic gift would have been identified early, had she been able to remain with them. They might have been poor, might have struggled- but they would have believed in her ambitions, in her very heart.
That night, Gilbert sat at his desk, a blank piece of paper before him, and an ache in his throat that wouldn't go away. Almost he rose, almost he reached for his bag- and yet somehow, it was the thought of Anne herself that made him pause. She had chosen to tell him now, when she didn't have to carry the burden of his reaction. She chose to leave it with him, in order for him to come to terms with it before she was with him again. And he needed to do that alone.
Gilbert rose suddenly, opening his window to breathe in the night air. The editor's home looked over the printing office, and in the darkness, he could hear the sound of the late-night presses, the click of horses moving up the street, and shouts coming from the nearby docks. The moon was rising, and in the distance, he could see its faint sparkle on dark waters. She was across other waters now, and he closed his eyes as he let the breeze wash over him, picturing the same moon shining down on her little room at Wayside.
He had to remember that was by choice that he was here- that she was there. If he left, if he sped to her side he didn't doubt that she would be glad to see him- but what would be the point? He wouldn't be able to leave her a second time.
Gilbert rubbed his face in the darkness, willing himself to remain steady. They had work to do now. All he could do was work, and wait and hope- and trust that the girl who was like his sunshine and air would be well and that she would return to him when the time was right. It was late when he folded a single page into the envelope, blowing out the lamp and undressing for bed, aching inside at the distance between them. He doggedly punched his pillow into submission, his jaw clenched. They would get through this, he thought stubbornly. And when the summer was over, he would never, ever leave her again.
Anne read his letter a week later, tucked away in her room at night as rain fell on the rooftops. Janet had thoughtfully left her in peace to read, sitting out on the porch talking with a visiting neighbour. Tears now fell onto the black, upright handwriting that Anne knew so well. Janet had brought her a cup of tea, assuming that Anne was merely homesick for her husband, reminding her that there were worse things than a three-month separation. In those tears though, was far more meaning- overwhelming gratitude for his love, sorrow for the pain for the way she would have caused by telling him of her background. Relief that at last Gilbert knew everything. For the stumbling way they had made it through six months of marriage, and for the many weeks that had gone by without being able to shout her love from the rooftops.
I love you, I love you, I love you, he had written almost illegibly, the page in her hand smudged and creased. Thank you for telling me. I don't know what to say about it yet- I don't suppose it would make any sense if I tried, even if there was a chance that it would be helpful.
I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I swear that I'm not trying to take the blame for something that isn't mine, but I can't not say it- I'm sorry that I didn't understand. I'm so sorry you were hurt, and I know that it's foolish- but it kills me to know that none of us could protect you back then. Matthew, Marilla, Diana and the girls and I- we would have done anything to take that pain from you. I know that we can't- I know that you don't need us to save you- and I know that you are already stronger than all of us put together, too. But I can't not want to stop you from ever hurting that way again.
It's taking everything I have to not pack my bags and fly to you- but I'm honouring our decision to go through with this. I'm working hard, because you and I have a future to work for, Anne. There's a future for us beyond this summer, beyond college- and I won't ever leave your side again. Keep having faith in us- please, somehow, keep having faith in me. I've made mistakes, I've hurt you terribly- but you have to know that I love you with every fibre of my being. I always have, and I always will. We're down to less than seven weeks, now. I'm counting down every one of them. I'm meeting you at the station at the end of August; and fair warning, I'm going to throw every last ounce of self-control out the window as soon as I see you- no matter who is watching.
All my love, darling girl- I'll write again soon.
Gilbert.