Monsieur et Madame Dubois,
J'espère que cette lettre vous trouve bien. (The following has been translated from French). It has been some time since we last corresponded, and I pray that you forgive me for that neglect. It has been a challenging year since my father's passing. We will never forget your generous and kind hearts as you helped first my father and I, and then later my mother, become accustomed to wilderness living. I returned to our Island so much more skilled and self-assured because of your life-sustaining lessons. I will forever be enriched by that knowledge you provided. We also can never forget your vigilance for our safety during the various upheavals there. My mother, in addition to myself, sends you our gratitude (and a pound of homemade toffee).
I have heard of the growing antagonism to the French language in the Western Territories, and I hope that is not affecting your ability to remain living there. Do you fare well? How is your health? I cannot seem to imagine Alberta without the both of you, and I pray that you can continue your prairie cure for as long as you wish. Je vous envoie mes amicales pensées.
Affectueusement,
Gilbert Blythe
Dear Sir,
Congratulations on your well-received lecture at Montreal College of Medicine regarding the progression of pulmonary lesions from the Tuberculosis disease. I have a keen interest in the disease, as it has taken the life of my father, and, recently, a childhood friend. I have read the account of your lecture and your paper on the subject of these lesions, and I would like to inquire if there is any factor that leads a consumptive patient from displaying extrapulmonary symptoms to acute pulmonary lesions. My father died of the former, and my friend appeared likewise until she suddenly expired from the latter. I understand if you cannot reply, but I thought it couldn't hurt to inquire. Again, congratulations on your achievement and best of luck in your work.
Sincerely,
Gilbert Blythe
Dear Dr. Spencer,
Thank you for loaning me your latest Montreal Medical Journal. You're right - Dr. Branston's paper regarding pulmonary lesions is an intriguing advancement over the great René Laenec's work. I have copied out the article for myself, and I enclose the journal here to return it to you. I hope you will stop by again soon. Mother promises to have your favorite plum puffs for your next visit. There is also a jar of the famous Fletcher strawberry preserves waiting for you.
Best wishes,
Gilbert Blythe
Dear Dr. Blythe and Aunt Katherine,
I hope this letter finds you well. My mother sends her regards. We miss you both, and we look forward to seeing you at the New Year. I wish to ask a medical question. As you know, my father died of extrapulmonary consumption. However, a dear friend of mine recently died from pulmonary consumption, although her symptoms up to her death had been extrapulmonary. Do you have any insights into how
"Surely, that's enough letters for now," interrupted Edie Blythe, plunking down a large bowl of strawberries onto the kitchen table where Gilbert was writing. "You've sent nearly a dozen letters so far." She said, glancing over the scattered papers and the newly finished letters joining the outgoing pile. "Have a strawberry."
Gilbert rolled his eyes, but helped himself to several. It was late, the darkness held at bay by the bright kerosene lamp on the kitchen table and the glowing stove. Setting aside the letter to finish later, Gilbert rose and stretched, yawning. He began to gather up the assorted papers as his mother began deftly removing the strawberries' leaves and stems with a small kitchen knife.
"Now, don't think I don't know what you're up to, Gil," Edie said accusingly. Gilbert warily watched the knife she unwittingly was gesticulating with. "Studying all hours of the night, and then rising early for the chores? You need your rest, love."
Gilbert smiled ruefully. "Sorry, Ma. You know how I get when something seizes me."
"Something or someone?" Edie asked airily, returning to the strawberries.
Gilbert ignored her, stacking up his papers to carry up to his room. His hands full, he bent to kiss his mother's cheek.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight, son," she replied with one eyebrow raised. "Do sleep, why don't you?"
"You're as bad as me!" Gilbert declared half in exasperation, half in amusement. "How much longer will you be up making jam? Hmm?"
"The strawberries will spoil if I don't," Edie answered with the air of one ordained to preserve strawberries any hour of the day or night. "And supposedly there's a jar of jam waiting for Dr. Spencer, hmm?"
Gilbert grinned. "Saw that, did you? Come on, Ma, one night won't spoil them. Let's go to bed."
"Oh, just go on and study then," Edie laughed. "We're both impossible."
He laughed with her and gave her another peck on the cheek. "'Night."
He carried his stack of papers up the stairs and into his bedroom, depositing them on his cluttered desk. Fumbling around, he located a match and lit the gaslamp he had on his desk. Then he sat with a sigh on the desk's old, rickety chair. With a wry smile at the sound of his mother puttering around the kitchen below, he pulled the stack of papers to him and began to write.
In the month after the passing of Ruby Gillis and Matthew Cuthbert, Anne had demurred from the old time rambles in order to throw herself head over heels into an elaborate mourning period. Anne did nothing by halves. She dyed her lovely gowns a somber black and wore her hair in a long, plain braid. Diana informed him that Anne never left Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel Lynde informed him that if Anne only added a hairshirt, she would officially become a Papist nun.
In response, Gilbert threw himself into farmwork and study, filling his hours with equal parts agriculture and medicine. When not in the fields, he pored over medical texts. A flurry of letters were sent out from the Blythe homestead, and Gilbert's desk became covered in copious notes and carefully drawn detailed diagrams of the respiratory system. His work-hardened hands became chronically splattered with ink from his late nights of industrious note-taking.
Never one to do anything by halves either, the farm suffered no neglect as Gilbert sowed oats, mended fences, harvested hay, picked plums, milked cows, made cheese, weeded the potato patch and kitchen garden, and delivered two calves and one litter of kittens.
One early evening, Gilbert tiredly approached the Blythe farmhouse after milking, the quintessential pail of milk carefully covered, the pail's handle held in his brown hand. The sun was approaching the horizon, and it cast a warm glow over the red sandstone doorstep where Edie and her sister, Mrs. George Fletcher, sat with their laps full of kittens. Gilbert smiled at the sweet tableau and accepted a proffered kitten from his mother. He sat down with a sigh, setting aside the pail of milk and cradling the small fluff of kitten in his hands. The sisters cuddled and fussed over the "itty wee sings," and Gilbert laughed under his breath at their chatter. Gilbert had two Aunt Katherines, one on each side of the family. While Aunt Katherine Blythe was not terribly fond of cats, Aunt Kitty Fletcher most definitely was, along with her identical twin sister, Edie.
"Oh Kitty, isn't this little tabby the darlingest wee kitty?" gushed Edie over the kitten in her hands.
"How can you say that when they're all the most precious wittle fluffy sings?" Kitty retorted in falsetto, scooping up three from her lap and bestowing liberal kisses.
The mother cat who had been enjoying the reprieve from her litter by laying on the door mat, eagerly trotted up to the milk pail beside Gilbert. He gently turned her away, and she petulantly stalked off a few feet away to glare at him.
Gilbert's Aunt Kitty and Uncle George lived in the farm next door to the Blythes, an oft-used path connecting the two farms. An enormous evergreen hedge, running east and west, separated the properties, but a doorway cut into the hedge made a pleasing arch to pass through. The back and forth beneath that arch was such that the families saw each other at least a few times a week. Uncle George and Aunt Kitty had been invaluable in the years of John Blythe's illness. Without them, the Blythes could have lost the farm.
"Gilbert, honey, have you given any more thought to your Uncle George's offer?" his Aunt Kitty asked, her voice slightly muffled as she buried her face into kitten fur.
Gilbert hesitated, stroking the kitten in his hands. His uncle had come by the day before and found Gilbert in the oat field. As they stood among the green baby stalks of oats, George Fletcher had clapped a work-hardened hand on Gilbert's back and offered to bequeath him the Fletcher land. A speechless Gilbert had been unable to reply, but George seemed to find that an appropriate response, and pleased, he had returned to his own farmwork.
Aunt Kitty and Uncle George were childless. Twin sisters Edie and Kitty seemed to suffer from the same affliction, one that made bringing children into the world a near impossibility. Both had grieved over miscarriages, stillbirths, and premature babies. Gilbert, himself premature, was the only child to survive. He had no cousins at all, as his father was an only child. His Uncle Dave was actually a great uncle, the brother of Gilbert's deceased grandfather. Being the only child of two family branches, he had been much doted on… and also much expected of.
The offer of the Fletcher land was not wholly a surprise. George Fletcher was a consummate farmer, born and raised on the land he now worked, and he had dreamed of his children tending the family land for untold generations further. The loss of his children broke his heart, and he had long eyed Gilbert as the family to continue his dreams.
Gilbert had nurtured other dreams than farming, and even though those dreams had long since been dashed, the thought of increasing the farmland under his purview sent a rising sensation of panic in his throat. It was a generous gift, the land, and a touching reflection of the love his Uncle George and Aunt Kitty felt for him. Gilbert knew he should feel grateful. The land would increase his standing in Avonlea and his ability to prosper, something that had felt especially intangible the last few years. Yet, even Aunt Kitty's question had seemed to cause his throat to close shut.
Hardly able to breathe, let alone speak, he pressed his face into the soft kitten fur of the tiny feline he held, much like his mother and sister were happily doing.
Sensing his distress, Edie spoke up. "Oh, Kitty, we were so agog over the offer. We're so incredibly blessed to have you and George in our lives."
"Pshaw," said Kitty, immensely pleased and blushing a bit. "Gilbert's such a good man, and we love him like he's our own. We couldn't possibly consider anyone else for the farmland."
Edie squeezed Kitty's elbow affectionately and leaned in to give her sister a kiss on the cheek. Age had altered the twin sisters enough to fairly easily tell them apart. However, when Gilbert had been small, their differences had been harder to determine, and he had scandalized Avonlea with his predisposition to refer to the sisters as 'Mama Edie' and 'Mama Kitty.' In the fading light of early evening, the sisters once again seemed nearly a mirror image, sitting together in their work frocks with their dark hair and hazel eyes.
Seeing them together so tenderly, Gilbert calmed the panic in his throat and found his voice. "It's too generous of you. I fear we won't be able to do the land justice, but we are honored to accept."
Edie smiled at him gently, nodding. They had been up half the night discussing the offer. Although sympathetic to Gilbert's qualms, Edie had been adamant that this was not an offer to be refused. They could not, logically, nor in good conscience, turn down an enviable and generous gift from family. This land was an investment at the very least, and a livelihood at the most. The land would be allotted to Gilbert steadily over time, as George gradually reduced his workload, and the Fletchers would remain on a sizeable portion of the property in their own home. Edie had also suggested that the timing of this offer had come about in an effort to help Gilbert woo a certain redhead. The Fletcher land would have come to him sooner or later, but with an unattached Anne back in Avonlea, SOONER might help Gilbert find happiness. Touched and overwhelmed, Gilbert agreed to accept.
Yet, as Aunt Kitty squealed with delight at his response and Edie joyfully began to laugh, Gilbert's heart sank.
The next few days passed slowly. Gilbert tended the oat field and began to harvest summer vegetables. With an eye on the approaching school year, Gilbert began to contemplate lesson plans, and his late-night note-taking started to include various learning ideas for his students. Teaching school and farming could be a challenge, especially during the fall harvest, so Gilbert traveled to Abbey Bank in Charlottetown to check their paltry savings to see if it would be possible to have a hired hand. Unfortunately, it would not be financially possible. As Gilbert walked back from the train station, he pondered how best to oversee the harvest of the oats, and then later, the apples that the Blythe farm was known for. It was likely he would need to again rely on his Uncle George and Aunt Kitty to get them through the harvest season.
Fiddling with his hat in his hands as he walked, Gilbert missed the first of the white papers blowing past him in the late summer breeze. Another couple papers fluttered past. When the next few pages arced by, he froze for a moment in confusion, before he leapt to snatch the nearest of them from the air.
"Oh! Oh!" squealed a frantic voice from behind him.
More pages raced past, some bound for the break in the trees leading to Barry's Pond. His hands clutching a few of the papers, Gilbert glanced back to see Anne - wild-eyed, desperately trying to corral a sheaf of loose papers in the lap of her black dress. Half-crawling, half-sitting, she scrambled to catch the pages fleeing her lap as the summer breeze grew to a gust. The pages heading toward the Lake of Shining Waters picked up speed.
"Oh, no!" shrieked Anne as several pages merrily flapped into the pond, alighting like a flock of white birds onto the water's surface.
Completely losing his head, Gilbert bolted to the pond and charged straight in. Knee-deep, he snatched at the floating papers, grabbing them all before looking back at Anne with a bewildered look on his face. Anne was still scrabbling about, grasping papers with one hand, her skirts clutched together with the other to form a rudimentary deposit for the loose pages. As she snatched the last one, she rushed to the pond's edge where she halted, staring at Gilbert with her pretty mouth hanging open.
"Gilbert! Where - how?" she spluttered.
He smiled ruefully at her and began to wade back to shore, his feet squelching in his best shoes. Anne, however, was barefoot and stocking-free, and Gilbert got an eyeful of long, shapely white legs as she held up her skirts. Hatless, her hair was somewhat tamed by a loose braid flung over her shoulder. Standing there on the bank in her disheveled state, Gilbert was reminded of the day he had rowed the unfortunate lily maid to shore.
As he squelched his way back to the pond's edge, Gilbert looked at the damp pages in his hands, noticing for the first time the scrawling writing covering the front and back of each page. The ink was running a bit from the short time in the water, but the pages were likely salvageable. Anne must be writing again. He eagerly began to read.
The farmer paused to study his reflection in shimmery surface of the pond. A face lined with wrinkles peered thoughtfully back at him.
"Thank you, Gilbert," Anne said hesitantly. He had reached her on the bank. Wanting to read more, he extended the pages a bit unwillingly. Anne gingerly accepted them, taking care to not damage the wet pages further. Gilbert noticed that her hands were splattered with ink, much like his own were.
"What is it you're writing, Anne?" Gilbert asked as he stepped out of the water.
"Oh, Gilbert, your shoes."
He looked down at the soggy, muddy mess his shoes now were and couldn't quite bring himself to shrug. He felt a pang of distress for their loss and chastised himself for his foolishness.
"No matter," he forced out, before sighing. "It's good to see you writing."
A shy smile crept across her face. "I thought I would write here to be inspired by nature. But that seems to have been an awful idea. I'm so sorry about your shoes."
Gilbert smiled in turn. "Eh, that's my own fault. I'm glad you're outside, though. I've… missed our walks. Perhaps you'd let me walk you home?"
"Perhaps I'd like you to come sit with me a bit," she said still smiling, but her chin trembled. She led him back to where she had been settled, a grassy knoll near the pond. He sat beside her and took off his shoes and socks to assess the damage, while Anne checked the pages gathered in the folds of her skirts. He realized that his eyes were lingering on her exposed calves and ankles and hastily looked away to wring out his socks. By the time he had managed to get his shoes and socks in some order, Anne had assembled the pages back into a stack and secured them with twine, until they resembled a package. The damp pages she pinned carefully together and slipped into a pocket. Her shoes and stockings lay beside her, but she made no move to put them on. Instead, she gazed out over the Lake of Shining Waters, her hands limp in her lap.
"Anne," Gilbert said softly, noticing her tears.
"It's only been a month," she said in a shaky voice. "Does it get any easier?" She turned to face him, tears streaming down her face.
"Some," Gilbert answered soberly, thinking of his father's death a year earlier. "And when it does, it's usually in the most unexpected of places."
"I'm hoping to find it in writing," Anne murmured shakily. She sighed. "And perhaps… if it is published, I could find a way out of this hole I've dug for myself."
Gilbert's eyebrows drew together in concern. "Whatever do you mean, Anne?"
"All I do is mistake after mistake." She stifled a sob.
At her cry, Gilbert sat up and knelt in front of her. "Anne," Gilbert said, grasping her gently by the shoulders and looking her in the eye. "You're not making any sense."
"I never do," she said with a sad smile.
He smiled back, hoping to cheer her. "Anne Shirley, you know you're renowned for your eloquence."
It was certainly true, Anne was known for her loquaciousness and love of diction and debate, but Gilbert's thoughts drifted back to another time she had struggled to express herself. He had already been reminded of the experience some minutes earlier as Anne stood on the edge of the pond, barely respectable with her skirts gathered above bare legs. Four years earlier, Anne had stood on the same shore, clothed in a drenched - and nearly transparent - white lace gown. When Gilbert had extended a handshake and repeated his plea for forgiveness and friendship, she had coldly said,
"No, I shall never be friends with you, Gilbert Blythe, and I will never forgive you!"
Tears had stung his eyes as he stormed away, abandoning the dory at the pond's edge and desperately hoping no one would see him as he fled for the Blythe home. Yet, he had not gotten very far from the pond before running footsteps caught up with him and a hand had tugged at his arm. Gilbert had turned to see a teary face that mirrored his own. Anne's lips had trembled, and she had seemed strangely unable to speak. But she placed her hand on his cheek, and Gilbert had frozen with surprise. How long they remained like that, he could not recall, but it repaired the years of bitterness without a single spoken word.
When her eloquence had returned, apologies followed, and Gilbert had easily forgiven her for being "such a little fool."
Now, four years later, Gilbert looked at Anne before him, thinking that perhaps touch should again surpass words. So he gently released her shoulders and raised his hands to her face. With his thumbs, he tenderly brushed away her tears, and then hesitated. His eyes dropped momentarily to her lips. He had not the courage for a kiss, nor was this the moment for one. Awkwardly, he drew away and sat again beside her, missing the wistfulness in her eyes.
They sat together quietly for some minutes more, before Gilbert walked her home. He was pensive after he left her at the Green Gables gate, his mind recalling that fateful day four years prior. Their reconciliation had blossomed into a sweetness, somewhere between friends and something more. But Anne left for Redmond before Gilbert had a chance to further that sweetness. Lost in his thoughts, he was startled to realize that he had arrived home as his mother's voice filled his ears.
"Gil - what's happened to your shoes?! Aren't they your best pair?"
Coming back to earth, he smiled ruefully. "A daring rescue, Ma, of the paper kind."
She stared at him, nonplussed.
He sighed. "It's alright, Ma. I'll patch and blacken my old brogues, if these can't be cleaned up."
"Is this something involving Anne?" Edie asked, her hands on her hips.
"She's writing again," he mumbled, unaware of Edie's delighted grin.
"Och, it's no matter," she declared brightly. "These will clean up nicely, I'm sure. And we should get you a new pair anyhow."
"Not before harvest," Gilbert said quickly, thinking of their accounts he had reviewed this morning.
"We'll figure something out," his mother assured him with a smile.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you had a wonderful holiday season. I've been doing a bit more reading than writing over the holidays, hence the delay. Thanks for your patience. This chapter feels special to me, and I hope you enjoyed it. It was wonderful inventing all these new details about Gilbert's life. Next chapter is a bit of a challenge, so bear with me!