Glen St. Mary
December 1, 1896
Dear Anne,
Please forgive my penmanship and spelling. While these old hands might still knit and sew, I'm afraid they've grown unaccustomed to writing. Nevertheless, I hope you are able to decipher this note.
Katherine mentioned that you've telephoned a couple of times. I'm very sorry to have missed your calls. Traveling even such a short distance took its toll, and I've spent more than a fair amount of time sleeping off the fatigue, under Dave's orders.
I don't mean to sound old and sorry for myself. I'm fine, actually - better than I've been lately. Catching up on rest is only one of the perks of being in the Glen. You should see the kitchen they've got here: it's enormous! Not that I get make much use of it - Miss Baker, the housekeeper, is quite territorial when it comes to cooking space. I've dusted off Dave's piano, and play to pass the time, when I'm not helping Katherine with the mending, or other minor chores she'll allow me to perform.
She hinted that you might be feeling guilty about what transpired. Anne, dear, I beg you not to feel that way: you absolutely did the right thing in sending me here. I wasn't quite myself, and hadn't been for quite some time. It was nothing grave, just a horrible sense of gloom and despair I hadn't been able to shake. I'm afraid my condition forced you to make a tough decision - and it was the best thing you could have done. Being cared for and fed takes some getting used to, but I do recognize the necessity. And life is good in Glen St. Mary. Not to say that it wasn't in Avonlea; life is good, anywhere.
Do write, or call again. I need to know that you don't blame yourself, especially when there is no blame to be passed. It all worked out for the best, I can assure you.
With love,
Sarah Blythe
December 4, 1896
"The Harrisons; that makes ten...their son and his brood; fourteen...who are we missing?" asked Diana pensively as she wound a length of red ribbon around her pine wreath.
"You-Fred-Freddie-Small Anne, Davy-Millie, Dora," recalculated Anne as she twisted a mean-leafed branch of holly into submission. "Two Harrisons plus four Harrisons, and me...are you sure there were fifteen to start with? Have you accidentally counted Jack?"
"I don't think so," frowned Diana. "Goodness, who've I forgotten this time?"
Anne smiled at her bosom friend over the kitchen table, which was barely visible under the lengths of precious silk intermingled with lace, all in festive colors. The pincushions kept getting lost under puddles of textiles of all sorts, and skeins of the brightest yarns dwarfed their cousin thread spools. Joining the party from outdoors were pine cones, which obnoxiously insisted on testing the laws of gravity at the slightest breeze, their slightly better behaved sisters Mistletoe and Fir, as well as some supple branches to serve as a base for the wreaths which were being crafted.
"Don't fret, Di," said Fred as he entered the kitchen to grab the good scissors from the table, leaning over for a cheeky peck to his wife's forehead on his way back out. "We'll just set the extra place, and figure out who it is late," he called most unhelpfully from the parlor, which Freddie was helping him decorate.
Diana leaned to glare through the door. "And how do you propose we do the seating arrangements, if we don't know who we're expecting? Men!" Her expressive eye roll had Anne biting her lip to stifle a chortle.
"Maybe it's Uncle Gilbert?"
A terrible silence rang through Anne's ears, the effect as deafening as sticking one's head inside a church bell as it was being struck. So focused on threading her needle was Anne Cordelia, that she didn't take notice of the grownups gaping at her with horror-struck expressions.
"What makes you say that, Darling?" demanded her mother, her faux-casual tone barely masking the tinge of hysteria beneath.
The girl shrugged, looking up from the impossible task. "He showed up to Uncle Davy's wedding, when you weren't expecting him. So, perhaps he'll come for Christmas dinner?"
"Sweetheart, this is important," a ghastly pale Anne knelt in front of the girl and set her needle aside, taking the small hands in her own trembling ones. "I need you to answer this as best you can, do you understand?" Eager to please her Aunt Anne, the little head nodded. "Good. Now, I need you to tell me: what did Uncle Gilbert look like?"
"Big, with curly hair," Small Anne replied matter-of-factly.
"What-what color?" gasped Anne.
"Orange. A bit like yours - only, he had a lot more freckles than you, Aunt Anne!"
"You big dummy," Freddie, who'd stuck his head in the kitchen to see what the sudden quiet was about, exclaimed derisively. "That's Uncle Doug, not Uncle Gilbert."
"Am not a dummy!" shouted his sister hotly, her cheeks flushing at the barb.
"Do you remember Uncle Gilbert, Freddie?" inquired his father curiously.
Freddie scrunched up his face in an effort to remember. "He's the one with the big nose and the funny eyes, right? Who yelled at us for riding our bikes in the middle of the road and scaring his horse?"
"That's Uncle Charlie, Dear," explained Diana quietly.
"Hah! Who's the dummy now?" taunted Anne Cordelia, sticking out her tongue at her tormentor.
Catching the frightening pallor taking over their friend's complexion, Fred ushered the bickering children out of the kitchen, leaving Diana to care for Anne.
"Darling, are you all right? Your hands are freezing."
"Charlie Sloane?" muttered Anne incredulously as Diana steered her into the seat closest to the stove. "When they think of him, they think of googly-eyed Charlie?"
"They're too young to remember, Anne. The last time they'd seen him, he was still 'Little' Freddie, and Small Anne, barely just a tot..."
"I'm sorry," apologized Anne. "I think I'm still under shock. It sounded as though she'd..."
"As though what, Dear?"
As though she'd seen him, too, Anne finished in her mind, but couldn't say it out loud without alarming Di.
"Nothing. I'm fine, now - let's get back to it, shall we? These wreaths won't make themselves."
December 9, 1896
Anne looked up from her papers at the clock. She wasn't getting anything done; for every three words she penned, two ended up scratched out. The frustration did nothing for her nerves, but there was nothing else to do: if she attempted to cook anything now, it would burn. Sewing in her state would lead to poking herself repeatedly, and she'd probably cut the patterns upside down. So, she would stick to her drafts, tedious and tiresome as they might have been at the moment.
When the front door opened, she started, but forced herself to stay seated.
"Bad Chester! Bad!" the voice she'd expected sounded over the barks of a dog who wanted very little to return outside in the cold.
Anne waited a brief moment before asking: "Dora, is that you?" And why had she taken the front door? Had she been escorted home? Or was she quickly disposing of the evidence of tears?
"It's me," she called back, taking an inordinate amount of time to remove her coat and hat. Anne tapped morse gibberish with the tip of her pen, willing her to just hurry up already; when the footsteps finally joined her in the kitchen, she quickly bent her red head and pretended to scribble something dreadfully important.
"Getting cold out there." Dora peered into the kettle. "Any hot water left?"
"Hmm?" Anne looked up, feigning aloofness. "Oh, there should be." Unable to restrain herself, she asked: "So, you've had a nice walk?"
"A bit chilly on the way back," she answered breezily, rummaging in the cupboards. "Oh dear, have we run out of tea?"
"Of course not. I've just brewed some - check behind the flour."
Every quiet clank of a displaced tin or jar set Anne's nerves on edge; every box set aside on the countertop wound her narrower, until she was strung as tightly as a harp.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" she cried, setting her pen aside and springing up to her feet. "Will you just tell me, already!"
Dora blinked up at the youngest in the line of women who'd raised her. "I'm sorry?"
"The meeting! With Mrs. Harmon! How did it go? Speak, girl, before I lose my blasted mind!"
"Oh," she replied mildly. "Well, she wanted to show me some recipes."
"Recipes?" puzzled Anne. "She gave you a cooking lesson?"
The fair young woman shrugged girlishly. "Of sorts. Ralph's tastes are particular when it comes to food, according to her. She just wanted to make sure I can keep up with the dishes she knows he can digest."
Anne started to frown in disappointment, but paused mid-gesture. "Oh..." Dora's lips lifted slightly at the corners, making Anne bat the air excitedly with her hands. "Oh! OH!" She flung her arms around the now beaming fair lady. "Dora, that's just-!"
"What? What's happening?" Davy rushed into the kitchen, barking as wildly as the excited dog at his feet.
"It's Dora!" exclaimed Anne, on the verge of the happiest tears. Confused hazel eyes sought out their matching pair, while Chester kept on yipping, bounding about their thighs for attention.
"Mrs. Harmon gave her approval today."
"Approval for wha-... Dor'! Are you saying you're finally engaged?"
"Finally? You're one to talk," muttered his sister with a droll eye roll. "How many years had you wasted around Millie before you proposed?"
"Never mind me, I got there eventually!" boasted Davy with a proud smile.
"Did I hear my name?" an encumbered Millie joined the ruckus in the kitchen.
Davy grinned, trying to shove a begging Chester off his trousers. "Dora's got some good news!"
Millie's eyes widened with excitement. "Did Ralph propose?"
The sudden silence was marred only by the mutt's whining, while three inquisitive humans stared at Dora for a confirmation she hadn't yet delivered.
"He did."
"Oh Dora!" "Congratulations, darling!" exclaimed the women joyously. Davy even leaned forward to kiss his sister on the cheek, in a rare display of affection towards her.
"Where is the poor sucker? he asked, looking around. "Not hiding outside, is he?"
Dora shook her head. "We wanted to celebrate with family tonight. I wanted to share this with you. There'll be precious little time for that after we set a date. And besides, I've had enough of Mrs. Harmon for one day."
"Well, we're thrilled!" Millie pressed her sister-in-law's hand between her own fondly. "Have you set a date, yet?"
Pearly white teeth nibbled a pale pink lip. "We're hoping for late April, though it might end up being early May. The deed to a third of his father's land should go through by February, but Ralph wants to wait for March to finish renovating the old barn..."
"You hear that, Anne? No running off to Prince Albert, now! You've got a wedding to plan."
December 18, 1896
Anne heaved an epicurean sigh as hot water gurgled, filling up white porcelain: setting the kettle down, she held her mug close to her face, letting wisps of citrus-scented vapor to caress her cheeks. This piping hot lemon tea would cap off her night beautifully.
She took the stairs slowly, stepping carefully so as not to spill, only to come to a grinding halt in the hallway. Was that singing coming from the master bedroom? she wondered, barely registering the scalding liquid sloshing over the rim and onto the floor.
She quietly tiptoed towards the source of sound; through the shadowed doorway, she spied Millie reclined in Marilla's old rocking chair, a beatific smile figuring on her lips. On the rug in front of her kneeled Davy, his head resting on her rounded stomach as he intoned an old lullaby. What his voice lacked in precision, it compensated in affection, and the easy love with which his hands stroked the baby within made her avert her gaze.
Retreating to her room, Anne felt hollow. When had taking to bed early with tea and a book she'd already read turned into an ideal night? And how long would it remain so? Her gaze fell upon the vanity's looking glass, and she saw how pathetic she'd become: reclusive and passionless, verging on apathetic, she'd chosen comfortable routine over adventure. This wasn't her - the sorry woman in the worn robe was but a pale imitation of the real Anne Shirley.
Thoroughly fed up with herself, Anne set down her mug with a decisive clunk and fetched her carpet bag from the closet.
December 19, 1896
Dearest Diana,
By the time you read this, I will be on the boat bringing me one step closer to my dreams: those of a new life, a real life - not this stagnant farce of an existence I've been leading in Avonlea. Though it hurts to leave behind the most beautiful place I've ever known, I'm afraid the Island is no longer my home.
How I wish I could explain in person... As it is, I've barely enough time to pen one quick note. You'll notice that I've chosen to address it to you: I'm counting on this fact to soften whatever anger you might be inclined to feel towards me.
I promise to visit as soon as I can, and often; and solemnly vow never to forget the people who've helped raise me to become who I am today - least of all you, truest and most kindred of friends!
Below is my new address: I'll send word if it changes. In the meanwhile, you know who to call, should you need to reach me urgently.
With all my love, Sweet Sister,
Anne
December 24, 1896
On this dark, cold night, only one figure was grinning as she entered the hospital.
Not that the place was exactly crowded, but the few people beside herself were most definitely not having a jolly time. Those waiting to be admitted were too preoccupied with loss of bodily fluids (or body parts, in one severe case) to smile; those bustling out were in too much of a hurry to make it home, back to their cozy firesides and roast goose dinners, to waste time on lip movements, no matter how small or effortless.
Anne's own expression was singularly cheerful, making it all the easier for Kate to spot her.
"Nan, you made it!" exclaimed the pretty brunette, stepping out from behind the receptionists' desk to greet Anne with a fond embrace. "Thought I didn't expect to actually see you until tomorrow. Didn't you want to stay in tonight and relax? Your room is all made up, you know. After such a long trip, you must be positively exhausted - Sir, I'll be with you in a moment right after I've helped this lovely lady," she informed the gentleman standing by her abandoned post without pausing for breath, before turning her attention back to the smiling redhead. "Are you certain you wouldn't rather call it an early night, dear? When's the last time you ate?"
"I'm fine," a beaming Anne laughed, squeezing her friend lightly by the shoulders. "Mrs. Inglis packed me an embarrassingly large hamper of provisions in Winnipeg - and I'm not the least bit tired," she assured, fully aware that she sounded like a six-year-old Davy in her insistence.
Kate lifted an eyebrow, but did not argue. "Well, if I can't talk you into taking a nap, like a sensible - yes, Sir, I'll be right with you, I promise! - person, he should be on the second story of the East Ward, in either of the rooms on the left. I'll come find you when my shift is done: we might as well go home together, if you'll be here. Now, Sir, what can I do for you?"
Throwing a parting smile at Kate, Anne moved towards the wing she thought most likely to be east. She'd met her match in the perky receptionist: if not only obstinately optimistic, she was equally equipped with the gift of unending gab. Yes, they would get on fantastically, she predicted with a widening grin as she trod up the easily located staircase.
If the ground floor of the East Ward had been quiet, the second story was practically deserted. One lone nurse disappeared in a room far down the corridor on the right, leaving Anne to explore the left side at her own leisure.
The door to the first room was shut, and the second room was silent and unlit; in the third, only one bed was occupied, by a young woman surrounded by a litter of subdued children. Nearing the fourth room, she heard a voice at last: not any voice, but a familiar one, reciting an even more familiar text.
"...kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part..."*
Peaking through the door from a discreet angle, she first spied a row of empty beds. Inching forward carefully until the far corner of the room came into sight, she spied several enthralled listeners of various ages: one gangly adolescent boy practically swimming in an adult-sized robe; a smaller girl whose fair golden curls were pressed to her head by a bandage; another terribly young tot, sucking awkwardly on the fingers which doubtlessly replaced his incapacitated thumb. No one noticed her approach, as all eyes were riveted on the speaker.
"...Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter," he enunciated from the chair nearest the bed, head bent over the book in his huge hands, "and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed..."*
Had Anne's toe not hit a bedpan at that moment, he might have gotten through the entire chapter without noticing her. As it was, the loud metallic ping startled him from his narration, and the entire room was alerted to her presence. With all eyes now trained in her direction, there was little to do but continue.
"A merry Christmas, uncle!" she recited from memory. "God save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach."*
"Fitting," muttered Doug drolly, his lips curling into a shape not entirely dissimilar to a smile. "Well, I suppose you'll all know what mean old Mr. Scrooge had to say about that."
"Humbug!" most children chorused, their eyes still sparkling with story magic.
"Bah!" contributed the tiny tot, removing his fingers from his mouth just long enough to utter the single syllable.
"Merry Christmas!" guessed one of the younger girls - though it was unclear whether she was replying to his prompt, or merely greeting the newcomer.
"Not fair!" cried a boy whose eyepatch covered half of an indignant glare. "I was going to be Fred this time - you said it was my turn to be the Nephew!"
"So I did," acknowledged Doug placidly. "Do you recall what else I said, before we started reading? About story time ending, should someone get too excited?"
"I'm sorry," Anne apologized to both the interrupted narrator and the sulking boy. "I've come at a bad time - didn't mean to interrupt. I'll be just outside..."
"If you'll give me a couple minutes, we've another-" he paused to count, "-four pages to go, and then it's off to bed with these little miscreants."
"We're not miscreants, we're invalids!" corrected a girl whose mischievous grin spoke volumes on the matter.
"The way you carry on at times, I'm inclined to believe you're both," he smiled indulgently at them. "All right, then: where were we?"
Thus dismissed, Anne retreated to the deserted hallway. Through the door left ajar, she listened to the story resume, with the eyepatched boy taking back the role of the Nephew which she'd unwittingly stolen.
Well, this wasn't going quite as planned. Though Kate had warned Anne of Doug's moodiness, she hadn't been prepared for his indifference. The glacial reception could be excused in front of the children: Anne would wait until he was off duty to force a smile on his face. Like he'd done for her, she'd do whatever it might take to coax some humor into him. If she had to, she'd force some holiday cheer down his large throat.
"...and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman's-buff.* And that's it for tonight: now, off to bed with you lot," he ordered in a stern voice which betrayed unmistakable fondness. His pronouncement was met with a chorus of sleepy protests, but Dr. Sheehan would not be swayed: it was already past their bedtime, and Christmas Eve or not, miscreant invalids did need their rest.
From her post, Anne listened with a swelling heart as he bid each of them a good night, checking to see that everyone was properly tucked in, vowing to continue the story on the morrow should he find some free time, and if they promised in turn to behave, and not give the nurses a hard time. The Doctor took some extra time to check on his last patient - a very young toddler, by the sounds of it - before whispering a final goodnight. Lamps were dimmed, and from the darkened room emerged the big man.
"Doug, I-"
Before she could get any further, Anne found herself being engulfed in his signature bear hug. Relinquishing all hope of keeping her balance, she allowed herself to sink into his embrace. Doug said nothing: merely held on, the way a drowning man might grip a buoy. Anne thought that she might have felt him shudder, but when he finally released her, it was with dry eyes and a smirk.
"Merry Christmas," she wished him with a smile.
"And to you," he replied "I've a feeling this will be one to remember."
*Dickens, "A Christmas Carol"