Anne removed her gardening boots at the door to change into her indoor slippers (she was a frequent enough visitor to keep a pair here). She hung her coat, scarf and hat and let herself in through the hallway.
"Good morning, Miss Hilda," she called, and sat down by the oven next to Dr. Lebrun. The bustling housekeeper barely acknowledged her, affording something between 'good morning' and a grunt without looking up from her tasks.
"How are things in Paradise?" asked the doctor, teasingly referring to the time Anne had promised him a yard 'so unruly and so beautiful, it will be the very description of Eden, right here on Earth.' Over piping hot cinnamon scones and the tea Hilda had thrust in their hands, Anne assured him that there was still quite a bit more weeding to do, but that she was confident that the first buds and blooms would start showing after the next rain. In the meanwhile, she was waiting for spring to return, so that she might collect more specimens, and perhaps some fern would be nice in the south east corner.
"The trouble with ferns, though, is that once they are given a place to grow, there is no taking back the invitation. What more, they multiply at a frightful rate, it would be quite a task to keep them under control."
"Anne, you have assured me that chaos is beautiful. I already gave you free rein to do with the land as you please, so long as there is a clear path from the road to the front door. What would be so wrong with some ferns quietly invading a corner?"
Anne smiled at the doctor's humor. "Oh, there is nothing quiet about a fern invasion, I assure you. But I suppose you're right - it would help achieve the jungle-like greenery I was so hoping for." She took a sip of her tea and pushed her feet closer to the stove, the better to warm her toes.
Dr. Lebrun nibbled the corner of his scone, then daintily pressed a napkin to his mouth. "There is something on your mind other than ferns," he commented mildly.
By now, Anne was used to being read so easily by a man who'd only met her a short time ago. "Actually, I had a favor to ask of you." She was also used to speaking frankly in front of Hilda (the taciturn woman never spoke more than five consecutive words, so she felt confident her secrets would be safe), so she went on without much trepidation. "I would like to speak to a catholic nun. I was hoping you knew one...perhaps a more broad minded one. Or at least, one tolerant enough to meet up with me."
"Considering another lifestyle?" he asked, eyebrow raised, and took another sip of tea.
"No, nothing of the sort. I just had some questions regarding doctrine."
"Well, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. The nearest convent to my knowledge is St. Clotilde. It is quite sequestered from society, the sisters do not exit, and access is naturally forbidden."
"Oh, well, it wasn't so important either way," she said lightly.
"But perhaps I could do better." The doctor set his teacup back on its saucer. "I happen to be on speaking terms with a deacon, from Our Lady of Sorrows, in Toronto. It may not be exactly what you were looking for, but he is a well-learned man, and quite open-minded. If your questions concern theology, I'm sure he would be able to answer you as well as any nun would. In preparation for priesthood, he's had to study canonical scripture extremely thoroughly. At any rate, I would imagine him to be just as immersed in his devotion to the catholic church as his fellow sisters."
Anne quickly processed the information. She had so hoped to speak to a nun...well, perhaps a deacon would do. "Is he nice?" she asked with trepidation. "Kind, I mean?"
"It's the only reason I bring him up," Dr. Lebrun.
"Well, if you think he might humor me..."
"I'm certain he won't mind the slightest. I'll call him this afternoon."
l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:
"More cake?"
"Thank you, Susan." Gilbert handed her his plate, though he wasn't the slightest bit hungry. He recognized the cake for what it was, though, and would make an effort to show her how much he appreciated it.
"Glad to see you've gotten some of your appetite back, Doctor dear," the woman said tenderly as she placed a generous slab of lemon pound cake on the plate. "It would be nice to see you put on a bit more weight," she couldn't help but add.
"I'm trying," Gilbert replied with a small smile, and tucked his spoon into the spongy dessert. "Mm. Keep baking like this, and it will no longer be an issue."
"I was wondering, Doctor, have you given any thought as to when to bring the children back?"
The sweet icing stuck in his throat, and Gilbert had to use his tea to force it down. "I have to call Fred and Di. If they don't mind, I think it best the boys stay with them for the time being. What with the visits planned to Bolingbrook, and then Toronto...there's a couple more leads, I'll have to check them out before considering the trips. I just...I don't want the boys to know, especially if I can't..." He looked away. "I don't want them to be disappointed, more than they already are."
He'd expected Susan to argue that the boys needed to come home straight away, but she simply nodded, and poured out more tea for both of them. The expression on her face didn't go unnoticed to him - it was the same he wore when he thought of his sons. "You could go visit them," he suggested. "Bring them a cake of there own. I'm sure the Wrights would appreciate it, what with Jem eating them out of house and home."
He'd succeeded in perking up Susan, who then helped herself to a thick slice of her own, and the two of them finished their treat in companionable silence, not quite happy, but reassured.
When he could stomach no more, he stood and excused himself, retiring upstairs for the night. Sleep had become so elusive at this point, Gilbert hardly bothered to go the bed anymore. Instead, he stayed up in the study, paced around as he read and thought and zoned out, stretching out on the divan for occasional catnaps.
After washing up, he slipped his robe over his night clothes and settled at the desk to tackle the pile of unopened envelopes. There were only four tonight; the first held an invitation to a medical supplies' fair in New Brunswick, which he immediately discarded. The second contained his account to settle at the grocer's. The figure seemed abnormally low at first, but considering there was only Susan and himself to feed nowadays, it seemed accurate. He took his wallet from the top drawer, counted out the asked amount and set it aside, so Susan might bring it to the shop on Monday.
The third envelope one made his hands pause - the same handwriting and post markings as no less than six envelopes he'd received previously. He set it aside and opened the fourth envelope, a letter from a young medical student he'd been advising, detailing allergic reactions to shellfish. This, he decided, he could deal with. Stationary was pulled out, the ink vial was opened and his pen dipped into it. What he couldn't recall from his own experiences with past clients, he looked up in reference books and articles. Signed, addressed, ready to be sent out, and joined the grocer's bill to be sent out with Susan.
His obligations were taken care of, and he leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. Were he not a doctor, he might now be enjoying a pipe. This would make him a hypocrite, though, especially when he'd observed the effects of smoking on men (and women, for that matter) over the years. Coughing, asthma, constant illness and slow recovery times - it simply wasn't worth it. He didn't believe in drinking for leisure outside of special occasions, so a glass of blackberry wine was out of the question. His idle fingers began to twitch, his breathing grew erratic with irritation.
Giving in, he reached for the remaining piece of mail and opened it. The usual single page, with the same scratchy penmanship, on the same white sheet of paper (of very nice grade).
Dr. Blythe,
Still waiting for your response. If you do not wish to know Anne's current location, at least have the decency acknowledge her. As your wife, she is entitled to your support, whether you feel like giving it or not.
As instructed in the former correspondences, send your reply addressed to Ms. J. Gitman, at Denver Publishing House, 42 Wellington Lane in Toronto.
Not caring much for the letter's tone, he crumpled it and disposed of it in the wastebasket, and stood to glance down the hallway. The house had gone silent and the lights were all out - Susan had apparently turned in early. Or not so early, he corrected himself, glancing at the clock. After checking the hall one last time, he closed the door quietly and pulled out his old medical bag from under the divan. From the bag, he extracted a round wooden frame with a half-finished pattern in the center. Plucking the needle from its resting place, Gilbert breathed out and indulged in the only activity that could sooth his nerves.
How ironic, he thought, that he would accuse his wife of having outlandish and atypical fancies (such as exploring caves and climbing trees), when he enjoyed the girliest of pass times.
With a bittersweet smile, Gilbert sat by the fire and worked on his crocheting.