Toronto was full of people. Even late on a Sunday evening, the streets were bustling with buggies, carts, horses, pedestrians. It was easy to lose oneself in the noisy crowd. In fact, it was perfect for Gilbert. He was a still a country boy at heart, and often yearned for his family's land in Avonlea: Right now, though, the city was exactly what he needed. The busy people provided him with a shroud of anonymity, and to be honest, it was plain good to not have anyone mind him, or his behavior, or his appearance. People at home would be appalled - blasphemous, to carry on as such on the Sabbath! But it was any big city mentality, as far as he could tell from experience.
Wellington Lane was easy enough to find. Any idiot with a map could follow the alley off of the main drag. Locating the specific building, however, was a different matter. The lack of daylight made reading the street numbers (or anything else) near impossible in the dark alley. Gilbert kept going from one end to the other, wondering how he could possibly have missed it. 38 Wellington Lane was a barbershop that had closed up on his first stride down the road; 39 Wellington Lane, a residence; then, there was an ominous looking boarding house, a double building called Denny's Tavern, a tailor (also closed), and an unmarked building; 45 Wellington Lane was the next numbered building, and it seemed to be some sort of shady den.
He knew he hadn't gotten the address wrong. Seven crumpled notes in his breast pocket could attest to that. It seemed that this would be as far as he would get without human interaction, and that seeing as the tavern was the only place open at this hour, he had no choice.
Once inside, he realized his mistake. He'd come looking for an office, at an address that didn't exist, and had ended up in an ale house. His mind had been so firmly set that he'd taken his buggy to the clinic straight after church, and used his office to send a wire to this Ms. J. Gitman.
ARRIVING IN TORONTO ON TRAIN 5:17. MEET AT PUBLISHING HOUSE. GBLYTHE
In the time it had taken to call Susan, Di and sort through some work messages, he'd already received a reply:
MY OFFICE. ASK AT FRONT DESK. JGITMAN
That would teach him to engage in phony correspondences. From his office straight to the train station, and on the first train out, still wearing his Sunday suit...
Feeling like the idiot he obviously was, Gilbert assessed his surroundings. From the inside, it was like any other tavern. There was laughter, music, a slightly-higher-than-acceptable volume of chatter. Men smoked, drank, laughed, played cards. A huge fire roared from a pit by the bar. In the far corner, a fiddler and a piper of sorts played a jig, while a couple of old men danced, gleefully inebriated.
Stealing himself for being stared at, Gilbert approached the barkeep, who was carelessly drying thick glass mugs.
"Excuse me," he said, cursing the impeccable upbringing forced upon him. Those two words were enough to make anyone suspicious in a place like this. Nonetheless, he went on: "I'm looking for a J. Gitman? Of the Denver's Publishing House? 42 Wellington Lane?"
Well done, Blythe, he mocked himself. Smooth as butter. The thick man raised an eyebrow at him, and turned his attention straight back to the glass he'd been polishing.
"Never heard of no Publishing House. Denver's meself - go by Denny 'mongst friends, but seeing as you ain't, don't bother. As for 42 Wellington Lane, you're standing in it."
Of course, Gilbert sighed. This would be my luck. "And J. Gitman?" he pressed outloud. The barkeep sighed in turn, to convey the inconvenience, and yelled across the room: "OY! LARRY!"
"AYE?" came the reply from a far away booth. There was no escape - he was stuck here, and now he'd drawn attention to himself. Several conversations paused to see what the commotion was about.
"JULIANA'S NAME - IS IT GITMAN?"
Maybe he could create a diversion - shatter a drinking glass on the floor. Maybe he could make it out the door before anyone could catch him, and blend right back into the streets. Maybe-
"WHY WOULD I CARE ABOUT HER NAME?"
Anywhere but here. I'd rather be anywhere but here right now. Back at home, dealing with Mr. Yorke's toenail fungus. In the hospital, studying an aggravated case of yeast infection. Anywhere but here.
"Will you two idiots keep it down? I'm Juliana Gitman."
The lady sitting close to Larry had a strong voice, and she knew how to use it without screaming. A tan woman, with long, wavy black hair and painted red lips, she beckoned at him to join her at the otherwise empty booth.
Gilbert removed his hat and sat, exhausted by the display, and his time on the road.
"You're late, I was starting to think you wouldn't come. Denny, two gins."
"None for me, thank you." he bit out. "Who are you? Where is Anne?"
She didn't reply, but scrutinized him with deep forest green eyes.
"Is this your idea of a joke? Tell me! Where is my wife?" he glanced around furtively.
"She's not here."
"Then where is she? And what are we doing here? Is she alright?"
It was an excruciating five seconds before the woman half nodded. "She's in a safe place, in very good care."
The relief he felt at hearing that she might be fine was quickly washed over by a strong wave of jealousy. The idea of someone else caring for her made his hands shake.
For this reason, when the barkeep delivered their drinks, Gilbert seized his and downed about a third of it in a hasty gulp. The alcohol set his mouth on fire and burned all the way up to his nose, leading a scorching trail down his throat and to his chest. He could hear Mrs. Spurgeon's angry voice after she'd caught teenage versions of him, Moody and Charlie with a bottle of brandy they'd "borrowed" from Mr. Sloane's cabinet: Liquid courage is a falsehood of the devil!
Well, it pretty was appropriate, because he was definitely in hell. Gilbert toasted Mrs. Spurgeon in his mind, and took another large swig. The burn was less pronounced this time, but the taste just as foul.
"Please - tell me where Anne is."
"I will. But first, you have to tell me: why did she leave?"
Gilbert ran his fingers through his hair, retrieving a handful of pomade. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be here chasing any and every loose lead in Canada." He wiped his greasy palm on his Sunday pants (Susan would scold him for that later) and slouched in his seat. "I don't know. She didn't tell me. I guess her leaving was a statement." Unaccustomed to drinking as he was, the gin was already affecting his senses. His incoherent ramblings, however, seemed to be what the lady wanted to hear.
"Seems fine enough by me," she said, standing up. "Only next time, sweetie, do give me more of a warning. I see better when I know what I'm looking for."
His head was swimming. Nothing was making sense. Was it possible he'd gotten drunk so fast? He wasn't even halfway through his drink...
"I wanted your honest opinion. If you think he's good for it, I'll take it from here." The speaker, who had been sitting at the table behind them, stood now beside her.
"Will you be coming home tonight? Tricey made pot roast."
"Don't wait up for me. Thanks, Ma."
The woman planted a rather familiar kiss on his cheek, and the newcomer took her seat. A man, probably in his mid-thirties, with a five o'clock shadow and green eyes that gleamed from under the brim of a well-used hat. His dusty gray jacket had seen better days as well, completing the look of a typical pub dweller. The two men facing each other couldn't have appeared to be more different.
"Your mother?" croaked Gil dumbly. He had no idea why he'd asked that - not that it seemed to matter, since the feeling of falling down a rabbit hole hadn't subsided the slightest.
The man nodded slowly. "She's a good judge of character. Doesn't miss much."
Gilbert grit his teeth. "You were checking me out."
"Ah, don't be sour. You checked out fine, for her." The subtext was clear: but not necessarily for me.
"So, are you going to tell me where she is?"
Infuriatingly enough, the man leaned back in his chair in lieu of answering, eyeing him like a tomcat might consider a sparrow. "You haven't asked how I know her."
This prompted Gilbert to empty what was left in his tumbler in one swift motion. The fire barely registered in his throat this time. "I'm not sure I want to know," he admitted honestly despite himself. He'd made the green eyes soften a touch - and what was worse, he didn't care that the stranger sitting across from him, withholding Anne's whereabouts, pitied him.
Jack sighed. He wanted to hate Gilbert Blythe, to see him as a selfish man, an uncaring husband. Instead, he saw a pathetic fool, a poor oaf whose wife had left him and his children.
He sat up and leaned across the table. This isn't about you, he reminded himself. It's about Anne, and what's best for her. He extended a hand to the wreck of a man and raised his chin. "The name's Garrison."
"Am I supposed to care?" Gilbert had found the remedy for good manners: gin. He was now as crude as he'd ever dared to be. Apparently, this amused the Garrison fellow. Good for him.
"So, Blythe. How badly do you want to find her?"
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
All you have to do is confess.
Anne had been dreading this moment for a long time now. She knew she couldn't avoid it, that her past would catch up with her sooner or later. Young Thomas had made it sound so simple. Just open your mouth, say the words, and God will forgive.
Although she was frankly quite desperate, some things were simply beyond forgiveness. She was knew this in her heart. Looking up, Anne looked up at the two men in the room, who had been waiting in silence for a while, now. Unable to confide to the boy she'd only just met without support, she'd asked for Dr. Lebrun to join them. An altar boy had been sent to fetch the doctor, and had returned within the hour.
Anne's gaze went from Dr. Lebrun's eyes to the deacon's. Both pairs were sympathetic, concerned on her behalf. The doctor's also held a certain affection for her - how soon would it vanish altogether when she admitted the truth? How horrible would it be to lose another friend?
Still, it had to be done. Ignoring the frightened anticipation on Young Thomas's face and the doctor's undeserved kindness, she spoke facing straight ahead, eyes unfocused.
"I killed a man."
She'd expected outrage. Gasping, screaming, a frenzy. Instead, there was silence. A crushing silence that weighed on her shoulders. She endured it until it became unbearable, and continued. "It wasn't an accident - not really. I was young, but I knew what I was doing, and I knew it was wrong. I-" she stuttered to a stop, when a soft hand was laid on her cold, shaking ones.
"Dear child, how long have you been carrying this burden?" asked the doctor. His eyes were as gentle as his voice - if anything they seemed more open.
"Since I was seven. Or six, I don't know."
Thomas spoke next: "Can you tell us what happened?"
"It was snowing outside. The man whose family I was boarding with - he was coming home late at night. Everyone else was sleeping by the stove, except me - my place was closer to the door, it was cold, so I couldn't sleep. I knew when he'd come back, he'd do -things. That would wake the children, and the Mrs. would get cross. I didn't want that to happen, so I-" she gulped past the enormous lump in her throat, and made herself continue. "I closed the deadbolt. He couldn't get in, and starting banging and screaming. They didn't hear that - or when he broke the window with his fist. Only then he stopped yelling. They found him dead the next morning."
There. It was done. Anne felt no sense of closure, no great relief, no dread spreading through her. She felt nothing. Through her numbness, it took several minutes before she realized that the doctor had spoken again.
"Anne, I'm going to tell you something that might surprise you." His fingers came under her chin to gently tip her face up so that their eyes connected. "I want you to listen to me carefully, alright?" She blinked. He looked straight through to her soul.
What he said next, two simple sentences made up of eight simple words, shattered her in a thousand tears.