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With apologies for this very long chapter...
Chapter Five Duet of Brook and Wind
"Anne – do you really think this is a good idea?" Tom ventured anxiously, peering from beneath an oversized hat placed jauntily, in Anne's opinion, over one eye, even if it lacked the fabulous plume extending upwards necessary to give it an air of real authentication.
His question was a valid one, on several fronts; Anne Shirley's ideas, invariably announced as good and exciting, were also more than prone to having disastrous consequences, thereby somewhat calling into question the presumption of them being good ideas in the first place. There had been the enacting of several of 'Grimm's Fairy Tales' for the children at bedtime, including the unfortunate incident after 'Hansel and Gretel' whereby a small party had been caught trying to requisition a loaf of bread from Cook's larder, all the better to leave their own trail of breadcrumbs…
There had been Tom as Gulliver, rendered helpless by the citizenry of Lilliput by the tying of him to the bed…
Perhaps most unfortunate of all - and on bitter reflection something even Anne had to acknowledge as having been somewhat lacking in forethought – had seen Tom gallop apace into the dormitory as the headless horseman, in pursuit of the hapless Ichabod Crane, complete with coat up over his ears and hat squashed down upon his head, all the better to obscure his face and give the impression, indeed, of general headlessness… the screams resulting from this particular event having brought all the scanty numbered staff of the orphanage running in shock to gather witness to the tears and mayhem, and ended with both Tom and Anne unceremoniously hauled out by Matron to feel the furious, swift swish of her birch rod.
Now, though, Anne tried to reassure her reluctant actor.
"Tom – you've been desperate to be d'Artagnan for ages! Mrs Cadbury said if you can keep the noise down and not be overly dramatic with your sword fighting she will allow it this once."
Tom, in truth, didn't much care for the limelight on any occasion, whether as a musketeer or no; like his participation in all their literary misadventures these past few months, and much else besides, he did it to please Anne.
Mrs Cadbury kept her stern eye on proceedings; she did not abide frivolity in any form, save this one; it was a neat means to an end, for after ten or so minutes of each evening, whereby Anne with her helpful foot soldier held her adoring audience in thrall, she had the satisfaction of seeing even the most recalcitrant charge asleep almost immediately, and the withdrawing of this audience privilege was a powerful motivation if sleep happened to be elusive.
To Anne's characteristically dramatic narration, Tom entered the fray, paper sword aloft, and swashed and buckled with appropriate dash and daring. Occasionally Mrs Cadbury was noted as putting a hand to her mouth in what one supposed was mild, affronted disapproval; it would be rather too much to hope she did so to hide a smile.
April came, and with it a change in the air; not so much of a relief from the persistent cold and the chilblains that always accompanied it; or the ever present hunger, gnawing its long fingers at little stomachs from the inside; or even the general pervasive sense of futility that seemed to cling to the walls. Anne sensed it in a shift; of time marching ever onwards, and they, stuck and stagnant; prisoners in the tower, under some strange spell of enchantment.
Tom had retreated to a corner again, soon after morning lessons. It meant, Anne knew, that he was having a bad day of it.
She walked up determinedly, as she had that first time just over four months ago, and hopped again on the windowsill. This time she knew not to chatter, and so she waited.
He had been whittling something that he had hastily shoved in his pocket. He chopped the wood for the entire orphanage now, and several other households down the street, in return for small favours; a book, some boiled sweets for the smaller children, a new pencil for Anne. His little ready supply of wood afforded him the opportunity to put it to use; as the birthday of another child passed, not in rejoicing as some might see it, but of another despairing year without a family, there would appear, by their thin pillow, a little wooden figure; a rabbit or a dog, or occasionally something even more fanciful, such as a heart or a flower, or one ambitious time, a knight holding his shield.
Tom stood and stubbed his toe on the floor, his sandy brows drawn together, his throat working to push the words back down, but they always seemed to escape from him, unbidden, when he was with her.
"It's her birthday, today," he admitted, gruffly. There was a pause. "My mother's."
Anne's grey eyes went to him, full of understanding and shared sorrow. "I'm sorry, Tom."
He gave a short, sharp laugh, pained and hurting. "That's if she even gets a birthday now. Considering that she's dead."
"Of course she does," Anne determined, and then, more gamely, "would you tell me about her?"
Tom looked at Anne, dubious.
"You have memories of her, and talking about them will help keep them strong and secure. I don't have memories of my parents, and so my imagination fills in the gaps, but it's not the same, and my image of them keeps shifting and moving, so that it's hazy, like fog. But your memories are clear."
His throat made much movement at that. "Sometimes too clear."
Anne hopped off the windowsill and sank down to the floor, and Tom moved to sit next to her, under the window, against the wall.
"Do you have your mother's hair?" Anne finally prompted. She was, rather understandably, caught up in matters of hair color.
"How did you guess that?"
"Well, now, that is the very nature of a guess," she grinned, and he rolled his eyes.
"Yes, both of us the same color, this sort of yellowy gold, but mine is coarse; hers was long and straight and fine."
Anne nodded.
She used to… braid it, and let it hang over one shoulder. Until she was really sick… and then I tried to do it myself… but it got very matted…" his voice wavered. "She had consumption, you know."
There was hardly any comfort that could be offered in response to that, but Anne took his hand and squeezed it, regardless.
"She had a good laugh," he continued. "Not a fake one, but a real belly laugh. A bit like yours, only you tend to squeal too much." He gave a sidelong glance at her, his mouth quirking.
Anne grimaced good naturedly.
"And she was very smart. She liked to read. I tried to read to her, a little, but the few books we had left were too hard. I'd missed quite a bit of school, looking after her. And I was no scholar to begin with."
"You're very smart, Tom!" Anne interrupted, indignant. "You just need to … well …"
"Apply myself?" he answered wryly. He had heard that particular line of argument from her before.
"Learning is important, Tom. I think… I think… it's the only way either of us will get out of here."
Now her own throat felt parched and prickly, not wanting to admit to the reality of the words. With each week, another opportunity passed, another hope faded, drifting away like curls of smoke on the wind.
Tom snorted. "Maybe it will be for you, Anne. I'm halfway to thirteen. I know where my door out of here leads to. Straight down the road to the nearest factory."
Anne shook her head vehemently. "No, Tom! You're so much better than that! You must aim for an apprenticeship at least. With a woodworker, perhaps, or..."
"And what will you aim for, Anne?" he turned to her, grief making his words unusually harsh. "A scullery maid? Mistress of the Chamber Pots?"
"No!" she flared. "I'd run away first!"
He paused at the sight of the hot tears threatening her newly flushed cheeks. He turned his own face away, drawing his knees up and burying himself there. He could just about manage his own wretchedness; he couldn't cope seeing hers as well.
There were long moments of quick breaths, battling for control.
"Not without me, you won't," he finally offered, firmly, his voice still muffled.
Anne surveyed him questioningly. He raised his head to meet her eyes.
"Run away," Tom clarified. "You won't be leaving here without me. You wouldn't last five minutes."
She gave him a wide smile at that; teary and tremulous, but still the smile he always waited for her to give him, to turn his world up the right way again.
"That's just as well, then," Anne answered. "'All for one and one for all,' you know." *
He smiled back and nodded; a silent vow.
"And you'd need someone to read the street signs for you out in the big world," Anne continued, unable to restrain herself. "Your spelling is fairly atrocious."
She leapt up and dived away, laughing, to avoid his long limbs as he lunged at her.
Anne stood on the step of the attractive building the other side of Kingsport, lilies in her mildly shaking hands, in her second best skirt and her very best cream blouse, pausing to control her shallow, nervous breaths.
She would be meeting all manner of new people today; all at once, without the natural ebb and flow of the first weeks at Redmond when everyone else was new too and it was nothing in the world to introduce yourself and begin to immediately chat away with perfect strangers. These people here today already knew each other; had indeed grown up together, were their own little merry band of friends.
They were Gilbert Blythe's friends.
That particular fact shouldn't matter to her any more than anything else pertaining to him should matter, but it did, rather too much, in a way that both buoyed her and caused her confidence to plummet to the bottom of the ocean like an anchor dropped and attaching itself to the sea bed. Likewise, that's what Gilbert Blythe himself seemed to do to her lately; would that she could control who she was with him. Sometimes he encouraged her to float as if she were one with the waves; sometimes she fought to cling to safety in a stormy sea, as Viola did; sometimes she despaired so, as if Ophelia, that she might at any moment sink and drown in the depths.
Anne frowned now, annoyed with herself. She would not let thoughts of Gilbert Blythe crowd her today.
Instead, she stood on the step, an hour early, hoping that fact in itself was not be a mad, impertinent folly, but wanting in some way to meet and thank the girl kind enough to give a stranger such an invitation, and hoping to have a few quiet moments to talk with her hostess before the hordes descended.
Anne took a breath. She knocked.
The door was opened and a vision of true loveliness peered at her; a dark haired goddess of her own dreams and imaginings, with beguiling dark eyes, an alabaster brow, truly raven hair and a gentle, dimpled smile. That smile widened even more as she noted the young lady on her own doorstep; the hair, the eyes, the pale, wondering expression had been so detailed to her by several sources that her identity was unmistakable.
"Miss Anne Shirley! I feel I know you already, I've heard so much about you!"
Anne's mouth opened in surprise, but then she closed it, coloring, and dropped a quick, neat curtsy, overcome in the moment.
"Miss Diana Barry. It is lovely to meet you. I am truly honoured and humbled by your kind invitation today."
Diana's eyes twinkled at the unexpected effusiveness of Anne Shirley's greeting, and clutched her hands – once they had offered up their little posy of lilies – grasping tightly, before ushering her inside.
"Here, Miss Shirley, let me take your coat. We can place it on the stand and – oh! I didn't say the wrong time, did I?" Diana Barry suddenly stilled in panic.
"No indeed, Miss Barry. Please forgive the intrusion. I'm an hour early. I just wanted the opportunity to chat with you before…"
"The plum puffs!" Diana interrupted with an agonised yelp, dashing away from Anne and into the house. Anne stood by the door, flummoxed, and then followed tentatively, taking in the rich, feminine furnishings – the paintings, the heavy brocade drapes, the mantelpiece groaning with beautifully framed photographs – following Diana Barry's furious muttering – and the smell of slightly burnt food – towards the kitchen.
Anne stuck her head around the corner.
"Ruined!" Diana all but wailed, throwing down her tea towel in disgust.
"Oh, Diana - Miss Barry - I'm so sorry if I…"
"Don't worry, Anne," Diana shook her head sorrowfully. "I've ruined everything else anyway. I rushed and got all the measurements wrong. I forgot about translating from French. Even with the plum puffs I'm not sure if I put salt or sugar in them, I was so distracted…" Diana moved to deposit the offending tray on the bench. "I don't know why I thought I could do this on my own. Jane isn't here yet – she's delayed in coming back from halfway to Winnipeg, seeing her beau. Ruby's been hopeless, fussing upstairs in her room because Fred is bringing along two friends from college. Oh, no – Fred! He'll be so embarrassed in front of his friends and I'll just be mortified and Aunt Jo will hear I can't even boil an egg and send me back home!"
Anne's grey eyes widened. She could be staring back at her own good self, after countless culinary catastrophes. Only she was fairly certain she wouldn't have looked nearly so lovely, even with being so very distracted.
Anne took a breath, walking into the kitchen. "We will make an absolute success of this afternoon, Diana Barry! I promise you. I'm… I'm very happy to help you, though you must pardon my own decidedly limited culinary expertise. You worry about boiling eggs – I would worry about boiling the water properly in the first place, I am so very hopeless! Do you have anything left to serve, or anything you think we might make quickly?"
Those big dark eyes regarded Anne, a little amazed. "You would help me? Anne, I... you're my guest! It wouldn't be proper!"
"Anne Shirley and the word proper are not always very well acquainted, Diana. I would love to help you." Anne went to take Diana's hands impulsively in her own, as she herself had done. "Let's make this afternoon entirely wonderful!"
Diana Barry found herself nodding, dumbfounded, a lovely, agog smile on her face.
"Right, then," Anne determined firmly, looking around the bright, orderly kitchen. "What do you say to scones, Diana? They are about the only creations that behave themselves for me. Would you have everything we need?"
"Yes, of course…" Diana wavered, "but I promised everyone French delicacies, Anne…"
"Never mind that. They will just have to be glad with what they're given. You can announce you saved the fancy French cuisine for another time. We could have scones and sandwiches, if that pleases you. Now… where is the flour?"
Diana stared at her rescuing, red haired angel for all of half a minute before dashing about the kitchen collecting ingredients. Together they worked quickly and companionably, attempting a little chatter as they went.
"Everyone just raves about you, Anne Shirley," Diana grinned as they saw the first generous batch of scones into the oven and worked the dough for the second. "And I can see why! Pris and Phil – well, I only met Phil recently, but I've known Pris a little, for when she was schoolteacher over at Carmody, nearby to our village, and Jane and Ruby met her at Queens. They both said you were jolly and extremely clever!"
Anne laughed. "I think I will believe myself cleverer still if I don't ruin these scones," she rolled her eyes, trying to keep the flour away from the frilly cuffs of her blouse.
"I thought you might be a little intimidating," Diana shook her head, as if still trying to get the measure of the girl beside her. "And Gilbert said – "
At the mention of his name, both girls paused. Anne reddened but affected as if she hadn't; Diana noted her blush but didn't draw attention to it.
"That is, ah…" Diana hesitated.
"It was probably something about my hair…" Anne groaned, giving a little smile of chagrin.
"No…" Diana shook her head, innocently. "It's striking and lovely, of course, but… well, he did mention you were the most intelligent girl he'd met at Redmond. Not in Phil's hearing, mind you," Diana's own smile was a little sly.
Anne further reddened dramatically, not quite knowing how to respond to the compliment, and truly not trusting herself on the subject of Mr Blythe, regardless. She instead tried a diversion.
"Phil tells me you are here doing a French cooking course. How marvellous of you! Are you enjoying it?"
"Mostly," it was now Diana's turn to blush faintly, "and despite appearances I am getting along with it fairly well. The other girls are quite serious about it, though, and some are quite competitive, which I didn't really expect. I suppose that… well, I thought it might be more fun, just a bunch of girls chummy together… I was so envious of everyone going off to teacher's college years ago – they were seeing so much more of life than I was. I guess I felt a little left behind."
Diana bit her lip, thinking that maybe she had said too much, and here was Anne Shirley, a virtual stranger just arrived on her doorstep. But Anne only gave her a nod and a lovely smile, her grey eyes large in her delicate face, her look a little wistful.
"I understand, Diana. Perhaps more than you know. It's like Beth in Little Women, isn't it? I always cry when she says "I'm not like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I'd do when I grew up… I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything…" **
Diana was nodding furiously, and was so astonished she very nearly dropped her rolling pin.
"That's it! That's it exactly, Anne! And you have just quoted my favourite book in all the world!"
The two young women laughed, amazed, together.
"It's wonderful, isn't it? I so adore Jo. And don't you just love Laurie to pieces?" Anne gushed.
Diana nodded again. She had rather a soft spot for shy, quiet, mannerly Professor Bhaer, truth be known, but wasn't going to interfere with the lovely moment by confessing so.
They refocussed on seeing off the second batch of scones, and then considered the sandwiches.
"Right, Diana," Anne offered in full schoolmarm mode. "I'll do the cream and jam and start on the sandwiches. You need to go upstairs to freshen yourself – it won't do at all to have a harried hostess; you must be calm and radiant. Tell your friend Ruby to come down and she can arrange the furniture and flowers in the sitting room."
"Yes, Miss Shirley!" Diana laughed, very pleased and relieved to be thus instructed.
They both turned at a door slamming, and then heard a loud clatter, and there was a girl lugging her valise through the doorway, apologising as she went and pausing to gawp at the sight in the kitchen before her.
"So sorry, to be late, Diana, but the train was delayed…." Her voice trailed off and she looked from Diana to Anne in clear surprise. "Ah… Harry sends his love. I picked up a nice tin of biscuits on the way…" her mouth now curved into a small smile, and it rather transformed her homely features. "You have to be Anne Shirley," she nodded at Anne. "You're obviously having a baptism of fire today."
Anne was introduced to Jane Andrews, and the girls exchanged greetings – both rather liking one another on sight – and then Diana was dispatched to change and Jane was dispatched to fetch Ruby, with a promise to come down and attend to the beating of the cream. Anne found herself orchestrating the sandwiches, marshalling whatever ingredients came to mind, and was furiously cutting cucumbers when there was a definite rap on the front door.
Anne looked about wildly, but she was alone downstairs. A glance at the grandfather clock informed her this was yet another early arrival. Goodness, if this was what being a hostess was about – the mad whirl of activity, the constant interruptions – it would drive her fairly demented. She called out tentatively but received no response. Letting out an impatient breath she rushed to answer the door herself.
Gilbert Blythe stood before her wearing a smart suit, a ready smile and holding a beautiful bouquet of peonies. At the sight of her his hazel eyes grew wide.
"Anne!"
"Gilbert!"
To say he was astonished to see Anne Shirley on Diana Barry's doorstep, cutting knife in hand and a dust of flour arraying her cheek, would be one of the greatest of understatements. He had been in two minds about whether to call for her, to accompany her here, but they had parted on such uncertain terms, and he didn't rightly know whether she would slam the door in his face in further Maisie-fuelled indignation. He had come himself, slightly early, in order to try to thank Diana properly for today, and for drawing Anne into their circle in a way that was much more natural – and far less subject to wagging tongues - than if he had contrived to invite her himself. His sharp eyes readily assessed, however, that Anne had been drawn into today's events more thoroughly than even he could have imagined, and his eyes roamed her up and down, before he remembered himself and settled again on her beautifully flushed face.
"I thought that I…" Gilbert began.
"I decided that I…" Anne interrupted.
They both halted, chuckling nervously. Gilbert cheekily commented upon the knife in her hand and whether his flowers were an acceptable enough offering to permit him entry, Anne looking down aghast at the tool she had unwittingly brandished at him. Both were then saved, mercifully, by their returned hostess, who appeared behind Anne at the door, accepting Gilbert's bouquet graciously, with a wide, knowing smile for him.
"Gilbert!" Diana welcomed warmly. "This is perfect! You can help Ruby with the furniture."
"Furniture?" his brow furrowed.
"Indeed, Mr Blythe!" Anne had recovered her voice and evidently also her nerve. "Go and make yourself useful, since you are too big to be ornamental," ***she shot at him with a smile, a mite saucily.
Anne caught Diana's eye and the two girls collapsed in giggles right there in front of him.
Gilbert had long ago given up on trying to decipher the Secret Language of Women. That Diana and Anne Shirley should share it themselves, so instantaneously, shouldn't perhaps have surprised him. He looked from one to the other, mouth open, and tried to make himself appear bemused rather than completely bewildered.
Soon enough the clock struck three; by some minor miracle they all stood there, the four girls and Gilbert, surveying their joint handiwork; the sitting room with the roaring fire and the thoughtfully arranged furniture; the table in the centre laden with the good china, upon which delicate sandwiches and still steaming scones beckoned, accompanied by jam, cream and a generous plate of biscuits; and the two vases of flowers overflowing with their careful displays. They could not help their delighted, relieved grins.
Diana, a vision in dark blue with a single one of Anne's lilies in her hair, added by the guest herself, grabbed at Anne's hand and squeezed it tightly.
"Thank you, everyone," Diana sighed to the room, and adding at a whisper, "thank you, Anne."
They all prepared to take their seats to await the others; a hand at Anne's elbow stopped her, and she turned to see Gilbert, a soft smile on his face, brandishing a handkerchief which he gently, and deftly, touched to her cheek.
"The scones," he explained, with an indescribable look that darkened his hazel eyes.
Later, Anne surveyed the room, and thought, though she had precious little experience of such gatherings, that their party of ten had been as delighted by simple fare and fine conversation as by anything they may have found in a quaint Kingsport tea room. Her grey eyes lit on the acquaintances of the afternoon, new and known, with undisguised pleasure, and the bloom that touched her cheeks and the intriguing secret thoughts behind the slight smile on her lips were noted by several of the gentlemen present, when they were not otherwise engaged in admiring the fair charms of Ruby Gillis, lively and coquettish, or the gentle dark beauty of Diana herself.
Anne took great note of Diana now, opposite her in the semi circle made by the chairs fanned out around the low table of the very depleted array of refreshments, in her element conversing with Fred Wright and his friends, the three men very keen to find everything about the afternoon quite delightful. Mr Wright she understood to be a particular friend of Gilbert's, which most interested her; on the surface he would seem his polar opposite; shy and almost blushing where Gilbert was confident and gregarious; courtly in his manner as a vivid contrast to Gilbert's cockiness; and his looks, though perfectly pleasing, were certainly on the side of unassuming. Anne couldn't fault his quiet attentions to her new friend, however; Diana had only to mildly lament that the fire needed restocking or that some other such service needed to be rendered for him to leap up to oblige happily, every time.
Jane Andrews, Anne was quick to note, was clever and thoughtful, with a quiet, wry humour; seated next to the fun, lighthearted Priscilla they both merrily reminisced about their days at Queens College, and Jane asked Anne many questions about her own teaching degree and career thus far, and her plans after her BA. On the other side of Diana and Fred sat Ruby, easily commandeering the attention of Fred's two friends with her stunning blonde beauty and infectious laugh; her lengthy preparations upstairs undoubtedly paying dividends in their patently admiring and rather awestruck expressions.
Anne had found herself by the fire, with Gilbert on the one side and, rather less fortunately, Charlie Sloane on the other. With every intriguing question or amusing aside that Gilbert attempted to pose, Mr Sloane was there to counteract it with an uninspired, if ultimately well meaning, anecdote of his own. Charlie seemed to be rather desperate to please but had the unfortunate knack of rarely doing so. He also appeared to be, despite a professed longstanding friendship, in some sort of unacknowledged rivalry with Gilbert. Anne felt herself rather caught in the crossfire of their attempts to gain her attention, and on her periphery she could see Gilbert's dark disapproval when talk turned to next week's football fundraising dance, his handsome features morphing into barely suppressed fury when Charlie blurted out, as Gilbert would be engaged on the night with one Miss Monroe, might Miss Shirley be pleased to accompany him instead?
Anne stilled. This was her first invitation from any man to accompany him to a dance, ever, and she bitterly lamented the lack of romance involved and the general backhanded nature of the offer. Not to mention the very public forum for such a discussion. She looked at Charlie, his mouth smiling innocuously, his very prominent eyes widening more with each moment, in obvious anticipation of a favourable reply. She dare not glance at Gilbert.
She cleared her throat. Anne kept her voice level and her eyes determinedly trained on Charlie Sloane, aware that there were more than a few interested individuals pretending not to listen to her reply. She sensed that her unexpected paramour was too adept at making himself appear a little blundering, whether he was aware of it or no; she didn't want to secretly laugh at him. She had been scorned too many times herself to not feel the bitter sting of it; indeed it was the very reason for her antagonistic beginning, long since apologised for and forgiven, with the man seated on the other side of her, now quietly seething, somewhat ironically, on her behalf.
Then again, Charlie had just been rather impertinent, and she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of the one-upmanship on Gilbert he was undoubtedly seeking. He certainly did himself few favours.
Anne took a deep breath. "I do thank you, Mr Sloane, most sincerely, for your invitation," she answered. "However, I regret Priscilla and I are already committed to volunteer on the refreshments table; it saves us the price of a ticket but we still feel we are doing our bit. I'm afraid it means going a little ahead of time and helping to set up; it wouldn't be fair to keep you waiting on me half the night. However, I will definitely have some time off for dancing; I hope you may allow me to save a waltz for you."
Charlie had no choice but to be much mollified by Anne's response, particularly when she gave such a sweet smile with her words. He wasn't much used to women being so agreeable, once they actually got to know him. He resolved to take her up on her suggestion and more besides, if he could manage it; furthermore he was quite happily disposed to overlook her rather arrestingly hued tresses to consider Anne Shirley a more than passably pretty girl, and a most promising new acquaintance, and Gilbert be damned.
"Thank you, Miss Shirley," Charlie replied. "I'd be much obliged if you would."
Gilbert, meanwhile, relaxed the long fingered hands which had clenched themselves into fists, almost of their own accord, hoping he could thus also relax his features. He had well noted the attentions paid to Anne from Fred's friends and most especially from Charlie; he knew there was no justification for him to be so annoyed by them. He cleared his throat, which had tightened painfully.
"It was indeed very good of you and Pris, Anne… to support the football club in that way, volunteering for the refreshments table. I want you to know how very much we appreciate it."
From opposite came a little choke of laughter, and Pris rolled her eyes at him.
"Gilbert, we appreciate your sentiments, but I think I speak for Anne too when I explain that we both volunteered generally – no one in their right mind actually offers to be stuck with the punch bowls!"
Gilbert's eyes widened at this revelation, before a little puzzle piece fell into place. Maisie. He sighed to himself; obviously he was even less adept at the Secret Motivations of Women than he was at their language.
He recovered himself quickly, however, not missing a beat.
"If that is the case, my fair Miss Grant, then I will take it as my solemn responsibility to relieve both yourself and Miss Shirley from your duties as often as possible."
His wide grin met Pris's despairing smile, but then she wrinkled her nose at him, accepting his charm as his apology. Anne didn't turn to meet his eyes.
Talk turned mercifully from football and dances to the other extra curricular pursuits people were enjoying both at Redmond and the business college. Fred and his friends were members of a Chess Club, and appeared to be as competitive as any man who had ever run onto a sporting field; Diana, weary of cooking tomes, particularly those in actual French, was attempting to start up a book club of sorts with some likeminded girls, and announced, beaming at Anne, that she had hit upon an idea for their first novel; Jane's unexpectedly wealthy beau, Harry Inglis, was introducing her to the world of art, which made the girls studying Art History particularly envious; Pris, Anne and the absent Phil, off visiting her parents that weekend, were widely congratulated on winning their second debate rather convincingly; Ruby was lamenting the lack of a dramatic society at business college unlike at Queens (or indeed Redmond) and hoping somewhere in Kingsport would put on a decent nativity play at the very least.
That prompted thoughts of Christmas, seven weeks away, and how on this good earth they would all cram in the work and study necessary beforehand. There was a general groaning and comparing of workloads.
"Where do you hail from, Anne?" Jane ventured, thinking she herself might be all the way back to Winnipeg for Christmas, and how that news would be broken to the various Andrews family members, most especially her mother. "Do you have far to travel?"
Anne, having enjoyed her afternoon more than she could have ever hoped, despite the slight awkwardness of before instigated by Charlie; feeling at one with all the friendly, amusing young people here; and feeling, for the first time, that Redmond had the potential to become a real home to her, stiffened despite her best efforts. She knew this subject was inevitable. She had avoided it for longer than she thought she might; Redmond tended to draw students from all over, and it was no surprise that people arrived here from different places and different life experiences. She knew she mustn't shy away from her background anymore... The fanciful notions of her girlhood, when she had invented wild stories of her parents being missing, presumed lost, at sea, or that time during her teacher's license when she had almost succeeded in convincing herself they were on extended travels in Europe, had not served her well. Among these good people the simple good truth was needed.
"Oh, I've lived here, there and everywhere!" Anne now waved her hand airily, offering a bright, determined smile, "but I was born here in Nova Scotia, in Bolingbroke."
"Oh, like Philippa!" Pris offered.
"Yes, but our paths didn't exactly cross. I think we would have moved in very different social circles!" Anne answered with a wry smile, acknowledging the young Miss Gordon's monied family connections, and was rewarded with everyone's warm, knowing laughter.
"Well, I'm sure your folks must be real proud of you, Anne. You know, here at Redmond, doing so well," Charlie added, keen to lay some groundwork before the dance.
Anne looked a little askance at him.
"That's kind of you, Charlie. I am sure they would be. They were both teachers, too, you see. Except… except…" she looked around the room as the gazes of her new friends hung on her, expectantly, curious as to the history of the new chum in their midst. She groaned inwardly and cleared her throat. And then swallowed carefully. "Except that they both died, when I was a baby."
The shocked, sympathetic silence in the room lasted for several beats. Their reactions, not unexpected, still made her stomach churn. She didn't want to be different from them, but the sharing of this information always ended by making it so.
"I'm really sorry to hear that, Anne," Charlie murmured sympathetically.
"I'm so sorry, Anne!" Diana exclaimed passionately, close to tears.
Jane, Pris and Fred nodded their sad assent. Fred's friends looked apologetically awkward. Ruby blurted out that being an orphan must be rather tragically romantic, before a stern warning glare from Jane silenced her further. To her right she reluctantly ventured a glance at Gilbert, and the depthless look in his eyes, and his shocked, stricken expression, nearly undid her, then and there.
Anne could feel her cheeks burning.
"You mustn't worry on it," she urged, looking about those assembled. "I have no memory of them, but instead I am able to imagine the most wonderful things about them. And no one is able to contradict me. I have the last word, always, which I rather enjoy," she gave a wavering smile, which Gilbert attempted to return.
"And I'm sure you had relatives, other people about, as you grew up?" Diana interjected encouragingly, seemingly as much for her own reassurance as for the young Anne as was.
Anne took a restorative sip of her tea, hedging. "There were plenty of people about, certainly."
"Well, at any rate, Bolingbroke sounds like a grand old town, Anne," Charlie was desperate to redeem the situation, which had put a dampener on things rather quickly. "Much more exciting than growing up in poky old Avonlea!"
Anne absolutely froze now, and her intake of breath was sharp. Here she was, having cleared that horrible hurdle, thinking that the worst was over. But the worst was only beginning…
Worse and worse and worse and worse.
… The room seemed to recede… and there was just she, alone, the last time she had heard the name of that town, seven years ago…
"You… you grew up in Avonlea? Avonlea, Prince Edward Island?" Anne asked, coming back to the present, her clear voice strangled. She had known, vaguely, that Pris came from the Island, and perhaps Gilbert, though they had never much talked of personal things. Deliberately, on both sides. Well, then … deliberately, on her side.
She supposed the Island was big, or at least big enough. So she hadn't asked the question. For she most definitely hadn't wanted the answer.
"We all grew up in Avonlea, Anne!" Ruby exclaimed. "Excepting Pris and Fred's friends here, of course!"
And then there was a crush of excited chatter; Jane remonstrating to Charlie for calling Avonlea poky; Charlie batting back that for confirmation he once walked the length of the town along the main street up to the Carmody road in under ten minutes, and if that wasn't the definition of poky he didn't know what was; Ruby lamenting the active gossip tree that had announced she was walking out with a boy visiting from White Sands before she had even met him; Pris proclaiming it all had nothing on her own Island home town, which didn't even have a haberdashers; and even Fred Wright mumbling his agreement at every new interjection. Only Diana and Gilbert were quiet; Diana because, sitting directly opposite Anne Shirley, she had been shocked to observe she had gone frighteningly pale; and Gilbert because his eyes had been torn back to Anne's the moment she had asked about Avonlea – the question not as a mere curiosity, but because her voice sounded like someone drowning.
And now Anne's eyes were glazed, and she rubbed at her temple worryingly. She looked around the room wildly, the blood thundering in her head.
Gilbert was immediately at her elbow. "Do you need some air, Anne?"
He would never forget the look in her grey eyes as she stared up at him.
"Yes, thank you, G-Gilbert."
To the sympathetic stares of the others, who thought it understandable that all this talk of home and families must have suddenly overwhelmed her, Anne clutched at his arm, her grip tight, and he escorted her out of the sitting room and into the thankful quiet of the entranceway, directing her to a chair. Diana was there a second later, bending down to look at Anne with her kind, dark eyes full of concern.
"Oh Anne! You've gone pale as a ghost! Can I fetch you a glass of water?"
"I'm so sorry to be a worry, Diana! Yes, please, to the water."
Diana bustled out again, and Gilbert heard Anne take deep, steadying breaths. A moment later she gave a watery, unconvincing smile.
"Dreadful headache," she explained, touching her temple again. "It's been stalking me all day!"
"I'm very sorry to hear it," Gilbert offered, his dark brows knotted together. This was the young lady who had joked and laughed with them all afternoon; who had stood to regale them with half of the closing speech of her debate when Charlie had begged her to; and had had them all in pleats with her uncannily accurate impression of the college's venerable old philosophy professor. She had not, until now, showed the slightest incapacitation.
However, that was before she had told them she was an orphan, he chastised himself, his gut twisting. And something else, more intangible… that was before she had learned they were all from Avonlea.
Diana returned with the water, and Anne continued her explanation of a headache, and begged to slip away home quietly so as not to disturb the jolly gathering in the sitting room.
"Let me escort you back to your rooms, Anne," Gilbert's tone was polite but firm.
The immediate refusal had to be abandoned, as Diana accepted for her, gathering her coat and pressing her warm lips to Anne's now cold cheek.
"Thank you, Diana," Anne rallied, "and to Ruby and Jane. You are such an accomplished hostess. I had the loveliest time imaginable! I've never known such a pleasant afternoon… excepting the headache, of course. Please make my apologies to the others."
"Of course, Anne! Thank you so much for coming. I couldn't have done any of it without you – I'm so grateful. Please rest well. And please visit next week before the dance! We can talk baking and books!" she leaned into Anne's ear. "And boys!" she whispered leadingly.
Anne nodded enthusiastically, sharing a look with her, and they hugged again, and then Anne was bundled into her coat.
Out on the doorstep, Gilbert Blythe was a flurry of concern.
"Can I call a cab Anne? he offered. "It's a very long way."
"Thank you, Gilbert, but no. The walk will do me the world of good. I hate to have you miss the rest of the afternoon, however. I really will be fine on my own…"
The words were unintentionally meaningful. Gilbert gave her a very dark look, and offered his arm in a way that brokered no argument.
"Miss Shirley," he crooked his arm and waited. His hazel eyes bore uncomfortably into hers.
"Thank, you, Mr Blythe," she managed, with both reluctance and relief.
It felt incredibly intimate, taking his arm in this way, as he steered her gently down the street. She thought errantly of Maisie, having watched her do the same, leaning in, laughing up at him, and remembered the unfathomable longing she had felt on seeing her… not just for being with Gilbert, though that had been a disturbingly large part of it, but of envying her the ease with which she presented herself to the world, and the welcoming way in which the world greeted her in turn.
They continued down the street, crossed another and began to head towards the town.
"Anne…" Gilbert began with difficulty. "I am so very, very sorry about your parents. More than I can ever express to you."
"Thank you, Gilbert," her response was quiet. 'I do appreciate that."
There was a pause. "All of us blathering on about families and Christmas," he suddenly scowled. "No wonder you couldn't stand it any longer."
"Gilbert, you can't reproach yourself - or them - for what you didn't know."
He shook his head in frustration.
"It's such a thing to carry by yourself, Anne," his voice was still strained. He stopped walking and turned to her. "Did no one know?"
Anne met his eyes with difficulty. "The Dean of the College. Presumably the admissions officer. My boarding house mistress. And… Phil."
"Phil?"
"We discovered our Bolingbroke connection, Gilbert. Quite innocently. But then, Phil being Phil, she wanted to know all the ins and outs… I swore her to secrecy, even though she did protest she was rather bad with secrets."
Gilbert thought back on a very particular conversation he'd had with their brunette friend.
"Well, she's done so admirably, I can assure you," he answered.
They were both taking up a fair amount of the sidewalk, and a few fellow pedestrians had to make their way around them, giving displeased looks as they passed. Gilbert stepped back to her, offering his arm again.
"I am not so very bad at keeping secrets myself, Anne," he ventured after a time.
Anne sighed. "There really are some things it's better not to know."
"For you or… for us?"
Anne rolled her eyes, giving him a very pointed look.
Gilbert let out a long breath. "You really are so stubborn minded, Miss Shirley."
She risked a little smile. "And you are so very annoyingly persistent, Mr Blythe."
He smiled a little himself, then. "Well, I must get that from my mother."
Anne looked up at him, bemused. "Is that so?"
"Unfortunately it's probably the only thing I've inherited from that admirable lady. Well, that and her eyes."
Anne allowed herself a little image, of an attractive, hazel eyed woman, cuddling her equally attractive, little hazel eyed son. She tried not to redden at it.
"And what of your father?" she asked.
"Oh, well then, from him I have inherited my debonair, rakish charm," Gilbert offered with a broad smile.
"Naturally," Anne felt herself grin.
"And my modesty," he chuckled.
"Undoubtedly."
He stopped again, and turned to her, a mite embarrassed.
"And, er, my hair."
Anne's smile was very wide, and she stared up at the infamous curls in question. Then her face clouded.
"I have my father's hair, too," her grey eyes grew grave. "At least, that's what they told me."
Gilbert's smile and nod were gentle. They resumed their slow progress. If they continued on at this rate they might make the college by nightfall.
"Has it made it better or worse for you?" he asked carefully after a time. "Losing them, never having known them?"
She gave a helpless shrug of her shoulders. His question was an astute one, but almost impossible to answer. "I don't know."
Gilbert nodded again, lost in his own thoughts.
"Anne, I'd like to say – that is, I want you to know that – well, you can come to any of us, whenever you need to. You can come to me. At any time, for you need help or support or – "
He stopped up short at her most expressive groan.
"Please, Gilbert!"
"Anne?" he asked in surprise.
"You're doing it already! I knew it would happen! People just can't help themselves. They look upon me like some sort of charity case. I can't bear to have anyone's pity! And I certainly can't bear to have yours!"
Gilbert stopped her, with a firm hand at her elbow.
"Anne, let me assure you, unreservedly, that the very last thing I feel for you is pity. I am so in awe and admiration of you I can hardly get my scattered thoughts together!"
His hazel eyes on hers were blistering, and it made her jaw drop. For once, just this once, she was genuinely lost for words.
"I cannot conceive of the bravery you have had in coming here to Redmond," Gilbert bit out. "And of doing it all yourself without an ounce of help from anyone. And I was the fool who called you carrots." His short laugh was harsh. "I am so shamed by my own conduct, Anne, I can't stand to think of it!"
Anne's face flamed. Gilbert turned his own face away, withdrawing his arm to rake both hands through his hair.
"Gilbert … don't think on it anymore. Please. I don't."
He turned to her, agonised, and stood watching her, taking in her pale face upturned to his, her huge grey eyes, the blaze of hair that had begun it all.
"I would forget it fain," he claimed sorrowfully, "But oh, it presses to my memory…" ****
She shook her head at him, and put her arm firmly back through his.
"And here I was thinking I was the only one who slept with a copy of Shakespeare under my pillow."
Gilbert took a while to let himself breathe again. He didn't deserve her kind response.
"My father did once claim he believed Shakespeare to be the font of all wisdom," he finally offered.
Anne gave him a reassuring smile. "I believe he may well be right."
They resumed their snails-pace journey, nearing the college at last.
"Ah… he … that is, Anne …"
She turned to him questioningly.
"I don't know what it is to lose a parent. Both parents. I won't even begin to compare our circumstances in any way. But I understand the fear of it, a little. My father … well, we nearly lost him. Many years ago."
"Oh, my goodness, Gilbert! That is awful to hear!" Anne's wide eyes went to Gilbert's, and could still trace the pain there. "How?"
His mouth still hated forming the word. "Consumption."
A very dark look crossed her pale face. "Consumption is a hideous thing," she claimed, her voice very low.
"It is indeed." His eyes were worried on hers. "You talk as if you have some experience of it?"
"No," she shook her head resolutely. "Just… someone I once knew did."
"Oh."
Anne seemed to take a moment before remembering him. "How is he now? Your father?"
"Fighting fit, I am delighted to say. We had to go all the way to Alberta though, for treatment. The Prairie Cure, you know. We were there three years. My mother had to stay behind to help manage the farm."
"Oh, Gilbert. What a wrench for all of you! How old were you?"
"Ten, nearly eleven."
She gave him such a lovely look at that. "You were just a wee thing!"
He looked down at her as she looked up at him. Yes, he had been young, but so had she – heartbreakingly so. He vaguely remembered himself at eleven, before his growth spurt; before his confidence – and some might have said before his cheek – grew by degrees as his body grew by inches. He had returned to Avonlea, long past thirteen, as some half wild thing, at least according to his mother; gambolling about like a young colt let out into a new, tantalising pasture, not quite able to regulate his emotions or his hormones. He wondered about Miss Anne Shirley at eleven – who would she have been? The thought made him want to smile so widely and inappropriately he had to work to muzzle it. There was no doubt she would have been some unique and wonderful force of nature – sometimes a zephyr, more often a whirlwind – leaving no one untouched in her wake, changing things and people irrevocably. He wondered errantly how he may have fared in coming up against her. And decided, with another buried smile, not very well.
They reached the gates of the college, at long last; the very ones they had rushed through in the rain all that time ago.
"Gilbert…" Anne hesitated. "We can go via the outside streets by the campus. We don't need to walk through."
Gilbert swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. He put a hand over hers, keeping her by him.
"I would rather like to go this way, Miss Shirley, if you don't mind." His smile was knowing and determined.
He walked Anne to her dormitory, that late Sunday afternoon, through the very centre of the unusually quiet college grounds; past the library, past the Arts buildings, past the smaller quad with its now-lonely oaks, past the larger quad, past the science and mathematics buildings, right up to the cluster of student boarding houses, at the other edge of campus, and right to her door.
He hoped the entire population of Redmond had seen them.
"Well, then…" he cleared his throat, feeling unusually awkward.
"Well, then…" she smiled.
"I guess I will see you anon, Miss Shirley. In class and, well, the dance, obviously."
"Indeed, Mr Blythe."
He frowned to himself, now, knowing he should have asked her long before this, hoping desperately, with a newly felt and entirely bewildering panic, that he wasn't too late.
"I wonder, Anne…" he annoyed himself by barely being able to get the words out, and he could hardly account for the reddening he felt on his cheeks, "since you were so kind to Charlie, if you would do me the honour of saving a waltz, too."
She blushed in her effortlessly pretty way, her eyes turning beguilingly green as her mouth gave a little quirk.
"I'd be delighted to, Gilbert," she answered, with that lovely teasing lilt to her voice. "That is, of course, if I happen to have a waltz free."
Fred assisted Diana in returning the sitting room into some semblance of order, once assorted guests had departed, with Jane begging some time to review her lessons for the week and Ruby drifting upstairs herself to review the not one but two offers to call made by Fred's respective friends.
He didn't mind at all the hush after the hubbub of the afternoon; he certainly didn't mind a few stolen moments with the rosy cheeked young lady arranging cushions and readjusting vases of flowers with such a look of remembered delight on her face.
Fred had thought he'd surely be the first arrival; he was astonished to not only find this new Anne Shirley there already but Gilbert as well; not even his blush roses were the first offering, and he had admired the arrangements – and secretly Diana herself – with outward enthusiasm and inner dismay. The old, creeping fear always seemed to re emerge when attending these occasions; that Diana and Gilbert's particular friendship would transform itself, as it had threatened to for so long, into something more than loaded looks and secret smiles; or that someone new would come along, discovering for themselves what had always been so startlingly clear to him. That they would look upon Diana Barry, and they would marvel, and that would be the end of everything.
So really, he thanked the heavens for the obvious, manifold and persuasive charms of Ruby Gillis, and not for the first time. And he wasn't entirely certain… but he thought he might also have to send silent thanks as well to their newest acquaintance; the intriguing girl with the red hair.
"I do hope Anne will feel better soon…" Diana mused now, as if reading his thoughts. "Wasn't she lovely, Fred?"
There was really no appropriate answer to this; he did indeed hope Miss Shirley felt better, and he had indeed noted her general loveliness, as an objective observer, and in agreeing to both he didn't know which statement to respond to.
"Isn't it just awful for her, Fred?" Diana continued, sitting herself down on one of the remaining chairs, and turned her dark eyes rather imploringly to his.
Fred cleared his throat. "It is, rather, Diana. A terrible misfortune. She… she seems to bear it, ah, extremely well." He sat down on the chair beside her, carefully.
"She does, doesn't she?" Diana nodded sadly. "You're so right, Fred. She bears it extremely well."
Fred didn't like seeing the pain in her eyes, full of her trademark sympathy. He tried to refocus the conversation on more positive themes.
"You and Miss Shirley appeared to like each other very much."
This elicited a broad smile. "Yes! Very much! I wonder that I haven't known her for ages already – isn't that strange?" she laughed.
"I'm very pleased for you. And for her," he mused himself, perhaps more astutely than he meant to, and Diana's eyes came back to his.
There was a pause.
"Yes, well, I wasn't the only one to have taken a shine to Miss Shirley," Diana's look and tone was now coy.
Fred's eye roll was amusingly theatrical. "Yes. Good 'ol Charlie."
"Mmm…" Diana responded leadingly, giving one of her bemused smiles. "Charlie."
Both he and Diana had noted things that they obviously didn't quite feel they could admit to. Fred had been quite diverted by the little drama of the three players going on opposite him, when he wasn't seeing to Diana. Charlie had been rather typical in his behaviour; Gilbert much less so. It had been very enlightening. Fred didn't know in all their long years of friendship if he could recall a time equal to seeing the appalled, astonished anger on Gilbert's face when Charlie had made his thoughtless approach to the young lady seated between them.
"I'd pay over and above the ticket price just to by a fly on the wall at that dance next week," Fred now smiled to himself, a little regretful that it had grown so popular they'd had to limit attendance to Redmond students only.
"Fred Wright!" Diana giggled loudly, that free, unencumbered – and what her mother would call definitely unladylike – laugh that he so loved escaping from her.
He chuckled quietly at her pretended indignation. She settled again, regarding him curiously. That was the trouble with being a man of few words, he knew. `People presumed you had few thoughts as well.
Fred now swallowed painfully, the thoughts that had assailed him for many weeks, since he had first seen the printed flyer on the noticeboard at college, threatening to overtake him. He had waited so long to make the leap. It made him almost paralysed with fear. Not of rejection, so much … but of things changed, and a path that couldn't be retaken.
"Er, Diana…" he now reverted back to his mumbling best, staring at his shoes, feeling the damned reddening flood his face and sweep down his neck. "Speaking of dances… ah, well, that is, the business college has a Christmas dance on. It won't be anything to match Redmond, I'm sure. But it would be very – " another huge swallow – "nice if you would like to accompany me …"
He thought he might pass out from the blood pumping around his chest and rushing to his face. That would be a way to make an impression. Instead, over the drumming in his ears, all he could hear was the silence, the dreadful silence, and he who found refuge in the quiet found he couldn't bear it, and would fill it with whatever hopeless, desperate words he could.
"Ruby of course will undoubtedly be going, with whichever fellow she has decided on for that week, and so…"
"Yes, Fred …"
"… and so you needn't come with me, as such – we could make up a foursome and - "
"Yes, thank you, Fred."
He had run out of words and certainly out of courage. He was too light headed to take in her response. He turned to her, overcome by his own agony, and stared at her blankly.
Diana's cheeks were rather pink themselves, but her eyes were bright, and her smile was soft and lovely.
"Yes, Fred. I would like very much to go to the dance with you."
Fred tested his smile, which felt fresh and new on his face, as if he had to wear it in first. He gripped the armrests of the chair for support, lest he slide down into an ungainly, exalted, worshipful heap on the floor, at her feet.
Chapter Notes
"… Anne wandered down to Victoria Island and sat there alone, curtained with fine-spun, moonlit gloom, while the water laughed around her in a duet of brook and wind." Anne of the Island (Ch. 1)
*Alexandre Dumas The Three Musketeers (1844) (referenced throughout)
** Louisa May Alcott Little Women (1868) (Ch. 36)
*** Little Women (Ch. 32)
**** William Shakespeare Romeo and Juliet (Act 3 Sc 2)