Chapter Six A Most Cordial Pair

Anne stared with wide, wondering eyes at the dainty white dance card, stopped short by how such a little, inconsequential thing could be a token of such beauty and import. She had learned to harden her heart to her lack of worldly possessions; the absence of the little treasures and trinkets that spoke of family and tradition, of relationships and memory. The starkness of her circumstances had never matched her inner wants and desires, however; were that she a magpie she would have swooped down and snatched and hoarded every shiny new thing she saw glinting on the ground.

She copied over the gold lettering of the cover, and then traced a reverent finger along the scalloped edge of the thick card leading to the thin gold thread binding the booklet together, attached to a silken scarlet ribbon with a loop at the far end to slide over a lady's wrist. Her wrist. She would have it rest there securely until it was taken up and perused, the names inside consulted as need be, her Fate that evening already largely determined by the signatures she would find inside.

"Honestly!" Pris now huffed at her shoulder. "I think Maisie and her crew went a little overboard on the club colors. Red and white everywhere. I feel like we're trapped in a candy cane factory."

Anne snapped out of her reverie, turning to grin at the bubbly girl beside her, who always managed to see the silly, fun side of everything and invariably encouraged her to do the same.

"Ooh!" Pris continued. "Have you had a look, Anne? Come, then – let's do it together!"

Pris held out her own identical dance card, and counted dramatically to three.

Inside, twelve dances were outlined in the same gold lettering, plus a mystery dance at the very end. Music and composers were listed beneath each. And beside each dance, a straight line, to be filled or no with the name of a particular gentleman thus engaged for it. For five of the dances, she and Pris saw someone had blanked them out, with a beautiful copperplate hand, with the words Refreshments Table instead. That still left seven – no, eight – dances free. Anne saw, with a sense of genuine if gratifying astonishment, that there was a name written for her beside every blank space.

"Well, Anne – the Lord giveth, and he taketh away," Pris grinned. "You've managed Charlie Sloane for two there. But Gilbert's down for two as well. Oh, he's a devil – he's only got me down for one dance, and near the start too. He's a very good dancer, Anne. It will be all downhill for me after that."

Anne heard Pris's excitable chatter but it rather washed over her. Her eyes were still trying to take in the names swimming on the page. A list of alternate waltzes and two steps, and that puzzling dance at the end to round off the night. The inimitable Charlie Sloane had definitely taken Anne at her word, commandeering two waltzes; Ed Sanderson from English class, rather bravely, had promised to partner her for a two step; likewise a gentleman by the fantastically fanciful surname of Summerfield, whom she recalled had been Phil's final decided escort, after much exhaustive and amusing indecision; another waltz and another two step belonged to a debating club comrade and a fellow Art History student respectively; and there, beside a waltz halfway through the evening, and beside the very last dance of the night – whatever that was to be – was the dark, distinctive, upright handwriting proclaiming the name of G. J. Blythe.

Gilbert smiled gamely at the scarlet-swathed vision beside him; her undoubted beauty, always rather arresting, now made almost frightening in its' perfection, like the very essence of something distilled to its' purist possible form. He thought in that moment, poised in the entranceway of the hall, that Maisie might be some experimental concoction; a unique mix of atoms and chemical compounds to form a creation fabricated in the laboratory of some mad scientist, whose sole intent rested in tormenting the entire male population. Even now her exacting description of her gown could never do justice to the woman who wore it; the ivory sweep of her shoulders offsetting a disconcerting glimpse of décolletage and the ruby necklace nestled there; her blonde hair piled high and polished, like spun gold, to otherworldly perfection; her eyes a vivid, all-seeing cobalt blue; her lips, with the slight stain of color, now curled into a delighted smile that she passed back to him.

"You look quite beautiful, Maisie," he breathed, feeling slightly light headed, as if all the blood had been drained from his body to furnish the exact hue of her dress. It would be the simple unvarnished truth evident to every observer here this evening; he felt no inner betrayal in stating something so obvious.

"Thank you, Gil," her smile widened. Maisie knew the simple truth of it as well. Her gaze took in the man beside her; the catch of Redmond in his black suit and matching waistcoat – the evening not a formal ball so not requiring a tailcoat – with the slash of red of his tie on which she had successfully swayed him; it was the exact match for her dress, and would quite symbolically also tie him to her for the evening, underlying the rightness of them being here, together.

"Don't you look the most handsome man going yourself?" Maisie laughed lightly, acknowledging the obvious here, too. "I do believe we will make quite the pair tonight."

Gilbert's smile froze on his face. Well, he had sought her, all those ill-judged months ago, and he had won her. He could blame no one but himself.

So this is what it feels like to go to your own execution… he wondered grimly, before leading them inside.

Charlie Sloane tugged at his tie before walking with a more confident gait than usual right up to the refreshments table, where the two girls stationed therein were in final preparations. Pris Grant was busily lining up delicate glasses and in some debate over where best to position the ladles; Anne was rather abstractly stirring one of two vast serving bowls of fruit punch, and he heard her murmur rather dreamily as he approached –

"I love bright red drinks, don't you? They taste twice as good as any other colour." *

Priscilla laughed in response, shaking her head ruefully, and her smile was still on her face as he reached them. Normally the refreshments table was his reluctant home at a dance - how mysteriously quick some of these dance cards filled up - but usually there was some female to chat to for a while with no discernible means of escaping him. Tonight, he noted delightedly, there would be two.

Charlie gave his most courteous greeting to both ladies now, even if his natural awkwardness made his tone and air rather stilted and diffident, and as he gave his little bow he could already see Pris hiding yet another smile. He thought the blonde girl as handsome as ever tonight, in dusky pink and lace, but she did seem to always be hiding some secret joke around him; it had been made far worse by her association with Philippa Gordon, and the two of them together were often insufferable. Still, Pris was an Island girl, and that for Charlie forgave many a sin. He would still be pleased enough to claim his lone dance with her later.

He now turned his attention to Anne Shirley, and liked very much what he saw. He preferred Anne's quieter prettiness to any of the showy good looks of Philippa or Maisie; he felt his own inadequacies less keenly. The color of Anne's dress suited her well, as did the rosiness to her cheeks at his rather open appraisal. He'd had a few quiet moments of misgiving regarding the reveal of her orphan status – what would his mother say? – but reasoned generously that it had hardly been in the infant Anne's power to have prevented it.

If Anne moved just a little to the left of Charlie she had a perfect, unobstructed view of the latest arrivals, including, just now, the tall, dark figure in the distance, and the lady in red close beside him. It seemed to Anne that she spent half her life contemplating Gilbert Blythe from afar – across the quad that first week at Redmond; across the football field when she had snuck in, unobserved, to see the newly minted Freshman Captain in action; and now, across the hall, festooned with the blood red of her pumping heart and the lily white of her nervous trepidation.

Unbeknownst to Charlie, she herself was no stranger to the refreshments table; her early months at teacher's college had found her, fifteen and friendless, barricaded and bewildered, positioning herself there whilst watching every step and spin, every twirl and turn of the dancers. In the absence of any other instruction, watching them was how she had learned how to waltz.

As a certain dark head was about to turn in her direction, Charlie Sloane, as if guided by some unseen sense, moved to block him, as if the two men were still locked in their silent joust of last Sunday.

Charlie cleared his throat with loud aplomb.

"Miss Shirley, I do believe the band is at the ready," he announced, his manner giving the words undue gravity. He rarely had the excitement of leading a girl out for the first waltz; he wanted to be prepared and in place.

"Oh, yes, indeed – thank you, Mr Sloane," Anne replied more calmly than she felt, darting a quick glance at Pris, whose mouth was pursed to stop her grin, but whose mirthful eyes betrayed her. It was Pris's unlucky fate to be sitting the first dance out with the fruit punch, but by her bemused demeanour perhaps the spectacle of Charlie leading out Anne was an entertaining enough compensation.

Anne extended a gloved hand and Charlie's hot, clammy hand found it, and he shepherded her into the very centre of the excited, massing dancers; she wished he might be more circumspect and opt for the fringe, where there was safety in obscurity. Evidently Charlie had little use for obscurity; he grinned, proud as a peacock, and leaned into her.

"You look very well tonight, Anne."

This was of the highest praise, for him, but Anne was unused to such admiration in whatever form, and blushed as if he had acted as if Romeo greeting Juliet. She smiled and looked away, at the streamers above, at the couples around them, and then, straight into a pair of long lashed hazel eyes as they stared back at her.

Gilbert saw her, as he bowed to Maisie before the music began, and his breath lodged in his throat. He had seen her countless times before, in various guises, but tonight he was seeing her for the first time, and he felt, for all the times thereafter, because he would carry the image of her - this image of her - with him. Maisie had led him around as the band tuned up like some prized pet she had entered in a show, exhibited before all the masses, admired as much for what he represented as for who he was. And he couldn't be outwardly affronted, despite his fierce inner fuming, for hadn't he initially, in inviting her with him here tonight, done exactly the same?

So the chill that had entered the creeping winter of his heart melted at the sight of Anne Shirley, who was the vision and promise of spring, some nymph-like Dryad of the trees ** in a gauzy dress that floated around her like a cloud, her hair a sunset blaze with the early stars seen in the tiny seed pearl pins that adorned it. Under the gentle lighting of the hall her skin was iridescent, and the luminous glow extended up to her grey eyes, large and dark as they met his. She wore the soft green of a freshly cut lawn; the green of new apples in their orchard before they ripened to red; the green of the gentle hills of home.

Home. He looked at Anne and he saw home. The idea of this so shocked him that he turned away abruptly and, as the music began, he nearly tripped over his own feet in such a fashion that would have made even Fred embarrassed for him. He kept his eyes trained on Maisie for the rest of the dance, his gaze so suddenly intense that he could see her unaccustomed blush forming. He was desperate to find in Maisie even a hint of what he had just seen in Anne. He fought to find it, and failed.

"How are my two lovelies doing this evening?" Phil found them after the first several dances, when the band took a short recess and both Anne and Pris were knee deep in thirsty revellers.

"I… hate … fruit … punch …" Pris offered, hiding her gritted teeth with a beaming smile.

Phil gave a merry laugh, noting that the two long lines snaking their way around the table, peopled almost entirely by males, had little to do with the punch and rather more to do with the two ladies serving it. She herself failed to notice many of those same men cast furtive, longing looks in her own direction, noting the stunning girl with her glossy dark tresses and her form fitting lemon gown. Anne noted her too, and thought how impossibly beautiful she looked, and that the color she wore, a bold choice on most others, suited her coloring and her personality rather perfectly. Phil Grant was, indeed, radiant as the sun.

"My Mr Summerfield is sure to look after you well, Anne," Phil called out to her. "Mind you don't try to steal him away from me!"

"I hardly think you will be in any danger of that, Phil!" Anne replied with an exasperated smile.

"What's all this stealing away business, ladies?" came a familiar voice. "If I have to defend the honour of all three of you at once I'm going to need some punch first to be going on with."

Gilbert had three young ladies turn to him, the blonde, brunette and titian haired trio a rather arresting sight. No wonder the refreshments table was so busy.

"You may not have to defend my honour, Mr Blythe" Phil joked, "But my next dance partner is arriving, and so I may need to defend my toes."

"I certainly hope they survived your dance with me, Miss Gordon," Gilbert worried momentarily, having been partnered with Phil immediately after that first dance with Maisie, when he was still so distracted he hardly knew what he was doing.

"Oh, I think most of our toes are safe with you, Gilbert. It's our fair hearts that are another thing," she teased, and enjoyed seeing his faint color rise, and the quick, momentary flicker of those hazel eyes in Anne's direction.

"Now, now, Phil, you need to practice what you preach. You have a full dance card and a trail of broken hearts already," he smiled at her, finding refuge in his banter. If he was flirting with others generally he couldn't embarrass himself further over one young lady specifically.

Phil beamed, and then her partner arrived and she was whisked away.

"So now, my Miss Grant," he turned his attention to Pris. "I am here to rescue you and make good on my promise."

"Oh, thank goodness, Gilbert!" Pris was too flustered for formalites, and her color was high. "Rescue away!"

She gleefully abandoned her station, apologising to Anne who was still engulfed by those not partnered for the next dance.

Gilbert would have said something to Anne, over the hubbub, but it was impossible. He shared a quick look with her, before leading Pris away. He had two dances to go on his own full dance card, before the most important one of all.

Anne could see him, tall and broad, make his way deliberately towards her, once the band was in the middle of its next set and she had exchanged places with Pris, having been delivered herself from the more pleasant than anticipated attentions of Ed Sanderson, who evidently was much more amiable outside class than inside it. Anne had felt real joy and relief that the evening was going so well; she was having a rather wonderful time, despite her initial uncertainties; she hadn't disgraced herself or maimed anyone, and she had been in receipt of some rather flattering words from her partners, and a few more besides over the punch bowls.

So she found her hopeful heart sinking as he approached, the very sight of him stirring up all the ill feeling of long ago, and she deliberately busied herself in assisting the few dancers mingling around the table.

"Well, it's Miss Shirley in the flesh, if memory serves me," he greeted.

Anne's chin came up. "Yes indeed, Mr Peters," her tone was cool. "How do you do?"

George Peters gave a very broad smile. "Rather better now, thank you, Miss Shirley."

Anne gave a wan smile in return, unconvinced by his supposed charm, and fiddled with some punch glasses.

"Would you have the next dance free, Miss Shirley?" he asked baldly.

Anne couldn't hide her astonishment, and was grateful she could give such a firm answer.

"I regret that I do not, Mr Peters."

"The next one then?" he was not in the least deterred.

Anne stiffened. "I am engaged for that one as well."

If he was displeased he hid it well, though his eyes narrowed.

"Well, here you are, the very belle of the ball, Miss Shirley."

"Hardly, Mr Peters. As you see, I am standing duty here at the refreshments table for a fair amount of time tonight."

"Yes, indeed…" he mused, taking his own time in contemplating her. Anne's color and her hackles both rose in tandem.

"Well," he continued, "we can definitely do something about that. I'm on the football team, as I'm sure you know. No one would look twice at you taking in an extra dance with me."

Anne flushed despite herself. "I couldn't possibly abandon my post, Mr Peters."

"I may have to insist for you, Miss Shirley. In the interests of team spirit, if nothing else." His smile had turned cold.

"I'm sure you must respect a lady's right to refuse, Peters," came a new voice from behind them both.

Anne looked up to Gilbert, to see him unsmiling and wary.

"Oh, good God, Blythe! Of course the prodigal makes an appearance." George Peters turned to view the new arrival disdainfully.

"I happen to be engaged with Miss Shirley for the next dance, Peters," Gilbert tried not to scowl. "My understanding is that you are not."

George Peters' laugh was loud and incredulous. "Is that so? Would you be so obliging to our captain here, Miss Shirley, if you knew what he had called you once?"

Anne's stood taller. "I know very well what he called me, Mr Peters," her voice was tight.

"Now, what was that description, Blythe?" George Peters now grinned, stroking his chin in mock contemplation. "It was so very vivid… Was her hair like a squash, perhaps? Or maybe…"

"Carrots," Anne interrupted, giving him a scathing look.

George Peters raised his eyebrows.

"Insulting Miss Shirley in that way was the stupidest, most childish and most wretched thing I've done in a long time, Peters," Gilbert's tone was dark, and he had a face like thunder. "Made even worse because it was some sad, misguided attempt, at the time, to curry favour with you. When really, the only good opinion I would ever want is Miss Shirley's, here, and I hope to learn my lesson and continue to earn it. What has college taught you thus far, Peters, other than how to persuade young ladies into giving you your way?"

There was a little interested, agog crowd beginning to stir about them, and they rather held their collective breath at the end of Gilbert's impassioned speech, and the hint of a threat behind it.

George Peters smile was slow and calculated, and Anne, heating evermore over Gilbert's words, now felt her blood run cold. This was not worth the ugly scene that could emanate from it.

"It's a shame you feel no such compulsion to seek the good opinion of your own date here this evening, Blythe. Or to have her update you on her latest fundraising scheme. Our lovely Miss Monroe has released Miss Shirley here from her duties the dance after yours, for a generous additional donation from yours truly, in order to partner me. All in the name of team spirit, you understand."

Anne's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Maisie had just sold her to the highest bidder. Meanwhile Gilbert looked full well like he was about to punch George Peters in the face.

"And isn't it a sparkling idea of Maisie's?" Phil emerged hurriedly from the crowd, giving her little, delighted, deliberate laugh. "Anything for a good cause, George, as you say. But surely you would give a man the right of reply, especially our team captain here. What do you think, Gilbert? Can you match it? How much are we talking, after all?"

"Five dollars." George Peters leered.

Anne stood behind the refreshments table, stricken. That was double the entrance price for tonight's entire dance.

Phil turned and gave Gilbert a smile, her brown eyes flashing a warning to him, and she put a light hand on his arm. "Gilbert?" her voice was measured and quiet, attempting to calm him.

Gilbert blinked rapidly, his eyes refocussing on the smart, instinctive girl in front of him. Think smart yourself, Blythe, he chastised himself.

He took a huge breath, and then gave a little nod to Phil, and fixed his own little smile in place.

"What a generous offer, Peters," Gilbert forced the smile out, and relaxed his stance and his tone. "I'd be happy to match it. Infact, I'll double it – on one condition. That Miss Shirley is not forced to dance with anyone. The ten dollars is for her right to refuse, as it should be for any lady, whatever the circumstances."

There was a general surprised, approving murmur. George Peters' face colored so dramatically he resembled not so much a bunch of carrots as a turnip. Phil grinned at Gilbert triumphantly. Pris and Charlie, coming back from their own dance together, looked on in stunned incredulity at what had transpired in their absence. Gilbert turned to Anne. Her face was white and she clutched the table for support.

"And now, Miss Shirley, perhaps in a moment we can have our own prearranged dance?" he held out his arm to her before all the crowd. "But first I think you and I will get a little air outside – it is far too full of hot air in here."

Chapter Notes

"Indeed, they were a most cordial pair." Anne of the Island (Ch. 29)

*Anne of Green Gables (Ch. 16)

**"That thou, light-winged Dyrad of the trees…" from Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats (1795-1821)