Chapter Seven Revelry and Confession Part 1
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"Gilbert!" Anne was gasping at the cold night air with sharp, panicked breaths. "Ten dollars!"
"It's all right, Anne," he was breathing in rather a lot of air himself, and trying to process what had just actually transpired.
Anne was clutching at her throat with one gloved hand, mildly hyperventilating. "I can't believe it!" she whimpered.
"Anne, you must calm yourself. You'll make yourself lightheaded," he instructed gently, his own hand hovering in the vicinity of the small of her back, not quite brave enough to rest itself there.
"Ten dollars, Gilbert! You'll ruin yourself! You didn't have to do that!"
"Of course I had to do that, Anne," she heard Gilbert explain, his tone maddeningly logical. "Peters couldn't get away with something like that. Although…" he chuckled to himself, "it may have been cheaper to just punch him in the nose. And infinitely more satisfying."
She gave a shaky laugh. "Don't even think it!"
He watched her pace around, trying to slow her agitated breaths. Her hand dropped from her throat to her waist, and he thought errantly of stitches in the side and rain soaked conversations.
"I was handling him, Gilbert!" she gave a frustrated sigh.
"I know that. And admirably, from the little I gathered. But why should you have had to handle him?" he scowled, indignant, his own calm evaporating.
"I've come up against worse bullies than George Peters in my time," her tone was dark and biting.
Gilbert's look to her was quietly horrified. "You know that is not in the least reassuring to me, Anne."
She met his eyes and softened. She was an ethereal presence in their little island pool of light, illuminated by the two streetlamps either side of the hall's main doors, down the steps from the entranceway, with the long shadows surrounding them like a stretch of dark, treacherous water they dare not cross. He went to run a hand through his hair in frustration, but it had been pomaded into submission, so he had to settle for rubbing the back of his neck roughly.
"Gilbert, what are we to do?" she pleaded.
His pulse skittered at her use of we. He straightened, resolute.
"We are not doing anything, Miss Shirley. I am writing an IOU for the club's committee and following up with a bank draft on Monday."
"Gilbert…" Anne breathed, shaking her head furiously. "I can't let you do that!"
"And why not?" he challenged, his voice rough, and he took a step towards her. "Isn't your honour worth ten dollars, Anne?"
He caught a glimpse of her stricken face before she hugged her arms about her and stepped back, away from him, retreating to the security of the shadows. Gilbert breathed raggedly. It tormented him that she might, underneath it all, actually think so little of herself. She was silently pacing; he could hear the faint tap of her court shoes, the rustle of her dress. He longed to search her out in the darkness, to find and comfort her. He fought instead to find the words to reassure her.
"I can handle ten dollars fine, Anne. I'm not exactly destitute. I had the local school in Avonlea for two years. I stayed with my parents and didn't have to board anywhere. I saved more than I thought I would for college. Enough to factor in any … unexpected situations."
He heard her clear her throat. Her disembodied voice floated towards him.
"Am I an unexpected situation?" she asked quietly.
His heart gave a queer lurch. Even the ground beneath him seemed unstable, which was strangely fitting, considering earlier tonight his world had spun off its' very axis.
So much more than you know, Miss Shirley, he smiled to himself.
"You are a delightful situation, Anne," he instead managed to say aloud, with a modicum of his regular self confidence.
He heard her small chuckle, and was heartened. She stepped slowly out of the shadows, her face still clearly flaming, her grey eyes deep pools in which he feared he could drown if he dared let himself.
"Thank you, Gilbert," her voice was low and unsteady. "It was so very good of you, just now. I don't know how I … that is to say … I think you are crazy. But a wonderful, chivalrous, gentlemanly sort of crazy."
His own low laugh was warm. "So maybe just a touch of Lancelot, then?" he stepped towards her again, where the light haloed them.
Her smile was flustered. "Maybe just a touch."
He nodded, hands in pockets, smiling himself, well pleased with her concession.
The band had finally started up their next set. Goodness only knew what mild pandemonium they had instigated to have caused such a delay. Gilbert cocked his head to the music floating towards them, and then turned back to her, grinning.
"Anne," he announced. "It's our waltz."
Her gulp was audible. "Gilbert, I don't think I can go back in there just yet," her whole being proclaimed her panic.
He took a breath, his eyes steady on hers. He held out his hand to her.
"I wasn't proposing we do."
It took a moment for her to register his meaning. She opened and closed her mouth, amusingly mute.
"Are you really going to deny a poor man his prearranged dance, Anne Shirley?" he teased, eyebrow arching.
She grinned despite herself, her grey eyes huge on his. She reached out and took his hand.
They made their bow and curtsy. His left hand supported her, their arms extended. His right came to rest at her shoulder blade as her left hand settled on his shoulder. His hand could span halfway around her if he wished; he marvelled at how tiny she actually was, though she gave the impression of more bulk through the sheer force of her personality. And though she be but little, she is fierce * he thought to himself, and let a small smile escape.
They moved slowly, silently swaying, in time to the beat played, till he actually forgot about the music completely. The gentle rise and fall of their synchronised movements was its own hypnotic spell. He danced her in and out of the shadows, enjoying the play of light and shade across her face, and the way her pupils would dilate and constrict was a mesmerising magic. Her scent – Lily of the Valley – was on her skin and in her hair and it made his throat tighten. He wondered if he could just disappear into the shadows with her forever.
Gilbert considered that he knew many things with regard to women. He knew about Shakespeare and poetry; he knew about flowers and flirtation; he knew of teasing asides and long, lingering looks. Even his fourteen year old self had known the power of a pink candy heart offered at school.
He didn't know anything about this. He didn't know about this dual agony of advance and withdrawal, of wonder and of worry, of soaring exaltation and clutching fear. He didn't know what to do when feeling her tremble in his arms just now when his breath brushed the hair at her temple. He didn't understand how he could possibly look upon her anymore and still appear to be the same person he had been before knowing her.
"I meant to say, Anne," he fought to keep his voice level, "that is, I haven't had the opportunity until now … to tell you that tonight you look utterly lovely."
He wanted to quote Romeo and Juliet to her, the lines he had actually wanted to say that time under the oaks, the lines even schoolchildren knew. He wanted to quote Keats' entire inventory. But the words swum about in his head, elusive, just slipping away from him, beyond his grasp. But maybe… maybe, this time, he didn't need them. Maybe for once his own would be good enough.
They had stopped, and so had the music, and so had their moment out of time.
Anne's eyes had widened on his, depthless, before lowering, downcast and demure.
"Thank you, Gilbert," she whispered.
He led her, most reluctantly, back inside, with a heavy heart and a much lighter pocketbook, but he was perfectly content with the trade.
The remainder of the evening passed without incident, although there could have hardly been a scene to match what had happened earlier. Anne felt everyone's eyes on them, however, as Gilbert escorted her back to the refreshments table, Pris there watching them both with huge eyes. As Gilbert politely took his leave of her, he reminded her loud enough for everyone in hearing that this was her dance to sit out and rest, and he would have words with anyone attempting to claim otherwise. His smile was as bright and his tone as arch and jovial as always; only the look in his eyes and the squeeze he gave as he took her hand and bowed gave any indication that anything even slightly momentous and earth shattering had just happened between them.
Pris, with a look of sympathy, led Anne to a chair and pressed a glass of fruit punch into her hand with a droll smile. Anne relished its sickly sweetness as much as having something to do as she watched Gilbert sweep past with Maisie, the beautiful girl with a face frozen into an unconvincing smile that almost made a mockery of her perfect features; Gilbert, with his own face averted from her and his mouth tight, his body locked and tense. Gilbert noted Anne in turn, for he was looking for her, and even as he held Maisie with barely disguised displeasure all he could still think about was that only moments before he had shared the same dance with an enchanted, sylph-like creature in the soft, dreamy darkness outside.
George Peters, he noted with grim satisfaction, he couldn't see anywhere at all.
The rest for Anne was a blur. Phil came up to her the moment she was free, her charming Mr Summerfield in tow, to share some small talk but was really just trying to ascertain if she was recovered from all the drama; Anne knew full well they owed the averting of certain disaster to her cool head and quick wits, and tried to say as much in the enthusiastic grasp of her hands and her kiss on Phil's cheek. Anne smiled and danced with her remaining partners, including Charlie again, who seemed to carefully contemplate her as if still undecided as to whether he himself would have relinquished ten dollars. And she finally, with blessed relief, clinked glasses with Pris as they saw the last drop of fruit punch served.
Then, there was the final mystery dance.
This time Anne watched a very different man make his determined approach, with very different feelings. Gilbert seemed to be aware of the irony, and there was a decided quirk to his lips and a knowing gleam in his eyes.
"Hello there, Miss Shirley."
"Good evening, Mr Blythe."
They smiled at one another a little stupidly, and then both looked away, embarrassed.
They were the only ones at the refreshments table; virtually everyone else was crowded around the small stage, at the other end of the hall, watching a scarlet clad girl make a mildly self congratulatory speech. Maisie was thanking the countless supporters of the football club for their efforts, though she neglected to name any; she thanked everyone for their attendance and hoped they would continue to watch the games, though she did not mention any of the players, most particularly the freshman captain who had escorted her; and she gave the final, rousing total of the funds raised that evening, most pointedly neglecting to mention a certain ten dollars, which had bolstered the coffers exponentially.
Anne watched Maisie and tried to not let the angry flicker of flame rise within her.
"She was very wrong to do it, Gilbert," Anne announced hotly, unable to help herself.
Gilbert turned his eyes to her. "She was indeed very wrong, Anne."
Anne was annoyed at her blush. She had determined she would not let Maisie affect her.
Gilbert cleared his throat. "I'm afraid that I won't have room on my list of acquaintances for Miss Monroe after this evening," he mentioned carefully, looking away from her, contemplating Maisie from afar, with a frown.
"Gilbert… please … you don't need to do that on my account."
Gilbert's smile to Anne was soft and knowing. "I'm not. I'm doing it on mine."
They exchanged a long look.
The venerable, grey haired bandmaster had wrestled attention away from Maisie; he announced the evening's final dance with great fanfare.
Gilbert had started to laugh, shaking his head. "Oh Lord! I don't believe it!"
Anne was perplexed. "The galop, Gilbert? What is it? I've never heard of it!"
"And quite rightly, too," Gilbert grinned. "It's a variation on the polka. They were both ancient dances when my parents were doing them."
Anne looked back to the dancefloor, which was descending into merry mayhem, with much laughter and couples careening inexpertly around.
"Gilbert… I don't know the steps!"
Her gave her a delightfully boyish smile. "No one does, Anne!"
He took her hand in his, grasping it firmly, and led her into the fray.
Thankfully there was a separate group to arrange the clean up of the hall; Anne did not envy them their task, although she was rather past caring at this point.
Couples were taking their leave; Anne noted Phil and Mr Summerfield up ahead. Maisie had stationed herself near the doors as if she was farewelling guests at her own wedding reception; Gilbert stood quietly, and somewhat grimly, to the far side of her.
Gilbert, naturally, was to escort Maisie home, as was only proper and fitting; Anne knew he would never shirk such a responsibility, and admired him for it all the more, even as she still burned from having his hand decidedly at her waist as he twirled her round for the last dance, them both buoyant and breathless, laughing into one another.
She and Pris were either side of Charlie, who was seeing them both back to their shared dormitory; this arrangement seemed to have been quietly confirmed by Gilbert, who had surprised Charlie with a thankful, hearty handshake; Charlie was both gratified and mystified, and thought that Gilbert, from his bewildering and contradictory actions that evening, was clearly on the verge of some mental break.
Anne tugged at her gloves, biting her lip in agitation. She needn't say anything; she was quite certain Gilbert would say it for her on his long, uncomfortable walk home with Maisie. But something in her recoiled at the idea of others doing her talking for her. She had spent her short lifetime so far in determinedly passionate defence of her person; she thought of one other, long ago, who had risked so much to do the same. He had been on her mind all week, in her quiet moments; she would not betray the memory of him now.
They reached the doors.
"Miss Monroe – may I have a quick word?" Anne asked with a false gaiety, smiling brightly.
Pris and Charlie turned their heads towards her. Phil, halfway down the steps outside, heard Anne's clear, sweet, determined voice and made her date stop and double back; Gilbert's hazel eyes watched her with a wary wonder. Several others, about to depart, suddenly found themselves in difficulties regarding their coats, which had become unexpectedly troublesome, causing delay.
Maisie had her same false, fixed smile in place as she regarded Anne.
"Oh, Miss Shirley, as you can see, I am rather engaged at present."
"Indeed it has been a busy evening for you, Miss Monroe, but this won't take a minute."
Anne marched several yards away, giving Maisie little alternative but to follow her. Anne ensured they were not quite in hearing distance of any others; her words were only for Maisie. And for herself.
"Miss Monroe," Anne began, staring into the other girl's eyes resolutely. "I would never have presumed we would be friends; however, I can hardly suppose what would have caused your actions here tonight to have treated me as such an enemy. You placed our own mutual friend – a good, decent, hardworking man – in an impossible situation, and that, more than your own slight to me, is what I find unforgivable. I already knew Mr Peters to be far from a gentleman. I was most disappointed for you to expose yourself as being no lady."
Anne nodded curtly, and stalked away.
Gilbert noted Maisie's quailing look and her eyes, wide with shock. He noted Anne's high color and the proud tilt to her chin. She flashed grey eyes to him full of spark and fire; he stared back at her, giving a small, incredulous smile, his eyes following her as she took Charlie's arm and he escorted her out.
Gilbert could hardly account for the mad pounding of his heart in an evening that had caused it to work overtime as it was. All he knew was that he had thought Anne had been perfect on many occasions this extraordinary evening; he realised, wonderingly, that he had just seen her most perfect incarnation of them all.
Chapter Notes
"They both looked as fresh and bright-eyed… as only youth can look after unlawful hours of revelry and confession." Anne of the Island (Ch. 7)
*William Shakespeare A Midsummer Night's Dream (Act 3 Sc 2)