Chapter Eight

Revelry and Confession Part Two

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It had taken Gilbert the entire Sunday and two and a half days of the next week before he could no longer stand it and had sought desperate refuge, fleeing to the almost monastic quiet of Fred's own small boarding house near the business college.

He had thought he had attracted a certain amount of notoriety before, but it had been nothing to the feeding frenzy felt in the wake of the fundraising dance. His nights had been filled with delightful dreams revisiting every delicious aspect of the evening, with particular reference to a dance in the darkness, which did not always follow the factual course of events, but more often than not featured a few dramatic deviations. His days, on the other hand, had taken on a certain nightmarish quality.

No fewer than eleven fellows, from his various classes to the dorm rooms, had asked him between smothered laughter or hidden grins, whether or not they could bother him for a loan, given that he was so very able to afford such a princely sum to pay for a girl not to dance with him.

Pris and Phil, full of admiring looks but still patently worried that he had overreached himself, had insisted on sharing lunch with him on the Monday, foisting upon him an inordinate amount of food befitting their concern his newly impoverished circumstances may well reduce him to a mere two meals a day.

Worst of all, in English class only earlier that day during their unfortunately-timed study of The Merchant of Venice, Ed Sanderson had asked their professor with an admirably straight face, before not only the entire smirking class but his own blushing former dance partner, whether the modern equivalent of Shylock's loan of 3,000 ducats would be roughly ten dollars.

Enough was enough.

He made it through the class, but only barely. He couldn't even look in Anne's general direction. The young lady in question had a more admirable poker face than he did, despite her frequent high color. They both wasted little time in exiting, and though they had planned to sadly bypass the trees in favour of the relative warmth and comfort of the library (it was now early November after all) there was a general hesitation and the making of inadequate excuses on both parts, and as much as he longed to be with her in any capacity, he took his coward leave of her, and was found by Fred slumped in his sitting room an hour later.

Fred had arranged for tea and sandwiches to be brought up to his room, and after demolishing those they set about ostensibly studying their respective courses; Fred had his share of upcoming exams himself. Well, Fred appeared to be studying; Gilbert took an inordinate amount of interest in the bare branch of the tree outside as it clattered in the stiff breeze against Fred's window.

"Soooo…." Fred couldn't resist, "I'm taking Diana to the Christmas dance, as you know…" still giving him a quiet thrill to even think it, "but I worry that I won't have enough cash for it now…"

Gilbert made an aggrieved face, his hazel eyes rolling to the ceiling.

"God's teeth, not you too! Who told you?"

"Charlie, of course," Fred made unruffled reply.

Gilbert's look was disgusted but patently unsurprised.

"Honestly, Gil. Ten dollars? What were you thinking?" Fred was trying to suppress a laugh but was only reddening dramatically in the attempt.

Gilbert made lusty sigh. There was really no adequate answer to that question, on any front.

Fred had to allow several minutes for his mirth to dissipate.

"Well then?" Fred finally managed.

"Well then, what?"

"What do you want to do about it now?"

Gilbert shouldn't have been startled by the question. With all others he was able to neatly deflect with high minded talk of principles and a lady's honour and even once a joke about the team needing new football guernseys. Fred, however, cut to the heart of it, rather uncomfortably, as he so often did.

"I really don't know…" Gilbert's despair – and his confusion – were apparent enough for Fred to abandon any further attempts to tease.

Diana sat across from Anne that very same afternoon, having offered very similar refreshments, although only the tea remained in any way touched by the pale, downcast girl opposite.

It took Anne a full hour and a lengthy sideline into what a charming young man Fred Wright appeared to be, and how very pleased she was for Diana to have such a lovely pre Christmas event to look forward to, before a very edited version of the story Diana had heard from Pris and Phil the previous day (in much more fulsome detail) was even attempted.

Diana was torn by feelings of clear sympathy for Anne and some sort of perverse pride in Gilbert, as if he had been a recalcitrant student showing great promise who had suddenly aced an important exam, and thus rewarding all the faith others had shown in him over the years.

"So what do you think about it all now, Anne?" Diana's dark eyes were alight with curiosity. She dared not phrase the question a more obvious way… so what do you think of him?

"I think… he couldn't get away fast enough today!" Anne remembered with a cringe, the memory physically painful.

"Well… probably that's understandable, given the circumstances," Diana offered gently.

"Circumstances?" Anne's expression was troubled. "Do you think he regrets making the offer at all?"

"No, Anne! I just meant, well, given all the teasing."

"Oh, that," Anne dismissed with an impatient wave of her hand, momentarily forgetting Diana was not actually part of their English tutorial. "That was just Ed Sanderson trying to be humorous."

Diana's beautiful dark brow furrowed. "I don't know anything about Ed Sanderson," she mused, "I'm just talking about all the rest of it. According to Phil and Pris he's been teased mercilessly, left, right and centre so far this week."

Anne's eyes widened, horrified. "Teased?"

"Don't worry, Anne, it is sure to blow over," Diana tried to reassure. "So that's why I think he may have left you so hurriedly. Surely he didn't want to drag you into it as well."

Anne thought back over their class, and indeed the previous few days. Apart from a few curious glances no one had made so much as a whisper to her about the dance. Although, come to think of it, Phil and Pris had been unusually quiet and gentle with her in Art History, and Pris had walked with her quite a bit to any classes they happened to have near to one another.

"I hate the thought of him being teased about it," Anne replied slowly, her voice low. "That's awful. He only did it to defend me – he was only being kind."

Diana's eyes widened, not sure how to respond.

"Well, yes, Anne," her smile was knowing, "but don't you think it was rather romantic of him as well?"

Anne actually seemed startled by that, and surveyed Diana with a worrisome, haunted look in her eyes.

"But he…" she stammered, trying to make sense of this new information. "Gilbert is just… he's friends with me… he's friends with all manner of girls… it's just the sort of thing he does… it doesn't mean anything in that way."

Anne was desperately hoping Diana was wrong. She was perfectly able to cope with the one-sided affection she had nursed for quite a while, content in knowing she had a rather precious thing in her friendship with Mr Blythe and not willing to jeopardise that for anything.

"Believe me, Anne, I've known Gilbert for a long time, and he's never done anything quite like this before."

The words and their import took a little while to sink in. Diana's kind heart ached for the sweet, smart, lovely girl who could still think that a man, particularly a man such as Gilbert Blythe, would stand before half of Redmond and defend her honour so loudly and expensively and not have it mean anything in that way.

Diana was not unsurprised when a quick, bewildered flood of tears came from those big grey green eyes. She moved quickly to embrace her newfound friend, thinking that they would require two more rounds of tea for sure.

Diana's second afternoon tea event that Sunday was an unfortunately miserable affair. Everyone seemed out of sorts. The injustice of it was that Anne arrived early again and she had plenty of time to help instruct her on the finer points of creating eclairs and mille-feuille which turned out beautifully, though Diana rather thought all their efforts wasted on the subdued group that congregated again in her sitting room.

Ruby was very put out that neither of Fred's friends made an appearance; the two gentlemen had both learned that they had been invited to call, and as Ruby couldn't make up her mind about either of them they thought it best that neither of them continue to pursue her; it wouldn't do for two fellows who wanted to go into business together to have a falling out over a girl before they even started.

Jane was miserable because her mother had most definitely put a stop to any fool notions of her going all the way to Winnipeg for Christmas; if her gentleman friend was as rich as she said he was he could almost certainly come to them, and Jane feared, not unreasonably, that if Harry had to meet all her relatives first she might never get a proposal out of him.

Phil was despondent, having received a letter from home, that one of her many old beaux whom she had warned not to mope around and wait for her had taken her at her word; he was to be married next summer, and although she still had the consolation of the ever-faithful and oft-mentioned Alec and Alonzo, she was still momentarily fearful that she had perhaps let the love of her life slip through her fingers.

Pris was dejected, believing all her efforts at the dance had been wasted, alongside her pretty new dress, for if she hadn't received one nibble of interest from eight different dance partners and still had no suitors on the horizon come another dire family Christmas she just might have to do something drastic, like become a missionary.

Anne and Gilbert were clearly incapable of acting normally around each other whatsoever after all the drama that had emerged from the dance; they had difficulty making eye contact, spoke with a new formality and politeness that was almost comical, and had a propensity for spilling things near or even on one another's person (Gilbert being somewhat fortunate that when Anne's hand slipped that time she was offering round the sugar, and not the actual tea itself).

Charlie being Charlie was grumpy as almost a natural state of affairs; the fact that no one thought to ascertain if this was due to his general current outlook on life, or a brand new grievance, possibly did little to encourage the improvement of his temper.

It was almost a relief for Diana to wave the five of them off back to Redmond, and shoo the other two girls upstairs. Thank goodness, then, for Fred, who was the only one capable of talking any sense it seemed, and whose steady support of her encouraged her to see the afternoon not as a failure, but as an act of friendship, and if people didn't always behave the way you wished them to it wasn't a personal slight. Fred was looking very well these days, Diana thought; since she had agreed to accompany him to the Christmas dance two weeks ago he seemed a little more confident, and even perhaps a little taller. Although he was not handsome in Gilbert's striking way (in all honesty, few men were) she found she didn't mind his looks at all, and from certain angles he could seem rather rakish. He also blushed far less now, which was an obvious advantage; that he occasionally encouraged her to blush a little more was indeed a puzzling new development.

Another week and the biting November winds swept away any remaining efforts by the general Redmond populace to make his life a misery. Gilbert was relieved that everyone's attention now seemed focussed on exams rather than himself; he could take a joke as well as the next man (hadn't he paraded up and down the streets of Kingsport in the frilliest of aprons for the Lambs for goodness' sake?) but the recent joshing had left him unaccountably raw and exposed, for it had been about Anne.

The farce of poor Diana's afternoon tea last week was patently ridiculous, and he had given himself a rough metaphorical shake and charged himself with the duty of getting his sorry act together. Was he to fall apart at the first real challenge to his citadel of calm, controlled, confident manhood? Was he to fall about like some teenaged swain in the agonising throes of his first crush? He decided, firmly, that he would relegate any betraying thoughts of Anne Shirley to the deepest recesses of his mind, or at the very least to his non-waking moments. He had long-held goals and ambitions before him; he had four exams, two term papers and a report to Student Council to occupy him. He had more than enough to go on with.

Of course, if he was truly honest, the issue had nothing to do with his manhood. It wasn't so much that he had been left raw and exposed, but that she had. When she was linked with him in this way she was vulnerable to all sorts of conjecture, some of which had floated past his ears, as cruelly insulting as George Peters himself had been, things that made him sick to even have heard of them … summarised in the general debate of whether or not Anne Shirley, for all her smarts and gumption, was really worth the ten dollars.

If he cared for her at all then he needed to protect her. The simple way to protect her was to not expose her again, to not single her out, to not make the girl who was wonderful and unique and extraordinary be special to him in any way.

For her to be one of the many. Instead of being, perhaps, the one.

Anne came to the conclusion that Diana must have been swayed by her own romantically minded sensibilities and that she had been mistaken in her thoughts about Gilbert's true motivations. She felt wretched to think on the afternoon tea last week; such terribly embarrassing behaviour – spilling the sugar on him had her in agonies for days afterwards - and she decided firmly that she must gain control of herself. "There had been a new, secret self-consciousness in her heart with regard to Gilbert * from that afternoon on that she was still trying to process. So many girls of her acquaintance here at Redmond had thrown and continued to throw themselves at Gilbert Blythe, particularly with he and Maisie barely on speaking terms now. It would be just too terrible to be yet another of his adoring acolytes – had she no self respect whatsoever?

The difficulty was that Diana had opened the lid of the Pandora's box of her attention-starved soul and it was very hard to close it again. The moment she shut her eyes she was back there, blushing in his arms in the darkness. His eyes as he looked at her, his strong arms as he held her, the smile he gave her … she thought on them now and it made her cry into her pillow with a longing she barely understood. She would be mortified if she ever betrayed herself in any way in front of him.

No. No. She just wouldn't allow it.

It had been worrying Gilbert for weeks, all through their almost-completed exams. He hadn't known how he would possibly broach it with her. Would he be overstepping the mark? Would she feel affronted? Would his thoughts be considered the actions of a friend, considerate and caring, or some puppet-master, calculated and controlling, trying to set the world to rights?

He found her, as he expected he would, in the little corner of the library they had staked a claim to. She worked harder than anyone he knew – except, he gave a wry smile, possibly himself. He paused momentarily in the dim late afternoon light, a secret presence amongst the silence of the shelves, watching her, remembering the way he had done so on another occasion, mesmerised as before by that slight, fair hand; the frown of concentration that caused that crease between her brows; the slight pout to her lips; the fantastic flame of hair. But he had knowledge of her now; he knew the feel of her beneath his hands; he knew the smell on her skin; he had seen those grey eyes up close, enough to note the green in them. He had clamped down on the sharp stab of pain at the thought of her till it had subsided to a dull ache over these few busy, frenetic weeks. But once he was without other demands and distractions, once he had time to reflect and consider, he really feared what would become of him.

He put his persona in place and quietly approached her.

"There's no use trying so hard anymore, Miss Shirley," he offered with his cavalier grin, his voice a dramatic whisper, "you've already beaten me on our term paper."

She looked up at him and blushed with obvious pride and pleasure, her eyes very bright against the dull surroundings, her sudden smile breaking through the gloom of his private thoughts. The different results for particular subjects were beginning to trickle through, although the final term standings wouldn't be known for another week. Anne had roundly defeated him in English, although he was second to her by a clear margin to the rest; it was still his best ever showing in anything to do with literature, which he contributed absolutely to her influence.

She watched him settle in opposite her, throwing his own books down, leaning on top of them. He rolled his hazel eyes at her.

"It's Dickens wot done it," he gave by way of explanation for her achievement.

She stifled an almost too-loud laugh, for she loved to see him like this; playful and boyish, friendly with that edge of flirtation, not weighed down as he had been for that time with thoughts of defence of her and the embarrassment it had caused him … I had a friend's face under my gaze… I looked at it; I smiled… I was absorbed and content.** She wondered what life had been like here at college for her before she had properly known him, and found she could hardly remember, and didn't want to. She would take his friendship, and be glad of it, and refuse to stoke the embers of the fire he had briefly lit in her.

"Well then, Mr Blythe," she took a steadying breath. "Mr Dickens aside, you must account for your own perfect score in Biology."

Gilbert's smile widened. "Yes, well, I guess a lucky fluke."

"And Chemistry?" she raised an eyebrow.

He reddened by degrees. "It wasn't a perfect score in Chemistry…"

He accepted her bemused smile. He was very happy to see her relaxed in his presence again; he had hated seeing her discomfort at Diana's almost as much as he had hated to feel it himself.

But then she would look at him that way of hers, like she was doing now, and that citadel began to crumble.

"Anne… I wonder … that is, I've been thinking of… well, of Christmas. When the term ends. When Christmas comes," he suddenly blurted.

Oh good God. Be quiet.

"And I was just contemplating what you would do this year. For Christmas."

Stop talking.

"Because, well, Avonlea is not at its best, but its' still rather pretty. There's the snow on the fields and… well, obviously it wouldn't be … proper … for me to invite you. For Christmas …"

Blythe, for all that is holy, shut up!

"… but I know there's Diana … and Jane and Ruby for that matter, who would love to have you. So that you would… er… have somewhere, for Christmas."

Goodbye, Miss Shirley. I must be leaving now.

Anne looked at him for long moments, her stare wide and unblinking. He had thought this over for three weeks, and this is what he had come up with.

"I'm sorry, Anne. It's none of my business."

"You… you want me to come to Avonlea?" her voice actually trembled.

Since the dance he had done nothing but think of what would happen if she came to Avonlea. He had had clearly deranged dreams of her in Avonlea. Visions of him showing her about; laughing with her at his experiences either side of the teacher's desk in the schoolhouse; taking a long, secluded stroll down Lovers' Lane; his father proudly showing her around the farm; his mother, laughing with her in the kitchen.

"I …" he stumbled. "I was out of turn. It was a bad idea."

"It… it was… a very lovely idea," she faltered. "Diana did ask me, for Christmas. And Phil. And Pris."

"Oh, well, of course. Naturally. That's terrific." Idiot.

And then his hopes rose. "Are you actually…?"

She had that stricken look of hers, which he didn't always understand, and which made him feel completely helpless.

"No…" she was shaking her head slowly, "I… that is … not Avonlea." She seemed to contemplate something. "I don't think… not yet."

Yet was a very important little word. There was hope in it, but perhaps there was fear in it too.

"I thought… Phil was so kind to … Bolingbroke, you know. My parents."

"Oh yes," he nodded abstractly, his mind still back in Avonlea. "Of course."

There was a long silence, not awkward, but not exactly comfortable either.

"Thank you though, Gilbert," she reached out impulsively to put a hand on his arm, her eyes suspiciously bright as they met his before she glanced away.

He thought it hadn't been a complete disaster. He vowed he wouldn't quite give up on everything. Not yet.

Fred came to escort Diana to the Christmas dance promptly at seven o'clock. Diana was relieved Ruby and her date had gone on ahead. She knew that Ruby's rapid-fire, incessant chatter made him nervous. She rather preferred him not to be.

Fred looked upon her as if he was to lose his vision on the morrow and she would be the very last thing he would ever see with his own eyes. Diana wore a burgundy dress of velvet with a sprig of holly in her glossy dark hair. He knew that if this night were a disaster, if she never wanted to see him again at the end of it, that it would still sustain him for all time thereafter; the look of her, taking his arm, beaming at him.

The dance was a genteel affair; the business college had a very disparate, and generally older, mix of students. Everyone was rather quiet and serious and respectful. There would be no raucous scenes to relate in agog tones later, and if the polka or the galop were to be announced here, a fair few might well know the steps.

Fred introduced her to everyone, and they found her charming and she thought herself clever. Diana rarely had need or opportunity to be clever these days; if she momentarily thought she might have been, there was Jane or Phil or Pris about who had made her feel less so, not in any way deliberately but just by their very presence. But here she was, Miss Diana Barry of Orchard Slope, Avonlea, conversing with all manner of types, Fred swelling with pride beside her.

There was dancing and some rather decent food platters and a chance to sit down and hear Fred talk about his modestly good results and his plans for the farm back home. He was thoughtful and considered, naturally, but not in any way tiresome. He had his own dreams and hopes and ambitions, and just because they were quieter ones, didn't make them any less valid, and what was more he asked about her own. She was rather regretful that in her girlhood she had ever thought him staid.

He had a surprising, sly sense of humour, used sparingly. He remained in awestruck admiration of her, reminding her lavishly. He smiled more often than she had ever seen him. He wasn't such a very bad dancer once you had him up close.

Towards the end of the evening they took a quick turn in the grounds, but it was much too cold and they retreated again inside. By the doorway leading back someone pointed out the mistletoe above them. They looked about and saw that all three entranceways were thus similarly decorated. They were rather trapped.

"I guess, well, it's tradition…" Fred suggested a mite hopefully.

Diana's blushing smile still managed to be amused. "I guess it is, rather."

There was a pause. Diana had thought that her first proper kiss might have come much before this. She might have hoped it would have been Gilbert; she never in her wildest imaginings dreamed it would be Fred Wright.

His kiss was soft and warm. It lingered longer than it might have done. She was a little sorry when it ended.

Gilbert was due to catch the train linking to the ferry out to the Island early that afternoon. He would be going with Charlie and Pris; Fred would follow in a days' time with Diana, Ruby and Jane.

Phil and Anne would be boarding the train to Bolingbroke.

He had seen Phil earlier, to wish her the very best compliments of the season. To present his little gift. But mostly to ascertain a promise, though he couldn't even verbalise it, and started asking inane questions instead about whether her family gave their gifts on Christmas Eve or the actual day, and was there ever a time when the daughter of the house didn't get the wishbone?

Phil smiled serenely at him. She had been firmly in Diana's camp regarding the mysterious feelings of Mr Blythe; she had seen them together at the dance; she still saw him watching Anne in that way of his when he thought no one was looking. And if she had required any further confirmation at all, it was in his slightly agitated presence now, appearing dashing yet completely distracted, not quite able to take his leave.

"Don't worry, Gilbert. I'll take good care of her."

So having completely laid himself bare to Phil without even realising it – and hoping she was still a passable risk regarding the keeping of secrets – he now waited in the foyer of Anne's boarding house, madly pacing up and down, the gift he carried safeguarded under his folded coat.

He sensed her before even hearing her, as she drifted down the stairs, wearing the dark green skirt and the blouse with the frilly cuffs that he so liked on her, smiling to see him in such a way as to make him want to cash in his ferry ticket and go sleep in the doorway of Phil's family mansion.

"Good afternoon, Miss Shirley."

"Good afternoon, Mr Blythe!"

Up closer, her eyes were shadowed, as if she hadn't slept well. She seemed paler than normal too, but the half-laughing look she gave him was the same, and he remembered his own smile just in time.

There were very few people about; she was able to usher him in to their common room, which was a great deal tidier than the one at his own boarding house, and thankfully empty; on the last official day before Christmas break there were very few who would linger.

"Are you all set to face the frenzy of a Gordon family Christmas?" he asked teasingly.

"I think so. I'm bracing myself!"

"Do give my regards to the infamous Alec and Alonzo. I expect a full report on their exploits when we all return."

She laughed. "Duly noted."

There was a considerable pause.

"Are you looking forward to seeing your parents?" Anne queried.

"Yes. Absolutely. It will be all lovely till round about the third day home, when I start to go stir crazy and go for very long walks."

She gave a generous chuckle at this.

"You must be kind and indulgent towards your mother, Gilbert. She's been without you since September."

This caught him unawares; it was something like his father would say. He swallowed a sizable lump to his throat. He was conscious of time passing and hated having to move on from the moment.

"I…" he fiddled under his coat pocket. "I just wanted to say, Merry Christmas, Anne."

He extracted his gift, with its specifically chosen light green bow.

Her eyes were alight as she unwrapped it, her fingers taking care with the ribbon as if she might save it for later.

It was the complete collection of Shakespeare's sonnets; the newest and prettiest edition he could find. He'd had to strongly resist the bookmarking of Sonnet 116 *** as if in some secret code - long one of his favourites, it spoke to him even more powerfully now.

She stared down at it for a very long time, not even daring to open the cover, but instead tracing over it wonderingly.

"I thought perhaps you might like your own copy," he ventured. "Considering we are tackling them after the break. Though you don't have to sleep with this one under your pillow."

He was almost unmanned to see her tears when she looked up to him. She couldn't even manage a reply at first.

"Gilbert… Gilbert, this is wonderful. I don't know what to say. It's so generous of you… thank you."

The huskiness of her tone was doing disturbing things to his heartrate.

"You are most welcome, Anne."

He was about to fish a hankerchief out of his pocket, before she hurriedly produced her own. He worried that she was thus so prepared, as if she seemed to have had prior need of it.

She composed herself, and then offered the gift she had carried down with her.

"Merry Christmas, Gilbert."

"Anne…" he shook his head in admonishment, giving her a delighted smile. "You shouldn't have."

Gilbert wasn't nearly so careful with the wrapping himself. The package felt weighty but it wasn't a book. He soon held in his hands something that quite stunned him.

It was a mid-sized photo frame. It looked suspiciously made of oak. Placed inside it was a postcard, such as sold at various bigger churches that may have a little gift shop. It was of a saint. He wasn't at all proficient in recognising the various saints, but he happened to know this particular one.

"It's of St Luke," Anne thought it might need interpretation. "I have been reliably informed that he is the Patron Saint – "

" – of doctors," Gilbert finished for her, on a breath.

Gilbert found he couldn't look up at Anne either. On the back she had quoted Shakespeare. Naturally.

We know what we are, but know not what we may be. ****

Anne seemed a little unnerved by his sudden stillness.

"I just thought…" she began, "that something can be secret, but it needn't be forgotten," and then she reddened, through he didn't see, momentarily overcome by the wisdom of her own words.

Gilbert swallowed very carefully. He had been greatly buoyed by his academic success this first term. The honour of leading in the Freshman classes fluctuated between Anne, (he himself) and Philippa; Priscilla did very well; Charlie Sloane scraped through respectably, and (had) comported himself as complacently as if he had led in everything. ***** One never knew, being a big fish in a small pond, whether the migration over to much larger, deeper waters was going to be successful; whether he'd be eaten alive by much larger fish or merely fight just to stay afloat.

Instead, so far he had crested the waves. But he was in for a tirelessly long swim.

Gilbert cleared his throat, now, disconcerted to be fighting for composure.

He finally looked up at her. Her grey eyes were concerned on his, as if afraid he didn't like her offering.

"I know you're not Catholic... and I'm hardly anything. If you're uncomfortable with it, or, if it's too much, Gilbert, I give you leave to just use the frame!" she attempted to joke.

He stared at her. How could she not know what she had just given him?

"Anne…" his voice wavered, and his hazel eyes burned, "I assure you, this is, without doubt, the most precious thing anyone's ever given me. I think…" he took a very long breath, "that you have just given me permission to dream."

Her smile of pleasure and relief made her look so beautiful that all remaining reason went out the window.

He stood so quickly he nearly upended the most precious gift on his lap. He grabbed for her hand and pulled her up.

"Thank you," he whispered in her ear, embracing her.

It was not a quick embrace. It was not as friends might do. He felt her own voice catch in surprise. But she clung to him all the same.

He had to go. He did so hurriedly – not only because he was already late, but because if he stayed any longer he might not leave at all.

He hoped he smelt her scent on him all the way to Avonlea.

It took a long time for Anne to recover her emotions, her breath – and her wits – enough to go back upstairs to await Phil.

She had been up all night and was so very weary. She had tried to hide it, but of course he saw.

But she was calm, now. And she was cleansed.

She cradled the book of sonnets as if a baby, and sat on the edge of the bed, pausing to leaf through the pages quickly. She found Sonnet 116, of course, and contemplated it for a long moment, her eyes pricking.

Then she packed it carefully at the very top of her trunk. Alongside the other small package, the two wooden figures, which always, always travelled with her. And her beaten copy of Jane Eyre, her talisman, which did the same.

He was the first to recognise me, and to love what he saw. ******

She hardly knew whom it related to the most.

It had been a very book-orientated Christmas so far. She had gone over to Diana's yesterday with a double copy for her of Little Women and Little Men. Diana gifted her a new bottle of Lily of the Valley and a beautifully copied collection of some favourite recipes. Then, a little breathless and certainly blushing, Diana recounted the glorious events of the Christmas dance with Fred, not stinting on some of the finer details, including the placement of the mistletoe and what had happened beneath it.

"It was my first kiss, really, Anne," Diana was practically aglow. "First proper adult kiss, at any rate. You probably think me a hopeless Island girl, and stupidly naïve as well. But it was rather nice I must say. I'm so glad I can tell you these things – Jane would be too droll about it and Ruby too competitive. But I know you understand!"

Anne could feel her face drain of all color over this otherwise lovely confidence. She really wished she did understand, with every fibre of her being. She would give anything to have been that girl under the mistletoe.

Anne had received her first kiss, too. Long ago, and much too young. To say she had received it was in itself an injustice. It had been forced upon her. It had been taken from her. It had been stolen.

Later, the tow headed, gangly boy, he himself hurting so badly, after having been so brave, held her as they cried together. He had no voice left but he still crooned the words to her regardless.

Don't worry. Don't remember it. It doesn't matter. It didn't count.

Gilbert had been right. It was too much to carry on her own.

Anne asked the question. She said his name. She would know, must know, finally, what had happened to him.

Later, Diana heard it all, or at least an edited version of it. Anne was very adept at editing her own story.

There really are some things it's better not to know.

Afterwards, Anne tried to stop her sob. She put her fist in her mouth and bit down on her fingers. But it rose up from her anyway, from the depths of her; frightening, fearful, keening. Diana had only heard the like of it one other time, when one of the horses pulling the buggy had fallen down a large pothole on the road. Its leg had been broken. As her father ran back to Orchard Slope for the shot gun, its screams rent the air and echoed down the hill.

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)

*Anne of the Island (Ch. 1)

**Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte (1847) (Ch. 21)

*** "Let me not to the marriage of true minds/Admit impediments". If Gilbert didn't have a favourite sonnet before, I have just let him borrow mine.

****Hamlet by William Shakespeare (Act 4 Sc 5)

*****Anne of the Island (Ch. 7)

******Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte (1847)