Thank you to each and every one of you for your wonderful, reassuring reactions to the previous chapter, which was such a hard one to write, and such a hard one, I know, to read. Your support and generosity are treasured.
With particular thanks to elizasky, as always, and a special shout out to reviewer G.
There will be a time, I'm sure, when I don't tie you up with such long chapters! I hope you can wade through all these words with me today.
Chapter Ten
Winds of Hope and Memory
Gilbert indeed hoped that Anne would be proud of his magnanimous response to the literally hundreds of loving little touches his mother had bestowed in the five days since his return home. Her words rang prophetically in his ears every time the esteemed Mrs Blythe paused to tousle his hair or squeeze his arm; he could hardly control his grin when she came and impulsively hugged him as he sat for breakfast that morning, and her priceless look when he innocently (and teasingly) suggested he may have to get a very short haircut as befitting his new college man status would stay with him for some time.
Mostly, though, he hoped they understood, both his mother and his father, through his actions if not through a sentimental gush of words, that he had a new appreciation and gratitude for not only their love and support but perhaps their very existence; he still nursed the quiet hope that, one day, he may introduce them to the very young lady who had so affected this new awareness.
He spent too long thinking about what that young lady was doing all the way over in Bolingbroke; she could be in Alberta for all the good it did him. The very long walks he had indeed begun, trudging ridiculously through the sleet or snow or both, could hardly suppress the new restlessness he felt at not being near her, which joined the now all too familiar longing jostling for permanent residence in his heart.
Adela Blythe supposed she would stop missing her son eventually, and thought that she had coped extraordinarily well these three months after being so spoilt as to have him home the past two years, but having Gilbert again in the house had made it rather difficult to restrain herself. She seemed to be in a suspended state regarding him and those missing three years in Alberta; he had come back to her a young man already, charming, confident and cocky, and very adverse to hugs, as she had indeed feared. Just as she had felt he was hers again he was off to Charlottetown, an excited fish in a much bigger pond, and she saw immediately that spark of ambition flare in him; she knew, even then, that he would be no farmer like his father. Friends of his like Fred Wright, good and quiet and steady, were beginning to turn their attention to the land; Gilbert's hazel eyes looked beyond, ever seeking, to some far-off horizon, and she couldn't even feel too sorry, for she had been the one to encourage him to search there.
So now this boy who was really a man was back to sit at their table and stare a little mournfully out the window of the kitchen to the fields and the orchard beyond; his broadened, football-honed shoulders seemed to fill a room; his height, giving him the edge even on John now; the house was suddenly too small for him, and so too, she suspected, was Avonlea.
But that wasn't the reason for her watchful eyes now, and Adela hugged the little secret to her, just as she had hugged him so impulsively over it that very morning at breakfast; whilst he supped with John and talked over the coming plans for the farm in the new year, she had been upstairs in his room tidying and changing the bedding, and worrying briefly that Gilbert had found religion, and a papist one at that; or that he had been cornered in the village by Moody Spurgeon MacPherson and encouraged to undertake some strange and radical conversion.
Why else for all that was holy – and pardoning the terrible and fitting pun – would Gilbert be sleeping with a Catholic saint under his pillow?
She hadn't meant to find it, naturally, and of course she wasn't rifling through his possessions the way that Charlie Sloane's mother was shamefully rumoured to, searching for evidence of what was really going on over there in Kingsport, but it was there, staring back at her, clear as the new day itself. The lovely polished frame; the carefully chosen image; the meaningful words on the back. The single, solitary name.
Anne.
It took some moments for Adela to fit the pieces together. And when she finally did she had to grin to herself in amazement. There was a girl, some faceless, unknown girl, up at Redmond. She knew something of Gilbert's secret ambitions; she certainly knew her Shakespeare.
Adela couldn't help but like her already.
Gilbert had made the trek to Fred's twice now in the quiet lull between Christmas and the new year, and was both bemused and vaguely annoyed to find that both times he was off visiting at Orchard Slope. Not that he wanted to deny Fred the lovely and manifold charms of Diana Barry in any measure, particularly when they had been so long admired by him, but you'd think a man could have his best friend on hand occasionally when he was undergoing a crisis.
Gilbert trekked back glumly, trying to at least build up to a jog, even with all his layers, so that he might combine it with some half hearted training ahead of when the football season resumed. He had decided that Christmas was a dire time of year and hated himself for wanting to wish the next week away so that he could be once more safely ensconced at Redmond. He couldn't ever remember a time since they'd come back from Alberta when he had felt so at a loss.
He stomped back into the house, shaking the snow off his boots, to find his mother right in the middle of the week's baking. Adela paused in astonishment to see him; she had really bargained on having the house to herself for a few hours, and had felt leave enough to make as much mess as she pleased. She put a floury hand to her cheek, a little exasperated, and Gilbert gave her then such a look of pained consternation that she really felt he might be coming down with something.
"Was Fred not there?" Adela asked.
"No, Ma," Gilbert replied grumpily, taking a seat and giving a very exaggerated eye roll. "He was at Diana's. Again."
Adela bit back a smile at his affronted disappointment. She wiped her hands down on her apron.
"You just missed your father I'm afraid. He's gone into town to place some orders."
A theatrical sigh escaped. "That's OK, Ma."
"I can leave you to it if you have any study you need to tackle," Adela suggested hopefully.
Gilbert's brow darkened. "No, I've not much at this stage." Only one hundred and fifty four sonnets to review, actually.
Adela was not unused to taciturn men, and so she quietly finished the last of several apple pies and set aside further pastry for the next day. She put dishes on the bench to be seen to later.
"Like a tea, love?"
"Yes, thanks, Ma."
She could feel Gilbert's eyes on her as she prepared the brew, biding her time.
"Ma, would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" he finally attempted. "Forgive me, but they are, well, ah… of a personal nature."
Adela Blythe, caught unawares by her son's now rather sheepish look, immediately presumed the worst.
"Darling, surely you would rather… wait to talk to your father? That is to say… man to man?"
Goodness knows John had already had this talk with their son years ago, before he left for Queen's. Adela really did not want to speculate on what part of that talk might need further clarification. She thought, errantly, of the saintly picture upstairs.
Gilbert looked at his mother curiously for a moment, before his hazel eyes, such replicas of her own, widened in comprehension, and he blushed furiously and rather endearingly. He well remembered his man to man conversation with his father all those years ago, embarrassing and painful for both of them, with rather an emphasis on the responsibilities of a gentleman and the broad physical mechanics of things than of feelings and emotions. But it was perhaps the emotional side of things he really needed assistance with now.
"Mother! No! Goodness, no… I… I… just wanted to talk to you a little about courting!"
Adela Blythe sighed in relief, hoping courting wasn't being used as a fancy new college euphemism for something else entirely. Traditional courting advice she could gladly tackle. She had been longing for even a hint of an interest in proper courting from Gilbert, and not all these flighty flirtations with any number of girls that seemed not to lead anywhere at all. She had lived in fear that he would become entangled with a silly Dresden doll like Ruby Gillis, or even worse, one of the dreadful Pye girls, and the bright talent and burning ambition in him would be slowly snuffed out. She wanted so much more for him… and she wanted him to be with someone who wanted so much more for him.
She came to sit opposite her handsome, still blushing son, her hands coming to rest on her chin, a small smile emerging, as if a girl ready to settle in for a gossip. "Courting, darling? she prompted gently.
"Er…" Gilbert frowned, "I just wanted to ask you whether… that is… about you and dad. And why you decided on him and not Mr Barry."
Adela's eyes widened. Of all the things she thought he would come out with, this was definitely the most surprising. "Well…" she began. "That's rather a long conversation. I think it will require the addition of biscuits as well as our tea."
Gilbert smiled up at his mother as she gave him a wider smile of her own and an arch of her dark eyebrow. She was still a beauty; tall, slim, with rich brown hair, not as dark as his own or his father's, and an elegance that often belied her own modest surroundings. From her had come his love of literature and learning (although he had to give his father points on Shakespeare) and, perhaps, some of her own unfulfilled dreams had been taken up by himself. Gilbert could see, with growing adult clarity, that his smart, sensitive, spirited mother would have been a very good match in many ways for the tall, gentle and still distinguished George Barry.
"Well…" Adela sat again, passing him his tea and placing the biscuits companionably between them. "When we moved to Carmody, I was already seventeen, and my parents were elderly and rather keen to have me settled. They gave me leave to go to all of the dances from here to Charlottetown I think, in order that I may meet as many eligible young men as possible. They were happy for me to cast my net wide…" she gave a smile of chagrin, "as long as I caught something in it at the end."
Gilbert looked a little horrified; he didn't want to imagine his mother being flung into the company of all manner of men in this way, even if he knew there was a happy outcome.
"That's how I met quite a few of the Avonlea lot at the time … it's how I met George Barry. And your father. They were friends from school of course, and neighbours, so they went about together with a few others…" Adela took a contemplative sip of her tea; Gilbert fortified himself with a biscuit. "George was all mannerly charm and politeness, as you can imagine. Your father… well, not so much."
Adela's smile was fond.
"Dad never was that big on dances…" Gilbert mused.
"No. Definitely not," Adela's smile turned into a grin. "But he was very good at glowering from the sidelines."
"Dad? Glower?" Gilbert was amusingly disbelieving.
"Oh yes. All manner of glowering, as if he thought all of us slightly ridiculous. So it was quite a pleasure to glower right back and be swept up by George Barry, who was the catch of the county at the time, you know."
"I know," Gilbert grinned himself, amused by her flash of pride.
Adela decided to quicken her reminiscences. "So George Barry and I started courting. My parents, as you can imagine, were delighted. George and I had a lot in common. He was well read and rather debonair. Generous and friendly and obliging. And I doubt he's ever glowered in his life."
Gilbert rather doubted it himself; he certainly knew Diana's calm disposition was not from her mother.
"Where was dad in all this?" Gilbert had lost track of the number of biscuits, and his mother went to brew more tea.
"Nursing his wounded pride over a love gone wrong years before," Adela turned back, and for a moment both of them were quiet, knowing snatches of that particular story. "And…" Adela grinned again, "sometimes being our chaperone."
"Ma!" Gilbert's expression was duly horrified. "That's terrible!"
Adela laughed too delightedly.
Gilbert fiddled with his tea cup. He waited for her to sit down again.
"Ma… did Mr Barry propose?" he looked down at the table, his face flushing unexpectedly.
"I believe… he was very close to it," Adela responded carefully.
"Were you thinking of saying yes?"
"I believe… I was very close to it," she smiled when he looked back up at her.
His mother's long silence then made Gilbert fear he'd finally overstepped the invisible line he felt he'd been dancing on regarding the entire conversation; but then came her soft sigh, as she considered her response.
"Yes, Gilbert, to be truthful I've got to say it," his mother admitted. "George Barry was and remains a kind, gentlemanly, dear man, and a good friend, insomuch as a married man can be friendly with a married lady," she smiled a little, a mite wryly. "I had a lovely time being courted by him, and enjoyed his company, and saw that he could give me a very comfortable life. A very safe, calm, comfortable life," she gave a pointed look at her son, "and if I ultimately wanted a safe, calm, unruffled existence, he would have done perfectly well for me, even if I, perhaps, a little less for him." Gilbert, his hazel eyes on her own, felt his lips quirk.
"Now you really must listen to what I am trying to say here, darling," Adela grew more serious. "After a time, I began to notice things that were a little troubling to me. I have always been rather firm in my opinions, as you well know, and have always enjoyed a little lively debate. I don't mind being proved wrong if a better argument or perspective is offered. But George Barry never wanted to have a disagreement, never wanted to question anything, never wanted the slightest confrontation. He had had an easy, calm life and wanted to keep it that way. But that's a false view and expectation, Gilbert; there has to be disagreement at some point, of challenge, or how do we grow, how do we learn? And I really tried to puzzle it out for a while, and I came to the conclusion that George hadn't ever fought for anything in his life. Through no real fault of his own, everything had been handed to him. Don't get me wrong – he works just as hard as the next fellow – but he hadn't had to fight for anything, he hadn't ever had to go without and dream of something better; he'd never had to risk losing something he desperately wanted. It had made him calm, certainly, but it had also made him complacent. And so I wondered, after a time, if he would become complacent… about me."
Adela gave him a look under her lashes, and then got up quickly to remake the tea. Gilbert shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"And," she poured the water in the pot, "there was this friend of his, you see. The glowering one."
Her back was turned to him, but Gilbert heard the smile in her voice.
"He said… Dad said once… that he quoted Romeo and Juliet to you, and that's how he won you over."
Adela gave what passed for a ladylike guffaw. "Did he now?" her expression was greatly amused. She carried the teapot over and repositioned herself opposite him. "That's rather a fine view of things for him to take."
She saw Gilbert's puzzlement.
"He definitely referenced Romeo and Juliet," she clarified, raising an eyebrow."He had to drop me home one time for George, as there was some sort of issue over at Orchard Place, and he barely said five words to me all the way back to Carmody, except for the last five minutes, when he accused me, calm as you like and with not a sign of a glower, but with a very annoying, smug expression, that I fancied myself as Juliet on her balcony, enraptured by the fact that I was enjoying this great romance, but that it had nothing to do with love itself at all."
Gilbert's jaw dropped.
"Well, you can imagine how well that went over," Adela shook her head. "And I gave him a few choice words in reply, what's more. And then… I went home and cried myself to sleep, because he was right, and I was furious."
Gilbert was rather incredulous now, and they were definitely into heretofore undisclosed parts of this particular narrative.
"The next day, I went and broke it off with George Barry," Adela remembered quietly. "And then I marched straight here, demanding to see your father. He was out the back, at the edge of the orchard, leaning over the fence. His back was to me. His hair was all beautifully wild, like yours gets, as if he had hardly slept the previous night … and when he heard me he turned… and … I read his face. It was…" here Adela faltered, and the heat lit her cheeks, and Gilbert was transfixed. "It was so full of passion and sorrow and regret … I had never seen the like of it from George, ever. You see, he – your dad - wouldn't have stood in my way, Gilbert, if George Barry had been what I wanted. But once we both knew that he wasn't…"
His mother trailed off. Adela let the memory take her back there. Gilbert sat, a little stunned. And his second tea had grown cold.
Adela recovered herself, and she regarded him very directly.
"Gilbert, love, your Dad prodded me, and if was painful, but I needed it. I had prodded him too – he is not a scowler by nature as you know. I guess we'll going on prodding each other forever. That isn't such a bad thing, because you need a partner through life with a little bit of a fire in their belly – even if that fire is sometimes directed at you. Because that means that they care. It means that they have passion. It's an important word to remember – and it's something that most people are scared of. They think too much passion will lead to the downfall of civilisation as we know it. But it needn't be loud, shouted from the rooftops. Passion can be quiet and tender, too. Passion is… well, it's a wonderful thing when two people feel it equally and they use it to support one another and bind themselves together. Gilbert, my darling, I beg of you – don't settle for anyone who doesn't make you feel it, and can give it to you in return."
Gilbert had stilled completely, his hazel eyes wide, and Adela had to suppress a sudden grin at his stricken countenance. Although he looked the very image of John when younger, she saw both of them in him, although she rather thought the methodical side of him – John's side – was the one busily trying to sort through all this current new information. She stood and went round to him, giving him a quick kiss on the top of his head and then ruffling those dark, beloved curls affectionately.
Gilbert cleared his throat. "Ah… thank you very much, Ma," he managed, in a voice he didn't quite recognise as his own.
"You're welcome, darling."
They could both hear John returning from town with the buggy, with rather impeccable timing. Gilbert cast wary eyes to his father whom he could see through the window unshackling the horse and leading it to the barn, as if, with all this talk of passion in the air, he quite expected him to come back bursting through the door, sweeping his mother up into his arms and embarrassing the life out of the lot of them.
"Ah… I think I might hit the books after all…" Gilbert stood slowly.
"Fine, darling…" her eyes followed him, hiding her smile, watching him drift distractedly up the stairs.
She thought how John would love to hear choice parts of this conversation recounted later, as they snuggled down for the night together, as she fondled his own dark, greying curls. How he would chuckle deeply in that way of his that she loved, and that beguiling glint of mischief would show in his eyes – the one that he always claimed she put back there.
If Gilbert looked hard enough out of his bedroom window he might see a shimmer of light coming across the fields from Orchard Slope, like the last blinding flare of the sun before it dipped beyond the horizon. All, however, was in darkness now. He had spent the past seven years staring out, to this same view, from this same desk, and felt he was seeing it for the first time. He and Diana had occasionally joked, growing up, about being almost-siblings; there were few stories in Avonlea, even going back to their parents' time, that hadn't already passed into local folklore.
He reflected on his mother's generous retelling of her story and what it meant for him; he had asked how she had decided between two good men, and typically instead she had given him a mediation on love and connection. And passion. The word ricocheted around his head, resonating, and he couldn't dislodge it. Two months ago he wouldn't have understood what she had been talking about; now he traced her words in his own recent experiences and knew the ancient truth of them; when he had been with Maisie, he felt nothing; when he had been with Anne, he burned.
What would life have been like if he had been born Gilbert Barry? It would have been a life, not exactly of privilege, but certainly of ease and opportunity. Or not? Would he have been able to pursue his studies, undaunted and unobstructed, to now be halfway through them already? Or would George Barry, so much more tied to tradition, have insisted he take over the farm? In either scenario, he would not have been in a Freshman English class this last term, and he would not have met Anne.
The thought made him shudder.
Perhaps he would just happily accept the near miss, and remain grateful to be Gilbert Blythe. And, really, George Barry had enjoyed many advantages, but he had lost nearly all of his hair.
"Are you having a nice time here, Miss Anne?" Phil questioned worryingly.
"I am having a lovely time, Miss Phil!" Anne reassured warmly.
The two young ladies were briskly walking the handsome streets of Bolingbroke, two days after Christmas Day, in that gentle, dreamy drift towards the new year, arms linked and worried and reassuring smiles in place respective to their current philosophies.
"You know, I've never actually walked some of these streets in my life!" Phil mused suddenly, laughing. "Isn't that scandalous? You're introducing me to my own town, Anne!"
Anne's smile was teasing. "It's no wonder, Phil, you've had so little opportunity. All those gentleman callers up at Mount Holly! You can barely escape your own house!"
Phil tittered, obviously pleased. "There have been rather a lot of them this time round," she smiled very broadly. "I am very relieved to know that absence does make the heart grow fonder. Poor Alec seems to have wasted away in grief and longing over my being all the way to Kingsport. He was not pleased to learn of Mr Summerfield at all. Though Alonzo seems to have only come to stare rather wonderingly at you, Anne! I'd throw him over completely for his defection if he didn't have such a fine nose."
Now it was Anne's turn to laugh. "If he was staring wonderingly, Phil, he was no doubt trying to make sense of the hair."
"Don't you believe it, Miss Shirley! I'm almost glad you have to visit this very good friend of yours and will miss the New Year's Ball. I can't have you stealing everyone away in this manner, and right from under my own clearly inferior nose! It's rather enough that you have such a very lovely nose yourself, and the Freshman President to boot, without all this – "
"Pardon me, Phil? What did you say?"
Phil slowed their pace, and gave a knowing smile. "I was remarking on your lovely nose."
"Thank you very much…" Anne replied distractedly.
"And remarking on the affections of our Freshman President, which still seem to be very decidedly focussed in your direction."
Their pace had slowed to a snail's. Anne's cheeks were very red in the winter chill.
"Phil, honestly. We've been over this very old ground. Gilbert and I are friends, certainly. That is a well established and gratifying fact. The Football Dance was only a gesture of – "
"Oh, Anne! I'm not taking about any football dance and chivalry and all the rest of it! That is old ground. I'm talking about the very day we left college before Christmas, Gilbert coming to me practically tearing his adorable hair out thinking some terrible fate would befall you whilst you were in my keeping. I'm talking about that new little book of sonnets you practically moon over. I'm talking about you looking back at me now with a color to match your own fetchingly hued hair!"
They had stopped completely.
"It was a Christmas gift…" Anne defended weakly.
"Of course it was," Phil made dry reply.
"We're studying them in class after the break…"
Phil's smile was fond. "Of course you are."
The girls resumed their pace, still a good deal slower than before, their steps in time to the jumble of thoughts clattering about Anne's head.
"He came to you?" Anne asked quietly. "He was tearing his hair out?"
Phil's smile was arch, but her tone was kind. "Virtually every curl."
Anne gnawed on her lower lip at this, digesting this revelation slowly.
"You know, Miss Anne," Phil mused carefully. "To have a good friend is a wonderful thing. I'm so glad you are gathering all the friends you deserve around you. You are a beautiful friend yourself. But sometimes the idea of a friend is really a convenient cover for something else, for them and for you. It's a cloak to protect yourself with. But really, would it be so bad to take the cloak off and see if you really need it?"
The flash came to Anne of Gilbert's embrace before he had left her; the surprise and the sweetness of it, but also the heat and, dare she even think, the hunger of it too. The too-vivid memory of it burned her cheeks raw.
Phil almost reached out to hug her, to see those big grey eyes turn to her, full of such confusion.
"But Phil… what if the cloak is the only thing that is protecting you? Do you risk taking it off only to make a fool of yourself, and losing its warmth forever?"
"There's a very low risk of that, with everyone, I guess…" Phil had to think on this for herself, too. She wondered if stripping her own cloak off at every opportunity, dancing around baring herself openly, was actually its own form of self protection, reversed. "But the cloak might become awfully heavy for you, honey. I'd hate to see it smother you."
Anne gave a mangled smile. They continued quietly on their way.
This section of town didn't see nearly as many visitors as those thronging the shops and tea rooms of the town centre. Anne wondered if her parents would even recognise any of it now. Would they have been pleased to have made this bustling place their permanent family home? Had they had other plans down the road once their little family was established? Would they have moved away eventually to experience the charm of a simpler life out in the countryside?
That sort of thinking wasn't really going to help her. The thought of what was going on this very moment out in a particular part of the countryside, fringed with sea, the island of her many imaginings… well, it was virtually unbearable.
Anne knew there was not time to hear back before they all returned to Kingsport. And it was the sort of thing you couldn't very well say in a letter at any rate. And yet, a letter is all she had had, herself, to offer; a letter written with tears and trembling, of lost years and wondering, of the old, dread fear and the tiny new seed of hope.
"Well, here we are, Miss Anne."
Phil's words reached out to her, and she looked up at the gate before them, the iron old and slightly rusted, and the sign above, looking ornate and yet feeling starkly austere; Bolingbroke Cemetery.
"Would you like me to come with you?" Phil asked gently, perhaps already knowing the answer.
Anne shook her head. "Thank you, but I'll be fine."
"Then I'll just wait here, on this thoughtfully placed bench, till you return. I might count my beaux to pass the time."
"I won't be gone as long as that, Phil," Anne was able to smile.
She took a breath, and passed through the gates, which groaned back at her in annoyance. She headed for the far "green corner", to the joint resting place "where her father and mother were buried, and left on their grave the white flowers she carried." *
Gilbert grinned at his image in the glass, fired by a renewed sense of purpose as he surveyed himself dressed for the New Year dance, in aid of the village church. He fiddled a final time with his plain black tie, vowing to never wear that revolting shade of red again, and imagined the time he would buy another, in a shade reminiscent of new apple green, in Anne's honour.
He had made his meticulous plans and now his path felt so clear and he so confident in it he was almost giddy. It would be a new year; that meant new resolutions on every front. He would never mope around, despondent and directionless, again. He was Freshman President; he was football team captain; he was achieving high honours across the board already.
He had Shakespeare. It was practically a family tradition. He would have her grey eyes staring at him in wonder as he wooed her one hundred and fifty four different ways. She would fairly sense the passion pulsing within him. He would hide behind the curtain of friendship no longer.
Gilbert leapt down eagerly from their buggy, watching as his father carefully handed his mother down, looking on intently as his parents exchanged a soft look before they walked with him a ways along and into the town hall, which was already full of music, noise and clatter and the excited yelps of greeting which drifted out into the frosty night air. Inside it was thronging; the whole of Avonlea must be here. He must find Fred and have a proper heart to heart with him; he had only barely caught him the other day, after many attempts, and he realised with some regret that he had seen him less here at home than he had in Kingsport.
Secondly, he needed to find one of the girls – preferably Diana – as Ruby would be too distracted by the men in general and Jane too distracted by her visiting beau in particular, in order to ascertain some information about a certain mutual acquaintance. He felt sure that Diana would have had a letter from Anne by now – they had launched an immediate fond friendship almost from the time they had met – and if he could at least have some news of her, second hand though it may be, it couldn't help but bolster him further.
Gilbert scanned the busy, bustling crowd, oblivious to the admiring looks he still received from the younger ladies, who were as impressed by the dashing college man as they had ever been by the handsome schoolteacher, but somewhat disappointed by his far quieter presence in town on this occasion and the frankly baffling lack of a date for the dance. Gilbert paused to shake hands and chat briefly with the new young schoolmaster who had taken over from him when he resigned to go off to Redmond; waved to cleric-in-training Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, who appeared to be the improbable escort of one Josie Pye; and saw, frowning, that both the Wrights and now the Barrys had finally arrived but that there was absolutely no sign of either of their children.
Where the heck was Fred?
And then, through the door, he came; shiny as a gold button in the newest of new suits, arm held out reverently to the winsome dark haired beauty on his arm, both of them wearing identical expressions of delight tinged with embarrassment.
Gilbert watched, amazed, as they were both swamped by various townsfolk, and it took him several moments to realise what was so immediately evident to everyone else; Fred and Diana had arrived together. Good God, he'd gone and done it.
He'd asked to court her.
Gilbert had nursed his suspicions as to Fred's intentions ever since his college's Christmas dance. His friend had been frustratingly discreet on the subject, only to infer that the evening had gone very very well, which from Fred was a virtual admission of rampaging passion. And there was that thought again, that loaded word. As the crowd around the entrance dispersed and the first dance began Fred led Diana out, and although they weren't physically the most natural match in the world – Diana was as tall as Fred and clearly he still had two left feet – Gilbert couldn't help but note the pleased, proud look he gave her, and the blushing smile she gave him in return, and something in him envied the new, intangible understanding between them.
Diana felt flushed already, and couldn't believe the crush of bodies around her. It made her long for the respectful quiet of the Christmas dance at Fred's college, when she had looked at the gentle man whose arm she had taken and began to see herself as he saw her, and something in her heart was altered.
Fred rather reminded her of her own father, in a way, but he had his own quiet strength about him, never more so than tonight, before they had arrived at the hall. She'd had a rather melancholy Christmas, truth be told, with Anne's tears, her horrifying wail – and the equal horror of her story – travelling with her. She doubted she would ever have Anne's own strength. She had, however, fought her own little battle just to be in Kingsport and fancied returning home rather triumphant – hadn't she shown everyone she could do it, be away and flourish, just as the others had? – but back with her family, particularly her mother, she was merely little Diana again, a bit hopeless, a little bit behind, and expected to wait around undemandingly until they fashioned a husband for her.
It made her furious.
It wasn't as if she didn't consider herself as not wanting a husband. The irony was she wanted everything they themselves seemed to want for her, but she wanted it on her terms, in her own time, and of her own choosing.
It was really as if they didn't understand her at all.
Fred understood her, though, and the thought of that was at first rather startling. But he had lived his life in a similar vein, in the shadow of everyone's low expectations of him, and he knew how it rankled.
So Fred had started to visit Orchard Slope, and they had laughed quietly together at this clear affront to her mother and her mother's plans for her, but it was only a visit, surely, and no one could take exception to that.
They walked together in the lush garden made cold and desolate by the snow, but he remarked how beautiful it looked, under its crystalized white blanket, and she smiled at the unlikely poetry escaping from his soul. And then he claimed he saw the same crystals in her hair, and he looked at her a particular way, and she realised with a start it was how he had always looked at her, ever since he was those few years ahead of her in school. And she found she couldn't really look at him. And it was quite ridiculous, because it was Fred.
On his second visit he appeared more at ease than she was. They took tea in the parlour. She blundered about so hopelessly she reminded herself of Anne in front of Gilbert that time in Kingsport, and that made her blunder about rather more. She was annoyed and flabbergasted at these new sensations in equal measure. Fred appeared completely nonplussed, but his eyes were searching as he regarded her, and if she was able to make real eye contact at all she would have seen a small, little hopeful smile hidden on his perfectly pleasant but unremarkable face.
The third time, her mother was out visiting, and her father was down the far end of the farm near the orchard, and it wouldn't be proper for him to stay, really, with only the maid and Minnie May to chaperone. It really wouldn't. But then the maid brought tea, automatically, and so it would have been rude for him to go.
He asked if he may accompany her to the church dance at new year. She would be going anyway, so she replied it could hardly be such a scandal to her parents. He replied, in that occasional sly way of his, what a shame that was, and it was a wonder they couldn't think of something that would cause a scandal. Diana's eyes were agog at this boldness, laughing delightedly, thinking he might have temporarily swapped bodies with Gilbert. And then he turned very bold, and asked if he might kiss her, and she rather stopped laughing at that point.
Tonight he had come for her a little early, as the maid was helping finish her hair, and he asked to see her parents beforehand. There was a frigid feeling in the air as she descended the stairs, and she came upon them just in time to hear Fred say how he admired and respected her enormously, and thought they got on very well together, and that, with Diana's assent and their approval, that he wished to court her.
Her father was quiet but grim; her mother was astounded. What a pretty thing had come to pass, her mother was arguing, that Fred Wright, who couldn't even seem to manage his own family's farm, now had his eye on theirs.
Fred responded, in a far more respectful tone than her mother had managed or deserved, that he had not the slightest interest in their farm, thank you; that his interest was in she, Diana.
The stabbing reply – weren't they one and the same?
Diana's cheeks reddened at the meanness of her mother's words. She could see the indignant red flush creep up the back of Fred's neck. He drew himself up to his not-so-considerable height, and he stood his ground.
"No, Ma'am," Fred's voice barely wavered. "They are not the same to me. One is precious and priceless. The other is just a farm."
Exasperated, her mother threw up her hands and suggested that he await Diana's verdict on his suit, which she fully expected to be as negatively received as she had done.
Diana's own clear, newly determined voice came to them from her unnoticed position behind. Her mother would be most displeased with her decision.
So with everything happening, Diana had barely had a chance to even attempt her most important errand. It's not as if she could commandeer the sled herself and go searching the countryside. And now, even if they caught up tonight, it would all be so horribly rushed; they would all be packing to return to Kingsport tomorrow, and leaving the following day. So she danced and chatted and smiled with genuine happiness; but it was tempered all the while by that tiny little dread; of the letter waiting impatiently in her purse.
Gilbert finally caught Fred, ironically enough, at the refreshments table. Charlie had his ear about something or other; Fred's eyes followed Diana as she chatted to some of the girls. Pris had come over for the dance, staying with Ruby for two nights before travelling back with all of them, and the two flaxen haired ladies flanked Diana across the other side of the room, all three in earnest conversation, only occasionally interrupted by a giggling glance in their direction.
"So this is how it's going to be from here on," Charlie remarked dolefully. "Them gathering together, laughing at us from afar."
Gilbert and Fred exchanged a bemused glance at his general air of tragedy.
"Cheer up, Charlie," Gilbert slapped him on the back. "If we're lucky they might get to laugh at us up close as well."
Fred stifled a snort; Charlie took his grizzling leave and went in search of Moody.
Gilbert and Fred were left to grin at one another. Gilbert reached out and offered his hand, which Fred shook with the knowing enthusiasm of a man who had been hoping for this moment since he was still a boy.
"I thought you were intending to ask her back in Kingsport?" Gilbert ventured.
"I was. But I didn't fancy dealing with Mrs Barry by letter either," Fred's grimace was expressive.
"She was that bad, then?"
"If you want to compare it to that one time when we ripped the axle off Father's buggy when we were fifteen and left the whole thing stuck in the mud for two days, claiming that vagabonds had stolen it, you might get a fair idea of proceedings."
Gilbert chuckled. "I had completely forgotten about that!"
"My father hasn't. I still get the occasional warning."
Gilbert shook his head, still smiling, and took a glass of punch, looking over the rim of it back to Diana.
"What made you change your mind? About asking her?"
Fred's reply was eloquently simple.
"It was going to be the new year. I didn't want to start another one without her."
Gilbert caught up with the lady of the hour and claimed a dance with her. He tried not to think too much of any ulterior motives.
"I believe congratulations are in order," he grinned down at her as they waltzed.
"Thank you, Gilbert, but really, it's courting, not an engagement!" Diana smiled, but blushed all the same.
"Well, to Fred it's Christmas all over again."
Diana smiled ever wider.
"To think I've missed my chance, now…" he lamented dramatically.
Diana gave him a decidedly pointed look. "Yes, I wonder why did you miss your chance?" her expression was all innocence.
His hazel eyes grew wide. "Well, Di, naturally it was understood you were far too good for me," he recovered smoothly.
Diana's smile was indulgent, but then she grew contemplative. "Actually, I believe I might know now."
"Oh?"
"Because of Fred," she smiled up at him, very sweetly.
Gilbert's cheeks warmed just a touch. "Well, he was my friend. And he's cared for you a very long time. I could hardly stand in the way of such devotion."
"Yes…" Diana wavered, looking down briefly. "I think I know he has."
"So no pressure on you there, then," Gilbert chuckled, and she couldn't help her own look of amusement.
"I guess you haven't heard from any of our other Kingsport acquaintances?" he nearly rolled his eyes at his own obviousness.
"Well, I hear Jane couldn't make it tonight because Harry Ingliss is taking her to a very special dinner at the hotel in White Sands…" Diana offered archly.
They all knew what that meant.
"Well, good for her," Gilbert offered sincerely. He had always liked the straight forward, intelligent girl. Her mother, of course, here tonight as most of their parents' were, casting her eagle eye over proceedings, was quite another matter.
"Yes, indeed," Diana nodded, equally pleased.
"I do hope that Phil is enjoying herself back home…" he had given up on any semblance of dignity now.
Diana's smile was knowing. "I think Alec has she and her guest rather rushed of their feet with amusing outings. Or maybe that was Alonzo…"
Gilbert gave up, rolling his eyes. "Take pity on me, Di!"
Diana gave a very merry laugh. "She's had a very nice time, Gilbert. I think she's looking forward to getting back to Kingsport, though."
"Aren't we all," he responded dryly.
Diana couldn't disagree with that after the events of earlier this evening. She looked over Gilbert's shoulder and was startled.
He had come. Always unobtrusive, despite his height, he could have been there five minutes or fifty, and one wouldn't have known. She cleared her suddenly dry throat, watching him pass quietly through the crowd, stopping to nod politely to older acquaintances or smile somewhat shyly at ones their own age. Gilbert noted her changed demeanour and followed her line of sight.
"Oh, hey!" he looked over. "There's someone I haven't seen in a while."
"Er, no…" Diana colored.
Gilbert caught his eye and nodded, smiling, and received a nod and a wave back.
"Actually, he'll be pretty pleased for you and Fred too, I should think," Gilbert reflected generously.
Diana felt as if someone had pummelled her in the chest.
"Yes, I'm sure…" she agreed distractedly.
The music had ended.
"Thank you, Gilbert. I… I think I might go and say hello to him. Before we up and leave again…"
"Sure, Diana. See you before things wind up tonight."
"Of course."
Diana was talking to him but he could see her dark eyes on the tall, fair headed arrival, and she began to drift towards him before she turned back to Gilbert quickly.
"Gilbert?"
"Yes, Di?"
"Fred waited a very long time regarding me. Don't spend too long regarding her."
Diana's look was troublingly pensive now. He would not insult her or their friendship by pretending he didn't know what she meant.
He gave his old, confident smile.
"Don't worry, Diana. I don't intend to."
Gilbert caught up with Priscilla and Ruby next, before Ruby moved off to entertain yet another dance partner and Pris started to regale him with anecdotes from her less-than-stellar family Christmas.
Pris glimpsed a certain tall figure over his shoulder. He was getting a little tired of that.
"Who is Diana talking to?" Pris frowned. "Do I know him?"
Gilbert smiled at her. "How soon they forget…" he shook his head despairingly.
"Forget what?" Pris seemed genuinely confused.
"He only spent most of a Saturday in your first year over at Carmody, up the roof of your schoolhouse. That was after you begged us to come fix all your leaks and shingles when he'd finished helping me fix up the schoolhouse here. Don't you even remember?"
"Oh yes…" Pris breathed. "Of course! It's just that… he looks so different."
Gilbert rolled his eyes. "It's called a suit, Pris. Look, even I'm wearing one!"
She gave him her droll smile. "Don't tease, Gilbert! Do you think that… well… you could reintroduce us? I'd like to thank him, you know. I never felt one drop of water from me from above ever again!"
"Of course I can…" he smiled. "That's if I remember…"
They would cross over to see him, but Diana had him in a very earnest conversation by the doors; this was no mere hello. He wondered what Di was doing, actually; she was friendly with him, obviously – they were all friendly with him, it was impossible not to be - and Fred perhaps most of all, with their similar interests and personalities – but time and circumstance had diverged their paths. Some of them had stayed on in Avonlea, one or two had gone or were likely to, and some, like Gilbert himself, lived a transitory existence in between.
He and Pris and now Fred, unsure whether to approach Diana from the other side, seemed to be the only ones, now, who saw Diana give him a letter. Gilbert noted his startled, stricken reaction to it, and it made him uneasy, though he hardly knew why. On the edges of the merriment in the hall, of the townsfolk readying themselves to usher in a new year, Tom Caruthers clutched Diana's hand as if his life depended on it, his face an unreadable mix of emotions, and then turned and walked out into the darkness, as unobtrusively as he had come.
Chapter Notes
"Then they walked home together in the dusk, crowned king and queen of the bridal realm of love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew." Anne of the Island (Ch. 41)
*Anne of the Island (Ch. 21)