A flash of red through the trees informed Gilbert that Anne was just ahead and suddenly his pulse increased. He hardly had a moment to examine his feelings in that moment as some of the other boys joined him but later lying in his bed that night the same image came to his mind. Red hair streaming out through the trees just ahead, so beautiful against the green. Anne. Anne Shirley. Anne. I mean, he thought it's just Anne. I know her, I travelled with her, she's just Ma's skivvy. She minds the kids. She's, she's, she's beautiful. The realisation hit him like a punch to the gut and he gasped. Anne Shirley is beautiful. The thought ran around his mind incessantly.
She infiltrates his dreams. He's always chasing her through some thick wood always just out of reach, her laughter mocking him as he reaches out to catch a lock of her beautiful hair. Gilbert woke with such a feeling of longing and he wished she would notice him, just once. Wished she would see him for who he really was.
His situation was not made any easier as Anne was living with them or if not actually in the house then nearby with Matthew. The two households were practically one these days. Sometimes his mother felt a little fragile and they'd all troop over to stay with Uncle Matthew or she might go there herself. Anne too randomly stayed in either house as need, or preference, dictated. It was agonising Anne's red hair; cute, dimpled cheeks and freckled nose seemed always to be on his periphery. Sometimes he could hardly breathe when she was in the vicinity. And Anne? Anne barely knew he existed. Gilbert was just a kid, the son of her employers; or so he imagined. She seemed to him somewhat like a titian goddess while he languished forever in childhood. It got so he could barely stammer out two words in her vicinity. She'd laugh and run off with her girlfriends and he'd be left behind cursing his inability.
When Mari had replaced Anne on board Gilbert had not paid much attention. Sure, he liked Mari, enjoyed her company. But it was only when Anne was no longer with them that he realised what he had lost. Mari just did not have the flair that Anne had in spades. She had no ability to conjure the stories that Anne managed effortlessly. She was a nice girl but that was all.
Gilbert fretted over the methods he might employ to get Anne to notice him. To see that he was growing now, no longer just a kid but a near man. Why he'd noticed a couple of dark hairs on his upper lip just the other day; surely that was proof that he was growing, that he was worthy of her attention.
Lying in the sunny garden one afternoon while little white butterflies danced above the flower beds Gilbert examined his feelings for Anne. What was it he liked about her? Well, there was her hair naturally. None of the other girls had anything like it. Their hair was mousy brown or crow black, nothing that caught the sunlight like Anne's did. Gilbert wished she wouldn't always wear it in braids, as if she were ashamed.
The sun was getting into his eyes, so Gilbert rolled over onto his front and propped himself up on his forearms cradling his chin in his hands. Then there was her ability with big words. The other kids laughed at her, but he never joined in. Surely her words expressed what was going on in her mind. I guess he thought, if you have big ideas you need big words to express them. They say eyes are the window to the soul, and of course Gilbert adored her big grey eyes. But really, he thought, it was her phrases that informed him what was going on in her mind.
Her propensity for mistakes was also attractive. They seemed to draw themselves to her. He was not privy to her reactions afterwards but saw that she pulled herself out of those tricky situations and just kept on going. That too he found endearing. She was strong and capable and resilient, and he found those admirable attributes. She was funny too, quick witted and kind. Really, he thought, Anne is perfection. Of course, there was just this one problem, she did not think of him in that way. Well Gilbert, he resolved, you'll just have to come up with a solution to that; a way to make her notice me.
Marilla found such comfort in the simple act of cooking. Strange she'd been not so much denied it for so long but rather it had been Isaiah's role. That was the natural order of things on the ship but now chopping the onions, though they made her cry, gave her the satisfaction of a job well done. Augmenting her mother's recipes with the precious spices Mr D had sent her one day brought her mother's old recipes to new vigour.
She had received the package solemnly, inhaling the evocative scents which took her back to Ceylon, Singapore and the other far-flung places they'd visited. Perhaps they did not smell quite as they had done; time and the sea voyage had dulled them somewhat, but they still thrilled her. When she handed a sachet to John, he inhaled too hard, and wound up coughing for some time as she handed him a glass of water. "Sorry," he said eyes streaming, "went down the wrong way." The kitchen, and by extension the whole house, smelt delicious when the family came in for their dinner. She had sent word for Mari to join them and together they sat down to a night of reminiscing. So long as they omitted the last few weeks their memories were by and large wonderful.
Marilla felt an overwhelming contentment. Sometimes she missed the ship, but not in these moments, when warm and dry the children sat around the kitchen table or higgledy piggledy in the parlour, smelling of the bath, wet hair steaming in the heat. Yes, then she was sure they'd made the right decision. Everyone was safe and happy. All was well.
And so nearly a year passed while they accustomed themselves to life on the land. Their lives mapped out by the turning of the seasons.
It started with a niggle. John would try to clear it and clear it and drink glass after glass of water, but he just couldn't quite shift that irritation in the back of his throat. No one paid it much mind until one night when he woke up coughing. Marilla thumped and rubbed his back to help him clear the obstruction, but nothing worked. Breathless and exhausted he slumped to sleep propped up on some pillows.
He blamed his fatigue the next day on his lack of sleep. Tasks that would have been perfectly easy sapped his energy and he found himself nodding off in the barn that afternoon. Marilla found him there in the hay fast asleep and kind woman that she was she covered him with a blanket instead of nudging him awake. She too was tired after their broken sleep and expected that was his problem too. They went to bed early that night and when John started coughing again, she got up with him. It was only when it started happening most nights that she started to worry.
She'd lie with him as he gasped for breath waiting for the drugs to do their job and talk to him to take his mind off it. "It's like we're weathering a storm at sea. Do you recall those nights? I'd be huddled in the cabin with the children praying for our deliverance and sometimes over the sound the storm I'd hear you shout out an order to the crew. Just the sound of your voice would bring me such peace, as though I was reminded that the best man was up on deck, you'd never let anything happen to us. This is a storm of a different nature, but with God's help we will weather it as well as we did those at sea."
"Only our roles are … reversed," John whispered, unable to summon the breath for louder speech.
Nights were hard. Marilla never could make up her mind which was worse; listening to John wrack his body with great coughs in the dark or to see the whites of his eyes in their mad panic while he gasped for breath. It seemed cowardly to do it in the pitch black as though she were ignoring him, so she put up the light and held him gently as he coughed and spluttered. Later she wiped the spittle from his chin and helped him sip the cocaine cough syrup the doctor prescribed. Then she fretted when John fell into a deep sleep beside her.
John's lack of energy caused issues with the running of the farm. She and Gilbert and later Matthew took up the slack, but it was evident something had to give. Having slept little through the night Marilla would rise before dawn and head out to the barn to milk. The walk out was hard, particularly on frosty mornings, but once there she rather relished those quiet moments with just the sweet breath of the cow as she kneaded its warm teats and heard the splash of the milk in the bucket. Marilla was not afforded many quiet moments in her day so this she savoured.
Outwardly Marilla stayed stalwart for the family though inwardly she was panicking. Only Rachel witnessed it, only Rachel would hold her as she wept in her arms. Then she would let Marilla rest on the sofa, covering her with a light blanket so she may catch up on the sleep she missed. Then refreshed in body if not in mind Marilla would thank Rachel for the break and head on up home to take John in his tea and start preparing dinner.
"There is hope," the doctor announced after one particularly bad bout when he examined a still shaky John. "The Prairie Cure, they call it. I warn you it's drastic. Two years away in the grasslands. They say the dry air helps the bronchia. By removing you from the evil influences of our unfavourable meteorological conditions and of this injurious PEI soil. The processes of respiration, digestion proceeds with sufficient energy to combat successfully the hereditary tendency or individual proclivity to pulmonary disease. The dry inland promotes open-air life, plain diet, and simple manners," he said pompously. He liked to encourage optimism in his patients.
"You can't go alone, John. You'll need help," Marilla stated all matter of fact though inside her heart was breaking. "Can't be me. I need to run the family and the farm." She ran through the possibilities in her mind. "Gilbert. You have to take the lad with you. He's the only one old enough."