My most beloved wife

We arrived and have secured lodgings in the quaintly named Medicine Hat. It's a humble cottage but should keep us warm and dry. Gilbert and I don't need much after all.

I thought of you often, my darling, on our long journey west. The mountains are very grand and make one feel quite small and insignificant; and now the prairies stretch as wide and far as the eye can see and wider even than that, so they say. We are on a sea of grass now, this little cottage our ship.

Poor Gilbert, he did not protest but I fear he is in for a hard time of it. Tending to his sick father; parted from his beloved mother, and all his friends. We have had some good chats; well as much as I can manage, I run out of puff mid-sentence more often than not. That is something I do not fear as I write these lines to you. You cannot hear me; I can be more voluble on paper than I am in person.

Before we left you mentioned the storms at sea, and it made me realise that our positions were reversed. You are the master or should I say mistress of our ship now. I wonder what you will make of this new challenge. If you believed that I was calm under pressure know that I too understand your sheer panic at the thought that our ship may founder. But I have faith in you my darling Marilla. You have ever been the family's foundation.

Never think that I do not appreciate all you have done for me over the years. I well understood the depth of your courage when you ran away with me. I know you did not take that decision lightly, that leaving your mother was the hardest thing you ever did. It makes my heart ache that you never got to see her again. You said that Rachel and Matthew have eased your pain, yet I know what a sacrifice you made.

Perhaps I almost, well not so much took you for granted for I could never do that but forgot how I relied upon you. When you collapsed, I was brought to a reckoning. The thought of a Marilla-less world was something I could not countenance. Perhaps recklessly I took you through the surf and on an overlong journey home, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that if anyone could save you, it was Rachel. I thank the good Lord above every day that my decision was correct. I pray that she is even now assisting you through this new tempest.

It was sheer torture when our train rounded the bend and your waving arms passed out of sight. I promised I would never leave you again. Twice was more than enough, I left you and little Gilbert at home and went away to sea that first time and then when you were with Rachel. I vowed then and there never to be parted again, but this terrible disease has forced me to break my promise. I will do my best to recuperate and pray that I will be back in your arms again soon my love.

I remain
Your ever-loving husband

John

Marilla read his words somewhat bitterly and then chastised herself for her reaction. It was not John's fault that he was ill. Yet here she was languishing at home with the little children to tend to and the farm to mind. Stretching out her aching hands red with chilblains after a week spent pruning in the first frosts of autumn, she wished not for the first time that it had not come to this. Susanna woke from her nap and cried fretfully. Marilla let the letter fall on the table and made her way to the cot.

Mostly she feared for her mental health. What if she sank into melancholia again? She felt at times those dark days were not far away, as if the burden of tending to it all could so easily have her falling again. That she could not was at once a blessing and a curse. She had such responsibilities so those black thoughts must be kept at bay.

Matthew was a great help as always, not merely in the field but other ways too. They kept up their joint caring for the boys. Matthew would take them away for the evening and she would relax as peace descended upon the house like a blanket. A few hours was all she needed and the next day she would welcome them back with open arms listening with keen interest to their latest exploits while Matthew looked on fondly.

Anne was a great help with the baby, Marilla felt she had better stop referring to Susanna thusly. She had knocked her chest against the door when she opened it the other day and her breasts had ached afterwards in a manner that had her wondering. They had made love on John's last night; initially merely relishing the closeness of skin-to-skin contact knowing it would be the last time for a while, and things progressed. When her courses did not arrive as normal a couple of weeks later her suspicions were confirmed and she wrote her news to John with trepidation. He would be no use to her during this trying time. A baby should be a time of great joy, but Marilla felt a certain dread.

John wrote back with false enthusiasm but even he could not hide a certain nervousness; not least because of how things went last time but also because he would not be around to help. There was also the worry that either he or Marilla might not survive the next nine months. He made no mention of this to her though; he was sure she felt the same way but hoped that by not commenting they might avoid disaster. It was superstitious he knew, but he had no way to answer that.

Marilla informed Matthew who, kind man that he was, did not utter unbridled joy but instead hugged her gently, saying that he was sure everything would be well. When she confided in Rachel, she too was a tower of strength, "you'll be fine Marilla." They were heartening but somehow once again it was little Goliath who provided the most comfort. Without the wherewithal to say anything, positive or negative, she found herself able to pour her heartache out to him. As hard as they tried neither Matthew nor Rachel struck quite the right note and John was too far away. Goliath was the perfect listener. "I just don't know how I'll cope," she whispered to him one night. His small brown eyes glinted in the candlelight before he nestled in under her chin, his small form a comforting presence in her otherwise cold bed.

Of course, she was exhausted too and that didn't help with all the other chores she had to accomplish every day. She encouraged Susanna to go down for a nap in the afternoon and joined her, falling asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. She would stir an hour or so later to find Susanna playing on the bed quite happily. Marilla was never sure if the child had slept at all, but if she had let Marilla sleep what did it matter?

The boys were told as soon as it became apparent and they were curious about babies in general asking a myriad of questions which Marilla did not feel up to answering. "You'll know more when you're older," was all that she said, somewhat lamely; wishing that their father was there to help.

In the small cabin perched on the edge of the prairie town, panting after a coughing fit John asked Gilbert how he was coping, "can't be easy for you son. I'm sorry to drag you away . from all your friends." His respiratory distress evident when he paused mid-sentence.

"S'right," said Gilbert unwilling to divulge. He'd been recalling a particularly embarrassing episode.

John looked at him quizzically, "ho.w so?"

"It's nothing."

"No, what you do mean? Were you having problems back . there?" John was confused now; was bringing Gilbert all the way out here something of a blessing for the boy?

Gilbert looked down at his lap and twisted his hands uncomfortably. Sighing deeply he said, "Anne."

"Anne? Anne Shirley your mother's girl?" Unwilling to meet his father's eyes, Gilbert shrugged. "Tell me son," John urged, completely mystified.

Despite having known each other for years Gilbert's problem lay in getting Anne to see him as a potential suitor rather than a child. He resolved to make her change her mind one way or the other. His idea lacked finesse, but she noticed him alright.

It was another boring afternoon when the teacher, Mr Phillips droned on and on lecturing them about themes in the book they were reading. He was not an inspiring teacher, preferring to rule with sarcasm and ridicule. Gilbert's mind was miles away as he gazed upon the back of Anne's head, her two red braids dangling down and disappearing below the back of her chair. Gilbert had held the door open for Anne that morning as they left home but she had ignored him as she had done for years. Gilbert's heart burned for her, but she was oblivious.

While everyone had their eyes on the page Mr Phillips was referring to Gilbert leaned in and whispered "carrots," in Anne's ear and on a whim pulled one of those striking braids for good measure. Now she'd notice him for sure. He expected they would have a good giggle about it over the dinner table that night. His mother would gently chide him perhaps, but she would understand he meant it in good faith.

Notice him Anne did, but not in the way he expected. Instead, Anne leapt to her feet grabbed her slate and slammed it across the side of his head while the rest of the class looked on in delight. She got into trouble for it too, which made him feel terrible. He tried to intervene, but Mr Phillips would have none of it. Anne was made to stand in front of the class for the remainder of the day. Gilbert tried to look his apologies at her, but he could see the fire in her eyes as she stood resolutely still and refused to look his way.

When school was let out, she stormed off as he called to her. Home was no better. Goliath picked up her mood and when he tried to say how sorry he was the monkey flung cow dung at his head mercilessly. Ducking the barrage Gilbert tried to apologise once more but was beaten back when some of the stuff landed in his mouth. Spitting the manure out he left to find some water to wash the shit out. As he left, he could hear Anne laughing and praising the monkey for his efforts, "you're my little Prince Charming, aren't you Goliath. You won't let the nasty boy be mean to me."

His mother found him by the water butt. He looked up at her, she had been baking and had flour in her hair. The memory of her in that moment brought a tear to his eye even now sitting in their small shack in the middle of the prairie. Gilbert finished his story before his memory got the better of him.

Inwardly John was laughing, but he commiserated with his son, "hm, so you didn't get quite the reaction you were expecting then?"

"Uh huh," Gilbert shook his head mortified even now months later. "She hasn't spoken to me since, except to say, 'pass the potatoes'. I really like her Dad, she's wonderful. I was such an idiot. I don't know how to get her to forgive me."

"Women's forgiveness is a mystery son," John said placatingly. "The biggest mystery of all. Perhaps a couple of years apart won't be the worst thing. Maybe time will heal that wound."