The next morning, The twins, screamed like banshees and rang the old cowbell up and down the stairs until everyone was awake. The sun was barely up over the fields, a mist hanging in the air, but he was already used to many an early morning and awakenings of a much more rude nature.
Marilla, still in her house coat, shrieked at Davy in a way that meant he was surely in trouble, the mortification clear on her face. Katherine Brooke, Anne's guest, merely laughed away the early morning in the same way he had it seemed.
Before even breakfast or a decent cup of coffee or tea, the seven of them had gathered in the parlor to open gifts. He remembered the magic of Christmas morning when he was the twins' age. No breakfast would be had until presents were distributed and opened.
The twins tore through theirs like little whirlwinds. Paper flying in all directions. Various toys and tools from each of them. Once their presents were opened, the rest of them, the adults took turns going around in a circle, opening one at a time.
Anne sat next to him on the sofa, but was nothing but the picture of prim and proper. Nothing like they had been over the summer, when she couldn't stop touching him nor he touching her in the smallest of ways. Holding a hand here, brushing fingertips against a forearm there. Three years was hard, being together for a few weeks a year, during the summer and around the holidays, they couldn't stop holding on somehow and hoping the other was real.
If this was what a mustache did to her, he swore he would never wear facial hair again. Even if he was in his thirties and had more children than fingers on one hand.
The first few rounds, starting with the oldest, Mrs. Lynde or Marilla neither would tell, and then ending with Anne, the youngest since the twins had demolished their gifts before they could even be counted, the gifts were beautiful and heart felt. Everyone had gotten Katherine Brooke a gift, even though she had brought nothing for them.
Anne had written extensively about how closed off and bitter the poor woman was. Her plan had been to thwart that out of her as only Anne Shirley could was brilliant. The puppy in the hatbox was part of it, and Katherine's eyes lit up even more than the twins' had that morning.
Anne had given him an expensive pen, with a loving note to write more letters in the time remaining now that he had a "decent pen to write with". Marilla and Mrs. Lynde had both knit him a new hat and a scarf in matching pattern. The twins had gifted him a journal from Dora and what looked suspiciously like a tobacco tin from Davy, most likely from the quarters he'd been given to turn a blind eye while he was a chaperone. Not that he would ever smoke tobacco, especially if a mere mustache had turned Anne so cold, but the sentiment was nice enough.
Next to him, Anne had received beautiful gifts from her family. Marilla had gifted her a cookbook of handwritten recipes "for when you're building your house of dreams". Apparently he wasn't the only one who she had talked to extensively about their future together. Mrs. Lynde had gifted her a scarf and hat similar to the pattern she had made Gilbert's in, though with lighter colors.
"I always detested when women matched their beaus, but I'll make an exception with the wait you two have left." Always had to have a say, even on Christmas.
From Dora, a sachet of dried herbs with recipes for teas and salves. From Davy, a very expensive pen, no doubt one she would find scratchy, but she loved it nonetheless.
From him, Anne had received a lovely pile of stationary to send him more letters with. Apparently Diana had had the same idea, since hers was nearly identical with gentle flowers painted on the edges of the paper. Diana's had soft pink roses. His had lilies, the ones Anne always raved about that grew in Avonlea. She kissed him demurely on the cheek for the gift, but then once again withdrew any kind of touches.
When all the gifts were opened, save the last one, wrapped in brown paper by his mother, confusion moved around the room. Marilla and Mrs. Lynde knew it wasn't from them, Katherine Brooke denied any knowledge of it and so did Anne.
"It's from me," Gilbert admitted. He stood and pulled the box from under the tree and passed it to Anne.
She looked back up at him with her soft grey eyes, her brows dented in confusion. "But I thought—" They had written about not going overly extravagant for Christmas and birthdays, to save money for their house of dreams.
"I didn't spend a dime on it," he reassured her with a soft smile. "Go ahead," he said. "Open it."
Anne's gaze lingered on him longer than was comfortable, but after a time, her attention moved to the brown paper package. She pulled it away in a gentle way that was so Anne, careful of the paper, most likely to be used later for something else if Marilla had something to say about it. Her gaze returned to him once she realized what it was.
"I believe this was meant to be for you," She said, passing it back his way.
He shook his head. "No," he said gently. "It's intended for you." Then, he realized he would have to explain. "Every few years, for Christmas, my father lets my mother shave his beard and give him a haircut. It started out as something they did when they were young, mainly to please her parents who didn't approve of facial hair, but the tradition stuck." He caught her gaze and held it. "She gives him a shave and a haircut on Christmas morning and he brings her a bouquet of her favorite flowers whenever he can throughout the year."
Anne always loved a good romantic story. He hoped it would help break whatever tension had grown between them due to the offending mustache across his upper lip.
"I was hoping we could make it a tradition of our own."
Anne looked down at the kit, then back to him again. For a long while, she didn't say anything. "I don't know the first thing about shaving a man," she said, the small nervous smile on her face nearly infectious.
He couldn't help the smile and nervous laugh that bloomed in response. "I'll teach you," he said, suddenly feeling the moment was a lot more intimate than it should have been with the seven of them all huddled in the sitting room. "That is if you can manage your temper with a blade in your hand, Carrots."
Her cheeks grew pink, then red, the fury boiling just underneath, but not quite. Gone was the impetuous young girl who flew off the handle at the unfortunate nickname. "I will certainly do my best, Mr. Blythe!" Even the way she said his name was more tame.
Marilla laughed. "All this fuss can wait until after breakfast," She said.
Mrs. Lynde laughed in response. "I'm sure after all this the poor sausages are cooked dry." A look of a quiet knowing to Marilla. "No one, not even my Thomas liked his sausages too dry. Why, he's rolling in his grave just thinking of them."
To appease Mrs. Lynde and their growling stomachs, the seven of them moved to the kitchen for breakfast. Anne sat next to him, their secret touches back as if she had never forgotten them. Nearly everything was right with the world in that moment, but he couldn't wait for what was to happen after breakfast.