I've been writing that previous scene so often in my head that I forgot that you, dear reader, hadn't been there with me.

Family legend has it that a great grandparent of mine died in a similar fashion.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that, please," Anne said, her voice wavering.

"My apologies Ma'am." Constable Burke was well used to such a response, no one ever could process such devastating news. "I regret to inform you that your husband, Mr Royal Gardner was struck by a horse and carriage on Longspell Road at approximately 3pm this afternoon and as a result of his injuries, ma'am, I very much regret to inform you that he is deceased." Anne had been trying very hard to keep up with his speech, her large grey eyes tilted up towards his. At his final word, Constable Burke noticed her eyes slip back into their sockets and he caught her as she drifted to the floor, being well used to that reaction also.

Anne came to in her bed some hours later. It was well and truly dark now; the room dimly lit by the light of a single wavering candle flame. She lay there for a moment gathering her thoughts. She had no memory of getting into bed. She had been in the parlour and then she was here, snug and warm under her covers. Reaching out for Roy she found nothing but a coolness on the other side of the bed. With a gasp, it all came flooding back. The anxious wait, the knock, the news and then, and then. Had she swooned? She hadn't done that since she fell off the Barry's roof and broke her ankle all those years ago. She noticed a figure by her side, by its size, Nancy. "Begging your pardon, ma'am," Nancy whispered. "I am truly sorry."

"So, I wasn't dreaming then?"

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry to say you wasn't. Mr Roy past away, Mrs Gardner; the older one came by. Hysterical like, but you was out to it so Miss Gardner took her home. You've been out for a few hours, ma'am. I been sitting with you."

Anne licked her lips, "might I have a drink of water?"

Nancy poured some water into a glass and handed it over as Anne moved up the bed to sitting position. She sighed after her draught. "It's real then," she said again.

"Yes ma'am. Miss Aline went to see him, the constable needed someone to identify him like. She came home all shivery and tearful, but it's him. He's," she paused, "gone."

"I'll be fine, Nancy, thank you for looking after me, but it's late, you get yourself to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

Alone and conscious at last Anne had time to reflect. Had she been happy? Well to finally tell the truth she had not been. She had been lonely. Not only Mother Gardner but also Roy had been isolating her. Now she was alone who were the people she could rely upon? Phil and Jonas, naturally. Dorothy maybe, though surely, she would be her mother's daughter more than Anne's friend. And other than that?

She hadn't hated Roy, far from it, he could be wonderful. But. Anne examined her heart, her soul, and found herself not quite grieving him. Grief there was yes, but it was more, she realised, at what their relationship had devolved into. She had felt more like an inconvenience to him, especially as he had not known about the baby. Anne caressed her stomach. Oh yes, there you are. I had almost forgotten about you. Darling one, you'll never meet your father. I am so terribly sorry about that. That set her to wondering what sort of a father he might have been. Somehow, she couldn't see him down on the floor playing with children as she expected her own father might have done had he lived. Well, we have something in common there, she murmured. I never knew my father either. Though I pray you'll know me well enough.

Her musings kept her up well into the night. She woke to a grasping hand on her upper arm and looked across groggily. "Get up you lazy thing," Mother Gardner cried. "You can't stay in bed all day long."

Dorothy pulled her mother away, imploring Anne to rise when she could. Anne watched them go impassively as though she were far from the events unfolding around her as though it was all happening to someone else. Still, she knew she had to get up sometime. Taking her time, because it suited her and as a bonus, she knew it might infuriate her mother-in-law, she eventually made her way downstairs. "I apologise," she said when she saw Mother Gardner in the parlour. "I didn't sleep well."

"Well how do you think I am?" Mrs Gardner said. "My only son is dead. My pride and joy. I didn't sleep a wink. Then I come over here to discuss the matter with you and find you sound asleep without a care in the world."

"Now Mother," Aline murmured.

"What are your plans?" Mrs Gardner demanded.

"I, um, well."

"It might be too early for Anne to have any," Dorothy replied on her behalf. "Roy is barely."

"Yes, she's right," Anne interrupted. "You'll have to give me a bit of time. I'm still coming to terms with it all."

"I will want the house back," demanded Mrs Gardner. "It's been in the family for generations. You might have been married to its latest owner, but as you are no longer…"

Anne blinked rapidly. Roy was barely cold, and his mother was throwing out of her home. Roy's sisters murmured their concerns, even Aline seemingly on her side for once, but Mrs Gardner was adamant. "You have no claim on it any longer. You can move, well you can move away. Find a little cottage perhaps. I'm moving back in, and I don't want you here. I'll stay here with my memories of my son."

"He was my husband; I'll ask you to remember."

"Unhappily, yes. But as you weren't completing your wifely role, I think we can forget it ever happened."

Anne gasped at unhappily. Had Roy been unhappy, had that been the problem? "Be that as it may, I still have the right to live here." But she ran out of fight; the energy required dissipating as fast as it surged. In all events as it happened, she no longer wanted to live there herself, surrounded by memories of a man she now realised she had ceased to love. "Very well," Anne said icily. "You know what, be my guest. I'm leaving." She strode out of the parlour only to collapse in her bedroom. What had she ever done to that woman, she had tried to get her to like her, but it had never worked. Just when they could have been united in grief, Mrs Gardner chose to turn it into another source of contention. Dorothy followed her into the room and Anne greeted her with tears coursing down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," Dorothy said. "She's grieving too, remember."

"As am I," Anne sobbed. "it's not a competition. Why can't we grieve together? Like you and I? I'm so sorry that you lost your brother."

"Thank you darling, that is very sweet of you. It's just terrible isn't it. Makes you realise just how precarious life can be. He was always a good brother to me." Echoes of that phrase pulled Anne back to her childhood, Marilla had said those very words when dear Matthew had passed away. Anne, who had never had a brother found it hard to appreciate the closeness of that relationship. "I'm so very sorry, Dorothy. It's just a tragedy. What do you thin…" she paused. "No, it's too soon. I apologise." She shook her head. "What am I supposed to do now? Where does your mother think I'll go?"

"Do you have any friends you could stay with?"

Anne blew her nose before replying. "Only Phil and Jonas, but their place is tiny. They'd put me up in a heartbeat, I know it, but I couldn't stay there more than a day or two, there's no room. Don't concern yourself, darling Dorothy. I'll sort something out."

As it happened, she did not go to Phil's. It was as she'd said, tiny. She had become too used to the finer things in life, the thought of even a night in their house, sleeping on their cramped couch did not appeal. Instead after a hurried conversation with Nancy she set off for home.

It was quite the journey, a train to Halifax and thence to the ferry terminal. There she paced until the ferry took her across. At Charlottetown she could found herself increasingly impatient. The train to White River could not come soon enough and when she alighted at the station there that evening, she could not bear to spend the night until a ride could be found the next morning. Leaving her baggage to come on after her, she set off on foot. The night was dark, but like a homing pigeon she knew her way. Stumbling along the road she half ran; half jogged the sooner to have her journey over. The only thought in her head was that she needed to be home, to be where she was loved in Marilla's warm and comforting embrace.

Finally, by the familiar Green Gables door she paused. It was late, she could hardly barge in now, this wasn't her home any longer. Indecision came crashing down. What was she doing? She had hardly thought what she should do, she had just run. But now standing before the back door the realisation of what she was doing weighed heavily upon her.

Marilla had the strangest feeling as though there was something amiss. Unable put her finger upon it she looked up from her knitting. The twins were in bed, and it was, as far as she knew, just her and Rachel by the fire. "Hm, what is it?" Rachel enquired.

Marilla shook her head, "probably nothing." But she couldn't settle. Putting her knitting down she got to her feet.

"Marilla?"

"Just give me a moment." Marilla cast her gaze around the room and shook her head; the feeling persisted. Walking out to the door she paused to listen once more.

"You'll catch your death!" Rachel called after her. "And what if there are ruffians out there," she muttered to herself searching for the fireiron.

Striding to the door, Marilla flung it open. There on the doorstep was her daughter, her Anne. Bedraggled she cast her beloved grey eyes up to Marilla's and with a sob collapsed into her arms.

"What on earth?" Rachel came to Marilla's side the iron clattering to the floor. "Goodness gracious, Anne. We thought you were in Kingsport."

"Shh, give her time."

"Oh my, look at the state of her feet." Anne's shoes, perfect for city life had quite fallen to pieces on her trip across the island and her bare toes peeked though, grimy with the red dirt. "I'll put the kettle on," Rachel said into Marilla's ear.

Leading Anne through to the parlour, Marilla thanked her lucky stars the twins were asleep; she didn't think she could stand Davy's brand of inquisitiveness right now. "Now we'll sit down, and you can tell me everything." She nodded when Rachel pressed a mug of warm tea into Anne's hand and backed away. Much as she wanted to know what was up, for once Rachel understood the need for mother daughter privacy.

Anne sipped enjoying the warmth the tea bestowed. Taking a deep breath she said, "he's dead."

"Dead? Who's dead darling?"

Anne swallowed hard, and whispered, "Roy."

"Oh my, oh Anne."

Anne lapsed into silence, utterly spent.

Realising she was unlikely to get anything further out of her girl that night Marilla led her upstairs. Dora had long since taken over the little gabled room, had made it her own when Anne moved away to college. That left only the far side of the bed. Fitting though, thought Marilla as she rummaged for a spare nightie. Anne won't be used to sleeping alone, but she supressed that thought for the idea that Anne had done adult acts albeit with her husband disturbed her.

Once they were both under the covers, Marilla sighed and held her girl close, murmuring she asked, "what are we gonna do now?"

"I don't know. I don't know what to do."

"We have to tell the children; they'll have to know I can't hide you forever."

"Then I'll tell them the truth, Roy has died, and I missed everyone so much I came home."

"Children," Marilla said over breakfast. "I have a surprise for you."

Marilla hardly the sort of woman to spring treats upon her kin had well and truly shocked the twins. They clamoured for attention and Marilla knew she could hardly close them down. Anne was there and they'd have to be told regardless of their behaviour. "Fiddlesticks," she said. "All this commotion for a little news." Anne appeared behind her on the stair and the children balked. "Anne! Bully!" shouted Davy while Dora in her more placid manner, grinned.

"Good morning children," Anne said. "It is lovely to see you. But I'm afraid I have some sad news." Marilla looked up, she wasn't sure if the children should be told straight away, though she supposed there was no getting around it. Anne continued. "The thing is that Roy is gone. He was struck by a bolting horse and died instantly. I've decided I don't want to live in Kingsport without him, so I came home to be with you all."

Dora burst into tears and even Davy looked rather emotional. He hadn't cared much for Roy, but he understood that Anne must be hurting at the loss of her husband. They both hugged Anne tightly rather awed by her news. The mood had understandably shifted as they sombrely sat down to breakfast. "It is terribly, sad, of course," said Anne. "And you are all so sweet to welcome me back home."

"Do you want your room back, Anne?" Dora asked.

Anne smiled at her, "that is so sweet of you to offer, darling. But no, it's yours now, as it should be. I'll be sleeping next to Marilla for the time being."

Dora smiled inwardly, it wasn't right to feel this way, but she was pleased. Much as she adored Marilla, she enjoyed having her own space, as Davy did.

"Now children, it's time to get ready for school. Have you got your lessons, you lunch is on the kitchen table," Rachel said breaking the mood in a most practical manner.

"Aww," Davy whined. "I wanna stay home with Anne."

"No, darling. I'll be here when you get home. But I don't want you to miss out on your education."

Forlorn, Davy gathered his things and with many a backward glance the twins set off for school. "Thank you," Marilla said.

"It's for the best anyway," said Anne, "we have lots to think about, don't we."