Hello Anne-girls
I always have several different versions of Anne and Gilbert rattling around in my head at any given time, and this version is one of two featuring an older Anne and Gil and their second-chance story.
I have been sitting on this half-completed story for a long time, wondering at the foolhardiness of introducing another narrative when I am still working on completing my other three. And then I thought, life's too short! Really, what does it matter?!
This story owes a debt to many of the beloved, like-minded stories that have come before, most dating from my earliest time on this site. They are my comfort food; I hope you have found some stories that have become yours.
My chapter titles use as inspiration the titles from many classic and recognizable works from the nineteenth and early twentieth century… hopefully not too audaciously! Regarding structure, please note the dates at the beginning of chapters, but for the most part, chapters will alternate between the present (1895 leading into 1896) and the past (beginning during Gilbert's typhoid in the summer of 1887) and backfill the eight years in between.
Thank you for reading this new endeavour!
With love
MrsVonTrapp x
THE TELL-TALE HEART
Chapter One
To Have and Have Not
Avonlea
July 1887
Gilbert's fever broke with the dawn.
Outside, the mighty storm of that previous nightmarish night had upended trees by their roots and strewn the Blythe's orchards with broken branches and debris halfway to Green Gables.
Inside, in that upstairs boyhood room, an exhausted Dr Spencer completed his examination of the sweat-soaked patient, tiredly shuffling out onto the landing to the three figures swaying with their own fatigue, eyes wild with worry, hands gripping one another tightly, as if to transmit any flicker of hope by touch alone. The good doctor's slow smile was the only answer any required; their grateful, relieved sobs rent the quiet early morning air.
Later, Bernadette Blythe, directed to sit as if an important guest at her own table, watched the young woman pace quietly about her kitchen, brewing tea, unloading foodstuffs left by the good townsfolk that might approximate their breakfast, and pressing her to consume something – anything – in order to nourish her own strength, so drained by Gilbert's ordeal.
She was all eyes and hair, this one, and more than most Anne Shirley wore her emotions on her face; the silent, almost pitiful pleading when she had appeared on their doorstep unannounced – and absolutely unexpectedly - four nights ago; the wide-eyed flash of fear over the doctor's warnings to prepare themselves for the worst; the stubborn determination in the set of her pointed chin when others had worried about the propriety of her being here at all. It was a scandal in the making, to be sure, but none of them had the energy or the desire to fight that battle today, when the war waged upstairs had consumed them so entirely.
What Bernadette concentrated on was the memory of the blazing green of the fierce devotion in those eyes as Anne had clutched Gilbert's hand as he lay, thrashing in the bed, moaning incomprehensibly, the young hired nurse bewildered and out of her depth, his father helpless in attempts to settle him and she herself weeping in the corner. Anne Shirley had challenged, cajoled and finally calmed; whether their boy heard her words or merely the sound and cadences of her voice, it hardly mattered. From then, he only responded to her and her alone, till the previous night, when it seemed the storm itself was calling to him, his temperature climbing and Gilbert heedless to anything but the voices in his head as he was gripped by the worst of his delirium.
But now, John napped in the chair by the bed as Gilbert slept soundly, their embodiment of a miracle, and she sat downstairs opposite the girl who might have once been her daughter-in-law, sipping her tea.
"Anne…" Bernadette hesitated to even begin.
Those eyes surveyed the older woman with a sad resignation, guessing her question before it was asked.
"Yes, Mrs Blythe," she sighed. "I know."
Bernadette could hardly fathom the complexities of Anne Shirley's relationship with Gilbert, any more than probably Anne herself. Gilbert had arrived home after the incredible achievements of this year and the bright, shining future glimmering before him as crestfallen and quiet as if he'd failed utterly. But of course, academics had not been on his mind, they realized, and too late were they also in comprehending the insidious illness that already had their boy in its deathly grip.
And Anne Shirley, come home triumphantly herself, in every possible way; briefly back in Avonlea before returning to Kingsport and her wealthy fiancé and her fast-approaching wedding. There had been an initial sighting of that huge diamond dwarfing that delicate finger, but it had been hidden for days now, and did not look likely to reemerge.
"What will you do?" the older woman probed.
That flash of green again; that tilted chin. "I will stay until Gilbert is well and truly recovering, with your blessing."
"That is not my question, love, and you know it."
Anne's lips tightened, and it appeared Gilbert's honest - and often uncompromising- forthrightness came more from his mother than she had ever realized.
"I… I must end it, of course…" her eyes welled with sudden tears. "With Mr Gardner. It really… well, it really should never have even begun."
Bernadette suspected as much, given Anne's most recent behaviour, having noted her unquestioned, undeniable devotion and her incredible change of heart, overwhelmingly obvious to all, but was kind enough not to make a point of it and grateful on Gilbert's behalf all the same.
"And… Gilbert? Do you now have… expectations?"
The tears Bernadette witnessed became a torrent, threatening to water the young woman's tea.
"Mrs Blythe! I wouldn't dare to ever presume! And I wouldn't know if… that is, I just want to see him well again and I…"
Her inarticulateness spoke more than any pretty speech.
"Anne, dear, please calm yourself. I just need to know that... he won't ever be hurt…" she paused, "again." Bernadette's words were threaded with old worry and a new quiet, steely resolve.
Anne swallowed with difficulty. Of course, the Blythes had known, or at least strongly suspected, the reason behind her and Gilbert's estrangement… of her refusal of him and of the close camaraderie that had evaporated as if smoke on the air… even if he had never spoken of it, as she for the longest time had never spoken of it… they knew Gilbert. So, of course they had known.
Those huge, haunted eyes surveyed his mother mournfully, cheeks flaming with the shame of her past actions, and the hopeless confusion of her present course.
"I'd cut off my right arm rather than hurt him again!" Anne Shirley whimpered.
Oh, yes – there it was. The passion of the girl who could break a slate, break his heart but also help break a fever. Could it mend, now, that passion? Could it now heal rather than destroy?
"I'm sure it won't quite come to that, love," Bernadette Blythe finally allowed a smile.
In the hush of a still, dreamy summer afternoon, a world away from the previous evening's tempest, Anne was given leave to visit with Gil privately, with the door ajar and his father and the nurse just down the hall, staring at this pale, gaunt figure who was both a stranger and as familiar to her as her own reflection.
Propped up on pillows, washed and laundered and feeling no doubt like he had been hung out to dry, he stared as she stared and she searched for the remnants of her old Gilbert; the bright hazel eyes, now thankfully clear and not glazed over with fever; the brown curls damp with new perspiration against that dark brow now more noble than ever; his fine nose and splendid chin; the cheekbones now disconcertingly razor-sharp in his too-lean face; the full lips now colorless against the unnatural alabaster of that once-tanned complexion.
"Anne," he rasped.
"Hello, Gilbert," she smiled tremulously.
The ache and the struggle were still evident in his voice. "So you weren't… another hallucination, after all."
She wavered, her resolution to be calm and to carry out the doctor's advice to not excite him already on dangerous ground. "Do you wish I had been?"
His own smile, still closer to a grimace, tried to tug at the corners of his mouth, attempting to lift them as if a heavy weight. "I don't think I would have dreamed of you yelling at me… on my sickbed."
"You… remember?" she gasped.
"Some," he paused, attempting to swallow. "A lot of it is just a blur… sounds too loud and light too bright and… and… the heat like a fire, a furnace ready to consume me…"
"Oh, Gilbert!" she cried, swaying uncertainly in the doorway, tears spilling over already flushed cheeks. "Don't!"
"Don't?"
"Don't scare me anymore! We've spent days and nights in perpetual fear of losing you, and I don't want to relive a single moment of it!"
He blinked at her rapidly, concentrating on her face as if he was trying to translate her words from an unfamiliar language he hadn't quite mastered.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry… I only meant… I was trapped in a fire, but your touch was cool, and your words were… like water."
This broke her, and she continued to weep, trying to hold in the tears with white knuckles against her tired grey eyes.
"Anne…" he attempted again, struggling to sit further up in bed, his expression wretched. "Anne… please. Don't cry. Please come and sit down. I can't… I don't… understand. None of this is making any sense."
Anne crept over to the chair, wishing she hadn't forfeited her borrowed apron before she had come up to him, finally taking the corner of her dress in desperation and dabbing at her eyes, whilst Gilbert stared again at her uncomprehendingly.
"Let's start again…" he took a few deep, wheezy breaths, trying to compose himself. "Thank you, Anne, for being here. I felt you here with me, and I can't tell you what a difference it made. I'm very, very grateful. Only…" he looked away, searching for the words, swallowing again noisily and taking another breath, before turning back to her, "only, I don't quite know why you are here…"
Anne steadied herself, her answer frustratingly – and uncharacteristically - logical. "You were so sick, Gilbert. I had to come."
He frowned at this. "Anne, we have hardly spoken in two years."
"It doesn't mean I didn't care about you, then, or now!"
His blazing look to her was almost frightening. "You do?"
Now it was her turn to swallow carefully, and her cheeks flamed at the admission. "Yes."
Gilbert's jaw seemed to be working fiercely to check the words that wanted to flow from his mouth as a gush of hurt and denial and tangled emotions. He feared she really was still an hallucination and he was in some torturous fever dream, trapped forever… as in one of Dante's circles of Hell.
He gritted his teeth.
"Anne… how can you be here and yet engaged to someone else?"
"You know?" she paled.
His look to her was unfathomable.
"Of course I know, Anne! It was a forgone conclusion for every second of those two years! And that was before I had the pleasure of reading it in the damned newspaper!"
His outburst prompted a frightful fit of hacking, horrifying coughs, which had Anne in a flurry to fetch him some water, bringing his own father to look in on them warily around the door.
"Gil?" his father asked.
"It's fine, Dad," Gilbert muttered tersely, breathing heavily. "Thank you."
"Maybe I should –" Anne indicated helplessly towards the exit.
"No, Anne. Please stay," Gilbert directed, as firmly as his battered baritone would allow.
Mr Blythe contemplated Gilbert and his guest, brows drawing together.
"Take it easy there, son," he warned, his departing look, and his words, also encompassing Anne in mild, unspoken request.
Gilbert nodded, looking to Anne who still stood uncertainly by the chair, holding onto it as if she required the support. For the first time he properly took in her straggling hair… the dark circles under her eyes stark against her fair skin… her trembling lips… her pale hands not their usual ivory-smooth but redder and slightly chafed, as if she had scrubbed at floors or clothing or bedding in her efforts to spare his mother some of her recent domestic burdens. This was not the Anne of a leisurely summer, gallivanting with Gardner and mulling over bridal dress fabrics. She had been here, in this hell… with him.
"I'm sorry, Anne," he croaked.
Her depthless grey eyes flew back to his.
"No, Gilbert! I'm the one who's sorry. I've upset you and they told me not to! I really shouldn't be here! I've made a mess of this as I've made a mess of everything!"
Gilbert tried not to wince at her strident tone, the words stabbing at his brain in every conceivable way.
"You want to talk about messes to the would-be medical student… who went and got himself typhoid?"
His bad joke was so surprising she was brought up short, before meeting his eyes, noting the tiny flicker of a tease, so beloved and so sorely missed. Their shared chagrined chuckle was an unexpected music to both their ears.
"Oh Gil…" she sighed, her voice still quivering her uncertainty and upset. "How did we get here?"
Something in his sad, sorry heart, so long dormant, stuttered back into life at her words. He knew, of course, what she meant. What wrong turns, what blind alleys, what mistakes and miscommunications, what self-defeating decisions and corrosive choices, had led them to this? And how on earth did they find their way out again?
Silently, Gilbert reached out his hand to her, and she clutched it tightly, reseating herself and looking down upon their entwined fingers. She could not remember the last time he had taken her hand, and the realization was painful.
Anne blinked back fresh tears as she looked to him.
"My mess is fairly self-evident, Carrots," Gilbert offered huskily. "But perhaps you need to tell me about yours."
She sobbed at his use of her old, once maligned nickname, and he had to wait several moments before she composed herself again.
"If you went and got yourself typhoid, Gilbert, I went and got myself engaged," she hiccupped.
His mouth twisted into a sad, sardonic smile at this.
"You talk as if it were an accident."
She dashed the back of her free hand across her wet cheeks. "Ridiculously, I think it was."
"You accidently agreed to marry Gardner?"
Her sigh seemed as if from her very depths. "You were going to be engaged to Christine..."
He rolled his eyes, impatient with this skewed counter-argument. "Anne, as you can see, that has clearly not been the case!"
"Well, I know that now!" she answered plaintively, delightfully mulish in the tilt of her stubborn chin.
He would have shaken his head in exasperation at her, only the motion would have hurt too much.
"If you were engaged to Christine, there was nothing left for me but to marry Roy…" Anne, low-voiced, attempted to explain. "He had been so good, and kind, and his family were expecting it… even though… even though…"
"Even though?" he urged.
"Even though I've realized, too late, that… I don't truly love him."
The silence thereafter was long, and Gilbert sat back heavily on the pillows, trying to fathom her words.
"You are engaged to Gardner, but you don't love him," he echoed thickly, after a time. "And meanwhile, you are here, with me."
The implication hung heavy in the air between them.
"Anne, what am I to make of that?" the question sounded strangled, even to his own ears, and his eyes roamed her face for its own answers.
"I don't know…" she began miserably. "It was such a confusing time… everything was ending and everyone else seemed to have their next chapter in place but for me… and now… Gilbert, even if I wanted to, it isn't right for me to express any feelings about… this… until… well, until I go back and end things with Roy."
His eyes were back on hers, so glittering with emotion he looked still affected by his fever in the moment.
"Anne…" he whispered, "what might those feelings be?"
"Gil…" she quailed.
"Because you said one time – and we both know which time – that you could never have any feelings for me other than… other than… friendship," he ground out.
Her face flushed fiercely, and she dropped her gaze.
"I thought that... you didn't miss not even being friends… you had Christine, and you had the Cooper, and…"
"Anne, both Christine and striving for the Cooper were ways to try to fill my days so that I wouldn't keep missing you!"
The admission seemed torn from the depths of his battered body, and Anne's tears broke forth again. She collapsed against his sleeve, the oft-worn striped pajamas soft and warm and oddly comforting.
Gilbert leant over until his sunken cheek was resting against her hair, the slight, lingering fragrance still potent for him, even after days of tending him and not herself.
"You're right, we have made a real mess of things…" he echoed, exhausted.
In the hush of Gilbert's boyhood room Anne awoke with a start, having dozed off, and sat up in shock, nearly clunking the man himself on the chin in the process.
"Well, thank goodness," his raspy voice sounded in her ear. "My arm was about to go numb!"
She stared up at him, feeling stiff, moving awkwardly after her unexpected slumber and the residual heat from their earlier charged and emotional exchange.
"Oh, Gilbert! I must have… that is… I'm sorry!" she yelped, throat dry.
"Don't be, Anne," his look to her was something new and tender, his hazel eyes tracing her rising blush. "Best doze I've had myself in… well, a long while."
She covered her embarrassment in fetching him some water, and then reached to fill a separate glass for herself. They surveyed one another as they sipped, and Anne felt the hot prickle of awareness of him down her spine.
"So… where were we?" she laughed uneasily, unused to the calm, looking about the room that only the day before had been as fiery as the pit of Hell.
He gave a small, knowing smile.
"We were… sharing tales of messes made, but I'm more focused on… where we are going."
"Round the bend, I should think!" she joked again, uneasily, moving about to avoid his gaze.
"Or… round in circles," he surmised quietly, following her with his eyes.
Outside, the afternoon shadows were lengthening, and Anne paused, pensively, by the window, thinking sadly how she could no longer use his illness to prolong her stay, when news of his recovery would surely have spread throughout the village by now. Her audible sigh was one he felt himself, right down to his soul.
"Anne…" he ventured, his own throat still parched, the ache in his heart beginning to throb outwards, permeating his entire being, "we haven't got much time."
She couldn't turn back to him; if she turned, she'd begin to cry.
"Fairly soon, my father will be in here, suggesting it would be his pleasure to drop you home to Green Gables. Once you go… I don't know if I have the right to ask… if you wish to come back."
"I wish… I wish with all my heart to come back, Gilbert," he heard her announce to the wall.
"Carrots…" his reply was threaded with a hint of his old humour. "I wish you'd just turn around…"
Her eyes were streaming with tears when she did as requested.
"Careful…" she sobbed. "We only have one wish left, now…"
His smile at her joke flashed briefly, and he again extended his hand. She grasped it to her, falling to her knees to kiss his palm, folding his fingers back over the promise her lips had made.
"Well now," his eyes glimmered suspiciously, "shouldn't that be my pose?"
Her flooded eyes looked up at him, and her mouth dropped open in a perfect astonishment that would have been amusing, and strangely gratifying, but for the sad gravity of their situation.
"Gil!" she breathed.
"Anne, listen to me. You must free yourself from a man you don't love. That's not just my own… self interest… there… it's just common sense. Take the time to think over what you do want. And once you find those answers for yourself, if you wish to, you can come back and tell me. I'll be here. I'll wait for you."
Her sharp intake of breath was audible to both of them.
"You'd do that, Gilbert? Even after everything I've done?"
"Well…" he rolled his eyes. "It's not as if I'm doing much at the moment, anyway…"
She sob-laughed, kissing his hand again, placing it against her cheek, whilst his other hand tentatively, wonderingly, threaded through her hair, stroked the side of her face, and cupped her little pointed chin.
"I wish…" he offered throatily, eyes dazzling.
"Yes?"
He opened his still-pale lips to speak, hesitating.
"No – I'm saving that wish, Anne. I'm going to bank it for a little while, till I'm better."
He instead rubbed a wide thumb across her tears, with infinite care and gentleness, tracing the contours of her face as if he wanted to imprint them on his memory. His touch left a pink trail of heat, which sparked the green in her eyes, and Gilbert stared into them with the courage of a new understanding, and the assurance of a new hope.
"Come back to me,* Anne," he whispered, grasping her own hand and pressing it to his lips.
Her throat was raw and throbbing, and she could only nod her desperate, distraught assent.
"I promise," she vowed.
Across the room, by the door, John Blythe's embarrassed throat clearing sounded loudly in the stillness.
Chapter Notes
My story title, The Tell-Tale Heart is from the short story by Edgar Allen Poe, published in 1843.
To Have and Have Not (1937) is an early novel by Ernest Hemingway. It was adapted, with many changes, into a film in the classic noir tradition in 1944 starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, who married soon after its release.
From Somewhere in Time (1980) starring Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour. Long-term readers of mine will know how much I adore this film!