Chapter Text
Gilbert was bone tired after a full day. He’d taken the early train to Charlottetown, written his Queen’s entrance exams, socialized with Winnie’s family, taken the evening train back home, found his schoolmates at the ruins, had an exhausting and perhaps ultimate conversation with Anne, and walked home through the woods. He shoved a slice of bread and cold ham down his throat before sneaking up the creaky stairs, shucking his Sunday jacket and vest, and collapsing onto his bed.
But when sleep finally came, it was fitful and short-lived. There was fire in his dreams, and shining red hair that he could almost grasp before it slipped through his fingers. He tossed and turned for what seemed like hours before finally giving up, sitting up, and lighting the candle by his bedside. He picked up a book and began to read, but he couldn’t bring his focus to the pages and found himself reading the same paragraph thrice over. With a sigh, he blew out the candle again and leaned his head against the wall.
He told himself, again, to let go of Anne. It didn’t matter what he’d imagined or hoped; the reality had shown itself to be different. And wasn’t it the very definition of insanity, to insist upon living according to anything other than reality? Wouldn’t things just be easier if he ignored the fact that he loved Anne? The way would be so clear. If he told himself the way was clear enough times then it would become true, wouldn’t it? That’s what he would do, then. He would just have to get up tomorrow—no, this morning—and … do that.
The only way past grief was to keep moving forward; hadn’t he learned that already? Why did he seem to keep being tested in this way? Why did he keep giving his heart to people who couldn’t or wouldn’t stay with him?
Try as he might to let go—let go!—Gilbert knew he was the type to hold on. So he fought the instinct even harder.
Gradually, the summer day dawned, bright and full of potential as ever.
He forced himself to think of Winnie: charming, pretty Winnie, her mirthful blue eyes, her excellent sense of humour and remarkable social graces, her generous family. Her lovely figure, if he was being honest, and her confidence with him, her willingness to entertain a younger man, his absolute luck at having met her. She truly deserved love and care and companionship and an equal partner. And he knew he had it in him to provide those things to someone.
Words he hadn’t ever really imagined himself saying, he practised now: Will you marry me? … May I have your hand in marriage? … Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? It all sounded so grown up. Just saying the words made him feel like he was being pushed forward into adulthood. Maybe this was a good thing.
It was time to bite the bullet and find his mother’s ring, then. He got out of bed and put his nervous energy to use, rifling through boxes of keepsakes and closet contents.
There it was: the black velvet satchel. The ring dropped out daintily, and he knew it was bound for a dainty finger—someone to bring daintiness back into his life, his boys’ club of a home.
When he held it up to the light and the green-blue gemstone glinted in the morning sun, he had to banish the image of red hair and a wide grin that immediately came to his mind. The picture in his mind’s eye was so clear—Anne, kneeling as he did, across from him, feeling everything for him that he felt for her, and wanting as he wanted—that he had to shake his head to rid himself of it. Instead he made himself remember Winifred’s coy smile, Winifred’s even-keeled temperament, Winifred’s warm acceptance.
The day had fully arrived now; he couldn’t reasonably dawdle any longer.
Put on a brave face, head downstairs.
Maybe eat a good breakfast to try and calm his roiling stomach.