Chapter Text
To Mr Gilbert Blythe
Charlottetown, October 5th 1899
Dear Gilbert,
I look like my mother… It is not a clear introduction, no real “how are you, my sweet?”, but have I ever bored you with these simplicities? You do know who is writing to you, after all. This will be a very long letter, I must warn you. A lot of things happened today and most of them after you left.
While you were riding fast towards the train station, the most surprising thing happened. Marilla and Matthew arrived at my boarding house in a haste, running down the street with their hair going everywhere. It was a sight to behold, I tell you. You see, they had come this morning to Charlottetown to call on me and they brought a most awaited and precious treasure.
This year I’ve been trying to find more information about my parents and my lineage, as you may remember, but my first trip to the orphanage had been unsuccessful. Many years ago, the rats had eaten their archives and nothing was left about me or my parents. I was devastated and if it hadn’t been for dear Cole, I would have succumbed to the depths of despair I was in. That day on the train back home I had tried mastering a neutral face, but my red eyes and running nose probably would have fooled no one. Well, no one except you. I don’t know if you had noticed, as we never discussed it. One day, maybe, I will tell you more about that day, if you want. After talking with Marilla and Matthew (I say talking but it was more like yelling), I decided to continue my research. My quest brought me all the way back to Halifax, to the church where my parents had been buried. Oh Gilbert, that day I was as hopeful as ever. Aunt Jo and Cole had helped me with the corset and the dress, they even pinned my hair up. I looked more adult than now. I wish you would have seen me like that. Yes, you guessed it right. I am blushing as I write this.
Anyway, that day one of my worst fears was put to rest. You see, I had started dreading that my parents had not died of fever, but had chosen to give me up to the orphanage, that they didn’t love me enough to keep me, or at all. It was one of the reasons why I started this quest in the first place. Well, while skimming through the church archives I discovered the truth. My parents did indeed die when I was three months old, a couple of weeks apart from each other, both taken by a sudden fever. I did not know then if they had loved me, but at least I finally knew they didn’t choose to leave me. But I found out one more thing: they hail from the town of Glennark… in Scotland! Yes, I am scottish! My red hair might look out of place here in Canada, but there I would been one in a whole sea of red. I do not know if this comes as a comfort or not, though. You probably wouldn’t have called me Carrots had we been in Scotland.
After this amazing discovery, Marilla surprisingly suggested I write to the kirk of Glennark to inquire about my parents. Well, I did, and today what Marilla and Matthew urgently brought me… was a disappointing letter from Scotland, with no further information about my family. I was devastated. To think it was just this morning… I managed to go forward with my day, unpacking and saying goodbye to Matthew and Marilla. I decided to take a stroll through the city that will be my home for the next two years. I didn’t expect to meet the lovely face of Miss Rose, but that I did, and when she told me you didn’t propose after all… I never ran so fast in my life. I packed hastily my baggage and closed the door behind me, with the intention of catching the first train back to Avonlea… and then I met your beautiful eyes and, as they say, the rest is history.
But I am getting off topic. I will write more about the butterflies in my stomach in the next couple of pages, I promise. When you left on the carriage, I was floating in the air as if I was again on the hot-air balloon. I thought I could never fly higher than that, but then I did. Matthew and Marilla, who I thought were back in Avonlea again, came running towards me, in Marilla’s hands a most precious book titled “The Language of Flowers”. The first page has a dedication:
“For my Bertha,
So you can share your love of the natural world with your pupils.
Love Always,
Walter”
It once belonged to my mother, gifted to her by my father. It is filled with notes and scribbles written by my mother’s own hand, — we have the same penmanship, if you can believe that! — a nd to top it all off, the last page is dedicated to a portrait of my mother made by the very talented hands of my father’s. Gil, you can’t possibly imagine my joy at the sight of my mother’s red hair. They were so red they could pass for a glowing summer sun. I tell you, that hole in my heart that had been empty for so long is finally filled and spilling with immense happiness and acceptance. Yes, I finally accept and embrace my carrot-like hair. You must be pleased, my love.
I am blushing again, yes. If you haven’t fallen asleep yet, I will now proceed with the tellings of my heart’s desires.
Oh Gil, I hope you’re as excited as I am. Excited about beginning a new adventure in a new classroom full of new competitors. Excited about a new city to call home, new people and new flowers to pluck and smell. I very much am. But even more, I am excited about this new chapter of our lives together. Together, but apart.
But… I do not know how to properly proceed with our courtship. I am afraid you are far more experienced than I am in this regard. I know what you must be thinking, and I forbid you. Don’t be sorry, my love. It has all brought us together, at last.
Beyond being pen pals, I must ask you to be my official beau. At least, that’s what Ruby calls the boys who wait outside our door to call on her. Moody is unexpectedly fine with it all. He says it’s actually sweet — only he can have her, after all. I believe their wedding will happen sooner than expected. May I ask you to accompany me, as my intended? I can’t still believe I can even think that.
Gilbert, I must be honest with you. I don’t think of you as my beau. The reason for this is that what we have, I believe, is far greater and more special than anything else and I can’t bring myself to call it something as simple as courtship. I must tell you now, Gil, I want you to be my future, as well as my present and my past. I want nothing more than to kiss your perfect lips again, to call you mine and hold your hand. This will have to wait until Christmas time, I am afraid. Hopefully, time will pass quickly. I have quite the haste to see your smile again.
I have talked to Diana. She told me she gave you quite a scolding on the train, and that you had no idea I had written a letter to you. Well, one can’t really call it a letter, for it was more of a note. You weren’t home and I absolutely needed to confess my feelings. I left it on the kitchen table, but I do not know which end it met after that. It doesn’t really matter anymore. You are mine now, as I am yours, my love.
I hope this letter finds you without any troubles. I cannot wait to hear from you. Please tell me how your first week in Toronto goes, and everything you can think of. I must go to bed now. Tomorrow is going to be a big day for the both of us.
Until the next letter, my sweet.
Forever yours,
Anne