Chapter Text
Housewarming
noun:
a party to celebrate a person’s or a family’s move to a new home
Anne hummed a tune of her own design as she arranged the fresh flowers, determined that each petal have its moment of radiance in the centerpiece.
“Are you quite done with your arrangement?” Marilla asked from her place at the stove. She’d been busy most of the afternoon making a sublime soup and fresh bread for Bash and Mary to enjoy once ensconced in the cozy walls of their newlywed abode.
Anne was certain that the new lifemates would be famished when they arrived, having spent the last three days since their wedding closing up Mary’s house in the Bog before catching the train back to Avonlea. With Marilla’s permission, Anne had been given the task of making the table presentable for the pair, allowed to dress the counter as she saw fit. She’d covered the ashen wood in a lace tablecloth of cream that she lined with pine needles to give the space a crisp forest scent. Her final touch was the platter of flowers, filled with snowdrops and lungwort, but something was missing.
“Something blue,” Anne said, thinking of the bridal rhyme, and quick as a shot, she was bouncing out of the kitchen and headed towards the little family garden just outside the back door of the Blythe homestead. Passing the neat rows of early spring sprouts, Anne scuttled towards the fence where a hyacinth bush thick with blue flowers roosted. She made quick work of snapping the stems of the pretty flora, filling her arms with the lush blossoms.
A steady thumping accompanied Anne’s work, the rhythmic clash of metal and timber telling her that Gilbert was still cutting wood. Doing her very best to be subtle, Anne dared to peek at her schoolmate out of the corner of her eye, watching as he mindlessly chopped one log after another.
Although it was only March and winter had yet to relinquish its hold on the island, Gilbert had removed his flannel jacket and was working in just his shirt. Dark patches of sweat stained his collar and made a trail down past his shoulders; shoulders that stretched the blue cotton over hidden muscles in his back and arms every time he lifted the axe over his head.
Anne couldn’t see his face, but she could guess it was pink from the work and the chill. She could imagine his dark brows knit together in concentration, his nose scrunching as he considered the log he’d just laid down, thinking of the best angle to strike it from, and his smile (such a wonderful smile!) that was surely making his face radiant when he successfully cleaved the wood in two with a single swing.
Gilbert was much stronger than Anne would have guessed and seeing that potency on display just now was both surprising and bewilderingly enticing. Without meaning to, Anne turned her full attention to Gilbert’s oblivious figure. Alone in the privacy of the garden, she felt safe enough to take her time examining Gilbert, her grey eyes memorizing him as if he were a page filled with all her favourite words.
Anne had never given much thought to Gilbert’s body, or to any body of the male species for that matter. She wasn’t yet fifteen, still far too young to be considering boys and their appearance in a romantic light. Besides, none of the lads in Avonlea had ever really captured her attention in that way. But suddenly, in the quiet solitude of the little back garden, Anne found herself very curious about the male figure, and perhaps what was most startling was that it was Gilbert of all boys that she was curious about!
Watching him as he continued cutting wood, Anne realized that Gilbert was tall, taller perhaps than he had been a few months ago at Christmas. His hair was longer, too, the dark curls sweeping over the shells of his ears and far over his brow. His shoulders were broad, probably from the year he’d spent shoveling coal on the S.S. Primrose, and his waist was trim, with not even a handful of childhood chubbiness to be pinched, and his backside…
And now Anne was staring at Gilbert Blythe’s trouser clad rear end as he bent forward to collect the wood he’d chopped, scandalizing herself when she thought that his bottom was certainly one of the boy’s more alluring assets, next to his eyes, and smile, and hair.
It really was a wicked thing to think, and it disturbed Anne that she should ponder on Gilbert’s body that way when he wasn’t anything more to her than a school rival and neighbour. The pair were barely even friends! In fact, most days, Anne thought of Gilbert as just some silly, stupid boy.
A silly stupid boy who was going to be spending the next seven days at Green Gables.
“Anne!”
Jumping up as quick as a hare, Anne bolted inside the house, missing Gilbert’s perplexed expression as he watched her practically fly for the door to heed Marilla’s call. Profusely apologizing for lollygagging, Anne returned her ardent attention to the dinner table’s centerpiece, arranging the hyacinth shoots artfully among the rest of the flowers. She was just completing her tableau when Gilbert entered the kitchen.
Like she’d suspected, his face was flushed, the curls along his brow slick with sweat. He was carrying two baskets filled with kindling and now Anne was having to deal with the muscles of Gilbert’s arms, bulging as he lifted his heavy cargo over to the stove, the seams of his shirt practically screaming with the strain of containing his growing body.
“It smells divine, Ms. Cuthbert,” Gilbert praised with warm sincerity. The older woman preened under his sweet attention, offering him a taste of the soup which he gladly accepted. “I think I saw Mr. Cuthbert coming around the bend.”
“Then you’d best get changed and grab your things,” Marilla instructed. Gilbert was swift to do as he was told, passing by Anne to make his way to his bedroom.
“Your centerpiece is pretty,” he told her, quietly and quickly, leaving Anne gasping in his wake. She wasn’t sure Gilbert had ever complimented her before, and she was at a loss over how to react. In truth, Anne was at a loss over how to feel about the whole impending situation of Gilbert’s temporary residence at Green Gables, and she tugged on one of her braids as she tried to wrap her mind around it.
It was all Gilbert’s fault, of course.
On the train from Charlottetown after the Lacroixs’ wedding, Gilbert had requested the help of the Cuthberts to prepare his house for the newlyweds. He’d wanted to make the space welcome and special for the pair and knew he lacked the imagination to achieve that goal on his own (and if he’d happened to give Anne a meaningful look when he’d mentioned imagination, Anne surely didn’t notice). Marilla had commended Gilbert on his thoughtfulness and promised the family’s services. So it was that Mathew, Marilla and Anne found themselves being welcomed to Gilbert’s house after church that Sunday. While the women had gotten straight to work making food and tidying up, Gilbert had begun the task of getting a decent woodpile ready while Mathew had gone to the train station to collect the lovebirds.
Soon, all of their efforts would be rewarded with Mary and Bash’s surprise and appreciation, but there was something more to Gilbert’s wedding gift than a hot meal and fresh bedding.
The young man in question returned to the kitchen, tripping Anne out of her musings. He’d changed into a grey shirt, free from sweat stains, and a woolen vest of chestnut. His face had been scrubbed clean as had his hair, and he was fiddling with a button at his cuff, struggling to get the little fastener to close.
“Let me,” Anne said, and Gilbert was glad to hold out his arm while Anne efficiently secured his button, taking a moment to straighten his cuff as well, her fingers brushing the warm skin of his wrist. The spark that seemed to jolt between them when they touched left Anne suspecting that that was exactly what electricity felt like, sharp and sudden and powerful enough to light the room. Her breath caught in her throat, and when she looked up it was to find Gilbert looking at her, the tender expression on his face reminding her of Christmas when they’d blown out the candles in the tree.
“Thank you, Anne,” he said, voice as calm as a gentle brook. It unsettled her when he said her name like that, like he enjoyed sounding it out and giving it life. It made Anne’s breathing stutter and her heart skip a beat and she felt foolish for being unable to look away or say something to ease the odd tension that had been coming between them since…well, since the beginning.
The shrill whinny of a horse accompanied by the sound of Mathew’s gentle shushing is what finally shattered the pair’s silent stare-down, Anne turning towards the door while Gilbert lowered his head and cleared his throat.
“They’re here!” Anne exclaimed, giving Gilbert’s wrist a brief, but tight, squeeze between both her hands before hurrying to throw open the door. “Welcome home!” she exclaimed, waving and laughing as she hopped off the porch and rushed to greet the buggy.
“What a surprise! Queen Anne!” Bash greeted, moving to hug the redhead after helping his bride down from the wagon.
“And how was your journey?” she asked, hugging Mary before moving to help with the luggage.
“I’ve got that,” Gilbert said, having snuck up on Anne. He reached around her to grab the suitcase from the flatbed, lifting it effortlessly and reminding Anne for the dozenth time that day of how fit he was.
“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, get back in here!” Marilla called from the open door. “You silly girl, running outside at this time of year without a hat or coat. You’ll catch your death.”
“Sorry,” Anne answered back, shrugging her shoulders unapologetically before looping her arm in Mary’s and walking her up the path to the house.
The next half hour was a cacophony of glad greetings, and luggage moving, and house touring. There was unpacking, and putting away, and compliments, and awed delight as the newlyweds recognized and appreciated every effort their neighbours had made to make them feel at home.
Though he ended up doing more heavy lifting and rearranging rather than fully participating in the welcome party, Gilbert felt as light as a feather seeing his house, so drab and lonely since his father had died, suddenly dazzling with a warmth that had been missing for years. Gilbert suspected it was Mary, the new mistress of the Blythe (now Blythe/Lacroix) homestead, giving the old walls that much needed feminine shine. It made him think of Anne and the table she’d spent the afternoon assembling, using nature to transform a dull piece of wood into a work of art. Anne was creative that way, and Gilbert knew Mary was, too. He couldn’t wait to see how she would change the old farmhouse, making it a home for their new, lovely little family (one that may very well see some growth in the coming years, or so Bash had proclaimed hopefully), but that would come in due time.
“Well, I think it’s time we be off,” Marilla instructed, nodding towards the Lacroixs before ushering her brother and daughter to the door.
“Won’t you stay and join us?” Mary asked, gesturing to the pretty table, confused when the Cuthberts continued to put on their hats and coats.
“I don’t believe we will, but thank you,” Marilla answered kindly.
“We just came to help with the surprise,” Anne added, flashing Gilbert an impish grin before bouncing out of the house after Mathew, Marilla trailing behind her.
“What’s your girl on about a surprise?” Bash asked, eyeing Gilbert suspiciously. The young man felt as giddy as Anne, unable to keep himself from grinning widely as he, too, put on his coat.
“I’m taking a holiday,” Gilbert announced, picking up his father’s old suitcase that he had packed and stashed by the door before church that morning. He took a moment to enjoy the bewildered looks Bash and Mary flashed at him, eyes large and mouths agape. Their reaction made the sixteen-year old feel rather theatrical, so he posed a touch dramatically in the doorway, chin held high and chest puffed out as he gestured with his free hand to the yard and explained himself. “I’m off to Green Gables. For a week. The house is yours.”
“Oh, Gilbert…” Mary breathed, placing a gloved hand over her heart.
“Happy honeymoon,” he teased cheekily, winking at Bash and feeling very accomplished when he watched his friend blush and sputter, with no witty comeback to toss his way. Clapping the man on the shoulder and nodding to Mary, Gilbert put on his hat and sauntered out of the house, whistling all the way to the waiting Cuthbert clan.
~*~
“Anne, will you show Gilbert up to his room.”
“What?! Why me?”
Anne didn’t flinch when Marilla gave her a look so severe it could strip paint. Instead, she huffed in defeat and left the dining room, making her way up the stairs. Gilbert didn’t take offence to Anne’s grumbling retreat, and in fact was glad to be alone with Marilla for a few moments.
“Here, Ms. Cuthbert,” he said, holding his hand out to her, some silver coins shining in his palm.
“I told you this morning that that won’t be necessary,” Marilla said firmly.
“I’m imposing on you,” Gilbert insisted. “You didn’t have to go along with my plan for Bash and Mary to have the house to themselves for a while. I’d like to pay you, just like any other boarder would.”
“But you’re not a boarder, Gilbert Blythe,” Marilla said, taking the young man’s hand in hers and curling his fingers around his money before giving them a firm tap. “You’re a guest of Green Gables.”
Her words struck a chord with Gilbert, making him feel peaceful.
“Thank you, Ms. Cuthbert,” he said humbly. “I’d still like to do something to earn my keep; return your kindness.”
“Well, I don’t suppose I can stop you from giving Mathew and Jerry a hand on the farm while you’re here,” she sighed, turning away from the boy to gather her mending basket, intending to do some needlework before preparing dinner. “But I won’t have it if you fall behind in your studies. Your education is important, Gilbert.”
“Yes, Ms. Cuthbert,” he replied, feeling suddenly like a beloved son again.
All at once, Gilbert understood why Anne was so keen to seek and retain Marilla Cuthbert’s approval, for when you were in her esteem you knew you were cared for beyond all measure. It made Gilbert feel energized and honoured, and he was certainly motivated to pursue his studies with earnest vigour if it meant so much to Marilla that he be successful.
Pocketing his coins, Gilbert left Marilla to her sewing and made his way upstairs. Green Gables wasn’t a terribly complicated house to get around, and he only had to make a left on the landing before he spotted Anne. She was leaning against the wall beside a closed door, arms crossed and expression crosser.
“What took you so long?” she asked, a crumb of attitude in her tone.
“Just talking with Ms. Cuthbert,” he answered, believing Anne would give him a spectacularly verbose piece of her mind if he confessed he’d tried to pay for his week at Green Gables. It was better to avoid the subject all together and just settle in. “Is this me?” He gestured with his head to the closed door between them.
“Oh! Yes.”
Oddly skittish, Anne moved to open the door, and Gilbert waited for her to cross the threshold before following.
The bedroom was plain and functional. There were two windows dressed in white sheer curtains, their sills cushioning small clay pots of mint that gave a fresh tang to the air. Between the windows was a bed, the mattress turned, the pillow fluffed, and the quilt bright from the wash. A small bedside table was home to an oil lamp atop a doily. The dresser on the far-left side of the room served as a vanity as well, with a mirror and washing bowl adorning its surface.
“There’s more blankets and some candles in the trunk,” Anne said, pointing to the dark oak chest at the foot of the bed, determined to not look at Gilbert as he took in his bedroom. She’d spent part of her Saturday helping Marilla air the room out, pretending she wasn’t bothered that she was making up a bed Gilbert would be sleeping in. It would be no different than when the grifters had boarded at Green Gables last fall, she told herself, trying and failing to believe that sentiment.
Because whenever it came to Gilbert Blythe, everything was different.
It felt forbidden to be alone with Gilbert in the place he would be sleeping, not fifteen paces from her own bed. Thinking of their proximity, it was suddenly hard to swallow.
“It’s nice,” Gilbert said sweetly, placing his suitcase on top of the chest and opening it so he could begin unpacking. Unable to help her curiosity, Anne peeked at Gilbert’s things while he busied himself at the dresser. Most of what he brought had been clothing, shirts and trousers folded neatly one on top of the other. There were belts and suspenders, and a jacket she recognized as the one he wore to church. She also spotted his schoolbooks, and some other tomes whose titles she couldn’t make out. There were pens and pencils and notebooks tucked into the pocket lining of the case, as well as balled up socks and a handkerchief with his initials stitched beautifully in one corner of the soft ivory linen.
Consumed with snooping, Anne never realized that Gilbert had noticed her prying. The sixteen-year old lingered at the dresser, having already organized the shirts he’d been putting away. He didn’t want to move and disturb Anne’s concentration, for it pleased him, in a way he couldn’t quite explain, that she was curious about him. Seeing the proof that Anne did think of him, even if it was only to know about his clothes, made the young man smile to himself, his heart atwitter.
Anne’s grey eyes continued to peruse Gilbert’s belongings with intense attention, until they paused and grew big with alarm when they found the crisp white fold of a leg on a pair of long underwear.
“Marilla didn’t know if you shave,” Anne found herself sputtering suddenly, turning away from the open suitcase and willing her face not to breakout in a horrid blush, embarrassed that she had seen Gilbert’s…underthings. She should have just left the room, but Anne’s mouth always did have a way of carrying on without her consent, and why she should think of Gilbert shaving of all things made her cringe at how odd of a thought it was to give voice. “That is to say,” she continued, trying to salvage her dignity, “we didn’t leave out any soap or a razor.”
Gilbert watched Anne as she seemed to fret over her outburst, but her comment hadn’t bothered him, just as her inquisitiveness hadn’t either.
“I brought my own,” he offered, going to his suitcase and pulling out a small shaving kit from underneath his clothing. “But it was kind to think of it. Thank you.”
Anne immediately snapped her head in Gilbert’s direction, grey eyes rapidly roving across his jaw, seeking the evidence of whiskers. Her imagination began to bloom with vision after vision of Gilbert with a beard, a mustache, stubble. The images came to her so fast she had to blink spastically in order to refocus on the boy in front of her.
“When did you start shaving?” she asked, her tone both astounded and accusing, as if she were cross he’d go and do something so grown up.
Fidgeting under her stare, Gilbert couldn’t help raising a hand to the side of his face, rubbing his palm along his jaw that was smooth for the moment, but was sure to be rough with little dark hairs come morning. Watching Gilbert touch his cheek and realizing it was the same one she’d slapped her slate across the day they first met, Anne was seized by her own compulsion to stroke the fine hair at the end of her right braid.
The two young people considered one another in anxious silence and it felt oddly like the time they’d competed in their first spelling bee at school (thrilling, stimulating, determined) and like that suspended moment in front of the Christmas tree a few months ago (tender, intimate, arousing). Hazel and grey tickled across brows and noses, traced the cut of jaws and the curve of chins, finding hidden dimples and not so hidden freckles before focusing on lips, how they were shaped and coloured and seemed rather hypnotizing when the tip of pink tongues peeked out to dampen them.
Anne looked away first (Anne always looked away first), and headed for the door, meaning to let Gilbert continue unpacking in peace and intent on finding a task that would distract her from the strange spooling warmth that seemed to rove throughout her body like an ocean current.
“I hope you enjoy your stay at Green Gables,” she said just before leaving the room, never turning back to look at him as she disappeared down the hall. Gilbert waited a moment, watching the open door with a hungry yearning to see her face again, but Anne never came back. He would be lying to say he wasn’t disappointed that the redhead had practically fled from him, but the pang of remorse soon fled when he remembered that he’d see Anne again in only about an hour at dinner.
In fact, for seven days, he’d get to see Anne more than he could have ever thought possible.
And wasn’t that simply wonderful.