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Dear Gilbert,
I understand that I am now addressing Gilbert Blythe, student at the University of Toronto! My, my, Mr. Blythe, you certainly have done well at finding yourself a place at a well-regarded university. Please accept my heartiest and most sincere congratulations! I hope that you find your studies most enriching and fulfilling.
You must be wondering why I am writing to you as our last parting was certainly less than amicable. Let me assure you that despite my feelings towards you in the past, this letter holds no ill-will or anger towards you whatsoever, and that I approach you with nothing but friendship in mind.
Now that I’ve hopefully put your mind at ease, let me tell you what prompted my reaching out to you. In these past almost sixteen months since we parted ways, I have decided to return to Charlottetown to once again reside with my parents. Paris was a lovely adventure, one that I will hopefully write about another time. Upon my return to Charlottetown, on one of my walks about the town, I ran into your brother, Sebastian. He seems well, and was certainly very proud of his brother’s achievements at U of T, for he could not seem to stop bringing it up!
I was delighted to hear that you were doing well, and even more delighted for Bash’s sake to hear that you were arriving soon to spend the summer at Avonlea. He sounded like he missed you dearly.
Here I must admit that my run in with Bash is not the only reason I am writing to you. You see, one day I was lunching with my parents in this delightful little restaurant when I caught sight of you and your Anne, strolling arm in arm down the street outside. You looked different somehow, which is to be expected I suppose, after these long months. Your Anne looked lovelier than ever, I must say, and appeared thrilled at being on your arm as you made her laugh. Your heart chose well indeed, if what I witnessed was anything to go by. It did make me chuckle to myself as I saw the way she looked at you with such terrible fondness, remembering that you thought your love for her unrequited. It seemed so silly, remembering that and seeing you both so in love.
Does it reassure you better now that you know I bear no grudge against you for following your heart? Certainly it was difficult at first. I’m sure Anne herself must have told you the things I said to her in my anger and folly when I saw her last. How foolish I felt to know that Anne, even in her heartbreak, wished me nothing but happiness with you. How utterly small I felt, knowing that I could find no kindness in my heart for her in that moment but that she found not only kindness but grace, even though she was in love with you and I most certainly was not. (That is not to say that I was not very fond of you, Gilbert, I do hope you know that.)
When I confessed to her that we were not engaged, she said nothing at all in comfort; she merely grasped my hand in hers for a long moment and looked so incredibly grateful to me that my pained heart could no longer hold any anger in it. Would you believe she actually made me feel guilty that I thought so ill of you? How wonderful she is, Gilbert, this person you have chosen to love. Or rather, the person you have come to love without having any say in it at all!
I didn’t intend to watch the two of you so intently that day in Charlottetown, and for that I must apologise. You both made it even more difficult when you decided to take your meal in the same restaurant as my parents! It’s terribly impolite to eavesdrop, I know, but my parents were so preoccupied discussing my father’s latest business venture that I simply had too much time and inclination to listen in on your table’s boisterous conversation. It gave me yet another chance to come to even more realisations.
I know of course that when we met you had already known Anne many years, and that must have meant that she knew much more about you than I did. But it simply astounded me to overhear the things about you that I surely should have known, but didn’t! For example, I never knew your middle name was John. (Anne’s laughing exclamation of “Gilbert John Blythe, your father would be ashamed he gave his name to such a cad!” was what informed me of this detail.) Oh Mr. Blythe, is it true that you got your middle name from your father? Why, Gilbert, had we never spoken of your father, when judging by the conversation I overheard, he was so important to you? I knew of your love for Whitman’s writing, but never knew that it stemmed from reading to your ailing father during his final days. Surely this was a terribly important detail of your life that I should have known? I most certainly did not know that he was the first person in Avonlea who was in open awe and wonder at a young Anne’s hair. It must bring you such joy, to hear your Anne speak of your late father with such clarity and such fondness.
Another thing I wish I knew was the identity of the two young ladies who were Anne’s companions at luncheon. Who were these two who clearly knew you well? You exchanged such fond smiles and banter with Anne’s raven-haired companion (I believe I heard you call her Diana); surely she was another classmate you never mentioned? The mischievous little girl who accompanied you all you must have known well, for you knew before she did that she would try to tie your shoelaces together as you sat at the table. Mischievous as she was, you bore her no ill-feelings, later twirling her on the street, promising to teach her to dance when she was older. All the while Anne stared at you with such love in her eyes, and dare I say it, plans for your future in her heart.
Would you like to know the thing I was most curious about, Mr. Blythe? I could not believe that until that fateful day, I never knew what it was to see you truly smile. Certainly I thought we shared a lovely laugh ever so often, but I now see that I had never heard a true laugh from your heart. Anne and her companions made you laugh until you had to stifle your terribly impolite guffaws into the back of Anne’s shoulder, until your tears of laughter stained her dress. I noticed, however, that you always stopped laughing at the mention of a Charlie Sloane. I wondered what he did to offend you until Anne’s companion slyly mentioned that Charlie Sloane never asked Anne to dance at any social gatherings since the two of you announced your courtship. How many times had you watched Anne dance with him, presumably seething with quiet jealousy? I also noticed that Anne was always quick to take your hand whenever you stopped laughing, almost reflexively. Has she always anticipated your change in mood so easily, almost as if she could read your mind like a book? Had she noticed your quiet jealousy all along as she reluctantly danced with Charlie Sloane, secretly wishing you had asked her to dance instead of him?
Charlie Sloane, whoever he may be, had no power over you once Anne took your hand; you’d immediately smile again at her touch. And how you refused to be without her touch was something that was not at all difficult to notice! You were such a gentleman when we were courting that I suppose I was too impressed by your courtliness to wonder why neither of us found the need for a stolen kiss, or an improper touch. When I saw you with Anne, you were loth to part with her touch a single moment! When she reached for her friend Diana, you’d surrender her arm but touch her waist. When she pulled her arm from your elbow to admire a storefront, you’d allow her the distance but cling to her hand. Outside, when Diana turned away but for a moment, you boldly snuck a quick kiss to Anne’s flushed cheek.
I wondered if you and Anne were always like this, or if it was the long periods of distance between you that made you cling to her so, now that you have been reunited for the summer. But no matter, for I would like to say one last thing about that fateful afternoon.
Mr. Blythe, you looked truly and unmitigatedly happy, and so did your Anne. Your own words come to mind as I write this; of how I deserve the unwavering heart and gaze of my intended, whoever they turn out to be. I wonder how long your heart and gaze have been fixed on your Anne. Who is this mere mortal of a Winnie to come between such love?
This is but a long-winded way of saying this, Gilbert, however here it goes; I forgive you for the foolishness we took part in all those months ago. Looking back, it seems so clear to me now that our courtship, though enjoyable at first, was hurried and rushed in a way that gives me great anxiety when I think on it now. I admit now that love wasn’t a goal of mine when we courted. It seemed to me that all a couple needed was to suit and be adequately fond of each other. While that may be more than some married couples have, it is impossible to live in Paris and not long for the romance and wonder that comes with true love. I am glad you have found that very thing in the girl, no woman, that you said was your best friend, and is now certainly more than that.
I intend to live by the words you shared from a very wise Mary Lacroix; to marry for love and only for love.
If it would please you to keep a correspondence with me as the good friends we should have remained, I will gladly await your reply, you dear, honest man. If it does not, allow me to wish you all the happiness in the world, and my sincerest hope that you always remain as dear and as honest. Please do send Anne my utmost admiration and respect; I’d be glad to run into her in Charlottetown when she returns to Queens.
Sincerely,
Winifred Rose