The Three of Us

114. Gilbert Alone

Gilbert couldn't help the feeling of emptiness he had as he reached home. His house was dark, no light shining in the windows, no one there to welcome him in. He got his horse and buggy situated and came in out of the cold. Once his coat, hat, scarf and gloves were put away, he, rubbing his hands together in the chilly room, went toward the hearth to try to bring some light and warmth to the bleak parlor.

He put away the leftovers Miss Cuthbert had sent home with him, smiling at her generosity and care for him. He decided to have another piece of Anne's cake before he went to bed.

The parlor was quiet as he sat with his plate on his lap and a mug of coffee in his hands.

I ought to eat this in the dining room, or at least the kitchen, he realized. But I got so used to eating in the parlor with Dad while he was ill. Doesn't seem normal anymore not to.

And suddenly he missed his father very much.

Wish you were here, Dad. I know you're happier where you are- in a place where there's no such thing as pain. And I'm glad for it. But that doesn't change how much I need you still.

Gilbert finished the cake, it no longer tasting good to him. There was something so very different about eating that cake at the Cuthbert's table. He thought about Miss Cuthbert's offer to him- to stay with them for a few days, until Christmas "wore off". He wished, now, that he had taken her up on it. Once Christmas was over, he wouldn't mind so much being in his empty house- he'd gotten used to it well enough. But at Christmas...

He sighed, setting the plate down and leaning back against the sofa. If he had gone to stay with the family for a few days, as Miss Cuthbert had offered, he would be on his way back there right now, a bag in hand, invited in to spend the night in the spare room.

Their spare room was upstairs, he remembered. Upstairs by Anne's room. And Anne would be just across the hall from him, getting undressed, going to bed...

Gilbert shook his head, sitting up. That wouldn't do. No matter how he'd like to let his mind wander, he knew now that he could never go over there and have just one wall between him and Anne in her bed.

Not that he'd ever do anything untoward, and he'd never pressure Anne to do anything with him- and he'd certainly never take advantage of the trust the Cuthberts put in him.

And there was no doubt in his mind that he'd be far happier in their home than in his own, but-

No. No, I better not try to live with Anne until we're married: Then it won't matter if there's temptation, because once we're married, we won't have to stay apart. Once we're married, it'll be all right for us to do anything we want to do...

No. that's not right, either, he realized. When we're married, we still won't be able to...be closer. Anne said she can't do that. And I told her she didn't have to.

He lay down on the sofa. So even when we're married, I'm still going to be miserable. It'll be even worse for me then, living with her every day in the same house- sleeping in a bed together.

Unless...will we even sleep in the same bed? I don't know. Is that going to be too much for her, too?

If she won't let us be in the same bedroom, I suppose in a way it'll actually be easier on me. Because if I have to sleep right next to her, being in a bed together, for weeks, for months, for years, but never getting to...

He used to think he could handle this.

He'd told his father that's how things were going to be. We hug, he'd told his dad, somewhat defensively. And that's all right. That's enough. We're not going to do anything else.

His father had said "that's very noble, son, but not very realistic", and Gilbert hadn't understood why. Embracing, and holding hands, were nice, and that was all he would take from her. That's how things were going to be, and he accepted it.

But...but now that he and Anne had kissed- kissed on the lips, he was suddenly very aware of how much he was drawn to her, how much he wanted to be able to indulge in her. His attraction to her was an entity of its own. He could not ignore it.

Yet he'd have to: He'd told her he expected nothing from her. That if she could not do the thing that married couples did with each other, that it was all right with him. They could be married without doing that.

But it seemed so impossible now.

He tried to stop thinking about that. Go to sleep, he told himself. Things will seem different in the morning.

He went to his room, washed and undressed for bed. He wished it was summer; then the sound of the crickets would lull him to sleep. But there was only swirling wind, and an icy branch that kept hitting the windowpane outside.

There was something so lonely about knowing that this house had other bedrooms in it, bedrooms lined up one after another, and only his had any life in it.

He felt better, then- so what if he was miserable, so what if he could never indulge in another level of intimacy with Anne? At least she'd be here. An empty place would not be empty any longer- she'd bring all of her energy and her warmth into this house- or any house they lived in- and transform it, and he'd be blessed to have her very presence.

He smiled. And then of course there was Walter. Walter would help fill up the empty space, too. Another disappointment he had to accept was that in all probability he could never have any children with the woman he loved...all those little ones he wanted so much, laughter filling the house...no matter; they'd still have Walter. Walter would be enough, he decided. He knew the baby wasn't his, but what would that matter, in the long run? He loved him, and he loved Anne, and so they would make it work. As miserable as he might be night after night, he'd try to be thankful for what he did have.

Merry Christmas, Anne, he said in his head as he went to sleep.