| The Wedding: Parts One to Twelve |
[Jun. 26th, 2007|09:25 am] |
-The Wedding-
--One--
Susan Sowerby stepped outside for the sheer joy of stepping back in again. She leant for a moment against the low, rough wall that marked out their small patch of garden and listened to her favourite sound in all the world. This evening the whole family had crammed itself into each of the cottage’s four rooms and the place fair rocked with laughter. From the high-pitched squeals of the grandchildren - sent into transports of delight on each being presented with a sugar-topped dough cake - to the low rumble of her husband, sons and sons-in-law.
Though the children had all grown and gone the cottage was rarely silent. The Sowerby clan may have expanded but it had not dispersed. Martha lived next door with her Jack and the kiddies and the others had spread themselves out within the boundaries of the parish. It was Dickon who had travelled the furthest. He’d crossed five miles of moorland to Misselthwaite Manor and entered a different world. In three months time he and Mary would be wed and that world would become his.
‘Having a bit o’peace?’ asked a voice from the doorway behind her.
‘I’ll share it with thee,’ replied Susan, patting the stretch of wall by her side. When her son drew near she pulled him close, planted a kiss on his head then ruffled his red hair in a gesture of easy affection. Dickon grinned.
‘Reckon this is the happiest place on earth right now,’ he said.
‘Tha might be right.’
‘Lord Craven asked to be remembered to you,’ said Dickon with mock formality.
Susan smiled, though she had only spoken to him on a handful of occasions there was a place very close to her heart for the sombre aristocrat for, with a few strokes of a pen, he had changed her life:
‘I, the undersigned, in grateful recognition of the outstanding service Dickon, Martha and Susan Sowerby have performed for my family, hereby grant theirs the right to reside in their cottage, in perpetuity, without charge.’
Eleven years had passed since the arrival of the letter that had released them from the suffocating burden of having to find one and three pence rent, bringing an ease to their existence that they had never imagined possible.
‘Give him my very best,’ said Susan warmly. ‘How’s Mary?’
Dickon’s face was lit up by the expression of the truly love-struck. ‘She’s wonderful, just wonderful.’
Footsteps and shuffling could be heard.
‘Time we was off, your majesty,’ called out Phil to his youngest brother as the rest sniggered behind him. Dickon’s stratospheric leap from under-gardener to practically gentry resulted in him having to endure a lot of good-natured teasing.
‘Aye, I hear the call.’
‘What call?’ Susan was confused.
'Cans’t tha not hear it?’ said Dickon, surprised. ‘Tis a low mooing sound.’
The brothers nodded solemnly and each adopted a far-off expression as if being hailed by something over a great distance.
Susan strained her ears and concentrated hard but could hear only birdsong and laughter.
‘Tis the call of The Blue Cow,’ murmured Phil in a reverent voice. ‘She’s summoning us with her song.’
‘You mean your going t’pub,’ corrected his mother. ‘Call of the cow indeed. Daft, that’s what you lot are. Plain daft.’
There was a chorus of protest and a flurry of sheepish grins.
‘Be off with you then and behave.’
Perhaps Susan was intending to say more but any further words were lost in a crush of strong arms and cheerful farewells as her sons kissed her goodbye; then disappeared into the fast-falling night.
--Two--
Mary looked out of a lead-paned window at the rain and the darkness, then focussed on the reflection of her companion. Archie had rested an elbow on the mantelpiece and was staring down at the fire giving every impression of being hypnotised by the flames. At his feet lay Monty and Rush, the two bloodhounds were stretched out and contented, fathoms deep in limb-twitching, rabbit-chasing dreams.
This was a special time of day. Despite the vastness of the room they could make themselves very cosy indeed and talk, laugh, sometimes even tease. More recently Dickon would on occasion join them to dine and then retire here to relax - his uncomplicated and happy approach to life bringing a pleasurable and fresh aspect to an evening’s companionship.
Only tonight the Sowerby family had managed the rare feat of simultaneous release from their various employments and were gathered together, leaving Mary with the man who made up half of her own, much smaller but no less loved, family. In her hand she held Colin’s latest letter, her cousin had included a photographic portrait of himself striking a pose of the utmost seriousness in front of a perfect alpine vista composed of a lake and distant mountains. She glanced from the picture to her uncle and observed, not for the first time, how strange it was that there was no trace of the dark-eyed and pale father in the sharp, almost feminine looks of his son. Additionally Colin glowed with a toned good health that was further enhanced by the sheer magic of being twenty-one. In comparison Archie’s thin frame was becoming ever more stooped due to the effect that time was having upon his crooked back.
‘I ordered four men be dismissed today,’ said Archie. After a lifetime of addressing servants he didn’t trouble himself to turn around and engage Mary’s attention before speaking but merely assumed that he would be listened to.
‘The Malloys.’ Archie finally moved in order to search Mary’s face for a sign of recognition at the name. There was none.
‘They were working up at Tanner Farm and it now transpires had some sort of scheme going with stocks and yields and were stealing from the estate, stealing from me.’ Then with grudging admiration he added: ‘It was actually fiendishly complicated, heaven only knows how they worked it out, and very successful. However Anderson -’ in the saying of his name the Master of Misselthwaite Manner clearly conveyed the inestimably high regard in which he held his shrewd estate manager. ‘- had been on to them for sometime, all that was needed thereafter was the proof which has now been produced.’
‘What will happen to them?’
‘They must be out of their cottage by the end of this week and after that I really don’t care. They should be grateful to me for not insisting that they go before the magistrate.’
Mary could tell from Archie’s tone that he believed himself to have acted mercifully and wondered how it was that he could be unaware of how ruthless he actually sounded.
‘A bad business. Brought to a good end.’ Gently nudging the dogs out of the way with the tip of his cane, Archie came and stood closer to Mary who was perched in the window seat. ‘Could do with an end to all this rain too.'
‘Dickon says this is exactly what the garden needs.’
‘Well, Dickon would certainly know. I’ve never come across anyone so in tune with the elements. Remarkable.’
Mary smiled at this praise of her beloved. ‘He also said there would be a storm.’
Archie frowned out at the blackness. ‘Then tonight will not be particularly restful. Yorkshire storms are much less ferocious than those on the Continent but even here I find them…unnatural somehow and quite threatening.’
Having been blessed with a much sunnier disposition Mary’s first instinct was to make a light-heated comment in order to divert her uncle from further melancholy thoughts. However the words died on her lips as a jagged streak of lightening blazed across the sky followed quickly by a roll of thunder which though by no means deafening was still loud enough to instantly propel the dogs from peaceful sleep to fretful whining.
Though storms did not bother her in the least, Mary was seized by a sudden sense of inexplicable yet almost overwhelming fear. She turned away from the window and found herself wishing very much that this night would soon be over.
--Three--
‘Come on, Dickon lad. Tis freezing out here.’
Despite his brothers’ encouragement the man in question did not quicken his pace.
‘I don’t mind the rain. Does you good.’
Phil waved the others on, then fell into step with his youngest brother. Hours in The Blue Cow and a slightly unwise fifth pint had made him extremely relaxed and right now he didn’t mind getting wet either. They picked up the threads of an earlier conversation, one the whole pub had been having, about the newly disgraced Malloys. They’d never been popular members of the community and by their crime had crossed the line into being outcasts.
Of course a certain amount of stealing went on - there wasn’t a man in the village who hadn’t spent at least one boyhood night poaching in Misselthwaite Woods - but it was a small, unambitious type of theft. The purpose of which wasn’t greed or treachery merely to make life a little bit better. No one got foolish or took too much and the liberation of the odd few sticks of firewood or half bale of hay was an accepted part of country life. The Malloys had stolen money. In secret. Two things that placed them beyond redemption in the eyes of their close-knit neighbours.
They were taking a shortcut through the graveyard and agreeing what a bad business the whole affair was when Phil and Dickon realised that they weren’t alone. The four Malloys jumped out of a hedge- a few empty bottles falling out with them - and swiftly blocked their path.
‘Just the man we wanted to see,’ boomed Luke at Dickon. Luke was by far the sharpest of the Malloys and often acted as a kind of spokesman for them all. ’We’re in a bit o’ trouble y’see. Reckon tha’s the one to sort it out for us.’
‘We’re heading home,’ stated Phil.
‘But you’ve got time for a bit of a talk with old friends, haven’t tha?’ Luke’s voice was wheedling and slurred. Up close Phil could see how drunk he was, how drunk they all were so he decided to let the ‘old friends’ comment pass without discussion. Not now or in the past had they ever been close to being friends.
‘You’re one of us aren’t you, Dickon? Eh? Eh? Working man made good. Reckon you could talk to that old cripple for us, change his mind and that.’
Phil reflected that nothing was less likely to persuade Dickon to help them than referring to Archibald Craven, a man he much admired, as ‘that old cripple’.
‘I can’t do owt and tha knows why,’ said Dickon. ‘You did wrong and got caught. Tis the end of it.’
Luke’s face was twisted with sudden fury. ‘You stuck up little…’
As soon as Phil saw his arm go back for the punch he sprang forward only to be jumped on by two of the Malloys who knocked him to the ground. Phil tried to keep an eye on Dickon in the furious struggle that followed but it was impossible. He was only conscious of fists and boots, though at one point clearly heard the sound of breaking glass. At last arms that had been pinning him down let go and then Phil heard the Malloys running off into the night. Gingerly he got to his feet, spat the blood out of his mouth and looked around for his brother.
The first thing Phil noticed in the next lightening strike was rain water, strained red, streaming down the hill. Then he saw Dickon lying in the mud, unmoving and to all appearances dead.
--Four--
The storm continued to echo around Misselthwaite Manor, but this deep into the night there was no one awake to pay heed to it - apart from one man. Old houses are often said to be haunted and though a lost soul was indeed walking the corridors it dwelled in the entirely non-spectral and aching body of Archibald Craven.
Once Mary had taken her leave it had been Archie’s intention to sit out the storm by the fireside and drink away the worst of the low feelings that the howling tempest provoked in him. At length the stiffness in his back forced him to his feet and now he had reached the Long Gallery. Abandoned by Monty and Rush who had gamely trotted at their master’s side for a while then retreated to the warmth of the flames and the comfort of the thick rug that lay in front of them. Lord Craven now stood alone; staring through the dim light at the portraits of his family that covered the walls.
There were soldiers, explorers, judges and financiers. Men and women who had crammed more into a few decades of life than most people would in eternity, and others who had done nothing but stay within these walls and grow old and fat on the wealth acquired by previous, more industrious, generations. There weren’t many thinkers, no poets or philosophers, as the family tended to produce uncomplicated, practical men who gave and followed orders with equal confidence.
One day there would be a portrait of him up there and Archie couldn’t help wondering what his descendents would think when looking on it. Would he be barely remembered like the girl with the green parrot whom no one could put a name to or would he become a notorious family legend? - the crazed widower who’d nearly destroyed himself through grief and had seen every great city in Europe but barely laid eyes on his own son for ten years. All that was long passed but Archie had done nothing to distinguish himself in recent times. He’d been both father and mother to Colin and to Mary, raised them to the best of his ability and now with Colin gone and Mary soon to marry Dickon and move into the Dower House on the opposite side of the grounds, it had begun to dawn on Archie that he had no other real occupations in life and was set to become a very lonely fellow.
Suddenly and most unexpectedly there were voices.
‘Oh bugger it. Where’s he got to?’
That was Keane, who had recently taken his place as Archie’s butler following Pitcher’s death. For the first time Archie had a man who was a good deal younger than him and, though he couldn’t fault his skills as a servant, Keane remained a far more remote and aloof figure than the much-missed Pitcher had been.
‘I told you I checked his rooms and there’s no sign that he’s been in them.’
Mrs Medlock’s voice drifted along the corridor.
‘It’s four in the morning,’ complained Keane.
‘May I remind you that it is his lordship’s privilege to do as he wishes at any hour,’ the ever loyal Mrs Medlock frostily replied.
‘Aye but I wish he’d do it somewhere we could find him.’
Archie went to the end of the gallery, out onto the landing then leaned over the banister of the great, twisting staircase that was considered to be one of the architectural jewels of the manor and called out:
‘I’m up here.’
He was quickly joined by Keane, who was breathing heavily having run up three flights of wide, low stairs.
‘What do you want? Given the hour I can only assume that it is something urgent and given your expression something bad.’
Don’t let it be Colin, Archie silently pleaded. Take everything else away from me but not my boy.
‘There was a fight in the village tonight, my lord and…’
‘And?’
‘And somehow Dickon Sowerby got caught up in it.’ Keane sounded puzzled, and rightly so - for it was hard to imagine someone as placid as Dickon being violent. ‘He was hurt, bad. The doctor’s there now but they say he’ll not see the dawn and so we thought that Miss Mary might want to..’ He faltered. ‘I don’t know but I thought it was best that you be told immediately and then decide what’s right for her.’
‘Quite so. Good thinking.’
Archie felt both relieved and terribly sad. So this dreadful news did not concern Colin but Dickon. It wouldn’t be him but the Sowerby’s who would spend the coming hours watching the sky lighten and their son die. Archie considered himself to be a man who knew exactly how cruel and unjust life could be but he was shocked by this latest turn of events.
Mrs Medlock, having tackled the stairs at a more sedate pace, looked up at Archie with red-rimmed eyes however her voice was steady when she asked:
‘Shall I awake Miss Mary?’
‘No. Yes. I’ll decide in due course, Mrs Medlock. Now I shall retire to my study.’ Archie nodded to Keane. ‘Coffee, immediately.’
Archie hurried back through the Long Gallery and wished, not for the first time, that at least one of the painted figures hanging within it had lived long enough to occasionally relieve him of the burden of making difficult decisions.
--Five--
The storm blew itself out during the night so that Mary awoke to a peaceful world of blue skies and weak Spring sunshine. She breakfasted alone, wrote a couple of long overdue letters to friends that consisted almost solely of expressions of her longing, expectation and desire to become Dickon's wife, for the wedding was only eleven weeks and five days away and with every change in the calender her excitement grew.
At one point whilst searching for the most appropriate words, Mary found herself tapping her engagement ring against her lips and on realising what she was doing became lost in a private reverie of the night that the diamond had been placed upon her finger. How handsome Dickon had looked! He'd knelt before her in The Secret Garden, gentle eyes lit by the flame of a hundred candles and changed her life in the best way possible with six simple words. The striking of the clock brought Mary back down to earth and she quickly dashed off a few final phrases to bring her screed to a satisfactory conclusion then, with a light heart and a happy smile, went outside to greet her love.
Dickon wasn't in the garden. Mary sat on the low stone bench nearest the pond waiting patiently for him. Sometimes he would be engaged in a task that couldn't be abandoned until it was completed and so was not always able meet with her promptly. Alone in The Secret Garden, Mary looked about her and marvelled at how bright and alive everything appeared after the storm, as if the driving rain had washed it all clean so that the many colours surrounding her seemed unusually vivid. When she had waited for more than an hour with only a robin for company – no doubt a scion of the family that had been started by her very first friend – Mary decided to start searching.
At the entrance to the kitchen gardens she found Ben Wetherstaff. She called out a greeting to the old man and then asked: 'Where is Dickon?'
Ben's heavily lined face creased into an expression of puzzlement.
'Dost tha not know?'
Mary shook her head.
'Eh, tha' poor wench,' said Ben softly. And to Mary's great surprise she saw tears well-up in his eyes. 'Tis not my place to say. Best tha go and ask His Lordship t'same question.'
With that Ben picked up his fork and ambled off.
The elderly gardener's words left Mary thoroughly confused and worried. She ran back to towards the house and in her haste almost ignored her uncle who was sat, on the edge of the fountain that dominated the centre of the formal rose garden, as silent and motionless as the fantastic carved marble sea-dragons that surrounded him.
This time Mary did not waste words on pleasantries.
'Where is Dickon?'
Archie held out a hand and Mary allowed herself to be guided to a space next to him. Once she had sat down he did not let go; instead turned towards her, took her hand in both of his and allowed his cane to fall to the ground.
'What I am about to tell you will not be easy to hear...'
Mary listened to him speak of the Malloys, of a savage ambush, of an empty bottle smashed and wielded like a knife and the dreadful consequences.
'...when I was first informed the doctor had said that Dickon would not survive the night and yet it will soon be lunchtime and I have received no word.'
'You knew last night?' Mary snatched her hand from Archie's and shied away in horror. 'You knew.'
'I was told that Dickon was dying and chose to spare you that grief.'
'It was not your choice to make,' Mary shouted. 'I'm not a child, I'm twenty-one.'
'And I was twenty-seven,' roared Archie over the top of her next words. He took a breath then continued quietly. 'I was twenty-seven when Lilias...when my wife...when she...'
Silence.
The fountain gushed, bees buzzed dreamily amongst thousands of dark red petals and when Archie spoke again he did not look at Mary but at the ground.
'My wife died screaming in agony, not knowing who I was and there was nothing that I could do.' At last he raised his eyes in Mary's direction. 'It was the single most horrific experience of my life and, my dear Mary, I would spare you that no matter what your age. Because I assure you that no amount of years can serve as protection from the unendurable pain of watching the one you love most in all the world die.'
In the eleven years that she had known him her uncle hadn't said one word about the circumstances of his beloved wife's death. On any other day Mary would have broken her heart for him, she loved Archie very much and would have given anything to see him truly happy in the present instead of damaged and haunted by the past. But today Mary could only feel anger that he'd kept her from Dickon, no matter how well-intentioned his motive.
'I have to go to him.'
She bent down then handed Archie his cane. For a moment they held each other's gaze, a thousand things to say crossed Mary's mind and each one seemed hopelessly inadequate so she withdrew, leaving her uncle to his grief and memories.
On the journey across the moor Archie's words rang in Mary's ears – my wife died screaming in agony, not knowing who I was – she was terrified, utterly terrified at what she would find at the cottage. And yet her love for Dickon was so powerful that her instinctive reaction was to be at his side. Somehow Mary managed to quell the outside signs of panic and knock at the small, weathered door of Dickon's childhood home, then quite properly ask after the health of all those gathered in what the Sowerby family called 'the parlour'.
Finally, she was ushered towards the room where Dickon lay. Ever so briefly Mary faltered on the threshold then, firmly resolved to be strong no matter what the future held for them both, she stepped inside.
---Six---
Colin was sound asleep. He was lying almost diagonally across the top of a large and unfamiliar hotel bed that was located in the heart of the most extraordinary place which he had ever been.
Thanks to the vagaries and delays of the trans-continental postal system whilst it was only a day ago that Mary had received the letter that placed him on the shores of Lake Teirnsee, Colin had in fact not been there for some time. He’d swapped the Austro-Hungarian Empire for the Ottoman and switched continents from Europe to Asia.
Oh yes, he was becoming a very well travelled man indeed. One who enthusiastically embraced new experiences, grew his hair far longer than he’d ever dare to at home - why it almost touched the back of his collar - and chose to live simply. When writing in hotel registers he included neither the letters that he could put before his name by birthright nor the ones that could be placed after it, which had been earned by three years hard slog at Cambridge, but instead always signed himself as ‘Colin Craven, Misselthwaite, England’. And nothing more.
Istanbul was a place like no other and Colin had thrown himself into the heat and crowds of the city. Become lost in a Byzantine maze of tiny streets only to be eventually disgorged into a marketplace wherein the wares for sale and the slightly desperate calls and pleading touch of the merchants assaulted every sense.
Perhaps another person would have been greatly alarmed to be adrift in such a place but not Colin. He always launched himself wholeheartedly into any venture and rarely considered what the consequences may be. The boy who’d spent the first decade of his life stagnating within the four walls of his bedroom had grown into a man who lived life at a frantic pace as if determined never to waste a single second of it again.
When Colin finally, and quite by chance, re-discovered his hotel, he entered it intending only to swap his blazer for the outrageously striped and curiously thick linen shirt he’d haggled over in the market and then immediately return to the seductive chaos outside, but he had been so thoroughly overwhelmed by his heady and unique surroundings that he now himself found unable to resist a brief respite and fell onto the bed fully clothed and closed his eyes.
At length he began to dream and his dream took him west. Over mountains and forests, across the sea and the moor to Misselthwaite and The Secret Garden. Standing under the tree with the broken branch was a woman who smiled when he approached. In reality Colin had only ever seen this woman in a series of frozen images, held forever in single poses in the portrait on his bedroom wall and the photograph on his father’s desk.
But in this dream she moved and spoke and touched and Colin was not afraid but filled with a sense of peace and completeness.
‘You are needed, my son,’ said the woman in a light melodic voice. ‘Needed ever so much.’
‘Where?’
‘In the garden. Come to my garden.’
‘Give up my adventure? I couldn’t bear it.’
The woman shook her head. ‘The garden,’ she repeated. ‘Come to my garden.’
Colin awoke with a start. He couldn't know it but at that exact moment over a thousand miles away Mary was stood on the threshold of Dickon’s room, summoning up the courage to walk in. Had the magic that thrilled and inspired them when they were children entered their lives one last time? Is there such a thing as magic when one is grown-up and has discovered that life is far less mysterious and wonderful than it was when one was much younger and capable of believing in anything?
Colin didn’t know the answers. But on waking there was one thing that he knew with unshakable conviction, though he would have been incapable of articulating a logical reason for why this was so.
He had to go home.
--Seven--
It was a windy day, as the crowd of mourners left the church each put a hand to their hats to secure them as they slowly followed the coffin to its final destination. At the graveside, a mother stood sobbing without restraint held up by a father - too proud to allow his private anguish to become messy public grief - who had set his face in a distant expression of loss and regret and did not imagine that he would ever smile again.
Death is cruel and without reason. It did not matter that the body inside the coffin had been young and strong, or that the soul it had contained had been good and gentle, loved many people and been loved in return. And it did not matter that just nine days earlier he had held his newborn daughter in his arms for the very first time. None of that counted for anything, fate had decided, a cart had overturned and Albert Moore was dead.
From where she was standing outside the cottage, Mary could clearly see her uncle - the tallest of the throng of funeral goers - shaking hands and listening earnestly to what was being said to him. She found the attitude of the villagers towards Archie hard to understand. As far as Mary was aware he was generally regarded with, at best, good natured contempt by those who depended on him completely for their lodgings and employment. However, on days like today when a horrible and merciless tragedy focussed everyone’s attention on a single event, then they seemed to need Archie’s words and presence. The fact that ‘his Lordship’ came to pay his respects to a young man he wouldn’t have been capable of recognising had they by chance passed each other in the street was seen as right by all the villagers as if Archie were some sort of talisman or an extremely localised monarch.
What little Mary knew of village life and gossip came from the Sowerbys and in the last four days, as she spent every possible waking hour inside the cottage, she had heard a great deal of it. Dickon mainly slept and when they were alone together, Mary would take his hand and cry and cry. Mornings were the worst. She would enter his room resolved not to let his appearance upset her so, then that first glimpse of his battered face, deathly pallor, the livid rows of stitches and the pristine bandages would undermine that resolve entirely and her heart would break afresh.
On entering the cottage this morning, Mary saw that Elizabeth-Ellen was sat by her brother’s bedside and so she joined the rest of the women in the kitchen.
‘Baking today,’ said Susan Sowerby, passing Mary an apron. ‘The Moore’s won’t be wanting to bother wi’ it for many a day. So we’ll see they’ve got a full larder to get ‘em through. Cans’t tha slice?’
Mary nodded and stood in front of a pile of vegetables destined for pies. Her movements were slow and awkward compared to the other woman but she got on with the task and was awarded with the occasional approving nod.
Susan Sowerby believed firmly that ‘them as keeps busy, don’t fuss’ and so had instigated a project of cleaning, mending and cooking that all the women turned a hand to when not with Dickon. Mary had insisted on doing her share, though at first she’d been rather useless. The women who’d either been born into or married into the Sowerby clan had never had servants, and accordingly from a very young age had learned that they either did things for themselves or they didn’t get done at all. Mary had felt like a fish out of water as they sowed, polished and baked with deftness and accuracy whilst all the time bantering in their quick, rough speech.
Once she’d proved her willingness to get her hands dirty and to learn, Mary had been welcomed into the fold and no one stood on ceremony. She’d never spent time with women like this before - her life at the manor was dominated by Archie, Colin and Dickon and her friends were all of the same class as herself and they socialised in a very different way.
‘Keep chopping, Miss Mary,’ encouraged Martha. ‘Tha’ cans’t always be in daydream about t’wedding.’
In eleven weeks Mary and Dickon were getting married and not for a single second did any of them doubt this. They shunned the evidence of their eyes and the fact that Dickon’s grip on life was tenuous and fragile indeed, and concentrated on the forthcoming wedding as if by sheer force of will alone it was going to happen.
‘Maybe she was daydreaming about t’wedding night,’ suggested one of Martha’s sisters-in-law to a chorus of knowing giggles.
‘Nothin’ dreamy about that,’ opined another with exaggerated glumness.
‘Don’t listen to ‘em, Mary,’ said Susan. ‘Tis nothing to be feared of. Though if tha has a question or two…’
Perhaps Mary would have spoken had it just been her and the motherly Susan, but she certainly wasn’t going to make her inexperience known in a kitchen full of wives and mothers. ‘Um…’
‘Tis best to ask us. Thine uncle’ll be no use. Men never are.’
‘I puts my man to good use,’ said Martha with a wicked grin and they all started to laugh.
Phil Sowerby stumped in through the back door and the laughter died away.
‘Thought I’d look on our kid for a spell.’ he said as he walked past them.
The atmosphere changed completely as Mary had noticed that it always did in the presence of a man. For all their joking and complaining about them, the men in this family were deferred to at all times and their word was law. This seemed strange to Mary who had been raised by Archie to believe that her opinions and actions were of equal value to his and Colin’s and Mary regarded herself as being in a partnership with Dickon. Was that wrong? Was Dickon expecting her to cater to his every whim and to be always at his beck and call? And in a sense wouldn’t that be the best way to live?
Mary knew that her attitudes and sense of equality were considered ‘modern’ and unusual by the women she had spent the last four days with but she felt very strongly that they were important and that a woman’s right to be herself and make her own decisions was one worth fighting for. On the other hand part of her wanted nothing more than to create a home for Dickon and serve and spoil him as all these women did their husbands. Some of Mary’s more forward thinking friends would think of the Sowerby women as little more than slaves and urge them to throw off the shackles of male oppression. And yet it could not be denied how happy and contented they all seemed with their lot.
The last four days had torn Mary apart and she no longer felt certain of anything.
‘Mary, tell Phil there’s bread and bacon waiting for him and tha can have Sleeping Beauty all to thy self.’
Mary nodded gratefully, she’d been so wrapped up in her own thoughts and observations that she’d been peeling the same carrot for several minutes. Phil was dispatched and Mary pulled the chair - which like everything in the cottage was old, patched and spotlessly clean - as close to Dickon’s bed as she could get it, then curled her legs under her, gently lifted his hand and covered it in hers and stared down at her broken love.
Eyelashes fluttered and Dickon looked up at her with bruised and bloodshot eyes.
‘Hello,’ he whispered. ‘Here again.’
‘Here always,’ said Mary, stroking a stray lock of hair off his forehead.
‘Good.’ Dickon smiled, then closed his eyes. ‘’s good.’
Sleep claimed him and he drifted away, leaving Mary to sit watching his agonisingly slow breathing and silently will him to always take another breath.
--Eight--
‘Mary, whilst I don‘t wish to appear to be a hypocrite, I really must urge you to eat something.’
As soon as he had finished speaking Archie took another deep drag from the cigarette that along with two large cups of coffee made up his usual breakfast.
To appease him, Mary took up her spoon and guided a mouthful of porridge to her lips but on catching the first hint of its rich sugar-and-oats scent she found herself quite unable to complete the action and all but threw the spoon back into the bowl.
‘I can’t.’
The darkest pair of eyes that Mary had ever seen fixed on her with concern.
‘Dickon would not want you to fret so. He would hate, as indeed I hate, to see you so undone.’
Several similar conversations had taken place over the last two weeks since a drunken and vicious attack had nearly put Dickon in his grave and though he appeared stronger every day Mary could not relax and be grateful that it was so. After four days under his mother’s care, Dickon had been slowly driven across the moor and installed in Misselthwaite Manor where a day nurse, a night nurse and Dr Craven were in constant attendance.
Curiously having Dickon so much closer did not prove any comfort to Mary. In these grand and imposing surroundings the easy camaraderie she’d formed with the Sowerby woman vanished and once again she was ‘Miss Mary’ someone to be deferred to and not engage in friendly or confiding banter. Without their cheerfulness, their strength and their refusal to even imagine that Dickon would not recover quickly and completely, Mary felt lonely and scared.
‘I think I’ll look in on our guest,’ said Archie as he stubbed out his cigarette. ‘And see those treacherous dogs of mine.’
Monty and Rush had transferred their affections to Dickon within hours of him being at the manor and when shooed out of the sick room by one of the nurses would set up a pitiful whining until readmitted. Archie spoke in light-hearted tones but Mary suspected that he rather missed the two shambling bloodhounds who were normally quite content to be wherever their master was.
‘Why don’t you go for a walk? A spell of fresh air will do you good.’
She had been intending to go straight to Dickon’s bedside and yet perhaps Archie was right, fresh air might be exactly what she needed Mary wasn’t used to being indoors for so long and she hadn’t been inside the Secret Garden for days.
‘Yes, I think I will. Do tell Dickon that I won’t be long.’
********************
Firmly wrapped up against a late spring day that felt more like winter, Mary walked across the lawn, down the Long Walk, through a stout little wooden door and in to the Secret Garden.
Every branch, every petal and every blade of grass reminded her of Dickon for they had all benefited from his care and skills as a gardener. Looking around her Mary could see only firsts - the tree under which they’d first kissed, the stone bench where they’d first declared their love for each other and the patch of grass under the tree with the broken branch where Dickon had proposed.
‘Dickon might be dying.’
She hadn’t meant to speak aloud but propelled by strong emotion the words forced themselves from her lips. Dying - the word seemed to echo around the garden.
‘And if he does I shall…I shall…’
What would she do in a world without the man who’d captured heart and soul? Mary only had to look at her uncle to see how shattering the effects of grief could be. Would the loss of Dickon drive her mad?
She realised that she had been praying for the wrong thing, she didn’t simply want Dickon to live she wanted him to be whole and strong. If the damage done to his body was permanent than Mary was convinced that she would not be able to cope with that either. If Dickon was to always be in pain then she couldn’t bear to see it.
Nothing was reacting to her words. The robins kept on whistling and hopping amongst branches and blooms, a long stray stem of variegated ivy had become detached from the trellis and was now bent over the pond being repeatedly dipped into the water by the breeze. All around her life grew and thrived.
‘You don’t care. You’re just a garden. There’s no magic here, you’re just a place, an ordinary, stupid place and I…and I hate you!’
Mary turned and ran from it, colliding almost immediately with the tall, long-haired figure who’d been ducking through the door from the other side.
‘Colin!’
--Nine--
Colin had always been a day dreamer, though his education had done much to curb his tendency towards wild flights of fantasy and bold leaps of the imagination, there remained deep within him an instinct to look towards the supernatural and the fantastic when seeking an answer for that which he either did not understand or found himself incapable of readily explaining.
And so it was that he came to believe his way back across Europe was guided by an unseen hand. The startling pace of his progress, the fact that he had to endure neither the delays nor the re-routed connections that were an almost everyday occurrence during trans-continental travel surely had to be due to something more than mere good fortune? Throughout his swift and uncomplicated journey the sense of peace that he’d been flooded with since dreaming of his mother remained strong and the desire to go home, the sheer rightness of doing so allowed him to curtail his adventures without a moment of hesitation or regret.
It was only at the very last stage of his journey with over a thousand miles behind him and little more than seven to go that Colin slackened the furious pace. On stepping off the train at Thwaite station he decided against engaging a cabby and instead walked to the edge of the village and vaulted the high stone wall that marked the boundary of his father’s estate and ran further than the eye could see. He hit the soft springy turf on the other side and straightened up. He was home. Home on a sharp Spring morning with heather and gorse to crunch over, dark woods to weave through and finally rolling parkland to stride across before he reached the manor and his family. Colin picked up his pack and set off, vaguely wondering when it could have been that he last felt so happy.
By the time he’d reached the drive Colin was feeling puckish, so instead of continuing towards the great oak front door and boldly announcing his return to the entire household, he broke off and headed for the back way via the Long Walk and the kitchen gardens with a view to sneaking indoors to give his father and Mary a scare by suddenly appearing before them with no warning. But first he felt he had to pay his respects to the exact place his mother had called him to. However his plan for a brief time of quiet was shattered when he entered the Secret Garden and immediately found himself with an armful of cousin.
‘Mary!’ yelled Colin joyfully. He took her full weight in his arms leant back and span them both around. ‘Here we are again. Have you missed me?’
‘Of course I have, silly. We all have.’
They separated, stood back and looked at each other. She was beautiful, too light in her colouring and too slender to be a match for what Colin found desirable in a woman - something for which he’d long been grateful, life would only be complicated by mooning over a close relative - but he could easily see what it was that so captivated Dickon. He grinned at his first friend and dear companion.
‘Now just because I’ve come back early it doesn’t mean you can bore me with wedding details,’ he teased. ‘I intend to do and think nothing until that great day dawns.’
‘It might not.’
Colin didn’t understand Mary’s words, nor her downcast expression.
‘What?’
‘It’s all so horrible I don’t know where to begin.’
But begin she did and Colin listened with growing sadness and concern to Mary’s account of the weeks since that fateful stormy night. Finally she lay a hand on Colin’s arm. ‘Now you’re here things will be ever so much better.’
He was touched by her faith in him and replied with a few confident and comforting words whilst wondering exactly what it was Mary expected him to do. He disliked himself for thinking it but Colin was even somewhat annoyed at Dickon for him having so completely ruined the cheerful homecoming he had been looking forward to as he’d hiked across the moor.
That treacherous thought was quickly buried and suddenly Colin had the answer - the garden. This was where his mother had told him he was needed, not simply Misselthwaite, specifically here in a place of love, laughter and healing. They weren’t children anymore but in this short while before the wedding - and by God there was going to be a wedding he was determined - could the three of them come together one last time and let the magic that he was still half-inclined to believe in do the rest?
‘Has Dickon been in here?’
‘Dickon hasn’t been anywhere, Colin.’ Mary replied sounding weary. ‘He can barely sit up.’
‘We should get him into the garden, he’d like that.’
‘And then what?’ Play games, have his mother bring us food, talk about magic and experiments. That was years ago.’
‘It worked,’ said Colin stubbornly.
After a long pause Mary slowly nodded in agreement.
‘It worked,’ he repeated. ‘It can do again, along with doctors and medicines and all the rest of it. We can try, we can do our bit and I’ll take trying over worrying any day.’
‘I suppose.’
‘I know.’
He wrapped an arm around Mary and gave her shoulders a squeeze. ‘It’ll all be different from now on.’
‘Yes?’
Mary looked up at Colin doubtfully and he calmly held her gaze, feeling gratified when she began to smile. Colin smiled too, then in another few seconds they were laughing though neither of them could have said why.
‘I promise. Now come with me back to the house and see father.’
‘You’re not going to sneak up on him are you? I thought it was cruel when you did that at the start of your Christmas break last year.’
‘You thought it was hilarious.’
‘That too.’
‘Honestly, Mary, you worry far too much about what other people might be thinking.’
‘At least I am aware that other people have feelings.’
Teasing and arguing in a most pleasing and affectionate way the two cousins left the garden. Each feeling capable of anything now that the other was at their side.
--Ten--
When Dickon awoke the sun was already high in the sky. He stared across the huge, soulless room and looked out towards what little he could see of the blue sky and whispy clouds. The intricately decorated window on the opposite wall to his bed sported only a few panes of clear glass amongst an elaborate pattern of colour, and all of them were bordered by thick strips of lead. Dickon had no opinion on the artistic merit of the window, but disliked it for its inefficiency. As it allowed only the weakest light into the room which was then suffocated by the heavy, dark tapestries covering each wall.
No wonder he was sleeping later and later, he couldn’t feel the sun or hear the birds and had never been so high up in his life. Four flights of stairs and walls whose width could be measured in feet not inches kept him separated from the outdoors. At first this detachment plus the unaccustomed thickness of his bedding and the staleness of the air had smothered him, given him nightmares, but as his wounds healed his mind was soothed also.
He made a low, crooning sound and instantly there was a scrabbling noise as Monty and Rush leapt up from the rug and bounded over to him, tails wagging furiously. They pressed their cold noses into his outstretched hand and whined and panted at the pleasure of being fussed over.
‘Ah, I heard canine enthusiasm and deduced that you had embraced the day.’
Dr Craven swiftly crossed the room.
‘Let’s take a look at you, my boy, and see what miracles science has achieved whilst you were cradled within the arms of Morpheus.’
The doctor was a strange one with his flowery speech - Dickon very often had no idea what he was saying - and quick, bird-like mannerisms. However he also possessed the same deep well of patience and kindness as his cousin, Archie, and attended to Dickon without ever once causing him embarrassment and only ever the necessary amount of pain.
‘Excellent, excellent. I shall find myself quite redundant soon.’
Dr Craven finished his examination and perched on the edge of Dickon’s bed.
‘Let’s just see that arm again. Hold it out for me, good and straight.’
Dickon complied then winced as Doctor Craven firmly gripped his left arm and turned it over.
‘Beautiful, I’ve truly surpassed myself. Those aren’t merely stitches, no, no. What I see before me is nothing short of art.’
When he’d been set upon by the Malloys, Dickon had instinctively held his arm up to shield his face from the frenzied blows that rained down on him and from the vicious stabbings of a broken bottle. It had been torn to pieces. How could Dr Craven look on it and see art? All Dickon could see was a stitched and swollen mess.
‘Tis healing?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘Wonderfully so.’
‘There’ll be scars?’
‘Tremendous scars,’ said Dr Craven with gusto. ‘Scars bravely acquired, scars that say something of the man that you are. Scars to be unashamed of.’
Dickon smiled in the face of the doctor’s infectious enthusiasm.
‘And these.’ Doctor Craven drew a finger down his own cheek, starting just under the eye mirroring where he’d sown up Dickon’s face. ‘These shall lend you a most distinguished air.’
Dickon had his doubts and worried about Mary’s opinion of his altered appearance.
‘Mary shall be utterly beguiled by them,’ said Doctor Craven as if he’d read Dickon’s mind. ‘Woman often are. Curious creatures, and most of them are damned odd.’
Doctor Craven was briefly lost in a private reverie, then he snapped out of it and stood up.
‘Now, are you intending on going into the garden today?’
‘Aye,’ Dickon wanted nothing more than to be outside.
‘Good show. Eat first and then bugger off out into the sunshine. Best thing for you, what? Marvellous.’
Buggering off was neither easy nor quick. Aided by the day nurse, and hampered by the limitations of his battered body, it took some time before Dickon was ready to venture downstairs. Out of pride he refused to be carried and leaning heavily on the banister slowly made his way, one awkward step at a time, down to the hall where Colin was waiting with the chair.
******************
‘I say, Dickon, you are a lump. In a minute I’m going to insist that we swap places.’
Colin said this every morning when they were somewhere between the orchard and the Long Walk, each time imagining that he’d just thought of it. Usually Dickon would make some light-hearted remark of his own in response, but today he was feeling rather tired and could think of nothing to say.
At last they reached their secret garden and Mary. She had gone there before them and under the tree with the broken branch had artfully arranged blankets and cushions in a comfortable and inviting fashion.
‘Mary, I deliver to you one fiancé.’
Dickon stood up and walked towards her. Every morning he went to kiss her and every morning Mary ducked away and led him to the blankets as if he were a doddering old man and not her lover. Once they were settled - inches apart - silence descended.
‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ said Colin. ‘A certain parcel should arrive today, and I want to intercept it before either Keane or Mrs Medlock does.’
He grinned then ran off.
‘What can Colin be up to?’ wondered Mary. ‘He’s awfully secretive at the moment.’
‘He’s here, but not his mind. Tis a fair mystery.’
Dickon leaned towards Mary, draped his good arm over her shoulders and tried to pull her nearer to him.
‘Don’t,’ said Mary, squirming away. ‘Dickon, please…’
‘Please what?’ he asked, though he feared the answer. It was obvious that Mary couldn’t bear to be near him. Not a state a man and a woman should find themselves in a few weeks before their wedding.
Agitated, Mary got up and walked over to the pond. Downcast and confused as he was, Dickon couldn’t help but think how pretty she looked. He got to his feet and stood behind her.
‘What?’ he said.
‘I’m afraid,’ replied Mary without turning around.
‘There’s nothing to be a-feared of.’
‘I might hurt you.’ Her words came out in a breathless rush. ‘You were nearly dead. Oh you were so nearly dead. And when you wouldn’t wake up I mourned you, and when you did and you were in such a state. I-’
‘Kiss me.’
Dickon placed his hand on Mary’s waist . ‘Turn around and kiss me.’
Mary did turn and he rested his forehead against hers.
‘I love you,’ he whispered.
Neither of them moved for a long time and when their lips finally met it was such a soft kiss that it was barely a kiss at all.
Mary looked up at Dickon.
‘You’re…you’re my friend,’ she said.
‘I am that, Mary Lennox. And do you still want to marry this friend of yours?’
‘I do.’
‘Even if he’s no longer handsome to thee?’
‘You’re beautiful to me.’
Dickon laughed. For the first time since he’d been attacked he laughed out of pure joy. Mary laughed to and suddenly they were kissing again. This time it was a much deeper, more passionate embrace.
Reluctantly Dickon broke away - he’d been standing for a long time and wasn’t confident that he could remain so for much longer. He held Mary’s hand and led her back to the cushions and the blankets. Soon she was laying in his arms just as she always did. Dickon felt the tension that had riddled his body for weeks melt away as he closed his eyes and dozed in the sun.
--Eleven--
Colin glanced at his watch, made an untidy note of the exact time in a small notebook - writing whilst wearing two pairs of thick gloves wasn’t easy - then leaned against the uncomfortable wooden shelf and waited. He breathed deeply for the novelty of seeing his crystallized breath appear in small clouds, and broke into a self-congratulatory grin. His timing had been excellent! There were very few moments in the day when it was quiet enough for him to slip through one of the heavy green baize doors that separated the served upon from their servants without discovery. However, in the dead time between lunch and high tea he’d managed to creep from his rooms, through the kitchen, down the chilly scullery passage and into the icehouse without being seen. Now surrounded by hanging rows of game and beef, Colin gritted his teeth and challenged himself to bear these freezing conditions for as long as possible.
Around ten minutes had passed when the handle turned and Mrs Medlock walked in.
‘Master Colin! What ever are you doing?’
‘Hullo, Mrs Medlock,’ Colin replied, sounding especially cheerful in the hope of brazening out what could only appear to be deeply odd behaviour. ‘Sorry if I gave you a scare.’
‘I should think you did.’ Mrs Medlock’s lips pursed with disapproval. ‘This is not a place to stand about in. It’s dangerous to be in the cold for so long.’
‘Well, not always-’
‘Why anyone should want to be is another matter.’ The housekeeper continued more to herself than Colin. ‘Though I’m sure it’s not my place to know such things.’
Colin looked at Mrs Medlock, he’d known her his entire life and though she was strict, she’d always been good to him.
‘I’ll tell you if you like,’ he said. ‘I mean, if you please Mrs Medlock I should so like to tell someone. Would you do me the honour of listening?’
Mrs Medlock smiled and, as she so often did when being affectionate, broke into a less restrained manner of speaking. ‘Eh Master Colin, of course I’ll listen to thee. You come along of me and we’ll have ourselves a chat.’
********************
Shorn of his gloves and most of the clothes he’d worn for his icehouse test Colin sat at the well scrubbed kitchen table. Afraid that he’d now catch a chill, Mrs Medlock had immediately pressed a mug of sweet tea into his hands, then without waiting to be asked cut him a great wedge of rich fruit cake and a placed a slice of cheddar cheese on top.
Colin sipped and munched appreciatively. After all this time it still felt somewhat unorthodox to be in the kitchen - as a boy once he’d begun to walk and explore, his expeditions here had seemed fabulously mysterious and forbidden. He was aware of other servants coming and going, most of them beating a hasty retreat as soon as they saw who Mrs Medlock was with. The vast majority of the kitchen staff never went the other side of the baize doors and so were strangers to Colin and were obviously discomfited by his presence in the middle of their domain.
At first Mrs Medlock and Colin spoke about the wedding. Mary and Dickon were getting married in two weeks time and it seemed to Colin that no one currently talked about anything else. He was happy for his friends, of course he was, but a chap could feel a bit slighted when no one seemed to pay much attention to him. Then again if anyone had spared Colin more than a passing thought his secret might have been discovered, and he certainly didn’t want that to happen until he was ready.
Over more cake and more tea Colin hesitantly began to tell Mrs Medlock what had compelled him to try to spend a warm May afternoon standing in the icehouse. As he hit his stride Colin’s voice became louder and the passion for his project rang clear in every word. When he finally stopped speaking he was flushed and excited all over again at the prospect of what the future had in store.
‘I’ve never heard the like,’ said Mrs Medlock wonderingly.
‘Only a handful men have ever tried. We shall be the first, the very first to succeed.’
‘I think ‘tis expected of you that you’ll stay here, learn how to run things.’
Colin snorted with frustration. ‘Oh Mrs Medlock, didn’t you ever want to do something that wasn’t expected of you?’
The housekeeper hesitated then replied very quietly. ‘I wanted to be a dancer.’
How surprising. Colin leaned forward eager for details.
‘When we was kids we were took to the music hall in Scarborough. It probably wasn’t much of a show and they probably weren’t much good at dancing, but I saw them woman on that stage and I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life.’ Mrs Medlock shook her head in wonder, lost in the memory. ‘They was beautiful. And I wanted to be just like them.
‘What happened?’
‘Well, me mam was dead against it - didn’t think it was proper - and we had no money for lessons. Wouldn’t even have known where to get lessons. Then when I was twelve I got a position here and forgot all about it.’
‘Did you really forget?’ murmured Colin, fascinated.
‘No, not really. But it wasn’t to be and there’s no use fretting over it now.’
Colin looked very seriously at Mrs Medlock. ‘I think that you would have been a wonderful dancer.’
They smiled at each other.
‘You make sure you’re the best…whatever it is you’ll call yourself, and be very careful.’
‘I will.’ A burden had been shared, Colin felt more light-hearted then he had in days. ‘And I shall bring you back opals and fine cloth,’ he declared. Full of gratitude and enthusiasm.
‘Just come back, Master Colin. That’s all I want. Just come back to us safe and sound.’
--Twelve--
Archie had spent most of the morning being Lord Craven. In the general scheme of things no one seemed to require his presence, however sometimes they needed a person to witness their triumphs and woes, to be the final voice and the one around whom others united to either criticize or cheer. That person was Lord Craven, and as the title currently belonged to Archie it fell to him to fulfil those duties. Whether the occasion was a tragedy, such as the recent funeral of poor Albert Moore, or a celebration like Mary and Dickon’s wedding, which was to take place in three days time.
As that day drew nearer, Misselthwaite Manor buzzed with frantic activity, for the servants were preparing every possible room to receive visitors, and bracing themselves for the massively increased workload a house full of guests and a lavish wedding celebration would bring. Nerves were stretched, tempers were fraying and things were going wrong. And so it was that Archie was stood in the Great Hall watching his harried staff run themselves ragged, occasionally offering advice or an opinion, but mainly simply being Lord Craven - assuring people that everything would be all right and hopefully inspiring confidence in those around him.
‘Also, my lord-’ said Keane reading from a list. ‘- the champagne has still not been delivered. I’ve sent a telegram to Goddard and Knox, but have yet to receive a reply.
‘Then send a couple of men to York to collect it.’
‘Mmm a practical suggestion,’ said the butler. ‘However which two men should it be? Their absence from here will mean more work for those that remain.’
‘Then we will…Colin!’ Out of the corner of his eye Archie saw his son - well, sneaking was the only possible word for it - along the furthest wall of the hall. Archie squinted - was Colin really wearing a hat, coat and scarf on a scorching June day?
‘Colin!’
Shouting proved no use. Though the hall had fallen silent as soon as Archie raised his voice the one whose attention he was trying to attract affected not to hear, sped up and sprinted away.
‘Shall I give chase?’ asked Keane with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
‘No, in two minutes I’ll be sending someone to chase after you and then before we know it everyone will be running about and I’ll be stood here like an idiot. Finish your list, there’s a good chap. Then I’d better go out onto the terrace and await the Sowerbys.’
Lunch had been Archie’s solution to a slightly vexing problem. Tradition dictated that the parents of the bride, or in this case himself, were entertained to dinner by the groom’s parents the night before the wedding. Having given it some thought Archie came to the conclusion that it wasn’t possible. Whether he sat at their table or the Sowerby’s sat at one of his the only result of formal evening dining would be embarrassment. Archie’s response had been to do away with tradition and suggest a simple lunch - outside on the terrace rather than in one of the grand and potentially intimidating rooms - attended by himself, the Sowerby’s, Colin, Dickon and Mary. Afterwards Dickon would go with his parents and spend two final nights at his childhood home before becoming a married man.
It amused Archie how horrified Mary and Dickon appeared to be at the prospect of their parents and guardian socialising. Plus he was more than a little curious to finally meet Mr Sowerby. Dickon seemed to have an endless supply of quotes from his mother and spoke about his siblings frequently, but Thomas Sowerby was a remote and mysterious figure. Not that that was surprising, Archie was sure that any man who’d raised twelve children and been married to the somewhat dominant Susan for thirty years would be a very quiet individual indeed, having lost the battle to be noticed years ago.
Archie glanced at a nearby grandfather clock. It wouldn’t be long until his guests arrived and he would find out what kind of man Dickon’s father actually was.
*******************
Dickon’s room was lovely now. The day and night nurses had long been dismissed and Dr Craven had returned to his home. The smell of illness had been replaced by the soft scents of summer that had drifted in on a gentle breeze, and the bandages and medicines, the sight of which had so worried Mary, had all been swept away.
‘Three days apart,’ said Dickon glumly.
‘Lunch first,’ said Mary, playing the ace.
They shared a look of despair.
‘But then in three days-’ said Dickon, placing a hand on the small of Mary’s back and pulling her close to him. ‘-I shall have thee all to myself.’
He began placing soft kisses on Mary’s collarbone, making her skin tingle as he slowly worked his way towards her lips.
‘Perhaps we should call the wedding off,’ said Mary without seriousness. She began to quote from the marriage ceremony that she’d read so many times in her excitement at what would be, and when Dickon had lain closer to death than life, in despair over the loss of what could never be, that she knew the whole thing off by heart.
“…it is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites like brute beasts that have no understanding…
‘Aye, reckon you’re right. Cos with my body I thee worship.’
They were pressed against the wall now. Eyes locked together, hands caressing.
‘Happen there’s more to it,’ whispered Dickon. ‘I shall love thee, comfort thee, honour and keep thee in sickness and in health. And forsaking all other, keep thee only unto me, so long as us both shall live.’
‘You learned the vows,’ Mary all but squealed with delighted surprise.
‘They are most important words I’ll ever say.’
‘But how-’
‘Dr Craven gave me a bit of help like. Said a married man should make a better account of himself then reading print an’ only writing alphabet.’
‘Oh Dickon you‘re wonderful.’
They tried to put three days worth of passion into a single kiss and broke apart when the clock began to chime.
‘Lunch time. Art tha ready soon-to-be-Mrs Sowerby?’
‘Yes. Soon-to-be-husband I am.’
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