| |
The next morning announced itself with bright rays of sunlight shining warmly through her windowpanes. Surprisingly, Mary was not in the least bit tired after her late night and hopped out of bed. With a satisfied smile, she decided to enjoy the lovely weather by herself. Colin could find her later, but for now Mary felt like being alone with the wonderful spring air and sunlight. Trotting quickly over the cool boards of the floor, she opened her wardrobe doors and selected a sensible dress to wear outdoors. The garment was simply cut, with lighter skirts for the warmer months of the year, and was a pleasant light blue. Mary was dressed and had just begun to brush her hair when Martha entered carrying her breakfast dishes.
"Eh! I’m sorry I’m late this mornin’, Miss Mary. Little Susan Ann is ill somethin’ most fierce. Mother sent Dickon over last night to fetch me an’ I spent the better part of the dark hours helpin’ tend to everythin’ at th’ cottage. I only just come back, not wanting Mrs. Medlock to get cross." Martha let out a long, tired breath as she set the breakfast tray down on the table. "Does tha’ want a fire this mornin’?"
"No, not today, Martha, it’s almost warm already." Mary took a seat as the maid arranged her breakfast in a distracted manner. "I would think even Mrs. Medlock would understand if you went to help your mother."
"Aye, she would. But I’d get no pay while I was absent. Mother needs every shillin’ I bring home." Martha sat down heavily in the chair opposite Mary, propping her chin in her hands.
"Is Dickon at the cottage, then?" Mary asked as she put marmalade on her muffin.
"Eh, no! He’d just be under foot. Mother sent him out just afore I left. He was wantin’ to play wi’ the kittens some."
Mary felt the pull of desire at the mention of the kittens. She could still feel the warm, soft, delicate form of the baby cat in her hands.
"How are they? Are they getting bigger?" she asked.
"Aye, every day they grow stronger and sleeker. They have just about finished with feedin’ from their mother and might start mousin’ soon."
"Mousing?" Mary asked, dusting the crumbs from her skirts and fingers.
"Aye, catchin’ mice an’ such. That’s what they do. Did you never read about cats in all those books?" Martha looked curiously at Mary, as a bird’s song twittered outside.
"I suppose. I know they like milk," Mary replied.
"That’s for certain. They’ll make themselves fair sick with it if you let ‘em." Martha smiled broadly, her rosy cheeks pulling up to her eyes as she got up and collected the breakfast dishes.
“I can’t wait another minute to get outside. Tell Colin to find me when he likes,” Mary told Martha, as she opened the door.
"If tha’ wants to find Dickon, tha’ best listen for his pipin’ sounds. He was full o’ music this mornin’ when he left."
Mary hurried to the rear entrance that let out onto the gardens. Walking down the paths, she kept a careful listen for the pleasant sounds of Dickon’s wooden flute. He had been playing it the first time she had seen him, and he played it often for Mary and Colin. The cousins would dance and clap as Dickon played merry tunes on his little instrument. Mary left the gardens after a while and approached the nearby woods. Tall trees dotted the thick green expanse of grass. As she walked through a blanket of bright yellow buttercups, Mary thought of sitting down right there and making a flower necklace. That was when she heard the familiar sounds of piped music not far off. Hurrying toward the happy notes, Mary saw her friend leaning against a tree trunk. He was absorbed in his tune, playing with his eyes closed. A few squirrels, a rabbit, and Captain the fox listened as an audience.
With one last note, he stopped playing and opened his eyes.
"Are tha’ lookin’ for me, Miss Mary?" Dickon asked, smiling brightly for her.
"How do you always know when I’m around?" she asked, talking a seat on the grass near him.
"Th’ wind tells me," he replied. She changes her song an’ whispers tha’s near."
Mary was used to answers like this, and she simply smiled at his way. If Mother Nature had a son, Mary thought, he would be just like Dickon.
"How is your sister?" Mary asked.
"She’s right poorly." he replied, looking worried. "Mother’s not slept a wink in two days. She done in, she is."
"Is Susan Ann sick enough to die," Mary asked, thinking of her parents and the illness that took them. "What does she have?"
"I don’t know. Mother says it’s a terrible fever, an’ all we can do is wait."
"Sometimes that’s the hardest thing to do," Mary observed. The grass was soft and cool as Mary settled near Dickon.
"Aye, it’s certain true when it’s the life of a sister you’re waitin’ on," Dickon replied, tucking his pipe into the recesses of his shirt. "Did tha’ need somthin’ from me, Miss Mary, or was tha’ just lookin’ for a conversation?"
Mary shrugged, not sure what she wanted.
"Does tha’ want to see a new nest o’ larks?" Dickon asked.
"Oh, yes! Are they near?" Mary began to get up, and Dickon stopped her with a gentle touch to her arm.
"Sit still an’ listen," he said.
Mary settled down again and tipped her head, waiting and listening. A gentle breeze quietly rustled the leaves overhead. Her breath seemed loud in her ears as she strained to hear whatever it was she should. Mary began to think it was a sound only Dickon could detect, but then the tiniest of chirpings came from above. It was a sleepy, lazy little sound.
“They’re right above us!” Mary whispered excitedly.
“Aye. Keep still an’ their mum will be ‘round in just a wink.” Dickon settled back against the tree and watched the deep blueness of sky beyond the tree branches. Mary leaned back on her elbows and waited. It was not long before a fluttering speck came towards them, growing larger and larger, until it was recognizably a mother lark. She was carrying something in her beak. Deftly she lit upon the edge of the nest, as Mary and Dickon watched silently from below. With a few quick dips and rustles, while the babies frantically chirped, she fed them. Within moments the mother was shooting back into the air on another search for food.
“Oh, that was wonderful,” Mary whispered in awe.
Dickon nodded. “Those are th’ things that make life so good.”
As Mary watched her friend sit quietly beside her, his face lifted toward the leafy canopy above, Mary felt a desire to say something to him, but she did not know what. She wanted to tell him how special he was, how she valued his friendship and looked forward to his company, but she did not want to say it all wrong and complicate matters. Confused by this, she decided a distraction might be the answer.
"Would you like to go for a walk? I always see so much more when I’m with you, just like the baby birds in the tree. I would have never known to look without you."
"Where does tha’ want to go?" Dickon sat forward, tilting his head as he waited for Mary to answer.
"I don’t really care," she said, "Show me what you see."
With a wide smile, Dickon pulled her up by the hand and they set off across the grounds toward the moor. By noon, Mary had seen a dozen birds she had never noticed, knew the secret homes of a family of foxes and two rabbits, and had held a butterfly on the tip of her finger as it slowly fanned its yellow and orange wings. Just about the moment Mary began thinking it was time for the midday meal, Dickon looked toward the sky and sniffed deeply.
"There’s a storm comin’ soon," he said, sniffing the air again, watching the horizon carefully.
"The sky is clear. How can you tell a storm is coming?" Mary asked, knowing he was usually right about such things.
"Eh! Tha’ can smell it thick in th’ breeze. Just breathe deep an’ feel the dampness in the air." Dickon closed his eyes and filled his lungs with the pure moorland air, seeming to taste it on his tongue, savoring the unique Yorkshire "flavor" of the world around them.
"The only thing I smell is the fresh air, with just a bit of a coolness to it," Mary replied, taking so many deep breaths she began to get a bit light headed.
"That’s it, Miss Mary, the cool, crisp feeling in the air is the rain comin’ just over the edge o’ the world. In a couple o’ hours, the world will be drinking and the sky pourin’, just you see." Dickon explained, smiling at her with his easy charm.
Mary was just finishing her stew and biscuit when she heard the wind tugging at her windows. She saw the sky had turned gray and hung low on the horizon. The windows gave a gentle rattle as a small gust pushed at them from the edge of the storm. Taking a fresh cup of tea with her, Mary sat against the cushions in her window seat to watch the spring storm drop the first large raindrops against her window and the world outside. A distant rumble swelled and grew, until Mary could feel a soft vibration in the walls around her. The thunder roll ended with a sharp crack as lightning speared the clouds at the edge of the moor.
Sipping her tea, Mary tucked her feet beneath her and settled in to watch. The rain swiftly turned into a downpour, making the moor and gardens beyond her window hazy and dim through the curtain of water. She had finished her tea and got up to pour herself some more when a knock sounded at her door. Upon opening it, Mary found Colin standing dejectedly in the hallway, looking quite cross.
"Where were you this morning?" Colin asked, narrowing his eyes at her, as he held himself stiffly erect.
"I was walking with Dickon on the moors," Mary replied.
"When I came to get you this morning you had left without me," Colin said, sounding like a sulky little rajah.
"I wanted to get out in the air. I was in such a good mood when I woke this morning I just couldn’t stay inside," Mary said, beginning to feel a bit put upon. She was free to do as she wished, after all, with or without his approval.
"I went to the garden when I couldn’t find you." Colin continued, crossing his arms briskly across his chest. "I sat in my mother’s tree all morning and watched her garden swaying in the breeze. I’m actually glad you were off with Dickon so I could be alone with my mother’s garden." Colin finished with a small sniff.
In reality, Colin had been lonely that morning, and more than a bit bothered his cousin would take off without him. In the year since her arrival, he had come to rely on Mary for company and companionship, much more than either of the children realized. Without her, life felt empty and tiresome for Colin, as it had before she had arrived and got him out of his bed and onto his feet. He wanted to tell her how lonely he felt without her, and how much he liked the flowers she chose for the garden, and how she should not leave without even a simple explanation, but confusion took over and it came out completely wrong.
"It may have been your mother’s garden eleven years ago," Mary replied, "but it’s mine now. After all, you wouldn’t even know about it if I had never found the key. And you shouldn’t sit in that old tree; it might break and kill you, too." Feeling hurt and offended that Colin would even think of that garden as someone else’s, Mary’s lips thinned into a line. She had found it, loved it, and brought it back to life when no one else would. How dare he treat her like some common gardener just because her mother went to parties and never sat in a tree or planted roses!
"The garden will always be my mother’s!" Colin shouted back, his cheeks turning red with the effort of his anger. "She’ll always be my mother, and she will always love me, even if she’s dead, unlike your mother who didn’t give a fig for you!" Colin stamped his foot on the last word, although regretting what he’d said before he even finished the sentence.
Mary blinked rapidly, stunned by the hurtfulness of her cousin’s words. Before now Colin had been something of a kindred spirit, knowing how she felt about her parents because he too had felt the same. But now that the journal had been found, and Colin’s father was taking an interest in his son again, Mary was back to being alone with her feelings of resentment and loneliness. Suddenly Mary felt like screaming at the whole world, and forgot about her kind but sad uncle who cared for her. She forgot about her friends Martha and Dickon, and for the first time, Mary felt like the garden was betraying her by simply existing prior to her arrival.
"If that’s the way you feel, you can spend all the time you want there! Alone!" Mary threw herself past Colin and dashed off down the hallway. Tears of anger and frustration stung her eyes, but she would not give Colin the satisfaction of having them fall. After running blindly for a while, Mary slowed down to a fast walk, looking behind her and seeing nothing but walls and forgotten ornaments as lonely as herself. For a while she just walked up and down endless corridors, counting dozens of doors and barley noticing the many tapestries, until the thought occurred to her to find refuge in the Forgotten Room. Turning around, Mary began to trace her steps back, and after a few wrong turns and guessed directions, she found the patterned tapestry that hid her secret. As she closed the door behind her, a feeling of calm settled over her, slowly replacing the anger and hurt. Carefully Mary went about the room, calmed and comforted as she examined the things there. Mary pictured the mysterious Amelia whom most had forgotten even existed. Had her parents missed her when she had died of scarlet fever? Was their grief the reason her room had been left just so all these years? Picking a book she had not yet read from the volumes in the bookcase, Mary sat in her favorite place in the rocker by the window and read until twilight made it too dim to see well. With a sigh, Mary returned to her own room and found a cool dinner of boiled potatoes and roast waiting for her. Dejectedly, she nibbled at the food, soon giving up and plopping heavily in her window seat. When Martha came to collect the dinner dishes, she found Mary staring out the window into darkness.
"Tha didn’t eat but a speck o’ your meal, Miss Mary. Does tha feel ill?" The maid asked, looking at the food that had been rearranged more than eaten.
"No," Mary replied. "I’m just not hungry."
"Colin says tha two had a quarrel today." Martha came over to sit near Mary on the bed. "Does tha want to talk?"
Mary did not reply for a moment, not sure how to express how hurt and bothered she was. At last she made a mental compromise and replied.
"Colin said very hurtful things."
"Aye. He told me he’d spoke out o’ turn," Martha gently said. "He also said tha hurt him by leavin’ without him this morn’in and sayin’ the garden wasn’t his mother’s any more. Should tha talk to him?"
"No," Mary said, crossing her arms across her chest. “He’s a selfish little tyrant and I deserve better than what he said to me."
Martha watched Mary a moment. Mary’s lips again flattened themselves into a straight line.
"Tha has reason to be vexed, but tha must remember Colin is hurt as well as thee. Tha has been the only person he has ever cared what he said to."
After a moment, the maid slipped off the bed and set about making the evening fire. As she finished sweeping the ashes together in a neat pile at the center of the hearth, she heard Mary leave her seat by the window and approach.
"You’re right, we haven’t many friends or relations, but he was still wrong and I won’t be the first to speak." Mary said as Martha looked over her shoulder. "He must apologize first."
"Tha might be in for a wait," Martha replied, trying not to smile. She knew how stubborn both children could be.
Colin and Mary carefully avoided each other for the next five days. Mary only went to the garden when she knew Colin would not be there, choosing to spend her time in the Forgotten Room instead. Colin spent many lonely hours in the garden, wishing Mary would just get over her anger and repent. Sometimes Dickon would stop by to see if the cousins had made amends, but would soon leave, not wanting to appear as if he favored Colin’s side. He also tired of hearing Colin complain about something that was so easily fixed. On the afternoon six days after the problem began, Dickon was planting the last of some seeds he had found on a purple flower growing wild by a stream. Colin was weeding nearby and complaining, as usual, about how stubborn Mary was. Dickon, unable to stand it any longer, sat back on his heels and looked Colin directly in the eyes.
"The lass is no more stubborn than tha’ self."
Colin stopped weeding and looked at Dickon for a moment. "I am not difficult; I am right."
Dickon came quite close to rolling his eyes, but caught himself in time. Taking a quiet, long breath, he put Colin squarely in his place.
"Tha’ is not only wrong, tha’ is damaging a right good friendship tha’ is too thick headed to appreciate."
With that said, Dickon gave the earth one last pat over the freshly sewn seeds and left. Colin sat blinking in disbelief for a moment or two. Dickon was right, something had to be done. He was going to be the master of the house someday, was he not?
That evening, Colin stood outside Mary’s door, shuffling his feet as he worked up the courage to knock. Just as he was about to, a commotion arose from the floors below. Before he could move, the door swung open and Mary blinked in surprise to find him standing there.
“Do you know what’s happening?” Mary asked.
“No,” Colin replied, completely distracted from his previous plans.
“Let’s go see, then,” Mary said, starting to brush past him.
“Wait!” Colin thought he might just get it over with. “I was going to apologize for...um..for saying those things. You didn’t deserve them. I was wrong.”
Mary stood in the hall, surprised into silence. Suddenly, a voice from below startled her into action.
“I’m sorry, too,” Mary said quickly. “I was wrong, too.”
With that, the argument that had lasted the better part of a week was over. The children rushed downstairs just in time to see a the doors of the manor’s carriage open and Lord Craven step down. He was followed by a pale and drawn looking Miss Edmonds, who seemed to have had all the life and joy wrung from her.
