On a moorland hillside, a coarse checkered picnic blanket was spread between the gorse bushes. The late summer sun was warm on the backs of the young man and woman sitting there. The remains of a homely meal were evident, and the young woman--really, barely more than a girl--was absently breaking a crust with her fingers and scattering the pieces about, where little birds hopped and twittered and feasted.
"Mary," the young man said suddenly, "What is tha' thinkin' of?" He spoke with a broad Yorkshire accent.
"I was thinkin' Colin should be arrivin' at Cambridge about now," said the girl, smiling. "I 'ope 'e likes et." She always spoke broad Yorkshire when it was Dickon she was talking to.
"Is tha' moithered that he's no' here?"
"Nay." Mary laughed. "I thought I'd be lonely, but I'm no'. 'Course, the Manor never feels lonely anymore, since Uncle Archie took to invitin' professors an' lecturers an' philosophers to come visit ev'ry other week." She smiled a bit ruefully. "'E said as 'ow 'e'd stop when Colin left, but I think 'e's got to like et. An' 'e's taken to invitin' young adventurers too--My guess is 'e's playin' matchmaker for Miss St. John, since I don't need a governess anymore."
They both laughed, but Dickon's brow furrowed afterward. There was evidently something on his mind.
"Mary," he said again, "would et moither tha' if I went awa'?"
He was not expecting a delighted response, but he was not prepared for Mary's reaction. She went pale so suddenly it startled him, her eyes grew round and filled with tears.
"Tha' CAN'T!" she shouted, scattering the sparrows. "Leave th' moor? It'd DIE wi'out thee! The creatures need thee, tha'rt their guardian, their Green Man! An' what'll thee do wi'out this place to come to, the place that knows thee, that gives thee strength? Tha'd be like Samson wi' his hair cut, Dickon!"
"Listen to me, lass." He took her hands in his and faced her, his blue eyes very serious. "What would Colin ha' done wi'out us? Where would he be now? Mad? Dead? Helpin' him thrive was the greatest joy I've 'ad, in nineteen 'appy years in this worl'. An' 'ow many Colins is out there? 'Ow many people 'o need to be carried to their own Secret Gardens so they can heal? I want to 'elp them, Mary. As many of them as I can find." He looked away from her face for a moment, gazed out into the hazy purple distance.
"Th' moor lived before me an' it'll live after me. I have no fears on that score. An' yes, I'll miss et--I'll miss et dreadful--but ef I spend my 'ole life on the moor because I'm scared to leave et. . .That makes me a pris'ner, Mary."
He looked into her eyes again, and saw, not tears now, but a determination he knew all too well.
"Then tha'll need me," she said with imperious finality. He opened his mouth to protest, but she forestalled him. "The world tha's after findin' is an ugly world, Dickon. Th' people as need 'elp are in dark places that'll hurt thee. Tha needs me because I'm stubborn an' strong an'. . . an' I would stop Despair from eatin' thy heart. I've seen ugly. I've been ugly. It can't 'urt thee if I'm there."
"Et's not possible, Mary! Et wouldna' be seemly, us travelin' together an' nobody to keep thy good name unsmirched. . ."
"Et'd be seemly," she interrupted, "Ef'n I was thy wife."
If Dickon could have gone pale, he would have. Instead he froze, gazing in shock into Mary's flushed, serious face. There was a long silence. High overhead, a hawk screamed.
"I've wanted to be thy 'usband," he finally whispered, "since the day tha first came to the cottage--Does tha remember?--an' told th' story of th' tiger hunt to my brothers an' sisters. We was nobbut children, yet I watched thee make th' little ones hang on thy lips, it was that excitin'. . . an' I thought, 'That'll be my wife someday'. . . an' then I recalled that th'art quality-make, an' I'm but a moorland cottager, an' it wouldna' be allowed. . ."
Mary kissed him.
It was a clumsy kiss. First kisses always are. But it did cause Dickon to stop talking. In the sunshine, among the gorse, he kissed her back as well as he could. Then she settled her golden head on his shoulder and said, matter-of-factly, "I may be as upper class as I please, but I'm also an orphaned charity case, so's I can marry whos'ever I choose."
"What will Colin say?" Dickon muttered. Mary grinned.
"Colin, if tha must know, instructed me to marry thee--so's we'd be easier for 'im to visit. 'E doesn't want to make two stops to see us." And they both laughed so hard they fell over.
When she could speak again, Mary grew sober and said, "Ef et comes to that, what'll Mother say?"
"Mother'll be right-down glad, my love. She knows I'm leein' to go heal th' world, an' I knows she was worried about sendin' me alone. An' she knows I need thee especially, my strong, stubborn lass. Now she'll sleep easier."
"Then all's well," said Mary, sighing happily. She started chuckling again. "But, oh., Dickon, what'll we say when they ask how tha' proposed?"
Their laughter rang out over the moor.
This is the introduction to a book I want to write of letters from Mrs. Mary Sowerby, traveling the world with her husband, Dickon, and helping people everywhere they go. The letters would be addressed sometimes to Professor Colin Craven, sometimes to Uncle Archie at Misselthwaite Manor or to Mother (Susan Sowerby, c/o Thwaite post office) and each letter would tell of an adventure--some harrowing, some wonderful, possibly some sad.
At the end of the book, the couple would probably come back to Yorkshire. It is home, after all.
#secretgarden #fanfic #anotherprojectimayneverfinish
"Mary," the young man said suddenly, "What is tha' thinkin' of?" He spoke with a broad Yorkshire accent.
"I was thinkin' Colin should be arrivin' at Cambridge about now," said the girl, smiling. "I 'ope 'e likes et." She always spoke broad Yorkshire when it was Dickon she was talking to.
"Is tha' moithered that he's no' here?"
"Nay." Mary laughed. "I thought I'd be lonely, but I'm no'. 'Course, the Manor never feels lonely anymore, since Uncle Archie took to invitin' professors an' lecturers an' philosophers to come visit ev'ry other week." She smiled a bit ruefully. "'E said as 'ow 'e'd stop when Colin left, but I think 'e's got to like et. An' 'e's taken to invitin' young adventurers too--My guess is 'e's playin' matchmaker for Miss St. John, since I don't need a governess anymore."
They both laughed, but Dickon's brow furrowed afterward. There was evidently something on his mind.
"Mary," he said again, "would et moither tha' if I went awa'?"
He was not expecting a delighted response, but he was not prepared for Mary's reaction. She went pale so suddenly it startled him, her eyes grew round and filled with tears.
"Tha' CAN'T!" she shouted, scattering the sparrows. "Leave th' moor? It'd DIE wi'out thee! The creatures need thee, tha'rt their guardian, their Green Man! An' what'll thee do wi'out this place to come to, the place that knows thee, that gives thee strength? Tha'd be like Samson wi' his hair cut, Dickon!"
"Listen to me, lass." He took her hands in his and faced her, his blue eyes very serious. "What would Colin ha' done wi'out us? Where would he be now? Mad? Dead? Helpin' him thrive was the greatest joy I've 'ad, in nineteen 'appy years in this worl'. An' 'ow many Colins is out there? 'Ow many people 'o need to be carried to their own Secret Gardens so they can heal? I want to 'elp them, Mary. As many of them as I can find." He looked away from her face for a moment, gazed out into the hazy purple distance.
"Th' moor lived before me an' it'll live after me. I have no fears on that score. An' yes, I'll miss et--I'll miss et dreadful--but ef I spend my 'ole life on the moor because I'm scared to leave et. . .That makes me a pris'ner, Mary."
He looked into her eyes again, and saw, not tears now, but a determination he knew all too well.
"Then tha'll need me," she said with imperious finality. He opened his mouth to protest, but she forestalled him. "The world tha's after findin' is an ugly world, Dickon. Th' people as need 'elp are in dark places that'll hurt thee. Tha needs me because I'm stubborn an' strong an'. . . an' I would stop Despair from eatin' thy heart. I've seen ugly. I've been ugly. It can't 'urt thee if I'm there."
"Et's not possible, Mary! Et wouldna' be seemly, us travelin' together an' nobody to keep thy good name unsmirched. . ."
"Et'd be seemly," she interrupted, "Ef'n I was thy wife."
If Dickon could have gone pale, he would have. Instead he froze, gazing in shock into Mary's flushed, serious face. There was a long silence. High overhead, a hawk screamed.
"I've wanted to be thy 'usband," he finally whispered, "since the day tha first came to the cottage--Does tha remember?--an' told th' story of th' tiger hunt to my brothers an' sisters. We was nobbut children, yet I watched thee make th' little ones hang on thy lips, it was that excitin'. . . an' I thought, 'That'll be my wife someday'. . . an' then I recalled that th'art quality-make, an' I'm but a moorland cottager, an' it wouldna' be allowed. . ."
Mary kissed him.
It was a clumsy kiss. First kisses always are. But it did cause Dickon to stop talking. In the sunshine, among the gorse, he kissed her back as well as he could. Then she settled her golden head on his shoulder and said, matter-of-factly, "I may be as upper class as I please, but I'm also an orphaned charity case, so's I can marry whos'ever I choose."
"What will Colin say?" Dickon muttered. Mary grinned.
"Colin, if tha must know, instructed me to marry thee--so's we'd be easier for 'im to visit. 'E doesn't want to make two stops to see us." And they both laughed so hard they fell over.
When she could speak again, Mary grew sober and said, "Ef et comes to that, what'll Mother say?"
"Mother'll be right-down glad, my love. She knows I'm leein' to go heal th' world, an' I knows she was worried about sendin' me alone. An' she knows I need thee especially, my strong, stubborn lass. Now she'll sleep easier."
"Then all's well," said Mary, sighing happily. She started chuckling again. "But, oh., Dickon, what'll we say when they ask how tha' proposed?"
Their laughter rang out over the moor.
This is the introduction to a book I want to write of letters from Mrs. Mary Sowerby, traveling the world with her husband, Dickon, and helping people everywhere they go. The letters would be addressed sometimes to Professor Colin Craven, sometimes to Uncle Archie at Misselthwaite Manor or to Mother (Susan Sowerby, c/o Thwaite post office) and each letter would tell of an adventure--some harrowing, some wonderful, possibly some sad.
At the end of the book, the couple would probably come back to Yorkshire. It is home, after all.
#secretgarden #fanfic #anotherprojectimayneverfinish