Childhood is a fountain welling,
Trace its channel in the sand,
and its currents, spreading, swelling,
Will revive the withered land.

“Childhood”- Bates

Chapter Five

As much as Mary could claim to respecting her dear uncle wholeheartedly, she reluctantly admitted that he was by far no longer the role of moral perfection that used to be entrenched in her childish eyes. Much to her chagrin, she had to accept that he was yet another victim succumbing to the ghastly act of incessantly smoking one damn cigar after the other. A habit Mary Lennox hardly approved of, and likely never would. In fact, back when she attended the prestigious Miss Manners School of Etiquette ( a year that she would rather have forgotten), she was proud to claim status as head organizer of the Committee of the Prevention of Chauvinism, Sexism, Cigar Smoking, and Other Repellent Acts of Mankind. However, as much as Mary would like to fondly dwell on her somewhat (hardly) suffragette movements (No more little white gloves!) in her girlhood schooling, that particular story must be reserved for another day in which her ego has not met her daily quote of personal fulfillment in the act of changing the world.

Now, where were we?

Ah yes, the charming act of lung-scorching.

Upon entering the den, it was this particular addiction beheld by her beloved Uncle Archie that was the first to greet Mary, much to her chagrin. The wisps of smoke wove along the curves of her nose, whisking like veins across the plains of her nostril and tickling the hairs, emitting a rather unladylike sneeze from yours truly. Accompanying this untimely noise were the harsh barks of her uncle’s hounds, undoubtedly adding a firm agreement in recognition of her vexation. Mr. Craven, who had escorted her inside instantly quieted the dogs and left her side so she could get her bearings. Wisely sidestepping the golden beasts lounging by the oaken entrance, Mary raised her head, still stiff from her unsettling nap, in order to gain a perspective on her surroundings.

The room itself was essentially a four-walled chamber of darkness, choking life from nature’s naïve youth and replacing it with the intoxication of the jaundice stained memories of time past. This was not a particularly negative aspect. In fact of all things Mary felt comforted by the wise integrity the room seemed to encompass. Despite the haze of smoke circling overhead, the darkness in which the looming walls bequeathed to its musty presence, and the mere fact that the den itself slightly reeked of stale youth and a decaying past, the spicy scent of peppermint and the cackling laughter of the dying flames in the fireplace soothed Mary always, forever associating these aspects to the uncle she adored.

Above all she loved how the glow of the flickering flames strung itself like webs across the crooks and crannies of the room, disappearing into the soft grains embedded into the darkly-varnished bookcases or creeping along the pages of whatever novel happened to seduce its rays. Orbs of light bounced off the golden letters that were etched along the spines of the numerous books that seemed to inhabit every wall. One could envision a group of scholarly men, in their intellectually imperial stance, lounging about and reminiscing about the days when morality was still a virtue, or debating current politics.

“Welcome Mary, I trust you did not have to wait long?”

Her uncle’s voice snapped Mary back into reality, jarring every nerve in her body awake. A sweet smile graced her rose-tinted lips and she replied in a soft voice, ignoring the fact that she had waited outside long enough to take a well deserved nap.

“No Sir, I did not. It is to my understanding that you beckoned my presence, Uncle?”

Archibald Craven lounged comfortably in the deadly curve of his imposing velvet armchair, the raven-like shoulders veiling the unsightly hardened knob that had conquered the once supple muscles of his lean back. Though his excessively long dark hair hung matted around his pale face, a stark contrast to the imposing bearing of his nose, a capricious smile lit up his ageing eyes upon viewing his beloved niece.

“Yes Mary, I did. It has come to my seemingly slow knowledge that you are nearing a very sacred age…oh, goodness, I forgot. Forgive me my impertinence; there is someone I would like to introduce you to.”

“Uncle?”

“Dearest niece, it would be my fondest pleasure to introduce to you the esteemed Lady Margaret du Bont.”

With a startled glance Mary’s eyes traversed to the left of the lofty armchair, undoubtedly surprised that she had not noticed the figure upon the initial inspection of the den.

Time slowed to a ticking stop as the world held its breath, hanging on to reality by an almost imperceptible thread. The figure, very nearly hidden by the high-backed chair which encased the silhouette, turned its profile almost seductively towards the speaker. Mary gasped, her eyes resting on the most beautiful woman she had ever laid eyes on, with the possible exception of her own mother.

The first attribute she noticed was the fiery intensity of the stranger’s hair, donning the same scorching heat as the dying sun that fell to its knees every evening. It draped around her delicate features like when a silken curtain couples with the wall, forming a fashionable knot at the base and wrapping around the curve of a pale collarbone. The slopes of almost scandalously revealed shoulders arched like a winding fairy kiss, past a gentle swan-like neck to disclose the masterpiece of perfection. Lips carved by Cupid himself, bows and arrows fit for Athena’s grace. A Grecian nose delicately displayed to full advantage against the milky satin skin. Her eyes, however, transfixed Mary in a complete state of awe. They were like steel, pinpointing her prey to deadly accuracy.

The woman was middle-aged, to be sure, but was the epitome of flawlessness. In her face was bestowed Aphrodite’s gift of beauty. Her entire demeanour seemed serene and calm, yet in her eyes lay a mocking beckoning, her lips sweetly curving into a snake-like arch. Without taking her eyes off Mary, the Lady spoke serenely to Archie in a sultry undertone.

“My dear Lord Craven, it would not have been necessary to point her out for me, I could recognize this slight of a girl in any situation. She is the spitting image of her beloved mother.”

At this sentence Mary’s entire core grew frigid and barren. Taking a more composed stance, she interrupted the silent exchange without hesitation.

“You knew my mother?” replied Mary in a cold voice, almost baritone with veiled emotion.

Though the woman’s eyes darkened with unspoiled mockery, she had little time to reply as Archibald jovially reprimanded his niece.

“My dear, like I originally began, this is the Lady Margaret du Bont, I need not remind you to address her accordingly to her title.”

Blushing, Mary lowered her eyes and tried to soothe her flustered state.

“Pardon me my unprepared demeanour, your Ladyship. I was not aware that we were expecting company; I… forgive me, the staff here made no indication of any expected guests.”

Satisfied that Mary corrected her etiquette, the Lord Craven continued on.

“Yes, well, her Ladyship arrived rather late last night. The staff, other then Medlock, has yet to know of her presence. Anyhow, you may not have realized it, dear niece, but Madam du Bont happened to be a particularly close friend to your very own mother. They were both wed to high ranking members of the army, as your father once was, and it is to my understanding that they became very close in their similar circumstances.”

It was during his speech that the Ladyship regally evicted her seat on the chair and composed herself in a standing position, a serene disposition consuming her person. When she spoke, the words floated out like delicate webs of dust. Silken and clear, she spoke with the confident assurance that only the highest bred could obtain.

“It is truly a gift to finally meet you, Ms. Lennox, you have no idea how long I have dreamt of this moment. The very sight of you brings back fond memories of times long past, has it truly escaped your notice that you look remarkably similar to your dear mother?

Upon seeing the reaction on Mary’s face, Her Ladyship placed a delicate finger on her lips as she giggled softly, her laughter tinkling like silver bells.

“There is not need to look so alarmed, dear; your mother happened to be one of the most beautiful women I have ever known. Much more desirable then I ever was I’m envious to say. It is unfortunate for me that until recently meeting your dear uncle, I knew very little about you. I’m afraid that due to her situational obligations in India and my own responsibilities in Arabia I was never able to manage to form an acquaintance with either you or your father, much to my dismay.”

With this the bitterness frosted on Mary’s eyes like an eclipse.

“That hardly surprises me, Madam; my mother hardly recognized my own existence much less spread the knowledge that she even had a daughter for fear that my presence would embarrass her in some petty way. And as for my father, he was merely her messenger boy who beckoned to her every call and whistle.”

The cruel steel of her Ladyships eyes softened imperceptibly.

“Whatever your mothers intentions were for your welfare, please know this. I want to help replace any negativity you have of your parents and provide you with, well, possibly the mother-figure that you seem to have lacked all these years.”

With that the Lady Margaret strode a few steps forward to clasp Mary’s hand and entwine them with her own.

“May I call you Mary?” Without waiting for an answer, she tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind Mary’s shell-lobed ear. “Mary, I would love nothing more then for us to become friends and confidantes. I myself never had a daughter, only a son, and it would be my honour to take you under my wing.”

Mary stiffened her neck, shock consuming her entire being, Politely trying to disentangle her fingers from the creamy hands of this so-called benefactress, she managed to compose a serene smile in response.

“My Lady, I am very much surprised to hear that you would take time off from your personal life in order to further mine, but you needn’t do so. Though I am honoured by your attention, and I would like to pursue an amicable relation with you, I really don’t need a mother. I have my friends and my dear uncle Craven to support me, and as for female companionship I am blessed with the company of the staff and sometimes even the head housekeeper!”

With this her Ladyship sniffed disdainfully.

“Ah yes, the servants. I hardly think they are appropriate beings for whom to introduce you into the wonders and excitement of society.”

Lord Craven, who had spent the entire time gazing at Lady Margaret with unhidden admiration, decided it was time to interject. Preventing a groan escaping his lips as he stood up, he hobbled over to where the two stood. Mary was struck at how old he seemed to aged in recent years. The lump on his back seemed to consume his entire body as his looming figure was hunched over her. He placed two sturdy hands on his niece’s shoulders and looked at her so tenderly that one would have thought they were truly father and daughter.

“My dear, upon your arrival to Misselthwaite Manor, it has always been my harshest regret that I could not provide you with a mother figure. I wish to death my dear Liliana were still here to this day, not just for my benefit but to show you, our own niece, a world that is not entirely encompassed by old decrepit men like me. And as neither my dear wife or your mother could not be there for you and your entrance into adulthood, it is my wish that you would accept the Lady Margaret’s proposition.

Mary looked down in shame, the sweep of her eyelashes blanketing her pale skin. The Lady placed a hand on Archie’s back, apparently not noticing the shiver of contact.

“Sadly, due to untimely mischance I was not bestowed the honour of meeting your aunt”, Her Ladyship said softly, ignoring the sadness that crept into Archie’s weathered eyes. “However I am very much glad to meet her niece, whom I can see for my very self has inherited the manners and grace of an accomplished society woman.

With this Mary blushed, and looked at both of them fondly, a slight smile gracing her lips. She looked at the beauty that emanated from Madam du Bont, her obvious female resplendence revelling in the maturity only a woman can truly know. She thought of all the embarrassing times when she had to turn to Martha or, heavens forbid, Miss Medlock when it came to feminine matters as undergarments or monthly courses. It would have been so much pleasanter to have already been taught the changes in a woman’s body instead of running to Medlock one sunny afternoon screaming that you were bleeding incessantly and thus must be dying. (Mary shuddered at that memory).

Unwittingly her thoughts flew back to her dearest Dickon, already a man and already graced with adult superiority. Perhaps if Madam du Bont were to teach her the womanly ways that could attain the love and respect of any man (unaware that Dickon already had the highest admiration for her) then perhaps it would be in her best interest to follow their advice and become the Ladyships companion. She could already envision the awe Dickon would have if she too had the confidant beauty that the Madam could bless her with. After all, it was not as though they were conniving and conspiring against her, they did indeed care for her. With one last sweet smile and choosing her words carefully in her mind, she nodded to the both of them. ‘For Dickon’, she told herself.

“If you could indeed help me expand my maturity as a woman, I would be honoured for any help you could bless me with, my Ladyship.”

With a jovial pat on the back from Lord Craven, Mary helped him back to his haven of an armchair. In doing so, she did not notice the dangerous glint flashing in the steel cold eyes of Madam du Bont. With a final smirk, her Ladyship returned her delicate profile to continue gazing into the fire.