Chapter One

War ravaged far across the sea from Misselthwaite Manor, and even though Mary had pushed away Dickon's words so that she forgot them, it got worse and worse as Dickon had thought it would. It was the most terrible war that had ever been, and it was in the papers every day. Mary refused to read them. She concentrated on being a lady to please her Uncle, finishing her lessons as quickly as she could so she had more time in the garden. She wished she could garden in her spare time but she would often get in trouble with her Governess should she go inside with dirty knees and muddy fingernails.

"Tha'rt should get tha'self a pair of gloves," said Dickon. "Then if thee finds an old blanket, tha'rt could use it to stop thy knees from becomin' dirty."

"Oh Dickon!" she sighed happily, "What a wonderful idea!"

So from that day, by the back door was always a pair of canvas gloves for gardening, and an old blanket folded up. This did not please her Governess at all, for the girl was back in the garden again, wallowing in the mud with the gardener instead of sipping tea and planning the day she should become a lady and go to her first ball.

She was fifteen, very nearly sixteen, when this was brought up with her by Mrs. Waidsley.

"You're at the age where you shall go to your first ball soon," she said. "You will have to be on your best behaviour. We will make sure you have a splendid dress for the ocion,ion, and hopefully..." Her eyes gleamed. "You shall meet some very lovely gentlemen that you may wish to let court you, eventually."

Mary's mouth dropped open, and she gasped. "Court?!"

"Calm yourself," Mrs. Waidsley said sternly, sipping at her tea. "You shan't be required to court anyone seriously until after you are sixteen. If anyone asks your hand in marriage, you have every right to say no."

The young lady looked infuriated. "I shan't court anyone!" she exclaimed.

"That is a matter that shall be decided by your uncle," said Mrs. Waidsley sharply. "For he is the one paying for your way here, young madam!"

Mary glared at the woman, and without another word, stormed out of there. She strode to the back door, grabbing her gloves and old blanket, ignoring the calls of her Governess.

"Courting!" she muttered to herself, stomping out the door. "I am barely grown! Courting!"

Up and down the walks about the garden beds she went, and she couldn't find Dickon anywhere. For some reason she felt that she just had to see him, and so desperate was she to spend a few quiet moments with him that she got herself into quite a lather when she couldn't find him about the place. She finally ran into Ben Weatherstaff, who was tending the great vegetable garden.

"Oh, Mr. Weatherstaff," she said, "Have you seen Dickon? I've been looking everywhere for him!"

Mr. Weatherstaff looked rather amused. "Aye lass. Don't thee know it be time for lunch?"

She groaned at herself, shaking her head. "I don't know much right know, Ben, I really don't."

"Tha' don't look happy," he muttered deeply at her.

"Oh I'm not. I shan't be happy until I've found Dickon. Good day," she said, nodding at him, Mrs. Waidsley's teachings well drilled into her head.

If Dickon was off having his lunch, she knew where he'd be. She went down the Long Walk that was past the orchard, and she slipped into the door to the Secret Garden, the long dangling ivy now shorter for all the passing through it. Relief flooded her as she stepped inside and saw Dickon sitting under the dead tree overrun by crawling rose vines, comfortable in the long lush grass, the spring fine and bright about them. The garden was a flush of different colours, sweet scents wrapping about her the moment she entered it. Dickon's cap was in the grass next to him, and his lovely curls were well tousled as he took a bite of his home-baked bread. He glanced up, eyes twinkling as he saw Mary enter the garden.

"Tha'rt not eating in the parlour today?"

She took a shuddering breath in, and tried to walk over to him as gently as possible so as not to disturb any animals that may have been hiding about him. His brows dipped down as she sat down next to him, as he could still somehow sense the anger in her movements.

"I absolutely hate Mrs. Waidsley!" she said, voice trembling. "She is a vile woman!"

"Ehhh," said Dickon softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. "That's a strong word tha uses there, be careful when thee says it."

"Oh!" Mary winced, looking away because she knew she couldn't look into Dickon's eyes without bursting into tears. "She said I was nearing the age when I should begin courting!" She shuddered, wriggling uncomfortably. "The very thought!"

Dickon grew a little quiet at this, and he moved his hand to her farther shoulder, putting his arm about her. "Don't you think on it, Mary Lennox. Mr. Craven is as good a man as there ever was, an' he wouldn't 'ave you courtin' no fellow you didn't want to, hear?"

She nodded, comfort flooding her as Dickon spoke to her as softly as a moorland thrush.

"I just hate the idea of having to go to this ball she keeps bringing up," she said miserably. "Wearing a terribly uncomfortable dress and having to talk to all these stupid boys that think themselves as impressive as rajahs!"

"Come now, lass," Dickon said gently. "Tha'll have a graidely time, tha' will. Jus' imagine it, eh?" He squeezed her shoulder, his voice coaxing and low. "Tha'll be dressed in a glimmering gown of jewels an' beads, like all th' proper ladies wear, with tha' hair all wrapped up atop your head lookin' like cornsilk, and tha' cheeks as red as poppies." His eyes moved from her hair to her face, and Mary couldn't help but tremble. "An' thy lips will be as soft and pert as a wild rose bud." He smiled broadly then, cheeks deeply red. "Aye, tha' shalt be th' prettiest lass, even th' boys who seen as pretty a lass many a time will stop an' look at thee like they did never see one before."

Mary sighed, gazing at Dickon with sad eyes close to tears, her voice rasping. "I wish tha' could take me to th' ball," she said, carefully, with as good a Yorkshire accent as she could. "Tha' would be th' handsomest fellow there, I know it, I do!"

A flicker of grief passed through Dickon's round blue eyes before he gave a little chuckle.

"Tha' can do better than a common Yorkshire lad," he said, taking his arm away. "Tha'rt a lady, now."

Mary moaned, curling into Dickon's shoulder and whimpering. "Oh I wish I wasn't! I hate being a lady! I hate it!"

Dickon had always seemed to have something to say to every little problem that Mary had. This time, however, all he could do was to put his arms about her, and she could feel guilt coming from him, in the very weight of his movements. She tried not to think on it. She concentrated on his beautiful smell, of heather and gorse and the fresh moorland air, of the spicy smell of his skin that had grown so wonderful over the years, mingling with the flower scent as naturally as he did with the world. The smell had always brought her comfort, but this time it brought her an unexpected pain deep in her heart. All she could think of was that she would have to one day cease in breathing in this gorgeous scent, and instead stand stiffly beside a tall self-centred Lord who smelt not of the moors but of tweed and wool, of brandy, cigars and hair wax. Stiff smells, unnatural smells. He would not be the kind of fellow a lass could happily wrap her arms about and feel safe for always. His hair would not be the kind she could ruffle with her fingers, for it would be as stiff as his posture. He would forever be travelling, and not at her side. Not like Dickon was always there.

When she looked up at him, his brows tilted up. She frowned, wondering what was wrong until a breeze skipped past and a chill took her face and she realised she'd been crying.

"Oh dear," she sighed, flustered. "Oh I'm sorry, Dickon!"

He shook his head. "Tha'st nothin' to be sorry for."

He brought up a hand, and for the first time she could remember she saw uncertainty in his eyes. The hand positively shook as he brought it to her cheek, wiping away the tears. Mary sighed, closing her eyes and leaning into the touch. It was the most delightful thing she had ever felt. Though he gardened every day and had worked for his comfort all his life, his hands weren't quite as rough as she thought they'd be, and the nature of his caress brought a tingling alive deep inside her belly. She almost felt like breathing his name.

His hand was suddenly gone, and Dickon frowned, mostly at himself it seemed, and he shook his head, muttering to himself under his breath. Mary felt such a disappointment as she'd never felt before.

"Tha' best be gettin' back to thy lessons," he said, pulling himself up to his feet. "And me back to my work."

"Oh," she moaned sadly, "I wish I could spend just one afternoon with you, helping you with your work!"

Despite his firmness, Dickon found it in himself to be amused. "Tha've tea to sip an' graidley parties to prepare for. Aren't thee more amused by that?"

Mary stood up, lifting her nose indignantly. "Most certainly not! You know I prefer to work in the garden."

Dickon's round eyes grew sad again, and he nodded at her, if not a little reverently. "Aye. Little surprise I'm goodly fond of thee."

Mary felt herself gasping with glee, clutching his rough homespun cotton shirt in trembling fingers. "Tha'rt fond of me? Really?"

He nudged her chin with his knuckle very tenderly, his wide smile tinged with sadness. "Aye. Now get thee back to tha' tea, Mistress Mary."

At that he walked off in his slow easy gait that seemed to get him everywhere as fast as he needed to be. Dickon never rushed and he rarely needed to.

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