Harvest of the Mem Sahib

Chapter Two

That afternoon Mary felt that she could face Mrs. Waidsley again, almost as if talking to Dickon made her feel infinitely stronger deep in her bones. After a quick but sternly worded lecture against running off in the middle of her lessons, Mrs. Waidsley brought up a preparation detail for the upcoming ball that seemed as if it would be some fun! Dancing.

Tea, in fine china cups, sat on old redwood tables spread with white lace cloths, intricately woven and marked with lordly insignia. Mrs. Waidsley marched back and forth stiffly in front of the parlour window that looked right out onto the magnificent rose gardens by the Main Walk. She could see Ben Weatherstaff pointing at rose bushes, Dickon next to him working very hard.

"You will need to learn to dance properly," she said. "The Waltz, the Foxtrot, the Landler and Boston, which are much like the waltz." She sighed then, pinching the skin between her brows. "Unfortunately you won't have a male partner to learn with seeing as your cousin is still at boarding school." She gave Mary an accusatory glare, like Mary should be there too. She sighed then and looked out the window. "You'll have to make do with me I suppose."

"Wait," said Mary, looking at Mrs. Waidsley very innocently after gazing out the window. "What about Dickon?"

Mrs. Waidley's face twisted up as if she smelt something bad. "Who?"

Mary knew that she was feigning ignorance. "Dickon Sowerby!" she exclaimed.

"The moor boy?" she said, nostrils flaring. "I'm not sure he'd be fit to learn proper dancing like a gentleman."

Mary's temper flared up and the girl jumped to her feet. "He is smart and quick and he's been leaping and jumping through the moors all his life so that his feet are quicker and more fleet than you could dare imagine! And he picks up things real fast an' only needs to be told 'em once!" She had experience in this, as she'd been determined to teach Dickon how to read and to know all his letters when she was about twelve, as she wanted to be able to leave notes for him, and for him to be able to borrow and read the beautiful books she and Colin had. He picked them all up very very quickly and could now read as well as she could. Mary folded her arms, eyeing the woman. "Besides. He's not just a moor boy. He's one of the best gardeners this Manor has ever had!"

This was true. Mr. Roach was well pleased by Dickon's work, and Mr. Craven had remarked that he couldn't remember the gardens ever looking so beautiful and fey. Mrs. Waidsley was well aware of Mr. Craven's affection for not only the Sowerby's, but Dickon himself. She made an attempt to twist her lips into a strained smile.

"Indeed. Splendid material for a dance partner." She shrugged, sensing she was at an impass with the demanding youth. "Very well. As long as it is premitted with Mr. Roach, you may tell your... 'friend'... that he will help you with your lessons tomorrow."

At the end of her lessons that day Mary rushed outside, calling Dickon at the top of her lungs in a most unlady-like manner. She finally found him packing away some gardening tools into the Manor shed, Mr. Roach inside it talking to Ben Weatherstaff. She skidded to a halt in front of him, cheeks red from exertion, a glow of happiness on her face.

"Oh Dickon!" she exclaimed, "I have been looking all over for you!"

"Aye," he said with an amused smile. "We heard thee from here!"

She blushed, this time from embarrassment. "Oh, I am sorry, it's just that I have such wonderful news!"

Dickon lifted his brows in expectation.

"I am to learn dancing," she said. "Proper dancing, like they do at grand affairs and dances!"

Dickon nodded at that, looking well pleased. "That's good. Tha'll be able to impress 'em at thy ball that way."

Mary shook her head, waving a hand. "Well, yes, I suppose so, but that's not the best thing about it!"

"Oh aye?"

Mary nearly grinned from ear to ear, gripping the fabric at his shoulders tightly. "I need a partner to learn with, so Mrs. Waidsley said that I could ask you to help me!"

Mr. Roach and Ben Weatherstaff both stared at Mary with jaws hanging. Dickon's poppy cheeks turned an even deeper red.

There was the sound of a clearing throat; it was Mr. Roach, and he had managed to find his voice.

"Eh, he's my best gardener!" he said in his rough voice. "What am I supposed to do if you take off with him to dance every day?"

Mary blushed, waving a hand. "Oh, well, it will only be one day a week! A Friday afternoon, if you'll permit it."

Dickon looked between Mary and Mr. Roach, mouth hanging open a bit in shock.

Mr. Roach looked between the two of them, at at length sighed deeply.

"Oh all right," he said finally. "Just don't break his toes with your fancy steppin', I need him healthy and back at work the followin' week."

"A little thing like her breakin' that lug's toes?" chuckled Ben.

Mary grinned, grabbing Dickon's hands and dragging him off towards her Garden.

"Oh it shall be wonderful!" she said. "Even though you can't take me to my first dance, you can be there when I learn to dance, every " D" Dickon watched the girl pull him along, utterly speechless. His silence wasn't missed by Mary, who glanced back at him puzzled. "Oh do say something Dickon! Art tha' angry with me?"

Dickon shook his head, stopping with her by the door to the garden. "Nay, 'course not. It's just..." He looked down at himself and then to Mary. "I'm not sure if I can dance proper."

"Tha' can skip and run real good!" she said, poking him in the stomach with a happy grin. "I'm positive tha'll be able to dance graidely!"

He sighed. "Mrs. Waidsley can't be 'appy 'bout this."

Mary giggled, leaning to him secretively. "Of course she isn't! But I demanded that I learn with a boy, and that it'd be you!"

Dickon finally smiled, running a hand over his face in disbelief. "I can't believe thee, Mistress Mary! You got me knowin' all my letters, an' now dancin'! What's next - sippin' brandy an' smokin' cigars?"

"Oh heavens, no!" she tutted, pushing open the door and strolling into the garden. "Those things smell horrid."

She immediately sat down underneath the old dead tree covered in rose vine, leaning against it and gazing into the sky with a sigh. Dickon followed her, dusting his hands on the seat of his pants before sinking down next to her, his brows knittedthouthought.

"Tha' didn't hear a thing I said to thee afore, eh?" he said, rather gently.

Mary looked to him, a wrinkle in her brow. "What are you talking about?"

He gave her a very stern look and she was sure she'd seen the same on Martha's face many a time.

"Me n' th' dancin', lass," he said. "An' you bein' a lady now."

"It's not a crime to dance with a friend," she said pointedly. "That's all it is. Dancing."

"Thing's aren't th' same as when we was littlin's," he said, leaning against the tree in defeat. "Here's me, an' I'm already eighteen year', an' you i' goin' ta be sixteen."

Mary frowned deeply, grabbing his hand and squeezing it in her own.

"I know," she said. "I don't like how things are changing. Not at all."

"Us used to be able to do as whatever we liked," he said, "An' those days were as grand as any that ever was. But it's new days now. An' new rules is with 'em."

She pursed her lips, frowning at Dickon and staring at him very flatly. "Dickon, what are you trying to say?"

"Tha'rt surely damagin' your reputation, spendin' all ye time with me."

Mary's jaw dropped, and she gasped. "Why, Dickon! That's a horrid thing to say!"

"Aye, it's awful," he said slowly. "But people will talk, an' I won't 'ave 'em sayin' anythin' other than th' truth of thee."

"Oh for pity's sakes!" she huffed. "I won't have my life disrupted because of gossip! Really, it's nobody's business but our own." She pouted indignantly, pulling his hand into her lap and gazing at it thoughtfully whilst being quite decidedly angry. He watched her do this a moment, and seemed taken aback as she looked up at him then, eyes glinting sharply. "Does tha' not like to be with me?"

"Mary!" he exclaimed, gripping her hand in his. "There ain't nowt as graidely aendiendin' a fine afternoon with thee in th' garden. Any other way an' I wouldn' be back!"

She sighed with relief, a smile gracing her blushing face. "Thank God."

Dickon chuckled, shaking his head and pulling his hand with hers into his lap. "Tha'rt a funny lass."

"And you're wonderful!" she exclaimed quite seriously. "I would be quite heartbroken to think tha' liked me any less than I liked thee."

He clucked now, his mirth bubbling up in a deep giggle. "I don't think it possible."

She giggled back, leaning back against the tree, a deliriously happy smile on her face. She stroked his hand with her thumb idly, the breeze off the moors filling their lungs, the scent of spring flowers rich about them. Her thoughts wandered to Colin and what he was up to at his boarding school, and how she missed him when he was away. After all these years he was as close as a brother to her, and she knew he would comfort her about this silly idea Dickon had in his head that he suddenly wasn't allowed to spend time with her anymore like they used to.

"It shall be months before Colin returns. I wonder if they shall teach him dancing at his school?"

Dickon shrugged. "I reckon so. They'd 'ave to teach 'im somethin' about bein' a gentleman, wouldn' they?"

"Yes but who would they dance with? There are only boys there!"

A long smirk grew on Dickon's face. "We'll 'ave to ax Colin as when he gets 'ere!"

Mary giggled at the thougf hif him dancing with other boys. Perhaps he had his own tutor there, or a lady to dance with. She sighed, looking to Dickon.

"I've been so busy with my lessons of late that I've hardly been able to garden at all!" She looked over to a patch of daffodils and squeezed his hand. "Come on, and help me with the weeds over there."

Dickon tilted his brows in a weary smile. "I been weedin' all day, lass. Th'art want me to do more?"

"It's different this time," she said, looking over her shoulder to him a moment. "It's not like work when you're gardening with me."

He chuckled, nodding, and he took Mary's gardening things from under the nearby stone bench that she always tucked them under, out of habit when the garden was all a secret. He handed them to her, and she grinned in thanks.

"Tha' skirt will get dirty," he said, kneeling next to her.

"Doesn't matter," she said, digging her fingers into the soil and bringing some to her face. She took a deep breath in and sighed. "Aaah. I love this." She pushed the soil back down, and grabbing the fork and poking the earth with it, pulling out weeds quite expertly.

"A body'd never know tha' weren't born gardenin'!" said Dickon, weeding with his hands.

"You'll get your hands dirty," she said, glancing to what he was doing. He chuckled.

"Doesn't matter," he said, and Mary laughed with him.

They dug about in the garden, rooting out the weeds and chatting together about their day. Mary loved it so when they talked in the garden in the afternoons, as hearing him speak about what he'd been up to made her feel as though she had never been away from him at all, and that she'd been with him the whole time. He seemed to find great amusement in her stories of her lessons with Mrs. Waidsley. Indeed, the volatile relationship the two women had was entertaining listening for anybody.

"Tha'rt lucky she don't put you over her knee!" Dickon said, and Mary laughed.

"She'd have to catch me first! I don't know if that woman has ever done anything other than sit about and drink tea for all these years!" She tutted. "You even suggest a walk outside and she starts on about the dirt and the leaves and the awful cold breezes off the moor."

"Those things is the best part o' bein' out o' doors!" Dickon exclaimed. Mary's eyes widened and she nodded thoroughly.

"That's what I said!"

"Mrs. Waidsley don't know what's good for 'er," he said, shaking his head.

Mary chuckled. She grabbed for a weed and at the same time Dickon's hand had wrapped about it. She giggled and pulled at it, and he pulled too, in the other direction. The weed ripped in half and Mary gasped.

"Look what you did to it!" she cried.

Dickon's mouth fell open and he was obviously trying not to laugh. "We jus' pulled i' out o' th' ground! I don't think it 'as much of a chance!"

"No need to maul the poor thing!" she said, giggling more now.

"I didn't!" he cried, and she grabbed for the weed in his hands, gripping them at the same time, staring right into his beautiful large round blue eyes and laughing.

"Now we have to give it a decent Christian burial!"

Dickon couldn't help it. He burst into laughter, trying to pull his hands away but failing as Mary was in a fey mood and decided to tug back. They tugged on the shred of leaf (all that was left of the weed), and soon completely forgot about the weed and were playing tug-of-war with their arms. Mary threw the weed away from Dickon, her mirth breaking her voice.

"Hands off it, you brute!"

Dickon reached for it and she pushed him over, pinning him to the ground and practically squealing with delight. It was wonderful! She managed to get him to forget they were older and things were expected from them. They were just Mary and Dickon and the garden again! Except Dickon was heavier and taller than her now, and there was something distinctly addictive about pushing him about, feeling his arms and shoulders under her hands. She knew he could have overcome her but he would never have dreamt of it, letting her have her way with him in their play, ever so careful with her as if she were something precious.

"Th'art a cheeky wench!" he said, chuckling deeply underneath her.

"You're just saying that because I've won!" She sat up proudly, lifting her nose into the air. "I am the champion!"

"Aye," he said, "And the champion should have a victory parade."

She looked down at him curiously, and before she knew what had happened, Dickon was up on his feet with her perched up on his shoulder. She squealed in terror, and he laughed and began to spin about in circles without warning.

"Dickon!" she screamed, fingers digging into his shoulders in fear. "I'll beat thee black an' blue if tha' don't put me do-o-own!"

Dickon laughed, and sensing she was genuinely unsettled by the height, put her down on the ground swiftly and carefully, as if she weighed nothing at all. She gave a shaky sigh, putting her hand over her chest.

"Dear me!" she said. "You just about put the fear of God into me!"

"Eh, I'm sorry," he said, rubbing his browny-red haired head and looking genuinely sheepish. "No harm would o' come of thee, I'd promise thee that."

"Oh I do know that," she said, squeezing his shoulder, "I'm just a little fearful of heights."

Dickon giggled. "I noticed that."

"Oh you wicked boy!" she laughed, smacking him lightly on the arm.

He caught her hand against his arm, chuckling with her, and then something very strange happened. Mary felt her smile slip away, just as she saw his fade too. His eyes were a world of blue, always that blue of the sky over the moors, and in them was the same affection she always saw only it was a little different. It was as if it were stronger, more serious, if not a little sad, and it made her blood rush, her head light and she thought she might swoon. She felt drawn to him, and she unwittingly edged closer to him.

"You are wicked," she said softly. "When we are together all I wish to do is run away into the moors and live as a wild girl."

"If tha' did, th' animals'd love thee as a queen," he breathed, his voice more gentle than she'd ever heard it.

Mary smiled, her belly in her throat as their noses almost touched.

The door to the garden slammed open, and in it was a shaken Ben Weatherstaff. He glanced about inside, face as pale as paper, and relief flooded him as he saw Dickon and Mary at the flowerbed by the tree. Mary and Dickon however had nearly jumped a clear foot in the air, and Mary had wrapped her arms about Dickon in fright before recovering her senses. With looks of utter guilt both Mary and Dickon separated themselves, Dickon rubbing his hair and looking anywhere but at Mary or Ben, and Mary wringing her hands and blushing redder than the poppies about her.

"Thank goodness!" Ben sighed. "The both o' ye put the very fear o' God into me with that screamin'!"

"Oh, oh..." Mary took a breath. She hadn't realised she'd been holding it. "Dickon gave me a fright, that's all."

The old gardener rumbled. "T'ain't the only one!" He looked between them with a knowing glint in his eyes, rolling his tongue about in his mouth. "Just you behave yourselves!"

Dickon looked redder in the cheeks than usual, and had pulled his brown cap low over his head. Mary sighed, waving at Ben with a flustered look about her.

"Yes, all right, I won't scream anymore, if that's what you mean."

Mr. Weatherstaff eyed her before stomping out the door. "Good afternoon, Miss Mary."

The door was slammed firmly behind him.

"Bother!" she sighed, and she turned to look at Dickon. He was kneeling at the flowerbed, gathering up the tools.

"We really should pack this up," he said, his voice a little shaky. "Tha' knows how Mrs. Medlock hates you being out late."

She frowned, feeling utterly disappointed, just like she had that morning. "Oh, all right."

Dickon put her things away for her quickly, saying very little. Mary decided she didn't like him like this, all quiet and guilty. She didn't think he had anything to be guilty for. She was only sorry that Ben had walked in when he did. Dickon seemed quite determined to get Mary inside and away from him as soon as possible. They were at the door of the garden before he decided to say something more to her than a few words, and not without a very worried expression on his wide young face.

"Art tha' surout out havin' me dance with ye on the morrow?"

"Of course I am!" she said, glancing up to him with a serious look. Dickon stood beside her, rubbing his lovely reddish-brown locks with his cap in his fingers, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Tha' was strange when tha' got here and tha've gotten stranger, I think," he said. "A gardener for a dance partner..."

"You're my closest of friends, Dickon," she said, grabbing his hands and squeezing them. "And I love to share things with thee, lbookbooks and cakes and looking at beautiful pictures in the Manor, and gardening! Oh, gardening most of all!" She sighed happily. "And I want to keep sharing things with you. For ever and ever! You shared such a treasure with me all these years. I don't think I should ever feel that I've thanked thee enough."

Dickon smiled to her kindly. "I just showed tha' what was around thee, and helped you do what tha' wanted. It nothin' special."

"Dickon," she said, "It's very special to me."

He brought his fingertips to her jaw, letting them slide down it deftly and briefly.

"Aye," he said nodding. "Th'art a strange lass."

She smiled, reaching to clutch his arms, but before she could make contact he nodded to her politely, as one does to a passing acquaintance.

"Good afternoon, Miss Mary," he said. "I'll see thee on the morrow."

He plopped his brown cap on his head and walked away.

For the rest of that day Mary was in an unaccountably bad mood. She felt hot in the cheeks, and didn't feel particularly hungry either. Martha fussed about in her room, tidying it and cleaning the grate, and all Mary could feel is that somehow she should blame Martha for her bad mood, even though Martha had nothing to do with her emotions at all. She sat at her table, her dinner in front of her, a dark little frown on her face.

"Why, I haven't seen thee in such a state since tha' first got here all those year' ago!" Martha said, chuckling at the young lady and sitting across from her. "Do eat up now."

Mary glowered at the food and looked away. "I'm not hungry."

"Surely tha' must be," she said, "Tha' was in the garden most of the afternoon!"

"I know," Mary said, her voice becoming a grumble. "Weeding and talking, talking and weeding." She pursed her lips tightly, muttering under her breath.

"What's that, Miss Mary?"

Mary glanced up at Martha and sighed hotly. "Are men always so difficult?!"

Martha blinked at her, quite shocked by the question. "What men have ye been talkin' to?"

"Dickon!" Mary exclaimed, wondering if Martha had gone a little soft in the head.

The maid in front of her put a hand to her mouth, quite shocked to hear Mary refer to her brother as a man, even though Martha herself had considered him as such since he'd turned sixteen.

"You've been having troubles with him?" she asked.

"Of a sort," Mary said, suddenly feeling very embarrassed and blushing. She did want to talk about how she was feeling however, and Martha was the only woman anywhere near her own age she felt she could talk to. This is why she was utterly heartbroken when Martha seemed to grow vexxed.

"Oh Miss Mary," she moaned, "If tha' was wise tha'd keep away from Dickon like that, now, it's just not a good idea."

"Oh for goodness sakes!" Mary said, folding her arms. "What are you talking about? Dickon and I have spent all these years together and nobody ever batted an eyelid. Now we're growing up and suddenly it's a crime?" She looked utterly enraged. "You're all hypocrites!"

Martha fretted. "Now Miss Mary, I thought I'd told you, I thought you understood. Mrs. Waidsley was sure to explain it to you. This is a cruel awful world, and a lass will always take the station of the man she's with, she always will." She stood, hands shaking, eyes filled with panic. "Dickon is a good a lad as ever'd been born, but he can't give thee what tha' is used!"

Mary scowled. "I'm used to a garden, and my cousin, and my best friend not being afraid to touch me!"

At the word 'touch' Martha covered her mouth, her cheeks blushing. "Th'art don't know what yer sayin'!"

"I do!" exclaimed Mary. "And I'll say it again and again! I'll do with Dickon what I like! I'll dance with him and garden with him and run in the moors until we can by sty stand up anymore!"

At that the servant woman jumped to her feet, hands shaking and cheeks bright red.

"Have a care! You'll break his heart! Test thy limits, aye, but don't bring Dickon into this! He deserves more than a roll in a ruddy thicket before tha' is married off to some Lord's son!"

Without another word Martha stormed from the room, her steps echoing from the raftered ceilings.

Mary sat there, jaw dangling. She felt the prick of tears behind her eyes, and she wondered if Martha absolutely hated her if she disliked the thought of Mary being close to Dickon as much as she seemed to. A roll in a thicket? The very thought made her blush deeply, and she'd never even considered that sort of nonsense. She felt a deep hurt in her heart. Her feelings had nothing to do with her breaking the house rules. She was confused and fretful, and Martha's words made her feel as if she'd been dirty, as if her moment with Dickon this afternoon was a sin. Guilt plagued her.

She didn't eat that night, not after that. She shoved her food away in defiance and drew the curtaabouabout her bed, refusing to come out when the servant came in to collect her plates. She could tell it wasn't Martha. It didn't have her light steps and lively rhythm. No doubt it was one of the scullery maids.

Unfortunately Mary's terrible mood lasted well into the next morning. Martha had regained her chipper mood, but unlike so many mornings before, she didn't say much. It was small talk, talk of the sky and of the weather, of the good food and the good day ahead. She was in and then she was out. Mary felt sure she would cry if Martha didn't return back to her normal self soon.

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