Prologue
1918
In all honesty, if she didn't have to say anything, she wouldn't have said anything at all. She would have just taken what money she has and ran away with Dickon, but she loves her uncle too and it would pain her to betray him in such a way, after everything he's done for her.
This is what she has to do.
She gave the door three good sturdy knocks before she heard a voice greet them in a strong familiar elderly tone. "Come in," it said and from that moment she knew there was no turning back.
Mary closed her eyes, taking her last deep breath, holding it in and refusing to release it as she opened the door and step into the study. "Uncle," Mary greeted him, trying to look as casual as possible. She found her Uncle Archibald busying himself, stamping letters and signing forms, but once he saw it was his beloved niece to visit him, he eagerly set his work aside, gesturing to the chair in front of him.
"Mary," he smiled, "Please have a seat."
She did, sitting upright and uncomfortable, while tightening her fists into a ball. Her whole world was rocking slowing side to side, making her feel dizzy and sea sick, but she kept her composure.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Immediately she got to the point, seeing no reason to delay the subject. "I wanted to speak with you about who I should marry."
"Yes! I heard Charles Igor proposed to you. Congratulations, my dear. He will make a fantastic husband," he announced with joy, returning back to his work, but this only made Mary's heart catch fire with anger and an old familiar passion to be heard. He wasn't listening to her.
Raising her voice half an octave higher, she leaned forward and said, "No, I've rejected Mr. Igor, but I did accept another proposal."
"Another?" Archibald asked, "I don't recall another man asking for my blessing."
Mary's heart dropped. Dickon didn't ask for Archibald's blessing and it doesn't exactly make the best first impression. It's not the way things are done, but then again, Mary and Dickon's relationship are not the way things are done.
Mary hesitated with the words which were nonexistent. She had an idea of what she wanted to say and how to say it, but it was like her mouth spoke in another tongue, so all that came out was silence. Suddenly she realized she hadn't been breathing and a heavy, imploding feeling in her chest weighed her down. "Dickon," she admitted quietly. She spoke as if it were a confession to a priest and her gaze soften in fear.
Anyone else could say what they wanted; believe what they wanted to believe, but her Uncle… She always had a strange desire to please him, to make him proud, like a daughter would for her father. She couldn't stand the very thought of her Uncle disappointed with her, but she loves Dickon too much to leave him now, just so she be who her Uncle wants her to be.
"Dickon asked for my hand," Mary whispered. Instantly his head shot up, so his gaze was once again meeting hers. He gave her a surprised and almost hurt expression. She swallowed. The saliva was thick and dry in her mouth. She could feel her eyes become hot and moist as she continued, whispering, "and I said yes."
Leaning back into his chair Archibald rested his knuckles to his lips, as if considering what to do next, as if waiting for her to say anything else. Finally he took a deep breath, leaning forward again like he was trying to get a better look into her eyes. "This doesn't happen to be the same Dickon Sowerby we all know and love, is it? The Yorkshire boy of the moore, who I would have expected him to come to me personally and ask for my blessing if he did ask you to marry him, that Dickon Sowerby?"
Mary nodded her head, a tear falling from her cheek. She whispered, Archibald barely catching it, "...yes."
Archibald ran his hand through his hair as he sighed thoughtfully. His eyes were soft and Mary was thankful for it, because it means he wasn't angry. She would have broke if he was angry with her. "Mary, he's just a gardener."
"I love him," she sobbed silently, choking between words, "I- I love him… more than I can bear." Tears continued down her cheeks as she sobbed, "I didn't plan for it, neither of us had, but it happened and I'm sorry Uncle. I'm so sorry."
Archibald stared at her with both love and pity. He moved from behind his desk, reaching out for her hand and eagerly she reached for it back until they were both hand in hand. He smiled as he pushed some hair away from her crying face. "My sweet," he whispered back, smiling at her with what Mary felt was acceptance. "It is neither of your faults. I know firsthand, how complicated love is and how strong the bond can be made."
Mary finally let go of her breath, and the heavy feeling lifted from her chest. She hugged her Uncle tightly and he hugged her just as tightly back. She had never loved her Uncle more than she loved him today.
"I hope one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me," he whispered into her ear.
She pushed him away, stunned by what he said, unprepared for what would happen next.
It started with a loud BANG! Dickon was brought in by Charles himself, on his feet and Dickon was tied up and gagged. Charles forced Dickon to move further into the room, proudly as he held the struggling gardener while Mary watched utterly horrified and shocked. It was all too much to process, but once Mary found herself again, she curled her fists together and moved to run at them screaming, "LET HIM GO!"
But before she can reach them she was pushed to the ground, her head slamming against the cold, hard wood floors. Dickon screamed something, angry and wild, but the cloth he was choking on, made it sound like a loud painful groan. Slightly dazed she realized it was Colin who had attacked her, keeping her restrained to the ground. Colin said, "Calm yourself, Mary. This is for your own good."
She had no idea what he was talking about until she heard a couple of clicks! and she looked up and saw her uncle pointing a gun at Dickon's head. Time had stopped for a moment and tears continued down her cheeks, her eyes wide and wild, "Uncle please," she tried to say as calmly and slowly as possible, but she's too distracted by the danger her love is in. "If you love me, you won't do this. Please Uncle. You can't."
"I'm sorry, Mary," her Uncle says as if he was talking to a child, "but I do this because I love you."
He turned his attention toward Dickon again and the barrow of his revolver turned and clicked. Mary kept shaking her head, trying to push Colin off of her. Mary screams, "NO!" and her Uncle pulled the trigger.
…
"NO!" Mary screamed. She sat up quickly, sweat dripping from her face and all over her skin. She looked around, trying to remember where she was once she realized she wasn't in her uncle's study anymore. She was in the garden and she wasn't alone.
Dickon sat up, absolutely shocked by the deathly wail. Once he saw it was Mary who screamed he reached for her immediately, caressing her face with one hand and stroking her bare back with the other. He kissed her shoulder and looked at her with concern. "Sssshhhh," he spoke lovingly in her ear, "It was just a dream. It's alright. I'm here. I'm here. Nothing will hurt thee while I'm here." He stated that last part while folding her into his arms.
Mary turned her watery gaze, while biting her lip. Having no idea that it was he, who was… She shook her head. She didn't want to think it. She didn't want to ever remember it. Why couldn't this be one of those dreams you instantly forget? Why did she have to remember this one? She whimpered sadly, pulling her naked body closer to his, under the blanket. The moon light looming over them and the beauty of the garden was all around them. She cried into his neck, wrapping an arm around his shoulder protectively.
Dickon stunned, pulled her closer to him, "Mary? Mary what is it? What's happened?"
She didn't say anything. She just continued to hold onto him as if her life depended on it and cried silently into him.
She promised herself, No one will hurt him while I was around. No one.
...
97 years later, December 19th, 2015
The lightning cracks and I wake up, finding myself on my bedroom desk.
Just a dream, I think as I pull a sheet of paper off my face.
My alarm clock is ringing. I really hate my alarm clock. It may be winter break but I still need to wake up. "My name is Eden Lamb," I say just like I was instructed to do by my doctor, "not Mary Lennox."
Where I came up with a name like that? I'm not sure, but what I am sure is that she is a fiction. A figment of my very active imagination.
She isn't real, I keep trying to remind myself. She isn't real.
And as I do that it somehow lulls me back to sleep where, against my will, I dream more about the girl named Mary Lennox and the boy Dickon Sowerby and the Secret Garden.
...
review, please!
