He had thought that they could do it. That they could beat the odds, beat the system, win for themselves a little happiness in a small cottage on the moor with a bit of a garden in the back. He had known that she was scared, that she felt frightened and out of place away from the grand halls of Misselthwaite Manor or the elegant society parlors of London, but he had thought that in the grand scheme of things it didn't matter.
It's arrogant, but sometimes the thought sneaks its way into his head: He had thought that she loved him enough to give all that up, to give up her pretty dresses and her smooth white hands and the flirtatious smiles of eligible young men, all for the sake of a falling-apart cottage on a gloomy moor miles away from anyone else.
Sometimes he wishes that she had managed to love him just a little bit more, but he has to take the thought back because he knows that she loves him more than she loves anybody else.
Poor Colin.
It hurts Dickon's heart to see the two of them, Colin following her like a kicked puppy, knowing that she's hurting him deliberately but loving her despite that, wanting only to please her.
To tell the truth, he doesn't know how it all started, her and Colin. He never felt the ghost of other fingers on her hands, never tasted the other lips that he now knows touched hers.
He didn't know until one night she didn't meet him in the garden and then the next day she did, but she wasn't herself. She wasn't wearing her gardening clothes and in the place of a spade she had a diamond on her hand. She had burst into tears without him even asking and said that she had to, that they couldn't do it, that it was impossible. He had called her silly, called her a fool, called her a coward, even, and she didn't change her mind. One last kiss, slick with rainwater and tears, and she was gone, running away, her wet braid hitting her back like a rope.
He went to the wedding. He knew that he shouldn't, but he couldn't keep away. He swears that she looked at him the moment before she said her vows, and he hates himself for it. He has stolen any possibility of happiness she might have had with Colin.
A few months after the wedding, Colin comes to the garden while he is pruning the roses and tells him, voice breaking, that he wants her to be happy, that he will do whatever it takes, and if Dickon is what it takes for her to be happy, then so be it.
In that moment, Dickon realizes that Colin's love is something real, not the childhood crush or the possessive want he had always thought it was. He knows he should hate her for what she has done to the both of them, but he finds that he can't.
Despite Colin's promise, she never comes to him. Instead, a year later, Colin comes again, tells him that he's being let go, hands him a pay envelope thicker than it should be, and Dickon shakes the proffered hand, trying to tell him with the strength of his grip that he never had any ill will toward Colin.
He tells him to take care of her – that he cannot help – and plucks a rose to take with him, as a reminder that that kind of beauty is never without thorns.
He should have loved a daisy instead.