Part Two

"Flowers"

Dickon walked toward the manor. The sun was a reddish orange, setting the hill side a blaze in pastel color. It was early morning, just about to be dawn, and the letter, which Mary wrote, was now folded neatly and held securely in Dickon's hand.

He was home when Martha gave it to him and when he asked who it was from, Martha honestly answered, she did not know. It was a mystery, where it came from, because Martha was told it was given to the stable boy Jacob, who gave it to Michael, the cook's help, who gave it to Lucy, the housemaid, and finally given to Martha, who was instructed to give it to Dickon. Martha would never dare open something which did not belong to her, but it would be a lie if she said she did not care who wrote it and why they went to a great deal of trouble to conceal their identity.

Once Dickon read it, he was both shocked and excited. Miss Mary Lennox, the young mistress of India, had wrote him a letter! Martha immediately asked who wrote it, but Dickon would not say. He understood why he and Mary must be friends in private. No one would understand. It was not normal for someone of her financial stature to converse with someone as common as he, and he did not wish her any ill will fate.

He went to their meeting spot and just like she said, Mary waited patiently on the steps of the Manor's front entrance.

"Mr. Sowerby!" she cried happily, "I was afraid you wouldn't accept my invitation."

"Would've ben rude if I did not," Dickon answered, with an uncontrollable cheeky grin. Mary smiled at his accent. She was beginning to like it allot, and she's not sure why. "Well, I'm 'ere 'ow. We should get to steppin!"

For five minutes they continued to walk in silence. Every now and then Dickon would glance at Mary, to catch the way the rising sun would glow in her hair and eyes, and on her face. He would quickly turn away if either Mary seemed to catch him or if he could feel the heat burn too much in his face for him to conceal it.

"How did you know the garden hadn't died?" Mary asked, locking her eyes on the ground, while pulling some locks of hair away from her face. "Were you taught?"

"Aye," Dickon answer, "My Pa taught me when I wor still just a young 'un. Taught me everthin I needin t'know about gardenin."

"If you don't mind me asking," Mary said, sounding as curious as ever. "What is your father like?"

They stopped walking, not realizing the progress they already made. The mansion was like a little house in their view now. No one would realize she was gone, and they wouldn't know where to find her. Dickon turned toward her and smiled, but it quickly fell as he answered a bit stung, "I… I don't know'. 'e died i' a time I can not rememba." Mary felt guilty she even asked, but how was she supposed to know his father was dead. By the way he spoke to her, she assumed he would still be alive, teaching Dickon about things. Dickon saw the look of confusion on her face, but she was too afraid to ask. "'e wrote a journal o' 'is work. I used ta read it, so it would feel li' 'e wor still 'ere." Mary smiled at him, daring her boundaries by placing a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

Already Dickon realized, she was not as rude or tirant as her mother, as Martha led him on to believe. He would be happy to report to Martha, she was wrong about Miss Mary. If only they didn't have to enjoy each other's company in secret. Maybe one day. One day a friendship could bloom. One which they could share to the world.

"Wha' about thy'n?"

"My father is very much alive, but he doesn't have time to teach me anything. He works non-stop, but when he is home, and he has a little time to spare, he uses it well. We don't talk about much, and usually we have nothing to say at all, but his smiles are all I need to know he cares."

"And thy's mother? I bet she's as pretty a lass as thy."

Suddenly Dickon's eyes went wide. He didn't mean to say that out loud, but it sort of just slipped. He turned away from her, kneeling down to inspect the grass. Doing anything to pretend he hadn't just exposed himself. Luckily for him Mary hadn't noticed. She heard him, but she has too much she always wanted to say about her mother to really care about the meaning behind Dickon's words.

"I'm told my mother is as pretty as a rose, and then I'm told I look absolutely nothing like her," she knelt down beside him, sitting on her crossed legs and starting at an isolated plant. She wasn't sure if it was a flower or a weed, but it was pretty. How can some weeds be pretty too? "She loves to shop, flirt with other men, and host parties in our home, but she's not a mother. Not really."

Dickon's eyes lifted from the grass and finally met hers again. "Surely tha has someone she can look up to. Anyone at all?"

"One person," she answers. Suddenly Mary smiles, more gently than any smile he's seen. It was almost strange to see something so fragile and sweet on a face that began a bit sour. She was opening up to him and he was glad. "She's my Aya, but you will ask nothing else about the subject, because she is my secret."

Dickon still smiled, "Aye, alrigh' then."

They remained silent again, for a moment.

"So if tha's Miss Mary Lennox, that means tha's from India."

Mary nodded her head.

"Wha's it li' there?"

"Very hot, lots of blacks and very few whites, but that doesn't bother me. I don't love India but there is one thing I do love about it."

Dickon leans back to listen. They were suppose to be walking but he doesn't mind. He's never been outside of the moor and it was nice to hear about another place, almost like he was traveling there himself.

"It's all like one big garden." Mary smiled, "Flowers everywhere Mr. Sowerby. Growing up the walls, flooding the grounds likes rivers, floating in the streams."

"Sonds beautiful," Dickon says, smiling, just picturing it.

"Oh it is!" Mary replied excitedly. She never realized how proud of it, she really was until now. "And it grows without any help from anyone, with glowing colors, and petals the size of dinner plates. It certainly is a sight to be seen."

"Speakin 'o' t' garden, wha' does tha' plan t' do wit it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are tha' goin t' visit it often?"

Mary looked at him as if he was crazy, "Why should I? It isn't my garden."

"Aye, tis true, but!" he replied pulling up a finger, gesturing he was about to make a huge point. Mary listened carefully. "but tha' loves it." Mary remained silent, as if waiting for him to finish his point, "The garden, I mean."

Suddenly Mary face went solemn and the gentleness returned in her features. "I don't know."

They both returned just in time for lunch. Dickon had watched Mary walk through the front door, making sure she returned home safely before hiking back to his own home. Luckily he didn't work that day, it was Sunday, but horridly that meant he was late for church and that was not okay.

By the time he successfully snuck into the small church, the service was practically over and when he sat down, he did his best to avoid the glares of his mother. She wasn't looking at him, but he could feel something burning a hole in his head and he had a sure feeling it was his mother doing it. After the service, and everyone was finished, greeting eachother and saying their goodbyes, Dickon tried to sneak past his mother, in attempt to avoid the hell-fire, but sadly he just wasn't quick enough.

"An' where does tha' think tha' is goin'?!" she bellowed, grabbing the back of his collar and yanking him toward her. "Well!?"

"Tha went to see Miss Mary," Martha said quietly. She didn't mean to say it out loud, but she said it with so much shock, Dickon could manage to give her a mild glare.

"Tis true?" Mrs. Sowerby demanded equally as shocked.

Dickon didn't know what to say, he felt backed into a corner. They were suppose to be a secret, she and Dickon and now the secret's out. He could always lie, but he's not sure where his sister got her information from, probably from the maids, and it would be embarrassing to stumble upon lie after lie, after lie. Also he wouldn't like lying to his mother, and it would be a sin to do so, so Dickon decided the only when to survive this is to just come out with it and tell the truth.

It took him a while to find his words until he finally took a deep breath and said, "Aye." He could already feel the regret seeping through him, realizing this may be the only day he could have spent with Mary. He should have made it last. "But t'Miss invited me! I swear!"

Martha and Mrs. Sowerby just stood in shock as Dickon continued. "She's not at all li' Martha said. She's gentle as a lily and sweet as a rose-"

"Dickon…"

"What?"

All his life, Martha and Mrs. Sowerby have made a point to teach him not to judge those on the outside, but rather to judge what's on the in. Still the way he talks about this girl… it begins to frighten them. It was time, Mrs. Sowerby sat down with her son and finally tell him about the ugly part of this world. A subject she has skillfully tried to avoid.

READER'S NOTE- Sorry been away for a while and this is what I came up with. Anyway thank you so much for reading, you have NO idea what it means to me that some of you actually read it. I really appreciate it. It's 1 in the morning so I'm trying to say this without sounding so uninterested. You know the drill! Love it, hate it, or don't understand it. You know what to do!

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