Aftermath ~ can't get next to you
Dickon Sowerby feels isolated.
He sits in a comfortable chair by the bedroom window, watching as two cousins laugh and chase each other over the dead grass and through the empty flowerbeds. Colin is much taller and faster than Mary, but Mary is smaller, more willowy, and has the ability to slide through gaps in bushes and borders that Colin has more trouble with due to his build.
Her dress is a dark, muted blue, and she wears a dark brown coat over it. But despite her drab clothing, her cheeks are flushed with exercise and her eyes are bright and full of laughter. He can tell even from here.
"I brough' thee tea wit' honey an' lemon," Martha says quietly from behind him. "An' some broth. Mother says thy needs t' drink it ev'ry day, t' get thy strength back. She says she'll visit thee several times a week if thy wishes, t' see how thy's doin'. Doctor Craven says that would be good for thee."
He doesn't respond to her, for he is still watching Colin and Mary. They dart around a lifeless birdbath in their fun, and Colin finally manages to snatch Mary around the waist. She twists to get away from him, breathless with laughter, but in the ensuing confusion they trip over each other and collapse in a heap. Colin releases her so that he can roll onto his back, laughing all the while, and Mary sits up, flushed and smiling despite her disarranged coat and twisted skirts.
It is a dark, bitter feeling, Dickon decides. He knows Colin isn't really interested in Mary as anything more than a cousin, or anything closer than a sister. But once, just few short years ago, Colin did fancy her. That in itself was easy enough to understand at the time (though it did sting, some), because Mary has always been beautiful and full of life, and Colin had been sheltered and had seen very few other girls, none of which were his own age. Mary had brought him out of his room and into the garden, where he had learned to walk, and that was something no boy could forget.
Eventually though, as Colin grew older, his feelings changed and he began to see Mary as only a friend, a cousin. He spent more time in London, in society. He met other girls who weren't related to him by blood, and came to fancy a couple of them by the time he'd turned sixteen.
But even knowing all of that, a nasty, malicious part of Dickon's mind questions their current innocent play; they are nearly eighteen years old, and chasing each other through gardens and across the lawns isn't quite as innocent as it once was. Furthermore, they are bound by class, having lived in a world Dickon has only ever seen from the outside until two days ago. It makes him feel lonely and different, as though he is intruding upon something only they can make sense of. Something he can't be a part of.
Isolated.
He shifts his eyes away from the window and looks at the bowl of broth his sister has placed on the table beside him.
"Thy'll be runnin' about wit' 'em afore thy knows it," she says, attempting to sound cheerful, having misinterpreted his gaze.
He doesn't respond to this, either. Martha has been acting as though she's been walking upon eggshells all day, uncertain what to say or do. She seems to want to forget the morning altogether, when Doctor Craven came to visit his newest patient for the first time. It had been quite an ordeal to have the broken arm and ribs looked over and bandaged yet again, and worse that Mary had been present for the entire examination. Of course, Mary had insisted upon this, despite Dickon's protests, and Lord Craven's brother had patiently explained to her how to clean the dressings properly on the days he would be unable to come, whilst reminding Dickon not to argue with his exceptionally pretty young "nurse". Mary had ignored this remark, and silently watched and nodded at the doctor's instructions, memorizing each detail, and seemingly oblivious to Dickon's discomfort at the fact that she was in the room.
He wasn't sure that she could understand why he hadn't wanted her there, though. The truth was, he didn't want her to see him without his shirt, because there were cuts and scars and open wounds on his body that hadn't yet healed. Visible reminders of what he had lived through.
He hadn't thought things could get worse, but they did. After Mary and Doctor Craven left the room, Susan Sowerby had remained behind. Dickon didn't want to think about what she had remained behind for – to tell her oldest son that no one had any idea where Phillip was, or if he was even alive. He briefly wondered how on earth a cottage full of nine other people could have allowed the boy to leave unnoticed, before he remembered that there had been many a day in his childhood that he had left unnoticed himself.
Martha suddenly giggles and waves; Dickon glances towards the window to see Mary waving eagerly back at her. Even as she does so, her eyes meet Dickon's, and she smiles shyly at him from the lawn.
Then, before he can try and smile back, she turns to beckon Colin to come back into the house with her. Her cousin pulls himself up from the coarse lawn and follows her, brushing himself off as he does so.
They are coming back in for him, and he suddenly wishes they wouldn't. They were happier outside; they shouldn't be forced to watch over him all of the time when he feels so depressed and alone. And even though he doesn't like them playing together without him, he was the one who suggested they go outside in the first place. So they could get out of the dark bedroom for a while, and get some fresh air.
"I'll go downstairs an' bring up their tea, too – so tha can all eat together. Eh, but it is good t' have thee home again."
Martha leaves him, and when Mary and Colin burst into the room a few minutes later, pulling off scarves and gloves and coats, telling him all about the gardens outside, he still simply listens, because the truth is, he isn't sure what to say.
And so he says nothing at all.