A/N: Happy New Year, loves
I've a bit of progress on the next few chapters, and am determined to at least finish writing this story by the end of January (exactly 2 years after I first posted it!) so hopefully I'll be updating fairly regularly until then.
I hope anyone who stumbles upon this tiny fandom is enjoying the story – please drop a like/review if you are; it means so much to me 3
It was during a cold and wet winter's night that Mary Lennox first arrived at her Uncle's estate; and Master Craven had no desire to see her. Whilst the wheels of the carriage rolled, he made haste to hide in his chambers.
The moors were dark, expansive, spilling out around the thin drive like a vast sea in the night, ready to swallow up any wayward traveller. The lamp which hung upon the gate at the entrance to the drive of Misselthwaite manor swayed gently in the moorland breeze. It shone on the wrought iron gate – and faintly, as well, upon the meagre dwellings of the groundskeeper – since early evening, as the solstice was fast approaching.
It was upon this drive that night that the young orphan sat in close quarters with a woman whom she knew little of, preparing to become the ward of a man she knew little of. The polite thing for a young lady to do would be to entertain the acquaintance of her traveling companion, learn a bit more of the house she was supposed to come to know as her home; the the sour girl hardly cared to behave in such a fashion, and took instead to looking out the window and the void of rustling heather and brilliant stars, the wind wuthering loudly through the crevices of the carriage.
Stood in the main entrance with his brother, Archibald heard the carriage pull up in front of the grand stone staircase outside. His pulse quickened, but Neville took hold of his arm before he could escape, sensing this rising agitation.
"The girl hasn't any family left, save for you – her guardian," he chastised, emphasizing Archibald's new role.
Although, the master presumed, such an exaggeration had been solely to remind him of his duties to this girl from India, he could not stop himself worrying there was more to it; a part of him believed also that it was a jab at him for the last ten years. He was certainly no father to Colin, but could such a term as guardian even describe the man who had never truly met his son?
Yes, here he was, trying to avoid meeting the child that he had agreed to take into his home, whilst also avoiding his own.
"Maybe," he thought, "it was not such a good idea to have her brought here?"
With this in mind, he freed himself from his brother's grip. Then he turned on his heel and made his way toward the grand oak staircase inside the main hall.
Neville tried to argue, proclaiming, "the least you could do is stay here and actually greet her upon her arrival," but Archibald ignored him.
He continued up the stairs and disappeared around a corner leading to the west wing just as the travelers were granted shelter from the rain. He headed straight for his apartment, not bothering to listen to Neville offer the greeting that he should be giving.
He knew he had accepted a large responsibility, but he could simply not bring himself to face her – not tonight, at least.
For now, he wished to retire to his chambers. The girl would still be here in the morning, and he hoped he would feel well enough by then to face her.
Unfortunately, as much as Mr. Craven wished for the delectable darkness of sleep, it would not come to him. He tossed and turned for half the night before deciding that a nice walk through the labyrinth of corridors may fatigue him enough to find at least a few hours of peace.
He donned his dressing gown in his half-awake state, and slowly he ventured out of his apartment and down the long halls of his childhood home.
The moment he quit the west wing, his mind went blank. He stood atop the grand staircase, his ears more alert than his mind.
He could not say what he heard, but knew it was something far away, and he felt a strong desire to locate it.
However, as he made his way closer to the ballroom, a different sound filled his ears, enticing him. Clarity came upon him and he knew who this new voice he heard belonged to, as well as why she was summoning him.
He quietly entered the cold dark room. He set his nightlight down on one of the covered tables and chose a chair at random to remove the cover from.
Even amid the dust and stale air, a familiar, nostalgic scent filled Archibald's lungs; and he suddenly felt as though he had not had such a breath in nearly ten years. He used this newfound air to extinguish the flame on the table, and somehow, the darkness did bring him some peace at last. His whole body relaxed as he sat down, eased form weariness and pain as his eyes slipped shut. He quickly succumbed to the bliss of memories.
When he finally awoke, the pink sun was spilling in from a patch in one of the moth-eaten curtains, nearly blinding him. Still not fully finding control of his faculties, the master noted to himself to speak with one of the maids about the room. Perhaps one day he would be willing to make use of it again.
He rubbed the still-unwelcome light out of his eyes in a strained effort to waken himself fully without losing the comforting essence of his dreams. But as he stood up and removed his hands, a different kind of life filled the room.
A familiar blonde figure in a very familiar white gown was sat in the chair he had previously been situated in.
He chanced an offer of a dance to his bride, ignoring the red velvet of his sleeve which he was awake enough to recognise as not belonging to the tailcoat he had worn on the evening of his wedding. The woman of his attention, responding with a radiant smile, accepted his offer gladly, collecting her mass of skirts as she took her leave from her guests with a polite excuse and gentle wave.
Buried within a crowd of silk and gossips, the music of years past encircled him, consumed him, overwhelmed him with desire for all he had once held so dearly. Yet, lost in this music and in Lilias's eyes, Archibald took no notice of the passage of time. Immune was he to the sun's rays as it climbed higher in the sky, for there was no tear in the curtain of his vision.
Immune until, that is, he heard an unfamiliar voice meekly speak his name. Thus his dreamland faded, leaving his arms empty and cold.
Looking around for the source of the sound, he found a small figure stood in the doorway. She wore a white dress and a haphazardly buttoned black coat, a large hat and a judgmental expression.
As he stepped closer, he heard her say, "my name is Mary Lennox, sir – are you my uncle Archibald?"
He was taken aback by her blunt tone. He hardly registered his own affirmation when she replied once again.
"Are you going to be my father now?"
How inquisitive, he thought, his eyes widening at her choice of phrase. He would not have called himself a father with regards to his own son, and now this girl he knew even less about was asking him to be such to her!
"No," he replied, trying to sound firm, but still endearing, "I am just your guardian. I can–"
"Is this my Aunt Lily in this picture?"
Her lack of manners shown by her interruption left him speechless, as did her topic of interest. Though he did allow himself to muse on the matter for a moment: Rose usually used her sister's full name, thus Albert would have been the one who called her "Lily."
He took the photograph from her, and was met with a sight most shocking. He had expected the picture to be from a party, or their wedding perhaps, but Lilias looked far too young.
Though it was indeed her. He could tell by her broad smile, the way her eyes closed slightly in enjoyment. Her hair was down and somewhat wild, and Archibald had surmised the photograph had been taken somewhere in the woods during one of her adventures (as she would call them) with her brother and his friend, Albert.
Yes, that aligns well. "Yes it is," he replied, reluctantly returning the picture to Mary's greedy outstretched hand, "where did you get this?"
"I found it on my nightstand one morning. Father probably left it there – my mother never came into my room – and when I asked him about it all he said was that it was of a very special lady whom I reminded him of."
"Oh God," he said under his breath, recognition sinking in. She did resemble her late aunt very much – so much so that it half frightened Archibald to look at her. He could not hold eye contact with her any longer, her own eyes so round and curious and so much like his wife's, his son's.
"Do you believe in ghosts, sir?"
The innocent question was a welcome, though disturbing distraction from his recent realisation, even if it seemed to come out of nowhere.
"I believe the dead go on," he replied plainly. It was noncommittal enough to encourage her wild curiosity, or so he hoped.
"I only wondered if my father may be a ghost now that he's gone. It would be nice to know someone was here to protect me."
This comment barely registered to Archibald as he wondered of the possibility of Lilias still being in the manor, protecting him – or Colin, for that matter. This new idea swirled around in his mind as he tried to offer the girl a reply.
"As I said, I do believe those who are no longer of this world find solace somewhere else, but they never truly leave us. They're not gone you see, just dead."
His tone had grown unsteady, angry even, as he began to mentally reprimand himself. But he sobered at the sight of Mary slowly stepping away from him, fear washing over her expression.
"Oh please don't fret child," he said, trying to coax her back to him, wishing to gain her trust like that of a wild animal. Lilias taught him how to do that – and the girl's similarity to such a kind-hearted woman made it impossible for him to allow such pain to show in her eyes.
"This is no house for a child, but it is yours to live in so long as I am master here."
He knelt down, hoping it would make him seem less intimidating to this strange girl. To his relief, she stepped closer to him.
"I never learned how to be a good father, nor am I a good guardian, but," he offered her his hands, palms up. She placed her own pale hands in his, showing him her trust; and he held them as he said, "I shall give you anything you require if you only ask, and that includes your protection."
She maintained a quizzical expression, unsure of her full feelings toward the man before her. An awkward silence passed between the pair before Archibald abruptly broke the silence.
"Who dressed you child?" he said, hoping some level of joviality showed through his rough exterior.
Once he had adjusted her buttons, he stood and retrieved the candle on the table and returned the sheet to the chair. All the while, he was painfully aware of how ridiculous he must have looked to Mary when she walked by and saw him dancing alone in his dressing gown.
As he made for the door, he gave her a polite nod and turned to return to his chambers when her small voice called to him again.
"Thank you, Uncle Archibald, er, sir," the tiny sound said uncertainly.
He faced her once more, making a great effort to offer her a welcoming smile.
"Isn't it wonderful, Archie," he heard his wife's voice chime, "Albert says little Mary is doing very well, and he cannot wait to bring her back to meet her little cousin and her Aunt and Uncle."
She smoothed her hand over her growing midsection as she stared off absent-mindedly.
"Oh! Should I be Aunt Lilias, or do you think just Lily would be easier for a child? And it would probably be confusing if only one of us used a nickname. Well, I at least presume you intend to introduce yourself as her Uncle Archie, no?" her laughter filled the room.
"Archibald is so stuffy and formal and doesn't suit you at all, my love!"
And he spoke to his niece, "just 'Uncle Archie" will suffice," kindly, gently.
With a smile and a nod as forced as his own, the child replied, "ok, Uncle Archie," and skipped down the hall to a door he knew would lead her to the back gardens.
Perhaps she took after Lilias in more than just her looks.