20 February 1955.
"Oh, sweet Garry," Willow thought to herself, "we are in such trouble – there's no way we are ready for this." Gently caressing her abdomen, the despairing redhaired teen, limbs and hair as long and wild as her namesake, felt her lip begin to quiver. "You always wanted to be an RAF pilot like your grandfather – but now… I'm late, Garry… oh God, how could this have happened?"
High above the kitchen entry where a teen paced on the cusp of motherhood, a refined woman of middle years looked down up the fretting child, carefully observing each hesitant step, each muttering lip movement, each inevitable caress of the area just above her half-folded apron.
"Poor, poor child," Lady Antonia Burnwood sighed, the warm timbre of her voice pitched with sincerity, "here you are, dreading and agonising over that which I would give anything to experience. Oh, would that our positions differed, and you were the carefree observer, and I the one with child."
From the doorway, a gentle voice entered the room ahead of a man whose very presence spoke to his refinement, "Aye, my heart, would that it were so. But all is not lost – there is still time, and we will always have each other."
His warm Scottish burr, now drawn up behind the Lady Antonia, so close that his exhalation tickled her neck, as the warm fougere of his aftershave tickled her nose, caused her to lean back against her lover's chest, to feel its comfort.
"I suppose I'll have to speak to old Gerald about his boy, though," her interloper chuckled, "if I'm not much mistaken. Time for the lad to take on a bit more responsibility, I fear, if he's to raise a sprog of his own."
As his Lady turned and rose to her feet, Lord Callum Wiley Burnwood met her gentle gaze with a twinkle of his own. "Of course, with Rochester retiring, I know the old fellow was hoping to turn his shears in for a valet's ensemble, but needs must. Shame to be thrust so sharply into adulthood, I suppose, but if I could manage these lands at fifteen, I daresay the lad is up to the challenge."
"Ah, but not all men are as hirsute and virile as art thou, milord", the Lady Antonia laughed lightly, as Lord Burnwood struck an heroic pose, "in the end, we can only wait and see how this all works out. But, for the nonce, perhaps we can think on other matters?" she requested innocently, with a quick, cheeky eye-flick towards their chambers. Then, sending her husband a smouldering look, Lady Antonia gathered her skirt, and made – reasonable, ladylike – haste towards the manor's master bedroom, the Lord of the manor in hot pursuit.
17 July 1955. Mid-afternoon.
Sitting in the drawing room with Lady Antonia and Missus Fournier (the manor's cook and her own mother) Willow reflected on the fortune that had been visited upon her by working for the Burnwood family. Now three weeks married to Gerry Evans, gardener's son and love-of-her-life, Willow Evans (and how she loved to say that – "Missus Willow Evans") could recall in vivid detail the sadness in her mother's eyes when she confessed her pregnancy – the ruddy-faced fury of old Gerald Evans as he chased his son Garry 'round the grounds, all attempts at the King's ("no, it's the Queen's, now") English barrelled over in his West Country rage – the kindness and understanding of Lord and Lady Burnwood as they helped make wedding and living accommodations for the new couple, to ensure their child would not be born out of wedlock.
On the one hand, it felt so real: her and Garry's little shared bungalow on the manor grounds; Old Gerald training young Garry to take his place as head groundskeeper; her mother training her to handle what baking she could in her condition. But then, on the other hand, Willow had always been a practical girl, and somewhere down inside, she was sure this was all a dream – life wasn't this good for the working classes, and no manor Lord gave a single whit about his help when they weren't earning, or so she'd heard.
Suddenly, jarring her out of her thoughts as though summoned by her musings, the raised voices of Old Gerald and another fieldhand could be heard coming up the drive, the engine of Lord Burnwood's brand new Bedford TA growling along with them, kicking up gravel in its haste. Noting that it was nearly two hours before the menfolk were due to return, an inexplicable fear settled in Willow's stomach as she rose, excusing herself with a nearly inaudible, "I'll just go see what the fuss is, shall I?"
Steadily picking up speed as she moved towards the main doors, Willow barely processed the fieldhand – Mr Derrick? – rushing past her in the opposite direction, crying out for someone to phone Doctor Glossop, as there'd been an emergency. Dashing out the door, she saw Lord Burnwood and another of the fieldhands moving a body, blood running heavily down one side, before her vision was suddenly blocked off as Old Gerald pulled her into a tight embrace.
"Now, now, Willow my lover, you don't be needin' to see all that," the towering Devonian groundskeeper murmured across the top of her head, as he ran one hand down her wild hair, conveying his anxiety with every quickly aborted tightening of his fist, "the boy'll be alright, see if he won't. 'E's just had a bit of a wrangle with the ol' mill blade, that's all. Oy've seen men back on their feet the same day from worse'n this."
Momentarily banishing the fear that her brief glimpse had caused her, Willow clung desperately to her father-in-law and his assurances, choosing to ignore the intermittent saline droplets dancing across her scalp from the rugged face above her. Together they remained, relying on each other's comfort, until the doctor's car could be heard, careening up the drive. Then, with a last firm squeeze and a surreptitious dash at his eyes with a handkerchief, Old Gerald sighed, "Oy'd best be getting' in to help now; you stay here wit' your Lady and try to be calm, an you'll be back next to the boy before you know it."
18 July 1955. Dawn.
The crowing of the cockerel felt farther away than usual this morning, as though it were somehow several yards below and away from here, rather than a few feet outside the Evans bungalow door. The peculiarity of it slowly penetrated Willow's mind as her eyes fluttered open, slowly at first, then all-at-once when she found herself, day dress askew, sat in a large chair next to the sleeping form of her Garry.
Casting her eyes about the place, she realised that she must be in one of the upper-floor rooms of the manor – a privilege few of her standing had ever been granted, outside of labour – but the realisation brought her no joy today. On the contrary, once her bearings had been gathered, the room was wholly dismissed, the young bride only having eyes for the form on the bed next to her chair, whose regular, even breathing, tinged with a light snore, warmed her heart and soothed her fears.
Drinking in her slumbering lover's presence, Willow's eyes darted and coasted along every inch of him, caressing him with her gaze, absorbing every little detail, as a gentle torrent of tears ran down her face. Arriving at last upon her husband's heavily bandaged right hand, Willow's gaze tightened, as her hand rose involuntarily to caress the injured appendage, hovering a bare inch above it for fear of causing further injury.
"It's alright, love," the slightly hoarse voice of Garry Evans startled her out of her reverie, "just be gentle, it's tender."
Willow lowered her hand the rest of the way, and turning to face her husband, inquired beseechingly, "Whatever happened, Garry? The men wouldn't tell me anything, and you were already asleep when Lord Burnwood allowed me into the room."
"We were down the mill, sawing boards for the new west pasture fence," Garry recollected, a slightly dazed look overtaking his face as he cast back, "there was a jam in the blade, and I'd hopped down to fix it. Thom the Yorkie was on the brake, but he must not have heard me call to him – I caught the whirring sound of the blade a bare half-second before I freed up the jam, but I couldn't pull me hand away quick enough. Cut clear across moy three end-fingers, it did, sheared off m'pinky and part'ah moy palm, too." Clearly straining against whatever Doctor Glossop had given him for the pain, Garry's west-country birth became more pronounced in his voice as his eyes began to droop, "No worries, though, my lover, oy'll be fine. Moight hafta look into a different sorta work without moy werkin' hand, aye, but oy'll do alright by yeh."
13 September 1955. Pre-Dawn.
Giving birth was easily the hardest thing that Willow had ever done in her life. From the wee hours of the morning until precisely 11:11 PM, 12th of September, 1955, Willow had been in varying degrees of agony, fear, hunger, and sadness as she laboured. Indeed, being nearly a full month premature, little Dahlia Evans had struck fear into the hearts of the entire Burnwood Estate when she decided to arrive in the world on this day, her arrival announced with the traditional infant's cry, followed by, of all things, a giggle.
Having just finished telling the new-born child how concerned they'd been about her arrival, the whole birthing room – the same room in which Garry had been housed after his accident all those months ago – was quite as taken aback as Dr Glossop himself; the squalling response had been expected, but as he winced back from the newest Evans, her abrupt transition to laughter had certainly not been. But somehow, against all odds, she persisted – a premature baby nearly fully grown, burbling with laughter, eyes showing keen intelligence, hands reaching to touch everything and get to know it. From Agnes, the new kitchen girl, all the way up to Lord Burnwood himself, the whole Estate agreed: little Dahlia Evans was perfect.
"But only Dahlia these few days," Willow gently lamented, as she looked down at the sweet bundle resting upon her breast, "soon, she'll be Diana, and Garry and I will be off to work at the Glossop's. Aye, for the best, but oh, my sweet Dahlia… if you knew, would you ever forgive us?"
All in a rush, the last few months reeled through Willow's mind: Garry's slow convalescence; the guilt of accepting more and more generosity from the Burnwoods; Doctor Glossop's admonition that children born of children were not often long for this world; Lady Burnwood chasing the frazzled Doctor out of her room with a hot baguette, swearing vociferously at the man in her native Italian, for "upsetting the poor child"; the slow realisation that, with Garry's bills and decreased earnings, they mightn't be able to afford to feed themselves, let alone a child; Lady Burnwood finding her weeping, assuring her that she need not fear; conversations with Garry, late into the night, over whether they were even ready to be parents, and 'mightn't it be better if…'; and their final conversation, a scant few days ago, with the Lord and Lady Burnwood, in which they offered to let Dahlia become Diana, and Evans become Burnwood.
27 September, 1955. Noontime.
Two weeks of motherhood had been a mixed blessing to young Willow Evans. Rushing to care for a new-born babe whilst trying to make her presence at the Estate one of value, she had worn herself out physically and mentally – despite today being her 15th birthday, as she climbed into the cab of Lord Burnwood's Bedford truck next to her husband, for the 20-mile drive to the Glossop Estate, Willow looked every bit a lass in her early 20's. Yet in that same countenance, there was a sort of self-assured grace that only a mother can obtain – she was a life-giver, and she knew it down into her bones.
Gazing to the window above the manor one last time, Willow could see Lady Burnwood holding one hand in farewell, as the other reached to something just – as Willow herself had requested – out of view of the window. Even now, having passed young Dahlia – Diana – on to the Burnwoods five days prior, Willow wanted to shout to forget it all, to run back inside and grab her daughter. But then she looked to the face of her husband beside her – lined with worry before its time, grey leaking in at the temples – and the gentle compassion she beheld in his gaze stayed her tongue. It was all for him now – all for them – and they would not let themselves be caught between a rock and a hard place like this again.
Holding her skirts in tight away from the door, Willow jumped slightly as Thom the Yorkie shut her in with a muttered string of apologies and goodbyes she couldn't be bothered to hear. A small, "Thank you, Thom", and the lad turned bright red and dashed off, leaving Old Gerald to approach her window with a chuckle.
"I fear the boy moight've been carryin' a torch for ye," the newly instated head valet rumbled warmly, "e's sure to be all mopes and sighs fer a good week or so, Oy wager. Ol' Derrick'll work it out o'im though, never fear." Looking across to his son, Old Gerald gave a respectful nod and a strong west greeting of, "Alright moy lover?"
"Aye, da, I think we're about ready to be movin' on," Garry replied, grasping Willow's hand – best he could – with what remained of his right hand, "you're our last goodbye, apart from…" A quick flick of his eyes toward the upper manor, a blink-and-you'd-miss-it double-flick of his hand to dash the tears from his eyes, and he carried on with the same façade, "Well, anyway, we're off now. We'll see you down t'Glossops for Yule?"
"Argh, damn right yeh will. Wouldn't miss seein' your new place for the world, young Mr Valet," the strong old Devonian assured. Then, with a quick buss to his daughter-in-law's cheek – eliciting a soft giggle and a warm palm stroked along his cheek – Old Gerald Evans double-tapped the roof of the Bedford. "Best be getting' on then, moy loves. An' drive carefully, boy-o… Lord Burnwood'll be waitin t' take this ol' girl home when yeh get there."
Stepping back from the truck, Gerald exchanged a few more hasty goodbyes, then, just as he saw the tears welling up in Willow's eyes, offered them his solemn assurance, "Oy'll be keepin' my eye on Ms Giggles, too, loves, never ye fear." Then he took off his smart bowler and gave them a bow – Willow let out a low moan –Garry but the Bedford into gear and pulled out the drive – and they were gone, leaving old Gerald there in his smart new suit, turning back to the Manor that housed his secret granddaughter. "Be brave, moy loves," he murmured in benediction as they disappeared below the old Roman wall in the distance, "trust in yer love, and ye'll be foine."
12 September, 1957. Breakfast, Outside the Burnwood Manor Dining Room.
Coming in from putting Lord Burnwood's Austin-Healy back in the garage, after visiting Garry and (the newly pregnant-again) Willow down at Doctor Glossop's place, Old Gerald was lost in his thoughts until he was a bare half-metre away from bumping into his Lady. Starting at his presence, Lady Antonia whirled about, wild-eyed, and hissed for him to "be still, old man!"
Slightly affronted, Old Gerald looked into the dining room where Lady Antonia seemed to be spying, and saw a scene of absolute wonder. Sat in her high chair, a frown of concentration on her face, little Diana Burnwood had her hand reached out to the half-apple she'd apparently knocked to the nearby table in her enthusiasm. While this in itself was a picture of adorable toddlerhood, what was happening to the apple was something else entirely; as the newly 2-year-old reached out and pulled at the air between her and her snack, the apple responded, hovering in the air and making little jerking movements towards her.
Her frustration reaching a head, Diana suddenly yelled "GIBBIT!" and the apple whizzed the remaining distance between them, splatting with some force against her forehead. However, contrary to expectations, she did not begin to cry – instead, she grabbed the apple half, tossed it onto the table, and waived her hands, laughing, "'gain! 'gain!"
White as a sheet, Lady Antonia turned to Old Gerald and hissed, "what IS she?" with both fear and some minor disgust colouring her tone.
"Now, m'Lady, don't you be that way about it." Old Gerald's whisper, barely audible, bore stern thunder, "Yer child's got the magic, she has, jus' like moy ol' nan did. You've got a special child here, and Oy'll not have you treatin' her like anything less than the treasure she is, hear?"
Momentarily taken aback, Lady Antonia opened her mouth to make her retort at the presumptuous old valet, when a crystalline giggle echoed from the dining room, and she could see the smiling face of her beloved daughter waving her apple about, saying, "Mama, caught it! Caught t'apple!"
With a low keening sound, Lady Antonia dashed into the room and swept her daughter up out of her high chair, tears standing in her eyes, at the realisation of what her fear may have caused, as she spun the cherubic little girl around, whispering into her curls, "Look at you, my sweet! You're a very special little girl, aren't you, amore mio? Who's my special girl?"
Laughing at the spinning motions her mother was dancing through, Diana managed to squeak an, "I special!" before Lady Antonia bent and blew a raspberry on her tummy, sending her into a fit of endless giggles, kicking and twitching in her mother's grip as they spun, until, suddenly, she wasn't in Lady Antonia's grip anymore.
With a gasp, Lady Antonia reached out to catch her daughter before she was flung to the ground, but she was too late – Diana flew just outside her finger-tips, eyes wide, before she hit the wooden floor and bounced once… twice… thrice… and landed on her little bum. Turning her wide-eyed gaze up to her mother, the child froze, seeing Lady Antonia's tears for the first time. "Mama sad?" the toddler asked, "wanna hug?" And pushing herself up off the floor, she toddled over to her frozen mother and squeezed her leg. "S'ok mama, don't be sad," she assured, patting the leg around which she had flung her tiny arms, "I gotchu!"
Laughing slightly hysterically, Lady Antonia slowly lowered herself to the floor and caught Diana close to her breast, rocking her back and forth, chuckling in spite of herself. "You sure do, piccolo fiore… you sure do."
Fifteen minutes later, when Lord Burnwood approached the door behind Old Gerald, it was to find the two girls in his life sat cuddled on the dining room floor, dozing in each other's arms. Looking to Old Gerald with some confusion, he was met with a tight grin and suspiciously bright eyes. "You've got yerself some special ladies, milord," Old Gerald rumbled gently, conscious of the sleeping forms mere feet away, "why don't we let them have a bit of a kip an Oy can tell yeh jus' how special they are?"
27 June, 1960. The Burnwood Estate.
Xenophilius, XVII Lord Lovegood was, in the kindest of terms, a bit of an odd duck. The sort of odd duck that, if told to his face that he was one, he would reply with a bland, matter-of-fact, quacking noise, then carry on with whatever he was doing – whilst somehow also magicking a duck pattern onto your undergarments. Lord Callum Wiley Burnwood could attest to this first-hand, having done the former, and suffered the latter.
However, Xeno was also a world-class tutor, full of knowledge both standard and esoteric, and he devoted himself wholly to tutoring young Diana Burnwood in all he knew of the world. Together, they would tromp all around the Burnwood Estate gardens, Xeno imparting his knowledge of the world in his singular style, building off any topic Diana wanted to discuss that day.
Earlier this morning, for example, one could have heard this rather odd exchange: "My mummy almost named me Dahlia" – "Because you are so elegant and refined?" – "No, she just liked flowers, I think." – "Maybe yes, maybe no – but that is what Dahlia means in the language of flowers, and there's no need to disappoint her and fail to live up to the name, is there?" – "No, Mr Xeno… but how do you be refined? And how do flowers talk?"
From this simple exchange, a grand and whirling lesson followed on the finer points of civilised dining, dancing, politics, and entertaining. They also discussed courtly behaviour, history, and the subtle chivalry of the Victorian era. The sheer depth of the man's knowledge of the non-magical world astounded the Lord and Lady of the Manor – one or the other of which had taken to following along on his lessons every day the man visited, they were that engaging.
Needless to say, the Lovegood tutor was equally adept at magical education, happily treating each of Diana's questions as sincere and valid – even if it meant creating never-before seen creations, with an increasingly amused expression, to demonstrate the dangers of transfiguration; or blowing up a cauldron to demonstrate potions reactions; or infesting part of the grounds with actual garden gnomes to demonstrate a point 20 February 1955
"Oh, sweet Garry," Willow thought to herself, "we are in such trouble – there's no way we are ready for this." Gently caressing her abdomen, the despairing redhaired teen, limbs and hair as long and wild as her namesake, felt her lip begin to quiver. "You always wanted to be an RAF pilot like your grandfather – but now… I'm late, Garry… oh God, how could this have happened?"
High above the kitchen entry where a teen paced on the cusp of motherhood, a refined woman of middle years looked down up the fretting child, carefully observing each hesitant step, each muttering lip movement, each inevitable caress of the area just above her half-folded apron.
"Poor, poor child," Lady Antonia Burnwood sighed, the warm timbre of her voice pitched with sincerity, "here you are, dreading and agonising over that which I would give anything to experience. Oh, would that our positions differed, and you were the carefree observer, and I the one with child."
From the doorway, a gentle voice entered the room ahead of a man whose very presence spoke to his refinement, "Aye, my heart, would that it were so. But all is not lost – there is still time, and we will always have each other."
His warm Scottish burr, now drawn up behind the Lady Antonia, so close that his exhalation tickled her neck, as the warm fougere of his aftershave tickled her nose, caused her to lean back against her lover's chest, to feel its comfort.
"I suppose I'll have to speak to old Gerald about his boy, though," her interloper chuckled, "if I'm not much mistaken. Time for the lad to take on a bit more responsibility, I fear, if he's to raise a sprog of his own."
As his Lady turned and rose to her feet, Lord Callum Wiley Burnwood met her gentle gaze with a twinkle of his own. "Of course, with Rochester retiring, I know the old fellow was hoping to turn his shears in for a valet's ensemble, but needs must. Shame to be thrust so sharply into adulthood, I suppose, but if I could manage these lands at fifteen, I daresay the lad is up to the challenge."
"Ah, but not all men are as hirsute and virile as art thou, milord", the Lady Antonia laughed lightly, as Lord Burnwood struck an heroic pose, "in the end, we can only wait and see how this all works out. But, for the nonce, perhaps we can think on other matters?" she requested innocently, with a quick, cheeky eye-flick towards their chambers. Then, sending her husband a smouldering look, Lady Antonia gathered her skirt, and made – reasonable, ladylike – haste towards the manor's master bedroom, the Lord of the manor in hot pursuit.
17 July 1955. Mid-afternoon.
Sitting in the drawing room with Lady Antonia and Missus Fournier (the manor's cook and her own mother) Willow reflected on the fortune that had been visited upon her by working for the Burnwood family. Now three weeks married to Gerry Evans, gardener's son and love-of-her-life, Willow Evans (and how she loved to say that – "Missus Willow Evans") could recall in vivid detail the sadness in her mother's eyes when she confessed her pregnancy – the ruddy-faced fury of old Gerald Evans as he chased his son Garry 'round the grounds, all attempts at the King's ("no, it's the Queen's, now") English barrelled over in his West Country rage – the kindness and understanding of Lord and Lady Burnwood as they helped make wedding and living accommodations for the new couple, to ensure their child would not be born out of wedlock.
On the one hand, it felt so real: her and Garry's little shared bungalow on the manor grounds; Old Gerald training young Garry to take his place as head groundskeeper; her mother training her to handle what baking she could in her condition. But then, on the other hand, Willow had always been a practical girl, and somewhere down inside, she was sure this was all a dream – life wasn't this good for the working classes, and no manor Lord gave a single whit about his help when they weren't earning, or so she'd heard.
Suddenly, jarring her out of her thoughts as though summoned by her musings, the raised voices of Old Gerald and another fieldhand could be heard coming up the drive, the engine of Lord Burnwood's brand new Bedford TA growling along with them, kicking up gravel in its haste. Noting that it was nearly two hours before the menfolk were due to return, an inexplicable fear settled in Willow's stomach as she rose, excusing herself with a nearly inaudible, "I'll just go see what the fuss is, shall I?"
Steadily picking up speed as she moved towards the main doors, Willow barely processed the fieldhand – Mr Derrick? – rushing past her in the opposite direction, crying out for someone to phone Doctor Glossop, as there'd been an emergency. Dashing out the door, she saw Lord Burnwood and another of the fieldhands moving a body, blood running heavily down one side, before her vision was suddenly blocked off as Old Gerald pulled her into a tight embrace.
"Now, now, Willow my lover, you don't be needin' to see all that," the towering Devonian groundskeeper murmured across the top of her head, as he ran one hand down her wild hair, conveying his anxiety with every quickly aborted tightening of his fist, "the boy'll be alright, see if he won't. 'E's just had a bit of a wrangle with the ol' mill blade, that's all. Oy've seen men back on their feet the same day from worse'n this."
Momentarily banishing the fear that her brief glimpse had caused her, Willow clung desperately to her father-in-law and his assurances, choosing to ignore the intermittent saline droplets dancing across her scalp from the rugged face above her. Together they remained, relying on each other's comfort, until the doctor's car could be heard, careening up the drive. Then, with a last firm squeeze and a surreptitious dash at his eyes with a handkerchief, Old Gerald sighed, "Oy'd best be getting' in to help now; you stay here wit' your Lady and try to be calm, an you'll be back next to the boy before you know it."
18 July 1955. Dawn.
The crowing of the cockerel felt farther away than usual this morning, as though it were somehow several yards below and away from here, rather than a few feet outside the Evans bungalow door. The peculiarity of it slowly penetrated Willow's mind as her eyes fluttered open, slowly at first, then all-at-once when she found herself, day dress askew, sat in a large chair next to the sleeping form of her Garry.
Casting her eyes about the place, she realised that she must be in one of the upper-floor rooms of the manor – a privilege few of her standing had ever been granted, outside of labour – but the realisation brought her no joy today. On the contrary, once her bearings had been gathered, the room was wholly dismissed, the young bride only having eyes for the form on the bed next to her chair, whose regular, even breathing, tinged with a light snore, warmed her heart and soothed her fears.
Drinking in her slumbering lover's presence, Willow's eyes darted and coasted along every inch of him, caressing him with her gaze, absorbing every little detail, as a gentle torrent of tears ran down her face. Arriving at last upon her husband's heavily bandaged right hand, Willow's gaze tightened, as her hand rose involuntarily to caress the injured appendage, hovering a bare inch above it for fear of causing further injury.
"It's alright, love," the slightly hoarse voice of Garry Evans startled her out of her reverie, "just be gentle, it's tender."
Willow lowered her hand the rest of the way, and turning to face her husband, inquired beseechingly, "Whatever happened, Garry? The men wouldn't tell me anything, and you were already asleep when Lord Burnwood allowed me into the room."
"We were down the mill, sawing boards for the new west pasture fence," Garry recollected, a slightly dazed look overtaking his face as he cast back, "there was a jam in the blade, and I'd hopped down to fix it. Thom the Yorkie was on the brake, but he must not have heard me call to him – I caught the whirring sound of the blade a bare half-second before I freed up the jam, but I couldn't pull me hand away quick enough. Cut clear across moy three end-fingers, it did, sheared off m'pinky and part'ah moy palm, too." Clearly straining against whatever Doctor Glossop had given him for the pain, Garry's west-country birth became more pronounced in his voice as his eyes began to droop, "No worries, though, my lover, oy'll be fine. Moight hafta look into a different sorta work without moy werkin' hand, aye, but oy'll do alright by yeh."
13 September 1955. Pre-Dawn.
Giving birth was easily the hardest thing that Willow had ever done in her life. From the wee hours of the morning until precisely 11:11 PM, 12th of September, 1955, Willow had been in varying degrees of agony, fear, hunger, and sadness as she laboured. Indeed, being nearly a full month premature, little Dahlia Evans had struck fear into the hearts of the entire Burnwood Estate when she decided to arrive in the world on this day, her arrival announced with the traditional infant's cry, followed by, of all things, a giggle.
Having just finished telling the new-born child how concerned they'd been about her arrival, the whole birthing room – the same room in which Garry had been housed after his accident all those months ago – was quite as taken aback as Dr Glossop himself; the squalling response had been expected, but as he winced back from the newest Evans, her abrupt transition to laughter had certainly not been. But somehow, against all odds, she persisted – a premature baby nearly fully grown, burbling with laughter, eyes showing keen intelligence, hands reaching to touch everything and get to know it. From Agnes, the new kitchen girl, all the way up to Lord Burnwood himself, the whole Estate agreed: little Dahlia Evans was perfect.
"But only Dahlia these few days," Willow gently lamented, as she looked down at the sweet bundle resting upon her breast, "soon, she'll be Diana, and Garry and I will be off to work at the Glossop's. Aye, for the best, but oh, my sweet Dahlia… if you knew, would you ever forgive us?"
All in a rush, the last few months reeled through Willow's mind: Garry's slow convalescence; the guilt of accepting more and more generosity from the Burnwoods; Doctor Glossop's admonition that children born of children were not often long for this world; Lady Burnwood chasing the frazzled Doctor out of her room with a hot baguette, swearing vociferously at the man in her native Italian, for "upsetting the poor child"; the slow realisation that, with Garry's bills and decreased earnings, they mightn't be able to afford to feed themselves, let alone a child; Lady Burnwood finding her weeping, assuring her that she need not fear; conversations with Garry, late into the night, over whether they were even ready to be parents, and 'mightn't it be better if…'; and their final conversation, a scant few days ago, with the Lord and Lady Burnwood, in which they offered to let Dahlia become Diana, and Evans become Burnwood.
27 September, 1955. Noontime.
Two weeks of motherhood had been a mixed blessing to young Willow Evans. Rushing to care for a new-born babe whilst trying to make her presence at the Estate one of value, she had worn herself out physically and mentally – despite today being her 15th birthday, as she climbed into the cab of Lord Burnwood's Bedford truck next to her husband, for the 20-mile drive to the Glossop Estate, Willow looked every bit a lass in her early 20's. Yet in that same countenance, there was a sort of self-assured grace that only a mother can obtain – she was a life-giver, and she knew it down into her bones.
Gazing to the window above the manor one last time, Willow could see Lady Burnwood holding one hand in farewell, as the other reached to something just – as Willow herself had requested – out of view of the window. Even now, having passed young Dahlia – Diana – on to the Burnwoods five days prior, Willow wanted to shout to forget it all, to run back inside and grab her daughter. But then she looked to the face of her husband beside her – lined with worry before its time, grey leaking in at the temples – and the gentle compassion she beheld in his gaze stayed her tongue. It was all for him now – all for them – and they would not let themselves be caught between a rock and a hard place like this again.
Holding her skirts in tight away from the door, Willow jumped slightly as Thom the Yorkie shut her in with a muttered string of apologies and goodbyes she couldn't be bothered to hear. A small, "Thank you, Thom", and the lad turned bright red and dashed off, leaving Old Gerald to approach her window with a chuckle.
"I fear the boy moight've been carryin' a torch for ye," the newly instated head valet rumbled warmly, "e's sure to be all mopes and sighs fer a good week or so, Oy wager. Ol' Derrick'll work it out o'im though, never fear." Looking across to his son, Old Gerald gave a respectful nod and a strong west greeting of, "Alright moy lover?"
"Aye, da, I think we're about ready to be movin' on," Garry replied, grasping Willow's hand – best he could – with what remained of his right hand, "you're our last goodbye, apart from…" A quick flick of his eyes toward the upper manor, a blink-and-you'd-miss-it double-flick of his hand to dash the tears from his eyes, and he carried on with the same façade, "Well, anyway, we're off now. We'll see you down t'Glossops for Yule?"
"Argh, damn right yeh will. Wouldn't miss seein' your new place for the world, young Mr Valet," the strong old Devonian assured. Then, with a quick buss to his daughter-in-law's cheek – eliciting a soft giggle and a warm palm stroked along his cheek – Old Gerald Evans double-tapped the roof of the Bedford. "Best be getting' on then, moy loves. An' drive carefully, boy-o… Lord Burnwood'll be waitin t' take this ol' girl home when yeh get there."
Stepping back from the truck, Gerald exchanged a few more hasty goodbyes, then, just as he saw the tears welling up in Willow's eyes, offered them his solemn assurance, "Oy'll be keepin' my eye on Ms Giggles, too, loves, never ye fear." Then he took off his smart bowler and gave them a bow – Willow let out a low moan –Garry but the Bedford into gear and pulled out the drive – and they were gone, leaving old Gerald there in his smart new suit, turning back to the Manor that housed his secret granddaughter. "Be brave, moy loves," he murmured in benediction as they disappeared below the old Roman wall in the distance, "trust in yer love, and ye'll be foine."
12 September, 1957. Breakfast, Outside the Burnwood Manor Dining Room.
Coming in from putting Lord Burnwood's Austin-Healy back in the garage, after visiting Garry and (the newly pregnant-again) Willow down at Doctor Glossop's place, Old Gerald was lost in his thoughts until he was a bare half-metre away from bumping into his Lady. Starting at his presence, Lady Antonia whirled about, wild-eyed, and hissed for him to "be still, old man!"
Slightly affronted, Old Gerald looked into the dining room where Lady Antonia seemed to be spying, and saw a scene of absolute wonder. Sat in her high chair, a frown of concentration on her face, little Diana Burnwood had her hand reached out to the half-apple she'd apparently knocked to the nearby table in her enthusiasm. While this in itself was a picture of adorable toddlerhood, what was happening to the apple was something else entirely; as the newly 2-year-old reached out and pulled at the air between her and her snack, the apple responded, hovering in the air and making little jerking movements towards her.
Her frustration reaching a head, Diana suddenly yelled "GIBBIT!" and the apple whizzed the remaining distance between them, splatting with some force against her forehead. However, contrary to expectations, she did not begin to cry – instead, she grabbed the apple half, tossed it onto the table, and waived her hands, laughing, "'gain! 'gain!"
White as a sheet, Lady Antonia turned to Old Gerald and hissed, "what IS she?" with both fear and some minor disgust colouring her tone.
"Now, m'Lady, don't you be that way about it." Old Gerald's whisper, barely audible, bore stern thunder, "Yer child's got the magic, she has, jus' like moy ol' nan did. You've got a special child here, and Oy'll not have you treatin' her like anything less than the treasure she is, hear?"
Momentarily taken aback, Lady Antonia opened her mouth to make her retort at the presumptuous old valet, when a crystalline giggle echoed from the dining room, and she could see the smiling face of her beloved daughter waving her apple about, saying, "Mama, caught it! Caught t'apple!"
With a low keening sound, Lady Antonia dashed into the room and swept her daughter up out of her high chair, tears standing in her eyes, at the realisation of what her fear may have caused, as she spun the cherubic little girl around, whispering into her curls, "Look at you, my sweet! You're a very special little girl, aren't you, amore mio? Who's my special girl?"
Laughing at the spinning motions her mother was dancing through, Diana managed to squeak an, "I special!" before Lady Antonia bent and blew a raspberry on her tummy, sending her into a fit of endless giggles, kicking and twitching in her mother's grip as they spun, until, suddenly, she wasn't in Lady Antonia's grip anymore.
With a gasp, Lady Antonia reached out to catch her daughter before she was flung to the ground, but she was too late – Diana flew just outside her finger-tips, eyes wide, before she hit the wooden floor and bounced once… twice… thrice… and landed on her little bum. Turning her wide-eyed gaze up to her mother, the child froze, seeing Lady Antonia's tears for the first time. "Mama sad?" the toddler asked, "wanna hug?" And pushing herself up off the floor, she toddled over to her frozen mother and squeezed her leg. "S'ok mama, don't be sad," she assured, patting the leg around which she had flung her tiny arms, "I gotchu!"
Laughing slightly hysterically, Lady Antonia slowly lowered herself to the floor and caught Diana close to her breast, rocking her back and forth, chuckling in spite of herself. "You sure do, piccolo fiore… you sure do."
Fifteen minutes later, when Lord Burnwood approached the door behind Old Gerald, it was to find the two girls in his life sat cuddled on the dining room floor, dozing in each other's arms. Looking to Old Gerald with some confusion, he was met with a tight grin and suspiciously bright eyes. "You've got yerself some special ladies, milord," Old Gerald rumbled gently, conscious of the sleeping forms mere feet away, "why don't we let them have a bit of a kip an Oy can tell yeh jus' how special they are?"
27 June, 1960. The Burnwood Estate.
Xenophilius, XVII Lord Lovegood was, in the kindest of terms, a bit of an odd duck. The sort of odd duck that, if told to his face that he was one, he would reply with a bland, matter-of-fact, quacking noise, then carry on with whatever he was doing – whilst somehow also magicking a duck pattern onto your undergarments. Lord Callum Wiley Burnwood could attest to this first-hand, having done the former, and suffered the latter.
However, Xeno was also a world-class tutor, full of knowledge both standard and esoteric, and he devoted himself wholly to tutoring young Diana Burnwood in all he knew of the world. Together, they would tromp all around the Burnwood Estate gardens, Xeno imparting his knowledge of the world in his singular style, building off any topic Diana wanted to discuss that day.
Earlier this morning, for example, one could have heard this rather odd exchange: "My mummy almost named me Dahlia" – "Because you are so elegant and refined?" – "No, she just liked flowers, I think." – "Maybe yes, maybe no – but that is what Dahlia means in the language of flowers, and there's no need to disappoint her and fail to live up to the name, is there?" – "No, Mr Xeno… but how do you be refined? And how do flowers talk?"
From this simple exchange, a grand and whirling lesson followed on the finer points of civilised dining, dancing, politics, and entertaining. They also discussed courtly behaviour, history, and the subtle chivalry of the Victorian era. The sheer depth of the man's knowledge of the non-magical world astounded the Lord and Lady of the Manor – one or the other of which had taken to following along on his lessons every day the man visited, they were that engaging.
Needless to say, the Lovegood tutor was equally adept at magical education, happily treating each of Diana's questions as sincere and valid – even if it meant creating never-before seen creations, with an increasingly amused expression, to demonstrate the dangers of transfiguration; or blowing up a cauldron to demonstrate potions reactions; or infesting part of the grounds with actual garden gnomes to demonstrate a point about magical herbology.
It was during these lessons that a rather marvellous thing was discovered about the Lord and Lady Burnwood: each of them had a small magical core of their own, bound away and forgotten, which Xenophilius was able to unlock and coax certain small magics out of. Well aware of the religious fervour of both England and Italy in the recent past, neither of Burnwood couple doubted that their parents would have taken this route in avoiding "heresy", though each was frustrated in their own way, thinking of all the ways life might have been improved around the estate – from small changes, like improved gardens, to Lady Antonia's evident gift for healing magics – which may have changed so much of their lives, giving her the ability to discover and remove the curse that had evidently been placed on her womb decades ago, dooming her to infertility, or the ability to have healed young Garry Evans all those years ago.
Bound together now by love, circumstance, and shared magic, the Burnwoods felt more a complete family than ever before – and grew even more-so on the recent summer solstice, when Xeno had conducted a ritual around the Manor's hearth, somehow turning an offering of earth, dust, and grass from the manor, combined with a drop each of the Burnwoods' blood, into three potions that, when consumed, bound the three together as one true family. Though young Diana understood the ritual as a way of strengthening the magic of her parents – which it did, indeed, do – the Lord and Lady Burnwood's glow of happiness was not due to their power, but to their shared love of their new daughter-by-blood.