A/N: excuses excuses… I've been working on a sewing project for a competition so my whole writing schedule is off. I'll hopefully be done with the whole story soon, though (I don't know who I'm talking to, no one reads my stuff, but hello stranger who may one day stumble upon this!)
The red sun was still low on the horizon when Archibald put his overcoat on. Although the chill of the winter stung his cheeks, the days leading up to the solstice, had seemed milder, dryer than usual. Thus, Lord Craven mustered a drop of impulsivity and used these days to tend to matters of the estate; before the Heavens finally cracked and cried anew, dousing both the moors and his spirits.
The trips he took were filled with neither paperwork nor formalities. What Archibald had begun to do was go around the estate and reacquaint himself with its residents – something his father had often done.
The late Baron made sure to maintain some level of familiarity with all his tenants, said it made for a better community; and whenever the former Lord took his sons on such outings, a young Archibald would try to imagine himself doing such when he was older and in his father's position.
He had not upheld his vision to the same extent as his predecessor – not at all, really – but he recalled unfortunately well that Lilias certainly had.
A knock echoed through Archibald's study, barely audible over the sound of the rain pounding outside, but still loud enough to disturb his solitude. Irritated, he mumbled something to the effect of "not now" gruffly to himself and his papers, knowing that whoever was on the other side of the door would not hear him. Regardless, he would much prefer the unwelcome visitor leave him be, and figured that ignoring this sudden inconvenience would be the best way to achieve this.
Then the door opened.
"Did I grant you admittance," he sighed in defeat, not initially looking at the intruder. He closed his ledger and brought his hand over his brown, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose to cover his fatigue and convey his annoyance.
"Oh, I'm sorry! Were you quite busy?"
That sweet voice was like music in the dead room.
"Never too busy for you, my love," he replied in earnest, offering his wife an apologetic smile. The gesture failed to disguise the dark circles beneath his eyes. The lethargy he had been ignoring through his work suddenly washed over him and consumed him at the loss of momentum.
Lilias responded with a bright smile of her own, which helped, then waltzed over to his side. He noticed her hair, which was done up in plaits with periwinkle ribbon, was wet, in spite of the dry house coat she wore. She finally situated herself upon the arm of his chair and wrapped up her husband tightly in her embrace.
His high shoulders seemed to settle a bit as the angel who held him drew out all the tension from his day's work. He gratefully resigned himself to her as scents of essence of rose mingled with fresh rain and heather, filling his breath with a reassurance that she had been caught outside in the storm. Her carefree disposition confirmed such as well.
"And what precisely have you been up to today?" he asked into her collarbone as she sprinkled kisses in his hair, "aside from running through the rain, that is."
No matter how tired he knew he sounded, he could hardly resist teasing her a bit. She laughed and ruffled his hair.
And he closed his eyes, allowing himself to savour the moment, her presence. Her musical voice floated to his ears as she told of her own day's adventures whilst still holding him tightly in her arms. She spoke of how she had been out on the estate when the storm broke; she had not noticed the darkening of the sky as she ventured around, getting to know some of their tenants and taking them personally for the well-wishes and such which they had sent the newlyweds in the weeks leading up to and following their union.
"And one woman I met – her name was Susan Sowerby – she had the most darling little cottage with wild things growing all about it!" she was telling him. Archibald could feel how much she was exciting herself with this recountment, for he could feel the quickening of her heartbeat beside his ear as the words tumbled forth.
"She told me she has three children under age five, and is expecting another very soon; and her husband is away working nearly all day – so I offered to stop in every now and then to check in with her and entertain the little ones. Not that she needs much help, though!
"The youngest was in her arms whilst we spoke, and he seemed to like me," she laughed. "I believe she called him Dickon, and he had the most darling blue eyes, like the colour of the summer sky – oh, Archie, I want one of my own, of our own! I want to be a mother, and I told her such; she said she's a midwife. It's like fate, my love. I want one."
During her rant, she had unnoticeably shifted to be sat upon her husband; and her eyes were wide, searching his imploringly.
"Patience, my love," was all he could reply, a hint of admonishment in his tone. She sounded a bit childish, but it was quite endearing. He cupped her cheek, pulling her close to him.
He would constantly call her his love as a reminder to himself that she was his, but no such reminder was really necessary in that moment. Any reservations that may have lurked in the back of his mind were silenced whenever she kissed him; all anxieties surrounding her motives for marrying him were washed away in a flood of serenity. It was as though his heart was in her hands; and she held it softly, carefully, tenderly. She was both reserved and proud, demure and greedy – and ever so confidently bore the name of Lady Craven.
The rude comments of priggish society could not penetrate the walls of Misselthwaite Manor – their home, their fortress. Lilias loved her husband; and she was not afraid to say so, to show him it was so.
"We've only been married a few months," Archibald reasoned between desperate, delicate kisses, "we've still all the time in the world."
He believed it then, foolishly in love.
And he would forever remain the unfortunate fool who could not hold on to her…
The drive which connected his house to the rest of the world was relatively straight, yet very long; and, as Lord Craven occupied himself with looking out his carriage window, he took in the vision of the morning dew still glistening upon the ground, the trees, the moorland heather. He was willing to let anything draw him out of the heartbreaking reveries he was far too used to. The sights this new day offered filled his soul with a cool, sweet sense of familiarity and safety.
After his awkward encounter with his niece a few weeks back (which had, regrettably, been their only interaction since the girl's arrival) he began devising ways of forcing himself to socialise, predominantly with help from his brother.
They finally decided that Archibald going around the estate would be most beneficial; for he trusted the peasants to have sense enough to not openly enquire about his health – or worse still, the state of his son.
Thankfully, the people he spoke to had been just as polite as he had hoped, without feigning diffidence nor seeming to be putting up a façade of false gratitude behind which they could mock or scorn him. Even as the days crept by, most of the people he spoke with did not make bold to exchange more than shallow pleasantries with their Lord.
On the day of that devil-red sky, however, one woman did.
Archibald had sighed to himself. It was not so much a gesture of disdain for her, as it was disappointment in himself for failing to anticipate the woman who had introduced herself as Susan Sowerby.
"I think it awfully kind of you to travel 'bout like this," she had said casually, perhaps a bit too casually. Then, slowly, "your Lady had been very kind too – bless her soul," she grew bolder.
During their conversation, Archibald had the impression she was skirting around something; so he too replied bluntly, though carefully.
"I recall her mentioning you," he told her simply. "She envied you as a mother – I do so wish she were here now to help me be a father." He had not intended to be quite so frank with this woman, but he felt so at ease in her presence that such honesty came natural. He could not say why, but he knew she was a trustworthy soul; and she could help him.
"I'm sure you do, milord, what with two children to look after now."
He did nothing to suppress his surprise at her knowledge of his niece. He knew news traveled fast in the small village, but it made him curious as to what exactly his servants were saying of Mary outside Misselthwaite; or what they were saying of him, for that matter.
She read his expression like a book, a sombre smile upon her own visage.
"Is she supposed to be a secret, then?" Susan plainly continued. "Our Martha's the one Sarah-Ann's put in charge of her, you know." – no, he had not known that. He simply told Mrs. Medlock to make sure the girl was taken care of. He did not wish to be involved, as much as he knew he should be – "Should she not be telling us of the goings on up at the manor?
"Well anyways, it sounds like the girl is getting used to her new home. The fresh air seems to agree with her. Our Dickon says she's getting fatter, healthier – they're something of friends I'd say."
Dickon. Was that the little one with the blue eyes?
Frankly, he heard little of what the woman had said to him, and could recall far less by the time he returned to the manor. However, one thing was painfully obvious from their conversation: this woman he could hardly call an acquaintance knew more about his niece (and mayhaps as well, his household in general) than he did himself. And she dared, too, to know what was best for her.
"Let her play outside." He could still hear her voice in his head. She had spoken sweetly, but a part of him felt the advice was an admonishment for his son being kept inside and out of sight. Surely the little maid had told her that much.
After careful consideration, he asked for the girl to be brought to his study. He was almost amused when Mrs. Medlock apologised for the delay, "as she has been running about outside and needs, first, to arrange herself into a fit state."
Such formalities mattered not to him, not since Lilias worked her way into his life; but he dismissed her without saying so. He knew first-hand how his housekeeper felt about those who abandoned propriety.
When Mary Lennox entered he could already tell she was looking healthier, livelier than during their last encounter; but she looked afraid as well.
"You are not in trouble, my girl." He tried desperately to keep his voice soft and level.
"I spoke with Susan Sowerby today," her ears, as he had hoped, perked up as he said this name, "and thought it best to speak with you too, to ask if I could provide you with anything."
She looked shyly at her feet, shifting her weight and playing with the ruffles of her dress.
Archibald tried to encourage her, to comfort her. "Would you like some toys, or books, or dolls, perhaps?
She shook her head at the suggestion. Then, she seemed to say something, but he could not quite hear. Upon asking her to repeat herself, a part of him – the part of him that had been trying to make its way into the Other World with his beloved – seemed to wish he had not.
"Might I–" quavered Mary, "might I have a bit of earth?"
"A bit of earth?" he repeated, his head starting to spin. He saw her mouth a reply, but her words once again escaped him.
"It's nothing too grand, but I think it will suit you well," he heard himself proclaim instead.
"Well, I'm still bitter that you've a Christmas present for me when I've nothing for you," Lilias pouted, swinging their entwined hands.
He was happy to see her relaxing to the touch. Whilst the contact was hardly foreign to them, she had been a bit reluctant to show such affections under the judgemental gazes of Mrs. Medlock and the other older and more traditional servants. Though boldness was a new sensation for Archibald, it grew intoxicating. He knew he would never tire of the little expressions and exclamations of surprise that Lilias would produce when he acted with such confidence.
And this confidence balled itself tightly within his chest, both guiding him and frightening him as they walked the wide path which wound alongside the kitchen gardens.
The woman beside him hummed quietly, happily, and ignorant to the ring Archibald was playing with in the pocket of his trousers.
She had loved the garden upon first entry, excited by the plans she was already forming for it. But what surprised her more, excited her more, was when he proposed.
"Your 'yes' is the only gift I need," he told her as they kissed. "I have more than I could ever need, now let me share it with you. I'd give you anything and everything in the world, if you only ask."
"I as well, already have everything I need; I have you, my love, and a bit of earth where I can make things come alive."
"If that's all," he spoke slowly, not wanting his mind to wander in front of his niece again, "then you can have as much earth as you like."
A small smile spread across her face, her eyebrows disappearing into her fringe.
She enquired further, "may I take it from anywhere – as long as it's unwanted?"
Her question made Archibald smile a bit too. He knew then that this girl, much like him, must know what it is like to be unwanted. Of course he would oblige her.
"Yes. So long as it's unwanted, you may claim that earth and–" he lent down and placed his hand on her shoulder, "and make it come alive."