A/N: I've no excuses left – next chapter will be the last of this monster project that was never meant to be over two years in the making!
Archibald awoke to a dazzling sun and the inquisitive eyes of an Italian footman. He squinted, taking a few moments to adjust to the brightness of the sky before he could fully take the boy in. He looked upon his foreign master with the not-quite-indifferent expression of a young servant still fretting about his place in the ranks as he held out a silver salver with a collection of letters waiting to be taken. Once these were in the possession of Mr. Craven, the boy bowed his head ever so slightly and slipped away.
By the time the boy was back up at the house, the master had yet to fully regain his faculties.
The sun reflected harshly off the crisp white papers which he was now trying to decipher. The addresses were blurring together, and his mind kept drifting back to a half-awake state. His vague recollection of a dream distracted him from his task, and he struggled to recall at what point he had nodded off.
Then, his hands stopped; he had suddenly seen an unfamiliar plain hand mixed in with the superficial epistles. He opened it quickly, seized by a burst of childish curiosity.
He reread the letter once, twice, thrice to be sure. He recognized the name signed at the bottom, a familiar, friendly enough face being brought to mind by the sight of the name: Susan Sowerby. He was further shocked by the mention of Mary within the few lines of this note. But what had truly arrested his attention was her bold mention of Lilias. He cared not – whether good or bad – what news awaited him at Misselthwaite, particularly regarding his son, but he intended to find out as soon as possible. So, he sent Mr. Pitcher to make the arrangements; and, as he rolled away from the villa, he fixed his gaze upon the lake.
He was remembering his dream, and that sweet siren call which echoed from the depths of it.
It followed him, lulled him, as he made his way across Europe. Suddenly, the countryside seemed so much more beautiful. He tried to remember when he last traversed it – surely it was far more vibrant than usual.
His mind may have been tricking him, but Archibald did not care. Instead, he embraced the brighter colours, the deeper hues of the world around him. With what beauty he now gazed upon the earth. It cleansed and calmed him, and it reminded him of former days when Lilias had first taught him to find beauty in even the most unassuming places, even in himself.
Master Craven had been so caught up in pleasant daydreams – ones which no longer were accompanied by sorrow – for the duration of his journey west, that it was not until he was settled on the train out of London that he truly found thoughts of his boy seeping into his quietude. Thus, it was during this final stretch of his return journey that he weighed the consequences of the last ten years.
Absolved of grief, of wanting things no longer attainable, Archibald finally grew worried about what Colin would think of him. Though he may be a father and a guardian, he could hardly say he knew the boy at all; and he certainly would not venture to openly use either term in describing himself.
He questioned, too, if what little he had done for the child would be enough to eventually earn his affection; or would Colin continue to scorn the father who had so long avoided him?
The sound of the wheels on the track slowly attempted to lull him into that familiar semi-waking state, but he would not submit. He would not allow himself to fall asleep and be disturbed by dreams before he had completed his voyage, now so near to his destination. He fixated, instead, upon the blur of countryside passing by his window.
Though it was framed by rust, he wistfully admired the landscape. His mind wandered to his precious lilies-of-the-valley that had long since fell dormant, even before the coming of the summer heat; and he thought of roses and bergamot keeping his wife's eden alive with colour, even as the season would draw to a close around them.
Although the world encased in his harsh metallic window frame was inviting, it was not the world he sought. Rolling hills, expansive moorlands, low-cut fields all felt foreign to him without her company – but her garden did not; the images of it which filled him now brought joy and hope, beckoning him to unlock the door and breath in the untamed, closed-in wilderness he once admired almost as much as he had her.
Whatever pitiful state the Secret Garden was in, it could not compare to whatever miserable state his son may be in; thus such was a much more favourable inquisition to distract him for the rest of the trip north: what colours would still remain behind those cold stone walls?
He resolved to dig up the key and find out.
After enquiring into the state of his son–
No
The siren's voice resounded once more, as loud as it was sweet, and he knew it – she – wanted him to first find the rosebush he had buried the key beneath nearly eleven years ago.
Yes
He would go to the garden.
…
The servants were ready for their master's return – but they were thoroughly unprepared for the nature of his arrival. He took hardly any notice of them, clearly stuck on one objective alone. Mrs. Medlock fair ran to keep his pace as she addressed him, trying in vain to fill him in on the "goings on" in the household of the last few months.
"My Lord, strange things have been happening in this house," she panted, "those children are an enigma beyond my control."
He only vaguely heard her words, but they were enough to stir that familiar friend called fear which still dwelt within him, and now threatened to consume him once more. He steeled his resolution, then stopped to face her.
"How is Colin?" he heard himself ask, still not quite present. The fear spread when the housekeeper hesitated to reply.
After a moment of anxious stuttering from both parties, she declared, "that's just it, sir – none of the house truly knows what to make of it," gasping at the energy she was using to mentally flit through all that had occurred in her master's absence.
"One day he's looking perfectly healthy, the next he won't touch his breakfast. Some days it seems he'll burst into a fine tantrum; then the next, Miss Mary's bewitched him and he's begging John to bring him out to the gardens!"
"The gardens!"
It was more of an exclamation than a question, but Mrs. Medlock used it as an excuse to go one. "Oh yes, sir! Susan Sowerby's boy Dickon pushes his chair and the three of them stay out of sight – the young Master won't let any of the gardeners as much as look at him–" she broke off, watching her Master retreat towards the back gardens, overcome once more with his former haste.
He was still struck by his not-quite-dream. And, as he walked across the lawn, he was back on the banks of Lake Como, nodding off under the protection of the soft glow of sunset. He was pulled back to Italy as he was pulled toward her garden. He weaved through the topiary maze. He hardly recalled the words Mrs. Medlock had spoken just minutes earlier which would have forewarned him of the scarcity of gardeners; but, even without such a notion in mind, he was grateful for the solitude as he wound round and round, on and on, in search of the source of that sweet, sweet voice.
He stopped.
No single sound struck him. His uneven gait had fallen into harmony with the sound of the ruffling leaves as the wind picked up, the calls of birds soaring above him; the sounds of Nature which once called to him – to her – travelled on the breeze through his ears and into his heart.
And none of these sounds bothered him.
He felt wholly the warmth they provided, just as they had (unbeknownst to him as yet) his son.
But, almost imperceptibly, a new sound had found its way into Nature's melody. Slowly – ever so slowly – Archibald recognised this new tune as laughter. It was the sound of light childish laughter.
His heart leapt as his feet remained planted upon the path. He stared stricken at the ivy-covered wall. He knew the door lay hidden just before him – he did not need to peel back the ivy to be brought back to the happier time when Lilias would look up and down the long walk before pulling him into their hideaway. But, as he stood and stared and thought and dreamed, unshed tears of years passed began to catch in the corners of his eyes; so, he took a moment to compose himself, to accept and let go of the grief that came with his memories, focussing instead on the joy he had felt back then – allowing himself to feel that joy now, and use it to encourage him to retrieve the forgotten key.
But what was the source of that laughter? – he felt sure the wind was playing a trick, making it seem as though it was coming from just over the garden wall.
He studied the overgrown vines wistfully, remembering with bittersweet fondness the musical laughter he once heard every day behind those stones.
His objective slipped by him for one moment longer – moment enough to put his arms out when something – someone? – came rushing toward him.
"Father?"
Archibald passed a hand over his brow, looking into a familiar pair of hazel eyes in disbelief. Neither spoke for perhaps a minute or more; nor did the other two children when they too had come through the ivy curtain.
"Colin?"
"You can't believe it, Father; but I'm well! – I've just beaten my cousin in a foot race!" The boy's exuberance stirred something in Archibald's heart, lost emotions blooming as he braced his hands upon his son's shoulders.
"But, how can this be?" Despite his confusion, a smile still lightened his features. He was so proud to see Colin standing before him, but he knew not how to express it; he just wanted so much to hear him talk and laugh like a regular child.
Colin had taken his father's hand as the company proceeded back to the house. "It was the garden that did it, Father," he explained. Mary and Dickon fell back a few paces, exchanging their own expressions of thanks to the Magic which had helped to bring the family together.
"And Mary and Dickon helped too. Mary would say things to encourage me, and we would think always of Magic – and we would do experiments."
The master's smile broadened as the boy's speech grew faster and faster in his excitement. What this Magic was, he could only guess; but somehow, he understood just what his son meant.
"Dickon taught us these exercises and helped us with the flowers – and so did sour old Ben Weatherstaff."
When they arrived back at the house, many of the servants were overcome with intrigue for their supposedly-crippled young Master. In the commotion, Archibald pulled his niece aside to thank her. In response, she reached into her pocket and removed the key she had dug up. She had looped it onto a yellow hair ribbon, which he smoothed between his fingers in awe.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Archie," she began with guilt in her downcast eyes, "you said I could have any bit of earth that was unwanted – and the garden was unwanted, so I thought–" she cut off abruptly when she felt his arms wrap around her.
"Lilias would have been so sad to know I left her roses to go to ruin." He spoke softly as he placed the make-shift necklace over her head, "I am so happy you found this."
"And I am so happy you love it as much as she once did."
And for the first time in a long time, he really and truly was.