A/N: Just a short update in lieu of something longer.
Dickon didn't eat in the servants' hall at Misselthwaite very often. He preferred to take his food outside, and sit and eat it in the fresh air where the wild things could come and nibble at his crumbs. Food tasted better when one could breathe the clean moor air, or so his mother always said.
But it was thundering outside today, and his sister had coaxed him to stay indoors. Martha had always fussed over him, and he didn't want her to fret about him getting drenched and catching cold, not when so many of their siblings had already fallen sick. So he had agreed to take his lunch with her instead.
But then Medlock had come in all of a tither, carrying on about sheets and Lord Craven's imminent arrival, and Martha had been obliged to leave and do the elderly woman's bidding. And then, before he could make a quick exit, Simon the Butcher's boy had slid in across from him and engaged him in conversation.
"'Ow's that Medlock, eh?" the boy commented thickly through a mouthful of bread. "Runs us off our bloody feet, she does, an' no thanks we get fo' it neither."
Dickon shrugged noncommittally. In truth he hardly ever saw the housekeeper – his overseers were Roach and Ben Weatherstaff, and he liked them both well enough.
"Saw the little Miss today," noted Simon, a sly grin sliding over his face that made Dickon tense instantly. "Walkin' abou' th' gardens, lookin' for somethin.' Or someone."
Dickon chewed his food and made no reply. He and Mary weren't doing anything wrong or untoward. They were only friends, that was all.
"Mm, bu' she 'as turned out a righ' stunner, 'asn't she," continued Simon, oblivious to Dickon's glare. "Fie, but 'ave you 'ad a look a' those curves? I'd wager there's a righ' pretty parcel under all those clothes, I would."
Dickon scowled at the other boy, his hands clenched just a little too tightly around his mug. Simon blinked in slow-witted confusion for a moment, before he rolled his eyes.
"Alrigh' alrigh', no need to go lookin' like tha'. I'll no' touch th' lass, but any man's goin' t' notice tha' she's turned out righ' pretty ways."
"She's only fifteen," said Dickon stiffly. "She's still a child."
"Phht!" scoffed Simon. "You tryin' t' tell me tha' still looks at 'er as tha' would a child? Come off it Dickon! We all see 'ow it is 'tween th' two o' thee."
Dickon schooled his features a careful neutral, but it was much harder than it should have been. "I don' know wha' tha's talkin' about," he mumbled.
"Eh, suit thysel'," shrugged Simon, taking a hearty chug of ale. "But tha' can guarantee that when she's sent t' London in a bit, ev'ry lad there's goin' t' be seein' her as a woman, an' wantin' a piece of 'er for 'emselves, make no mista – "
Dickon stood up abruptly, almost knocking his stool over. "Tha' shouldn' talk o' th' Mistress in such a manner," he said in a hard voice. "S'no' right." And he turned and stalked off, leaving Simon gaping open-mouthed after him.
It was only when he was outside underneath the pouring rain that Dickon finally managed to unclench his hands from the tight fists they had formed. He had never, ever wanted to punch someone before, but he had wanted to just then. Hearing Simon speak like that about Mary…it had set something off in his blood, something unpleasant that he didn't much like the feel of. Shaking his head, he set off at a brisk pace, heedless of the rain falling or the roll of thunder in the sky. He didn't know what was wrong with him, but he felt like he needed to think on it a while before he returned to work again.
A/N: let me know what you think, and hopefully I'll get something more up soon. :)