Some people have a childhood garden
Filled with green and growing things
Some people have a childhood garden
Filled with purple peonies
Mine is sere
Throughout the year
Nothing grows here

"Childhood Memories Sung to the Tune of Shawnee West Franklin Bison Blues"-Tim Bovee

Chapter 7

It has been observed by many a person that Martha Sowerby, the seemingly demure and jovial chambermaid of Misselthwaite Manor, was indeed the epitome of goodness, in which there existed no evil thoughts in her young mind. Martha herself had for many years agreed with this generalization of her good character, until recent events had severely transformed her previous perspective on the kindness of mankind. Or, more specifically: womankind.

"Bloody ol' hag. Canna' lift a soddin' finger 'cept to order me about as though I'm her personal slave."

Grumbling under her breath, Martha did her best to ignore the current of sweat that seemed to break out with each step she climbed. Her cheeks flushed with exertion, her normally cheerful eyes were darkened with unconstrained anger. Tightly gripped in her clenched fingers were the handles of two enormous buckets filled to the brim with soapy water, most of which seemed to favour Martha's dress rather then the pail itself. The bubbling splashes that crashed to the stone floor seemed to create a dim echo in the shadowy pathway the young girl had decided to pursue. The hidden passageway that Martha was currently heaving her way through had originally been designed for servant trenches and paths for the sole purpose of sparing the wealthy residents the "unbearable" sight of the "help". However since the manor had been under the property of the Craven lineage, there was little need for the servant corridors as the owners themselves did not concern themselves with traditional conventions. Eventually, the din of the unused passages began to decay with dust and solitude. In all her short years of service towards Misselthwaite manor, Martha never once anticipated to see herself walking in one, ducking under cobwebs and sidestepping clumps of dust.

A sudden grunt broke her out of her reverie. Betty Butterworth, the scullery maid who had recently been bumped up to kitchen maid, strode furiously towards Martha. Her cheeks were flushed in red fury, her hair slipping from its bun in angry tangles. The sight that caught Martha's attention was not the obvious vehemence in her demeanour, but the fact that on one side of her plump body were the dripping remains of clumping porridge. A tray in one hand, an empty bowl in the other, it didn't take long for the girl to figure out what had occurred. Upon their collision, Betty huffed in shaky ferocity, staring at Martha as though it was she who had caused this mishap.

"Her Majesty…" she said with deadly calm, "though' that the porridge was a… 'smidgen'… too fattening."

Sharply moving past Martha, Betty Butterworth continued on her path of vexation and utter hatred, grumbling loudly.

"I'll fatten the horrid ol' cow t'ill she bursts out of those fancy buttons. Giggling like a ninny she was after seein' me looking like her bloody breakfast tray! I wonder if she'll be laughing after I shove this bowl down her throat and…"

It did not take long for her angry mutters to be caught up into an empty abyss of mustiness and disappear into the sultry atmosphere, leaving Martha Sowerby in wild-eyed disbelief. She gazed cautiously towards the door that led to the room of Lady du Bont, and very much like the prisoner walking towards his execution; she trudged up closer and closer to the chamber, poising herself mentally for the inevitable attack.

When the attack did arise, however, it was one for which she was hardly prepared for.

Placing the buckets on the ground near the backdoor, she wiped her soapy, chapped hands on her apron before raising a hand to knock. Suddenly an arm slithered around her waist while a pale, slender hand clapped around her mouth. Martha's screams were muffled by the masculine weight of the fingers as she was swung around further down the corridor. Swiftly turning her around and placing her on the ground, the hand was replaced by a sole finger as Martha gained sight of her attacker. She was greeted by a cocky smile and a single whispered word.

"Boo."

A gasp ripped through her being as she breathed out a silent cry.

"Master Colin! You're back!"

The young master of the house had indeed arrived only an hour previous, and in silent stealth had decided to hide his presence by taking the servant corridors to avoid the usual large gatherings that often occurred upon his initial appearance. Creeping along the hidden and abandoned passageways he had traversed as a child, he was undoubtedly surprised to see a multitude of servants walking up and down its lengths. It was only be sheer luck that he was able to avoid detection thus far.

Tugging uncomfortably at his white tubular collar hiding inconspicuously under his sacque suit, his motions forced her to briefly examine the young man she helped raised.

No longer stood the meek child he once was, pale and sullen in snobbish pride. Colin was a man now, at least by his standards. His pale hair had been darkened by the years and had been trimmed around his ears in the newest style. Trim and lean, it was not a surprise that he was considered to be quite a catch in various London societal events. Though he would never get the tan that he had craved since he first gazed into a mirror, he compensated by wearing the latest fashions. Martha was always amazed that though he did appear to be even remotely related to his parents on account of their differing looks, he somehow inherited their innate air of a regal stance and an almost pompous superiority. Upon first glance Colin Craven did not strike anyone as an Adonis, however all it took was one glimpse of that cocky, boyish smile before most women were utterly captivated. Colin leaned in a relaxed stance against the wall, revelling at the shock that swept Martha's face. He was always one for surprises, and he couldn't resist teasing his old friend. A boyish grin flashed handsomely across his face as he crossed his ankles, awaiting the fury of questions.

"Master Colin! Thou were not expected! Tha room has no' been prepared, I…I... what in the name of all the saints are tha doing here so early?!"

Colin laughed softly.

"Well, it is always a pleasure to be welcomed so warmly on one's arduous arrival." He smiled at the red blush of embarrassment that crept on Martha's face. "To satisfy your obvious need for answers, I've been released from school a month early on account of excellent grades that have surpassed the curriculum. Now now, Martha, you needn't look so disbelieving. God's honest truth. You, milady, are looking at a certified honour student."

Martha raised a questionable eyebrow before Colin swept over and placed a sloppy kiss on her cheek, before returning to his usual position of nonchalance while ignoring her laughing swats.

"It's good to be home, though. Civilisation can be so dull at times, it's good to break away every now and then to return to the uncouth memories of my savage childhood home."

"Aye, a difficult childhood you led at that." Martha rolled her eyes, thinking of all his ponies and puppies and finery that he had received in his youth. Colin flicked her with his hand while pretending to be mortally offended before resuming to a different topic at hand.

"My god, I find myself sympathizing for the poor soul that crept into Betty Butterworth's bad conscience. For the first time I can say with any conviction 'it wasn't me'. Who's the victim this time around then?"

The darkness that had previously escaped Martha seemed to seep back into her mind.

"Her royal high… tha' father recently invited a guest to stay here for a short while and…"

"Ah yes, the intrepid and infamous Lady du Bont." He grinned almost coquettishly while folding his arms. "He's written me often about her, and so far all I can attain about her is that she is the epitome of kindness and grace."

The only answer Martha could give was open-mouthed disbelief. Upon catching this, Colin chuckled softly.

"I supposed I may have been misled in my appeal to her character. Whatever opinion you hold of her will inevitably be mine as well. So, old friend, what do you make of her?"

To this Martha ducked her head in shame.

"Tha musna' listen to me, t'is not my place to say."

Colin snorted in disbelief.

"That's simply not true, Martha, as long as you live under this roof you shall always have your say. My goodness, you're dripping water all over yourself. Surely you're not going to attempt to clean these decrepit corridors?"

She spared a venomous glance to the room in which they were perched in front of.

"Her Ladyship done ask Lord Craven that the staff use tha servant corridors 'cause she has allergic an' unsightly reactions to us. As for these loads I'm a carryin', she found a smudge an' she told me to clean every window in the East wing unless I want to get sacked."

Colin's eyebrows rose in disbelief. Feeling renewed strength in her convictions, Martha's voice rose with fervour.

"T'isnt me place to say, me lord, but tha guest seems to think she's the new mistress of the Manor."

Seriousness overtook the young man's face as he pondered her words. Her words brought forth unhappy memories of the original mistress of Misselthwaite, his mother.

"Why haven't you and the other staff requested an audience with my father? He's a reasonable man, and he is not one to be prone to provide authority to his guests."

Martha shook her head in resigned resoluteness.

"I ken it'd be daft of me, I dinna want trouble with thee father. No matter, I know me place."

The bone in Colin's jaw clenched considerably. He placed two hands on the young woman's shoulders and looked at her in serious determination.

"Your place in this household is to provide friendship to all who dwell in it, for which we are most grateful. Much of my childhood happiness depended on you, especially for protection against the fearsome Miss. Medlock."

She giggled in remembrance while he cocked his head to her Ladyship's door.

"Now, you go into her room as she instructed, but don't close the door all the way. I want to hear her for my own ears."

Martha nodded seriously, before walking over to the door and let it to creak open. Only to be greeted by a malicious glance that would have caused Satan himself to take a step back.

"Well, it is about time!"

Martha sighed as she rolled her eyes, shrugging in Colin's direction. Picking up the buckets, she did her best to avoid the sloshing of soapy water. The room itself was no different than Mistress Mary's bedroom, however much to the consternation of many of the chambermaids they underwent hours of condescending disgust from the Lady du Bont as she initially inspected the room. It seems, in her words, that even the tribes from the remotest part of Africa would have found this bedroom to be barbaric in every possible extreme.

The curtain that covered the backdoor rustled as Colin crouched behind it, ears straining to hear every word.

Margaret du Bont was enveloped in a cascade of frothy silkiness that clung to every well-maintained curve of her not-particularly-young body. Her red hair curled innocently upon her shoulders, absent of any betraying greys. Lounging in relative comfort upon the chaise, her relaxed stance was contrasted greatly by the venom that protruded like daggers from her steel eyes. Like ice, her jagged edge of her voice was hidden under a soft and disguising cadence.

"I dare say, I cannot recall I time where I had encountered such vile incompetence!"

Martha suppressed another sigh, and smiled apologetically.

"Sorry mad'm, Miss. Medlock had chores for me down in the kitchens."

Her Ladyship tucked a fox-fur around her elegant neck, fluffing it around her as though disappearing into a turtle-shell.

"Miss. Medlock should be aware that her guests should be the highest priority during one's residence here. My goodness! I am in absolute shock of the temperature of this chamber!"

With this Martha raised a dubious eyebrow to the crackling fire heaving in the corner. It was uncommon to feed a fire until it reached this particular height in the mornings, but who was she to comment?

"No doubt it is due to the fact that the sun can hardly be expected to share its warmth when the windows are soaked with grime and dust due to the utter laziness of the staff! I daresay, never have I encountered such… such ineffectual, hopeless group of people. Well then, are you going to stand there dimwitted while I freeze to death?"

Immediately Martha meekly ducked her head and continued on with her work. Straining to reach the clasp of the window latch, she was able to catch a glimpse of sandy hair ducking from the curtains. Again, she was all alone in her defence. This was her job, after all. She had grown so accustomed to the light work that the Craven's had imposed she must have inadvertently become lazy.

She vaguely pondered on his next course of action. Would Colin storm straight to his father and demand punishment, or would he in fact venture by the garden? Martha suspected it would be the latter.

What would he be like when he glimpsed his young cousin, growing ever more beautiful with each passing spring? Her bones ached with weary knowledge. She knew ever since she caught a glimpse of Dickon and Colin feverishly pushing Mary in the wheelchair that there would forever be a risk of rivalry as they each blossomed. Ignoring the stern directions of Lady du Bont in the background that was resonating through her mind, Martha prayed that they all had a good head on their shoulders. Though Mary seemed to be the most vulnerable and impressionable of the three, she doubted that the girl would suffer the brunt of rejection. No, that fate was reserved for either the rash, cocky young lord or the silent, strong labourer. A seed of hope grew within Martha as she rationalized Colin's new behaviour. He was an adult now, with a mind consumed with cold, clear logic. She prayed that he put away his competitive and selfish desire to possess from his childhood and would see beyond Mary's blossoming womanhood, and her young brother who seemed destined to watch from afar

Okay, I realize that her Ladyship is being portrayed very much your stereotypical wealthy Mrs. Coulter-like villain. However, like all the characters, she's a work in process. Also sorry that there isn't too much Mary/Dickon in here. I can't really ignore the other characters. Don't worry, they'll get there chance.

As always, reviews are more than welcome, Thanks:)

Reviews to anon. :)

Eddie McGee: I'm so glad you enjoyed the previous chapter, and I was really happy to see your review. I'm worried that her Ladyships character is a bit stereotypical, but I plan on rounding her out later on.

Rosa Cotton: I'm surprised that someone is actually reading the poems! But I'm still glad you liked them. I have a thousand books of poetry that I flip through to find a short excerpt. I'm pretty sure I got the last excerpt from an example used in the "Oxford Book of Death". It was a sweet respite from all the moody poems.

Pline: I do love the whistling, lol. Thanks so much for reviewing on the chapter, it meant a lot to me. And I'm happy that you think the time period is what it is. Though I'm hoping to go for Edwardian, it's easier to have the characters speak more Victorian.

Kit: I really hope this story is to your expectations, and I'll try to speed it up. If you're still interested in that beta thing, just email me if you like. Anyway, your review was really heartfelt and I'm beyond honoured that you seem to be enjoying it!