Title: Those Qualities Upon Which Friendship Lives
Author: Mena
Contact Info:
Twitter: LJMomo Yahoo: aquietconscience AIM: aquietconscience (Feel free to IM me when I'm on and introduce yourself!)
Summary: Mary returns to Misselthwaite Manor from boarding school in London more of a lady than ever and Dickon sees her in a new light -- the problem is, so does Colin.
Ship: Mary/Dickon
Disclaimer: The characters in this story were created by Frances Hodgson Burnett and published in 1911 as "The Secret Garden". I do not own the characters. The Secret Garden is now in the public domain and money *can* be made off of it as Susan Moody did with her sequel, "Return to the Secret Garden". This disclaimer applies to all chapters of this story as it appears here at FFN.
Those Qualities Upon Which Friendship Lives
by Mena in the Garden
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I've been working on this story for years now. It currently has 12 completed chapters and it's always in the back of my mind to follow it through and complete the whole thing, though I don't know how many chapters it will be when it's finished.
I'm the same "Mena in the Garden" who runs the Secret Garden Fan Fiction Society on Yahoo Groups and I have a Secret Garden site here: secretgardenfics dot momodee dot com
Thanks for reading and if you'd like to leave a review positive or with corrections and ideas etc. please do. Enjoy.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter Two
Dickon stayed in the garden though it was now dinnertime. His rusty red fringe fell into his eyes as he worked the earth in the Secret Garden, pulling up weeds and making sure every flower had room to grow. The cooler weather had set in and in only a few weeks there would be a frost, which would send the flowers into a long slumber. The garden had lost a bit of its radiance before Mary had arrived and Dickon lamented the loss. She wouldn't get to see it in its glory this year, though some blossoms still remained.
Dickon had left the door to the garden closed and unlocked and presently the familiar rustle of ivy over the door alerted him to someone entering. He dared not look toward the person, lest it just be Ben Weatherstaff checking in or Colin come to bother him. It was neither. A soft voice filled the garden instead.
"Dickon," she said.
He waited a moment before standing to his full height and looking at Mary. She had closed the door behind her and held her blue wide brimmed hat in her still gloved hands. "Hey up, hullo there," he said.
"I've come to tell you to come in – we're preparing for dinner and of course you're most welcome to join us. I expected you to come in earlier but when you didn't come I grew worried."
Dickon's heart swelled with hearing that Mary worried about him and wanted him around. "I was just here in th' garden," he replied, masking his true feelings.
Mary looked around, taking in the flowers and vines. "You've done a splendid job, Dickon. It looks as if we'd never left it."
"Colin and I –" he began.
"No, Colin didn't do this. I know him too well, Dickon. Don't try to make up for him. I know he hasn't been here in a long time. I can feel it."
"No sense lying to you, Miss Mary," he said with a small smile.
"No, there isn't," she said pointedly. "And Colin does lie quite a bit. I've grown accustomed to it and I mentally sift through all he tells me to find the truth." She paused. "Dickon, do call me Mary, won't you? We're not strangers."
"Aye. It's habit. That's what I'd called thee when I'd first met thee."
"Oh, Dickon. I fear I've lost my Yorkshire talk with all of that time in the city. You'll have to teach me all over again." She looked at him imploringly.
"If that is what thee wishes, I will be glad to help."
"You're a man of so few words," she said. She'd now taken to strolling around the garden, inspecting roses and lilies as she walked past them. "I don't think Colin has closed his mouth since I stepped off the carriage but you –" She stopped and looked at home from across the small pond in the center of the garden. "The boys in the city have so much to say; they can be braggarts at times. They're so proud of their small sports victories or the money their fathers have made. Everything is status and who knows who. They're not like us."
Dickon felt as if Mary were sharing a deep secret with him; the inclusiveness of "us" weighed upon his thoughts as he listened intently. Had she known many boys in London? Surely there would be some who fancied her, she was such a pretty thing even when angered. He wanted to know if she had a beau, but such a question was impossible to ask of a lady. He had to wait until she volunteered the information.
"You're so quiet. I don't remember you so silent before. Is it my imagination?" she asked. "It feels like I've been away only for an hour or even a day, but everything looks so different now."
Dickon's mind raced forward, tracking each word and holding it dear. Mary's concern was evident, her affection for him had not dwindled but seemed to have grown. "No," he replied shyly. "I just haven't seen thee for ages now. Tha's been in the city for so long I reckoned my simple thoughts would be no rival for tha's education."
"I don't know whether to laugh or cry," she said, closing the distance between them quickly. "I want to hear your thoughts – all of them. And they're not simple! You're a very wise boy. Dare I say man now, you're all grown up. You've taught me so much in our years together, more than any school could teach. Don't think on it anymore, just speak to me. Tell me everything; I do want to know." Mary looked deeply into Dickon's eyes and conveyed her message thoroughly.
"As it pleases thee," he said, his heart beating madly in his chest.
"We'd best get you inside and washed up for dinner," she said, reaching her hand out to him.
He did not take her gloved hand, noting that his own hands were covered in soil and would ruin the white of the pristine cloth. "I canna," he said. "My hands are dirty."
Without a word, Mary stripped the gloves from her hands and reached for him purposefully, not allowing him to make excuses. She took his hand and pulled him gently toward the door. The feel of her hand in his, her unashamed gesture of acceptance, and the underlying sensuality all served to make Dickon all the more hopeful. He allowed himself to be led to the house slowly, reluctant to reach the door and lose Mary's touch. She looked up at him a few times on the journey and all he could do was stare back. Perhaps she wanted him to speak, but he had nothing bright to say, and telling her how beautiful she looked might simply offend or scare her. He knew she wasn't a proper match for him – she'd never be able to accept his proposal, even if he did gather the courage to make one. They were destined to be only friends forever, and that would never be enough for Dickon.