Dickon was standing in the foyer when Mary came down the stairs.
She turned in an instant, rushing back the way she came.
"Mary, please," he called. She heard his footsteps behind her. It only made her wish to go faster.
It had been a long night. Mary had spent most all of it at St. Patrick's, sitting at the bedside of her grandfather. It had been a stroke: a brain attack when an artery bursts. He'd been found lying on the ground scraping for air.
Now he was lying in a hospital bed, doing much of the same.
"He should recover," Dr. Shelley had said, though his should had more emphasis than she had liked. "It's difficult with his back condition already there. He will be much changed."
Mary could infer from his voice that the change would not be a good one.
The worst of it all was Colin. He was collapsing from the inside. All his world, changed in an instant. His fiancé gone, his father in grave condition.
He sat at the bedside, tears lining the rims of his eyes but never daring to fall.
Mary and he barely spoke a word the whole night.
I'll have to be married, she thought. A dumb and selfish thought. How could Mary think of herself at this time?
But now everything was so real. Marriage wasn't just a concept, it was a reality.
She couldn't continue to live at Misslethwaite if Uncle Craven died. She couldn't live with Colin like an old maid.
She'd have to be married. She'd have to make a home of her own. A family of her own.
I'll have to lie with a man, Mary thought suddenly. Sex was a subject she knew little of. People rarely spoke of it, except in vague whispers.
Not that sex was a fearful thing to Mary. She had just hoped that when she made love, she would be doing just that: making love. Not awkwardly copulating with a man she has no desire for.
Everything came to a rushing reality in but a moment.
Then Mary would look back at her Uncle.
You selfish girl. You're thinking of only your problems. Look at him. Look at his problems.
Oh he's a man, a bitter part of her thought. Nothing is hard for him.
ooo
Dickon at least didn't follow her to the first floor. He knew better than that.
"Mary, I have to talk to you," he pleaded from the middle of the stairway. "I can explain it all. I can. Truly."
She turned. She hoped her face was stoic and unfeeling.
Judging by his expression, she had succeeded in that endeavor.
"I have no idea what game you're playing, sir," she spat the word. "But I'm not a piece in it. I'm not a character in one of your books to be written into whatever scenario you feel fit."
"I know," he said. His dark coat and top hat were still on. Obviously, he'd expected this reaction. "I know you don't want to see me-"
"You are correct."
"But please open this," he pulled an envelope from the inside of his coat. "Please." He looked up, revealing his light eyes from under the rim of the dark hat.
She hesitated a moment, but reached out for it. It was weighted a bit in the middle.
Mary clutched it tightly.
"Open it," he asked, "you don't have to do it now, just soon. I hope it will illuminate some things for you." He turned away, going back down the stairs.
He shouldn't be cross with me, Mary though defiantly. I've done nothing wrong. Is he upset I didn't rush into his arms? How could he expect that after all this time?
Five years. Five years he's been gone.
"Miss Mary," Annie's voice made her jump. "Young Lord Craven will be arriving in ten minutes."
"Yes, thank you, Annie," Mary said, nodding to the small girl. Annie have a small curtsy and continued on her way.
"Annie," the maid turned back around, "would you set this on my bed, please?"
Annie took the letter, "Yes, miss." She curtsied again.
I will open the letter, Mary promised herself. Just not yet.
Not yet.