1913.
Mary sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and cast yet another longing glance out of the window. It was a brilliant summer's day, the sun shining bright, the moor covered in blooming heather. Colin followed her gaze and saw that Dickon was once again riding past on his pony, his pace slow and leisurely, his face turned not to the window but cast skyward, as though to indicate what a glorious day it was. Mary sighed again.
"Concentrate, Miss Lennox," intoned their governess.
"I do so wish to be outside," complained Mary under her breath. "Dickon is so lucky."
"Dickon should be at work," Colin snapped back without thinking. "He should be in the gardens, not gallivanting about on that pony of his." He instantly regretted his words when Mary shot him a withering glare.
"He's probably taking a break," she hissed at him. "Dickon works harder than any other boy in Yorkshire. Much harder than you or I."
He opened his mouth to object but their governess cut him off. "The French, Mr Craven, Miss Lennox."
"Je suis désolée, Madam," answered Mary in her politest voice.
"That's quite alright."
"When I have finished these translations, may I be allowed outside?" she asked sweetly. "It is such a glorious day. S'il vous plaît."
Their governess gave her a wry smile. "I suppose that would be agreeable."
"And me?" asked Colin eagerly, but the governess shook her head.
"No Colin, I'm sorry but you are required to study your mathematics after this lesson."
He looked at Mary to see her grinning wickedly at him. "That's not fair!" he complained.
"Life is rarely fair," said their governess serenely. "Be thankful you shall know all about the world of mathematics, while Miss Lennox will not."
But ten minutes later, as he watched Mary hurriedly scribbling the last of the translation answers before diving out of her seat and shooting him a quick goodbye, he thought that this was absolutely nothing to be thankful for at all.
It was a lazy summer Sunday, and the three of them were resting in the shade of their favourite oak tree, all dressed in their finest having just come from Mass. Dickon had taken out his pipe and was playing a merry tune, while Mary read a book beside him, and Colin watched her surreptitiously while pretending to do the same.
None of them noticed Mr Pitcher approaching until the small animals that had gathered closer to hear Dickon's playing suddenly up and scurried away. Colin looked up questioningly at the old man as Dickon trailed into silence.
"What is it?"
"Your father wishes to inform you that he is to make a short visit to Leeds, and he asks that you accompany him. Miss Mary too, if she so pleases."
"Oh, good," said Colin, sitting up and closing his book. He always enjoyed riding to town with his father. People there seemed neat and respectful, the architecture was pleasing, and there were always many new things to do and see. It was a relief from the endless, never changing moors. "Let's go, Mary." He stood up and offered her his hand.
She shot him a sheepish look. "I think I'll stay here, actually," she said. "Dickon promised he'd teach me how to dance a jig."
Dickon grinned, as though he had forgotten such a promise. "Aye, that I did."
Colin instantly felt his mood sour. "Well I won't go either then," he said.
"Begging your pardon, Master Colin," interjected old Pitcher. "But your father specifically requested your presence."
Colin felt his mouth tighten into a frown. "And did he specifically request Mary's presence too?"
"That he did not. He said she was free to come if she wished."
Mary laughed and tossed her hair over one shoulder. "Go on, Col," she said with a smile that made him want to throw himself at her feet and beg her never to leave him. "We'll still be here when you come back."
Her casual use of the word 'we' made his eye twitch. He looked at Dickon, who was still grinning faintly, and felt a sudden urge to order the other boy to leave. But he couldn't, not with Mary looking at him as she was. So he simply nodded stiffly and turned to go.
He looked back when he reached the Manor. Mary had got to her feet and was dancing clumsily to Dickon's pipe, her thick skirts getting in the way of the proper kicking action. As he watched, she tripped and stumbled slightly, and Dickon reached out, his hand going to her waist to steady her. It was only for a moment, before she stepped back and away, but in that instant Colin felt a blind rage pulse within him. He took a breath and forced his fists to unclench; his whole body felt tight and uncomfortable. With one last longing look at the pair of them, he turned to go and meet his father.
"Careful, Miss Mary," Dickon said pleasantly, lowering the pipe to regard her as she tripped on her skirts once again. "Tha'll tear thy lace if tha's not careful."
"I don't care," she said obstinately, continuing to swirl even though the pretty music had stopped. "I hate these stupid dresses. I'd much rather wear trousers like a boy."
Dickon laughed. "An' wha' a sight tha' would be, indeed."
"Teach me the steps," she implored him, beckoning him to stand. "Please, Dickon."
"I canna teach thee an' play at th' same time."
"Then just teach me. You can play afterwards, once I've learned them."
He smiled and stood up, looking somewhat hesitant. "'Tis no' a proper dance for a lady."
"Never mind that," she said, taking his hands in her own. "Now teach me."
He grinned at her bossiness, as he always had. "Alrigh' then. S'easy, really. Jus' put thy righ' foot forward. Tha's it." He placed his hands loosely on her waist. "An' bring thy left one behind, right quick, like this." He indicated, moving quickly on his feet, his balance perfect. Mary did the same and overbalanced. She clutched at his shirtfront to stay upright, and he tightened his grip on her waist.
"Then tha' jus' lifts thy front leg an' taps thy knee, like this." She watched, transfixed, as he did a strange little hop, so that the toes of his right foot tapped against his left knee.
"I'll never be able to do that," she whined after she had tried twice with no success to imitate his movements. Her foot kept getting caught in her skirts, and she felt clumsy and ridiculous. But there was no mocking or scorn in Dickon's stare. He simply smiled at her as he always did.
"Tha'll learn, if tha' wants to," he said. "It jus' takes practice, is all."
"Well, I'm going to practise every day until I can do it perfectly," she said in a determined voice.
He nodded. "I've no doubt."
"And you'll keep teaching me, won't you?" she asked, looking up at him with wide, earnest eyes.
"'Course."
"Good," she danced out of his reach, for she suddenly felt hot and flustered standing so close to him. "Well, get thee playin' once more, Master Sowerby. I dinna remember tellin' thee tha' could stop."
He grinned at her broad Yorkshire, and lifted his pipe once more. "At thy service, Miss Mary."
"Just Mary, Dickon," she said in a tone of frustration. "How many times have I told you that?"
His grin only widened at her scolding. "Aye, tha's righ'. Sorry, Mary."
"That's better. Now, one more song, and then let's go to the garden."
Colin sat in the dappled shade underneath the oak tree, playing idly with a strand of grass. Several feet away both Mary and Dickon were toiling in the garden, as they had been all morning, clearing room in the earth for the new spring shoots coming out of the earth. Colin watched them surreptitiously under his lashes, and the longer he looked the heavier the stone in his stomach grew to be. They moved around each other so easily, so naturally, that it was all but impossible to imagine one without the other. Their affection was subtle. It was in the small gestures, their intimate whispers barely noticeable to someone who wasn't paying attention – it was the way Dickon's eyes lingered just a little too long on Mary as she worked, the excuses he made to touch her, and the pretty blush that coloured her cheeks when he did. It was enough to make Colin feel sick.
At the moment they were kneeling side by side in the dirt, and Dickon was talking in a low voice about something or other, his hands moving as he gestured back and forth between the different plants. Mary watched him, enraptured, and after a moment she burst into peals of laughter at something he'd said. Her hand reached out to touch Dickon's arm, and he grinned stupidly back at her. Colin felt the stone within him transform to a writhing, biting snake.
"Don't you ever get sick of it?" he asked loudly. They stopped laughing and turned to stare at him, their expressions confused. "The gardening," he explained. "Don't you ever get sick of it?"
Mary's eyes widened as though he had said something blasphemous. "Sick of the garden?" she whispered, appalled.
"Not the garden," Colin clarified. "Gardening. Always poking about in the dirt, like… like…" he trailed off.
Dickon removed his cap and ruffled his hair. "Eh, th' gardenin' is th' garden, Colin," he said good-naturedly. "Canna have one without th' other."
"Besides," said Mary rather crossly. "I love it. There's nothing I'd rather do than spend time in the garden with you and Dickon."
Colin shrugged, somewhat mollified that it had been he that came first in her speech. The two of them returned to their work, but it wasn't long before Dickon leaned close to Mary again, saying something under his breath to make her laugh.
"Stop whispering!" Colin snapped, sitting up and glaring at Dickon. The boy had no right to lean so close to Mary, really. "It's rude."
But Mary just laughed at his scowl. "Come over here then," she said lightly. "And do some work. You'd be able to hear then, instead of sitting there and sulking."
"I am not sulking," he half-shouted, which only caused Mary and Dickon to laugh harder. Colin glared off to the side, his jaw clenched tight. He didn't think he'd felt more isolated from them since the days he sat alone in his bed while they went out and played together. He was right next to them now and yet…they couldn't have been further away from him.