A/N: So sorry for the delay. I've been internet-less for a couple of weeks now. Should be getting back to normal soon enough. In the meantime hope you enjoy this offering :)

1915.

Mary was idling along the garden path, with no particular destination in mind. There was a light rain falling, but she paid it no heed, years of Yorkshire living having made her all but impervious to such a trifle. It was better than being cooped up indoors at any rate, where her governess was almost certainly waiting to ambush her with more work, or Medlock to lecture her about the state of her dress. Outside in the gardens no one was likely to bother her. And she might even run into Dickon.

She heard voices and began to slow instinctively. A moment later, and she recognised the high, lilting tones of her close friend Martha Sowerby. Mary smiled to herself, thinking to sneak up on the older girl and give her a fright. She slowed to a complete stop, and was about to spring around the corner when another, distinctly masculine voice came to her attention.

Her eyes widened and she pulled up short. She had long suspected that Martha had a secret beau, but the serving girl was always uncharacteristically tight-lipped on the subject whenever she tried to find out more about it. Mary was dying to know who it was. So she kept silent as the voices carried towards her.

"…Saturday nigh'," the man had just finished saying. His voice was vaguely familiar, but Mary couldn't immediately place it. "I'd dearly love if tha' would accomp'ny me."

"Eh, Lord knows I'd like t'," said Martha, her voice breathy and hushed. Mary grinned. "But I doubt Mrs Medlock'll give me th' nigh' off. S'no' my time, an' – "

"Will tha' ask, at least? T'will be a righ' ol' dance, I'm sure of it."

A dance, thought Mary, her heart rate picking up in excitement. She had been meaning to ask Dickon if she could go to a village dance, now that she was confident enough of the steps to follow along. She bit her lip in excitement.

"Aye, I'll ask," said Martha. "Bu' I'm no' promisin'."

"That'll do for now, lass."

Mary scurried away as she heard the sound of talking give way to another, more private activity. She didn't want to intrude on Martha's romance. It was only when she was back inside, her heart thumping, that she realised she still didn't know the identity of the mystery beau.

"Wha' are thee smilin' abou'?" asked Martha good-naturedly later that evening, as she took a break from her work to sit with Mary while she ate. "I'd say tha's been gettin' int' trouble, if I didn' know thee any better."

Mary could hardly swallow her food for ginning so much. She finished her mouthful and beamed at the other girl. "Eh, I'll tell 'ee, but tha'll be mad."

Martha snorted, then clapped a hand over her mouth in abashment. "Now, Miss! Thy English is terrible!"

"I thought I should practise my Yorkshire, for Saturday night," said Mary slyly, watching her friend's expression closely.

Martha's blue eyes widened and a deep blush spread across her face. "Miss Mary!" she hissed in apparent mortification. "Tha's been eavesdroppin', tha' young vixen!"

Mary laughed. "I couldn't help it, I was rounding the corner and I so desperately wanted to know who your secret beau was – " she laughed again as Martha covered her face with both hands. "I am sorry, but I just couldn't stand not knowing."

"Tha' shouldn' 'ave," mumbled Martha, still with her face covered. "Tha's a naughty girl."

"Don't be mad," said Mary cajolingly. "If it makes you feel any better I still don't know who he is, because I didn't look around the corner and I didn't recognise his voice. So you simply must tell me, Martha. I can't wait any longer. Who is he?"

"Oh Miss," the maid moaned, taking her hands away from her face to stare agonisingly at her. "Tha' canna tell a soul! I'll be in so much trouble – Medlock'd fire me fo' sure, an' Roger – " she clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

"Roger?" Mary repeated, and suddenly the vaguely familiar voice was placed in her mind. "Roger Butterworth, the stable hand?"

"Oh, curse my big mouth," groaned Martha. "S' nothin' official, Miss. We're jus' good friends, is all."

"Colin's my good friend, and I don't kiss him on the mouth after a conversation," laughed Mary, sending her friend into a fit of hysterics. "But anyway," she continued, putting a hand on Martha's shoulder in an attempt to comfort the poor girl. "Oh for heaven's sake Martha, don't worry, you silly thing. I won't tell anyone. But if I may say so, the two of you make a very sweet pair."

Martha hugged her around the waist suddenly, half laughing through her sobs. "Eh, bu' tha's a special girl, Miss," she mumbled to Mary's bemusement. "Th' day tha' came t' Misselthwaite was a day th' dear Lord blessed us all."

Mary blushed at this high praise, feeling warm and happy. "But what about this dance!" she said, extricating herself from Martha with an effort. "On Saturday night. We must go, Martha. Oh we must!"

Martha blinked at her in confusion. "We?" she repeated blankly.

"Yes, we," said Mary. "I've been learning to dance the way the villagers do, and I positively have to try out the steps in a proper setting."

Martha was gaping at her as though she had expressed a desire to join the circus as a lion tamer. "A – a local dance?"

"Yes," she emphasised, frustrated that her friend was acting so obtuse. "You can go with Roger and I can go with Dickon."

At the mention of her brother something in Martha's expression changed. She looked tense all of a sudden. "Oh, Miss…it wouldna' be proper."

Mary could feel her good mood evaporating as quickly as it had come. "It's only a dance," she said a little disdainfully.

"Aye, but…" Martha was wringing her hands together fretfully. "They'd never let tha'…Mrs Medlock would never…an' Dickon, he wouldn'…"

"He wouldn't what?" she demanded. "Wouldn't want to take me?"

"Oh, don' be vexed Miss," begged Martha. "S'nothin' like tha'. But people would talk somethin' dreadful. Th' gossip… it wouldna do anybody no good."

Mary scowled heavily and folded her arms across her chest. "I want to go."

"S'posed to be awful borin', or so I hear," Martha attempted, in a painfully transparent attempt to dissuade her.

"That's not what Roger said!"

Martha squeaked and blushed bright red again. "Eh, tha's a naughty lass, make no mistake."

"I want to go to the dance!"

"Ask Mrs Medlock, then," said Martha, and Mary felt her spirits sink. She knew as well as the other girl that the elderly housekeeper would never allow such a thing.

"I hate being a lady!"

"Are you going to the dance Saturday night?"

She had tried to keep her voice light and innocent, but the look on Dickon's face as he glanced up from his work told her that her attempt had been an abject failure.

"Th' dance?" he asked, peering at her over his shovel. There was a streak of dirt smudged across his forehead, and his cheeks were ruddy from exertion. "How does tha' know abou' tha'?"

"Never mind that," she said quickly, not wanting to give Martha's secret away. She wasn't sure how Dickon would react to the news that Roger Butterworth was courting his sister, if he didn't already know. "I asked if you were going?"

Dickon smiled wryly. "Aye, I'm goin'."

She felt a twinge of jealousy spark within her, and wondered how many other dances Dickon had been to without ever telling her. "Do you go often?"

"Of'en enow."

"Oh," she slipped round to his other side, and his gaze followed her. "Are they awfully fun?"

He shrugged, taking his cap off to run a hand through his hair. "Dancin's good for th' soul, me ma allus says. An' I do enjoy th' music."

She was bursting with questions, but couldn't think of how to ask them without arousing his suspicions. "Where will it be held?" she attempted in her most innocent voice.

Dickon's gaze was sharp now. "An' why would tha' wan' t' know such a thing?"

She bit her lip. "What if something happened, and I needed to reach you? It's always good to know where one's friends are, at all times." It sounded weak, even to her ears.

"Mary…"

"And why shouldn't I go?" she demanded, abandoning all pretence and stamping her foot. "I've as much right to go and dance as anybody else has!"

Dickon looked at her incredulously. "Go to th' dance? Tha'?"

She felt tears of impatience stinging behind her eyes. "You needn't sound so appalled," she said stiffly.

"Appalled?" his brows furrowed. "I'm no' – "

But suddenly she couldn't stand to listen to him. He was going to be so kind, and she didn't want his kindness right then. It was blindingly obvious that she wouldn't be welcome at the dance…perhaps she'd never be welcome.

She spun on her heel and stalked off, breaking into a run when she heard him call her name. She sprinted all the way to the edge of the outer garden, where the moor began, before slumping against the hedge and scowling out into space. The moor seemed to stare balefully back at her, its bleak shadows mirroring her own dark mood.

It wasn't long before she felt his hand on her shoulder. She jerked out of his grasp, feeling as contrary as she ever had in her life, but his hand followed her, resting on her hair so gently that she felt her anger lessening despite herself.

"Mary…"

"I just want to be one of you," she said in a small voice, still staring out over the moor. For some reason it was easier to say such things when she didn't have to face him.

He made a sound that could have been sympathy or disbelief. "Why would tha' wan' tha'?" he asked softly. "When tha's got so much."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again without a word. Wasn't it obvious? she thought bitterly. She wanted to be one of them so she could be with him. That was the truth of it and yet she could never, ever say it.

His hand continued to stroke her hair, and she closed her eyes at the sensation. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, and it was all she could not to simply lean back against his chest. She imagined how it would feel, to have his arms around her, strong and warm and protective. God how she wanted that…

"S'in th' town square, incident'ly," he whispered suddenly against her ear, his voice so soft it sent tingles down her spine. "Where th' big dances are always held."

Her breath caught, and without thinking she spun around and threw her arms around his neck. He stumbled slightly, putting a hand on her waist to steady himself.

"Thank you Dickon," she mumbled into his shoulder, breathing deep and smelling earth, heather and honey – the scents of the moor. "Oh thank you!"

"Tha' shouldn' let anyone see tha'," he said earnestly. "I shouldna' told thee. If thy Uncle finds out, he'll – "

"He won't," she said breathlessly, becoming aware of the delicious firmness of Dickon's chest, and the strength of his arms around her. He wasn't embracing her properly, not really, his hands only resting loosely on her waist, but she still never wanted to let go. "I won't let anyone see me, I promise."

"An' careful on th' moor at nigh'," he continued, now sounding thoroughly displeased. "S' dangerous for a wee lassie….I shouldna' told thee. I'm a righ' bumblin' fool."

"Thank you," she said again, and before she could think better of it she reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "See you soon!" And she slipped out of his arms and away back down the path, her face burning as though she had put it straight into an oven.

She looked back before the turn in the path that would take her back to the main gardens. Dickon was still standing where she had left him, gazing out over the moor. One of his hands was lifted to his cheek, his fingers touching the spot where she had kissed him. Mary felt her heart thud and a new kind of emotion ignite deep within her. With one last look, she rounded the corner and vanished from sight.