Beginning, Section II, Next Section

Chapter 6

The next morning, Mary woke up to the curious smell of porridge and the sound of Mrs. Reynolds scuffling about and opening the large, thick draperies to reveal the morning sun. Holding up her hand to her eyes, to shield them from the blinding light, Mary wondered for the briefest of seconds where she was. But as she ran her fingers lightly along the fine, white linen of her bed sheets, she remembered where she was. She was at Pemberley. Taking a surreptitious glance around the room, Mary caught the first glimpses of what her new home, or at the very least her new room, would be like.

Her room, she had to admit, was tastefully decorated. The walls were a pale peach color and the furniture in the room was made out of dark, cherry wood. Empty closets, lined with shelves, waited to be filled with the contents from Mary's unpacked trunks. Dolls for Mary to play with had been thoughtfully placed along the red settee that ran alongside the food of her bed. A small fire, across from the foot of her bed, kept Mary's room warm from the morning chill. The fire also cast nice and friendly glow about the room. And in one corner of the room, there sat a little table where steaming, hot food was now being placed. The room was simple, but elegant.

Mary continued to look around, nodding her head in approval of everything she saw. As her mother would say, "To some, opulent decorations may be the preference. But really, it is not necessary to use extravagant means to show one's wealth. It is too flashy. I prefer the beauty of simplicity. It is most refreshing." Her mother. Mary's lips trembled at the thought of her mother and her words and she steeled herself, biting back the tears.

Mrs. Reynolds looked up from the table, where she was rearranging some of the breakfast dishes. She saw that Mary's eyes were now open and busy taking in her surroundings. Quickly making her way over to her bedside, she greeted her warmly and handed Mary her robe. "Ah, there you go, Miss Mary. Good-morning! I hope you slept well."

Mary nodded her head shyly.

"Say hello to a new day, and a beautiful day at that," Mrs. Reynolds smiled. "There's some porridge on the table that Cook made especially for you - eat it up! It will make you nice and strong. When you are done with breakfast, I will send up Martha who will help you dress and then you can go and explore the grounds. Later this afternoon, I will introduce you to the rest of the staff and take you on a tour of the house. Right now, I must go and give the daily directions to the staff. So be a good girl and do as I say." A busy woman, Mrs. Reynolds patted Mary softly on the head and was out the door again before she could even utter a reply.

Mary donned the robe and hopped out of her luxurious bed after Mrs. Reynolds left. She walked over to the table, her stomach growling from hunger pains. In spite of her starvation, Mary wrinkled her nose at the sight of a large bowl of porridge. Holding her long hair back away from her face with one hand, Mary leaned over to smell the tan sludge and then recoiled in horror. Obviously, Mrs. Reynolds was of the Porridge Old School and believed that the more that was eaten of it, the better a child would be for it. Mary sat down gingerly and picked up her spoon. She dipped the spoon hesitatingly it into the thick goop and scooped up a spoonful of it before letting the porridge slop unceremoniously back into the bowl. Sighing, she then picked up the spoon again and forced herself to eat every last bit of it, all the while thinking of breakfast at home.

Home... it was so far away. Thinking of the breakfast table and her parents eating with her caused the second tear of the morning threaten to make its appearance known, but Mary willfully held it back again. She was determined to be strong, for her parents sake and her own. The day Mary had left her parents' side, she had promised them that she would be a brave little girl. Mary wanted to be the little adventuress that her father believed her to be and refused to let him down.

True to Mrs. Reynolds's words, no sooner had Mary placed the spoon down onto her tray and drunk her last bit of milk, did Martha come scurrying into her bedroom. "Morning, Miss Mary. My name is Martha and I am here to help you get dressed. It is time to put on your clothes, lass. Don't you want to go out and run and play? It's a fine morning out there."

"Is there anything else to do, besides go outside?" Mary asked. She stood in front of her large window and looked out at the gray expanse. Mrs. Reynolds and Martha might have thought it looked beautiful outside, but to Mary, it all looked dead. The trees were barren and the grass dully colored. There were no signs of life, everything looked dead.

Martha shook her head. "No, miss. I'm afraid there's nothing for you to do in the house this morning."

"But what about Colin Darcy? Shall I not meet him today? Mama and Papa told me that when I came to Pemberley, he would be my playmate."

"Aye, and so he shall," Martha answered slowly, furrowing her brows as she spoke. "But Colin, you must remember is a sick boy. He is not feeling very well this morning and we are all very busy. You will have to find ways to amuse yourself this morning, I am afraid,"

Mary made a face. "Is Colin going to be sick all the while that I am here?"

"You will like the outdoors, Miss Mary," Martha said, choosing to ignore the girl's question rather than finding an answer for her.

Putting a hand up to the cold glass and pressing her nose against it, Mary questioned whether or not she would. "It looks awfully cold and drab outside, Martha. Nothing like India."

"All you need is some warm clothes and you won't feel a thing. You might think it drab now, but in no time you will be loving it, even if it is different from your India."

Martha began to pull out clothes appropriate for romping around in outdoors and while she helped Mary dress and then braided her hair into two long plaits, Mary quizzed her as to what there was to do outdoors. "Well, if you take to riding, you can go down to the stables and ask them to saddle ye up a pony. If you take to rowing, there's a lake, but I'm not sure if Mrs. Reynolds would approve of you rowing all by yourself. If you take to walking, the grounds of Pemberley are some of the finest, as you'll find in all of England. The gardens are especially beautiful this time of year."

It did not take Mary long to figure out what she would do. She did not know how to ride a horse nor did she know how to row herself across a lake. Given her options, there was only one thing she could possibly do. "I think I'll try my luck with the gardens. Thank-you, Martha."

And with that, Mary was out the room. Once she out in the hallway though, Mary skidded to a halt. Returning to her bedroom, she called out for Martha, who was in the process of making Mary's bed.

"Yes, Miss Mary?"

Grinning sheepishly, Mary asked, "How do I get outside?"

Martha smiled at the young girl. She was so sweet, nice and polite, Martha liked Pemberley's newest guest a lot, already. Pointing, she said, "Turn left in the hallway, proceed to the end of it, then go down the stairs, and once you find yourself in this great hall, you should find a door that leads to outside at the end of it. If you get lost, just look for a footman and he will show you the way, miss."

"Thank you, Martha." Through the corridors, down the stairs, out the door, and into the outside world, Mary went.

When she made it down the imposing front stairs of Pemberley, Mary turned around to get a better look of the house. Since she had been asleep the night before, she had not yet had the pleasure of seeing what her new home looked like. Now, standing there in front of it, Mary suddenly understood what her father had meant when he had said, "Pemberley is very large estate, Mary. You should mind your manners at all times and pay particular attention to the instructions they give you so as to not get lost."

Unconsciously, Mary found herself trying to count the windows of just the front façade. She gave up after she hit twenty-something. It was dizzying, craning her neck to see and trying to keep track of all the windows she had and had not counted. Turning around, Mary continued down the gravel path.

She walked around the grounds all morning long. Following the lengths of the trout stream, Mary found several pretty gardens, which included one statue garden and a maze. She also walked by the large lake and even made friends with the gardener, Ben Weatherstaff along the way. After several turns about the grounds, Mary decided that she had had enough of the outdoors. The weather was turning even cooler and the clouds were also rolling in, suggesting the possibility of rain. Tugging her gray coat a little tighter around herself and adjusting the bonnet on her head, Mary told herself, "There is so much left to still explore that it is simply impossible for me to see it all today. But I suspect, I will have many a mornings to see everything else."

Not only was the weather changing, but Mary was also growing weary of being outside. She tired easily since she was still recuperating from her journey and she was also rather bored, as there was nothing to do but walk around and look at the unadorned trees and scraggily bushes. Standing underneath the branches of a large elm tree, Mary tried to imagine what everything would look like during the springtime, once they had all come back to life. Shrugging her shoulders from lack of success, Mary gave up on the outdoors and thought perhaps she would go inside and try her luck with the shelves of the Pemberley library. Mary loved to read and her father had told her numerous stories of how great and diverse Mr. Darcy's collection of books was. She wanted to see if they were all true.

On her return trip to the house, Mary thought about what kind of a life she would lead at Pemberley. She was distressed to know that Colin was a sick boy and would probably have little time for her company. "Who will be my playmate if Colin is always ill in bed," she asked no one. Heaving a sigh, Mary longed for company. Though she liked Mrs. Reynolds and Martha, they were not company. They were servants and would be too busy minding their duties to play with her.

I wish I could see my Aunt Lizzy. She would keep me company. The thought of meeting her aunt, Mary knew, was a hopeless one. Before she had left India, she had asked her parents if she would see her aunt while in England. Both her father and her mother had been reticent in their answers. Finally, they told her that though seeing her aunt was always a possibility, she should not set too much hope upon it. It would be rude of them to insist that Mr. Darcy take on more guests than necessary. And her Aunt Elizabeth was presently engaged elsewhere as a governess. Mary thought wistfully of her aunt. I wish she could be my governess. Then, I would never lack for company.

Looking up from her thoughts, Mary found that she was lost. In her mindless wandering, she had made quite a few wrong turns here and there. Mary wished that she had paid better attention on her walk so that she could find her way back more easily. She mentally kicked herself and asked herself, "Dear me! This place is so large. How will I ever find my way back to the house?"

No sooner did she say this, Mary happened upon a large and looming wall completely covered in ivy. Staring blinkingly at it and baffled by its presence, Mary wondered aloud. "What is this? A gray, stone wall out in the middle of the green? How did I miss this earlier?"

Curious as to what it was, Mary tried to walk around the lengths of the wall and see where it would lead her. But she found that it kept on going and going. Finally, Mary returned to her original point and tilting her head to one side, considered the wall some more. "This is so very odd. I wonder what it is supposed to be. I wonder what is inside and what it is used for."

Mary looked around to ask someone, but Ben had long since disappeared in the distance. The only other sign of life was the brown squirrel that scampered across the top of the wall. It looked at her, from his seat above, before continuing on his way. Perhaps he might have even tried to talk with her had he not had a load of nuts in his mouth. Mary watched the squirrel in envy as she saw it hurry down the other side of the wall and into whatever was behind it.

"I want to see what is behind these walls too," she pouted. "Oh, if I could only be a squirrel or a bird," she thought wistfully.

Mary turned her attentions back to the wall and walked up to it. She tried to push away the ivy to see if she could find a door or some sort of entrance to the wall. Again, running into a dead end, she gave up. Mary made a mental note to ask someone about the wall later on and continued her journey back to the house.

Chapter 7

After Mary returned to the house and had gone up to the room to shed her outer ware, she encountered Martha in the hallway. Martha served her tea in her room, telling Mary as she ate that she was to be introduced to Master Colin later in the day.

Her interest piqued, Mary began to ask after Colin and forgot to ask about the large, gray wall she had encountered outside. "What is he like? What can you tell me about him" she asked Martha. Mary was excited at the prospect of finally meeting the person she had come to study with.

"There's not much to tell, Miss Mary. Colin is about the same age as yourself, but he's a very ill boy and does not stir from his room."

"Ever? He never leaves his room?"

"No, miss. Never. Not that I know of, at least. Master Colin always says he feels worse when he is removed from his bed. He is rather set in his ways."

"That is very odd though, is it not?"

Martha frowned. "It is not my place to say, Miss Mary." Before Mary could ask her any more questions, she quickly curtseyed and said, "I must get back to my other chores this afternoon. Enjoy your lunch, Miss." Then, she left Mary to finish her tea alone in her room.

Over tea, Mary pondered over what Colin would be like in person. He seemed to be a sort of an enigma and Mary felt uneasy not knowing what to expect. Her parents had been unable to provide her any information except that he was the son of her father's friend, the same age as herself, and kept to his room. Living at Pemberley had not provided any new information. Quizzing the servants had proved fruitless as well. Mary shrugged her shoulders as she realized that the only way she would ever know what Colin was like would be to meet him herself. She smiled, thinking that she would finally have an opportunity to do so that afternoon.

After lunch, Mary wandered towards the library. There, she found that her father had not been telling a lie when he said that Pemberley housed one of the greatest libraries in all of England. Though she was not sure about all the other libraries in England, she was very sure that Pemberley's library was indeed quite grand. Running her fingers along the binding of the books, Mary scanned the titles searching for one that looked mildly entertaining. Finally settling on a book, she pulled it off the shelf and dragged the large book over to a chair by the window overlooking the pond.

Mary was sitting comfortably in one of the overstuffed chairs of the library, reading a book on geography when Mrs. Reynolds came hurrying in. Mary was beginning to believe that Mrs. Reynolds was always bustling about, for she had never seen the good housekeeper do anything less than dash from here to there. "Ah, there you are my child. I was wondering where you had gone off to. I am so sorry my dear," Mrs. Reynolds began, "Master Colin has been in high dungeon all morning long and I have been so preoccupied with ministering to him that I have not had time to assemble the staff. You will have to wait until later this afternoon to meet the staff and perhaps it might be best if you waited until tomorrow to meet Master Colin's acquaintance after all."

Mary blinked confusedly. "Oh."

"You poor thing," Mrs. Reynolds clucked and sighed. "Nothing seems to be going well this week. I am so sorry that you had to arrive during it. I do hope that you have been able to find amusement on your own. I am afraid that you will find Pemberley to be a quiet sort of place after all your adventures in India. There is nobody your age to play with except for Master Colin and goodness knows he never thinks himself well enough to exert himself. Perhaps Master Dickon might be persuaded..." Mrs. Reynolds did not finish her sentence as she let her rambling overtake her thought.

Confused by the uncompleted thought, Mary sought to understand what Mrs. Reynolds was trying to say and asked, "Who is Master Dickon?"

Mrs. Reynolds redirected her attention back to Mary and smiled. "Oh, nothing at all my dear. So sorry, often times I am so busy trying to do several things at once that I have many thoughts running through my head. You must not mind me when I start to ramble."

"Oh. That's quite all right," Mary answered, trying to pretend like she knew what Mrs. Reynolds was talking about when in truth, she knew nothing at all.

Truthfully though, Mrs. Reynolds was hatching a plan in her head, but she did not want to say anything for fear of getting the poor girl's hopes up. Mrs. Reynolds truly did feel sorry for Mary. Here she was far away from the only home she had known and she had no one to keep her company except for the servants. It was not right and she aimed to do something about it. She liked Mary and thought she deserved something better. But until she could be sure that things would work out, Mrs. Reynolds would not say anything.

"Well my dear, I must see to Master Colin again. I am sorry you cannot see him today, but I will take you on a tour of the house later this afternoon and you can meet the staff then."

"That sounds lovely," Mary managed to blithely answer. Her parents had fortunately had the foresight to give her a tiny appraisal of Colin's situation and being an only child, she was not unaccustomed to spending large amounts of time alone. But after Mrs. Reynolds had quitted the room, Mary huffed a sigh and thought aloud, "If Colin Darcy is always going to be sick, who is going to be my company here in England? He was supposed to be my playmate, I thought! How I miss India!" The tears that had been so threatening this morning now came tumbling down. And this time, Mary did not try to stop them.

Tired from her morning's exercise and drained from the new experience of living in a new country without the familiarity of her parents, Mary soon fell into a deep slumber in one of the library chairs. She began to dream and in the dream, her aunt came to rescue Mary from Pemberley. She took Mary away to a little cottage by the seashore where they lived happily together amidst constant laughter. There was no Pemberley, no absent master, and no ill-humored boy. There was only her aunt and herself and it was absolutely heavenly.

Mrs. Reynolds woke Mary up several hours later to show her around the house a little bit more. Mary's head spun as she visited room after room. She never knew that a house could have so many rooms, nor had she ever known about the necessity of having so many rooms. Her house in India had a morning room, a sitting room, a music room, a conservatory, a dining room, and her father's study, which also doubled as a library. But Pemberley had so many more rooms. In addition to those, it had a library that was separate from Mr. Darcy's study, a billiard room, a ballroom, a dining room for all occasions, a dining room for grander affairs, a portrait gallery... the list of rooms continued and Mary struggled to remember the location of each room. She knew that it would take her many weeks before she would feel comfortable walking around by herself without getting lost.

After she toured the inside of Pemberley, Mary was introduced to the Pemberley staff. Once she had finally been introduced to the staff, the hour was late and Mary was taken upstairs to eat dinner alone in her room. A while later, after she had finished with her meal, another young maid, Sarah, came in to take her tray away. Sarah, unlike Martha, was not inclined to stay and chat with Mary. Instead, without so much as a glance at the young girl, she scurried to finish her business, cleared the table, and left the room with the tray in hand. Sarah went as quickly as she had come.

Left all alone in her room, Mary flung herself on her bed and took out a set of miniatures she had brought with her from India. The first was a recent portrait done of her parents and the second was one her mother had given her a long time ago. It was a picture of her aunt. Mary fingered the second one carefully, thinking of her dream that afternoon. Then, flipping over onto her back, she sighed and stared up at the expansive, white canopy, which covered her bed. Her Aunt Lizzy. Mary was impatient and eager to meet this woman of whom she had heard so much about. Her Aunt Lizzy sounded like a good woman who was as intelligent as she was fun and loving. Mary knew from the letters, which her aunt and her mother exchanged quite frequently, that her aunt loved Mary a lot even though they lived on opposite sides of the globe and had not seen one another in quite some time.

Mary longed to meet this person whom her mother adored and Mary had come to adore herself. Yet for some inexplicable reason, when Mary had inquired as to whether or not she would be able to meet her aunt while in England, both parents had given her an ambiguous and abrupt answer. Her father had been startled by the question but quickly said, "Erm, yes, um... well, I'm not sure that would be a very good idea actually." Meanwhile her mother had immediately paled and said, "Yes, well, I will certainly inform your aunt of your presence in England although I am not sure she will have the opportunity to visit for a while as she is presently engaged as a governess and has not the luxury of traveling about." When Mary had tried to press the issue, both parents had made it known in no uncertain terms that the matter was closed to discussion.

And so, Mary now sat all alone in her bedroom, with no family or friend to keep her company. Mary drummed her fingers on the white coverlet in boredom. There was nothing to do in her room except play with the dolls that had been placed in her room for that exact purpose. However, Mary had never been one to play with dolls, save the one her aunt had given her on the day her parents had left England. This doll she had named Beth and Mary took it to bed with her every night. Other than Beth though, Mary did not have much use for dolls. After a little while, Mary grew tired of staring at nothing and gave up trying to keep herself entertained. She opted to turn in early for bed instead of carrying on with her staring. Not surprisingly, Mary fell asleep as soon as she tucked herself underneath the covers of her bed. In no time she had reached a dream-like state and that night, she dreamt of the ivy-covered wall and of a fairyland, which existed behind its closed door.

In the middle of the night, Mary was woken up by the sounds of tree branches tapping loudly against the windowpanes. Frightened by the noise, she forgot all about her dream. In the distance, she heard a howling sound. She could not tell if it came from outside or inside the house and she gathered her sheets tighter around herself. Reason wanted her to believe that it was the howling winds in the distance that was creating such a racket. After all, both Mrs. Reynolds and Martha had warned her of the noise that could be created by the winds across the moors. But, a part of her also wanted her to believe that there was a loud wailing emanating from somewhere in the house. Her initial reaction was that the howling sounded something akin to crying. But who could be crying and why was that person crying? Pemberley, Mary knew was not only a large house but also an old one and probably filled with ghoulish mysteries. For the rest of the night, after she had finally fallen back asleep out of sheer exhaustion, Mary slept fitfully wondering if there were ghosts in the house and whether or not they would come and attack her while she slept.

On the other side of the world, in India, Jane was sitting at her writing table in the morning room trying to compose a letter to her sister. Jane had never found letter writing to be a difficult task, especially when it was a letter addressed to her sister. But this letter would contain information that was different from the usual sort and Jane did not know how to best phrase her words. For weeks she had been deliberating as to what the best method was in informing Elizabeth of Mary's removal from India to Pemberley estate in Derbyshire, England. As a result, Jane had continually pushed writing a letter to her sister aside, claiming that she had other more immediate concerns that needed to be attended to first. Now, racked with guilt for having waited so long to tell Elizabeth of hers and Charles's decision, Jane finally decided to be firm and make herself complete the unpleasant task.

In the end, Jane decided that the best method would be the most straightforward and honest method. And so now she sat, paper in lying in front of her on the desk, pen in hand, trying to think of the best way to word the truth.

Dearest Lizzy,

How happy I was to receive your last letter and your assurances that you are in good spirits as well as good health. I am sorry to hear that our youngest sister continues to plague you for living assistance. It does not seem fair to me that Lydia always turns to you for aid simply because she insists on thinking that you have an abundance of personal wealth and as you are still single, you could not possibly have use for all the money that you work so hard to earn. It troubles me even more that our own mother supports her in such thinking. It appears to me that it would behoove Lydia and Mr. Wickham to learn and practice a little economy in their expenditures. If they did as such, perhaps they would not have to be so dependent on outside assistance. But so it has always been and I suppose they will never learn so long as Mama continues to encourage Lydia's flighty manners and find justifications for Mr. Wickham's constant changing of occupations. I must admit, you were right all those years ago when you predicted nothing but trouble in the future from those two. You must not however give them anything, Elizabeth. I know you are thinking of their children when you give them what you can, but you know that the money only goes towards feeding their lavish tendencies. I will not have you squandering your wealth when you work too hard for your keep and I entreat you not to do so. You should not have to share the earnings of your hard work with Lydia. Like you, I do take pity on our nieces and nephews though. Perhaps Charles could be persuaded to send a little something their way and some sort of a stipulation could be made whereby the money goes to the upkeep of their children. I shall speak to him about it at the very first opportunity.

Let us move on to happier thoughts, though. Your pupils sound like such delights to teach. If only Mary could be as well behaved as the Moffet girls. Just the other day, she came trampling into the house covered in six inches of mud. She had been chasing a bird, wanting to know where it was that they flew off. Despite my alarm and displeasure at such a shocking display, I had to smile for Mary is forever reminding me of your own childhood escapades. Her inquisitive nature is commendable, but her heedless and impulsive tendencies are not. Nonetheless, I still love her for them. It is most difficult to be a parent sometimes - one never knows how one ought to react.

Speaking of Mary, I must tell you of a great change, which has taken place since your last letter. Charles and I felt that it was time for her to begin a formal education. As a result, we have sent her back to England where she is now living with Mr. Darcy in Derbyshire. Mr. Darcy is to engage a private tutor, who will provide instructions for Mary as well as his son, Colin Darcy.

This was the only option Charles and I had, Elizabeth. Mary would have grown to be too wild if she continued here in India. I begged Charles to return to England but he is unable to leave his post at least for a while longer. I was impatient to have Mary go to England though torn at the thought of having to send her away all alone too. My greatest wish was to send Mary to you, but how could I send her to you when you have no home of your own? Sending her to Mr. Darcy was Charles's idea and after some consideration it seemed like the lesser of two evils: Mama and Caroline Bingley. I hope you will forgive me for acting as I did.

Though you never speak of Mr. Darcy, I know that at one time speaking his name gave you pain. I hope that time would have eased your wounds, but I fear that this may not have been the case. Consequently, I have informed Mary that visiting with you is out of the question, at least while she remains in the care of Mr. Darcy. Even though Mary's greatest wish is to meet with you and finally know her aunt, she will simply have to bide her time until something more agreeable can be arranged. Until that time comes, two of my dearest persons in this world shall have to remain parted. However, I wanted to let you at least know that Mary was in England and not far from yourself.

Yours & etc.,
Jane

Jane signed her name with a flourish then lay down her pen to read the letter over one more time. She sighed as she finished proofreading it. It was without a doubt not her best letter. It jumped from one topic to another and rambled on from time to time. The letter contrasted with her usual eloquence, but she had done the best she could and this was the result of her efforts. Jane knew that it would have to do. Folding it and placing it in an envelope, she then addressed it to Elizabeth and placed it with her other missives to be sent with the afternoon boat. What was done was done and now all Jane could do was await Elizabeth's response.

Chapter 8

Back in England, in Mary's bedroom...

The next morning found Martha once again helping a yawning and sleepy Mary dress after breakfast. Martha heaved the scrunched up brown morning dress over Mary's head and yanked it past her shoulders, tugging Mary's arms through the sleeves. Like a doll, Mary lazily and limply let Martha pull her in every which direction. "Goodness, Miss Mary. You look so tired still. Did you not sleep at all last night?" the concerned servant girl asked as she turned Mary abruptly around to tie the sash in place and straighten the hems of her dress.

Mary stretched one arm high into the air while her other hand hovered near her gaping mouth. She shook her head and her eyes overflowed with the watery tears of fatigue. "I am so tired, Martha," she yawned.

Martha looked over at the breakfast table and saw that Mary's bowl of porridge had been barely touched. "You'd better sit back and down and finish your breakfast, Miss. I'll wager Mrs. Reynolds isn't going to let me past the kitchen door when she catches sight of that bowl. You'd best be off saving both me and you the trouble by eating your porridge now."

Mary sat grumpily back down in front of her breakfast. "I'm too tired to eat this morning, Martha. Isn't it enough that I ate my boiled egg?"

"I'm afraid it's not," Martha sympathized, sitting down across from the little girl. Mary picked up her spoon and dug it forcefully into the bowl. She grimaced as she shoveled a spoon full of the thick gruel into her mouth.

Martha, watching Mary eat, said, "You needn't be so cantankerous about it, Miss Mary. It's for your own good, it is." Mary paused in between her bites to stick her tongue out at the young maid.

Knowing that Mary's crabby disposition stemmed from her weariness, Martha did not take her actions to heart that morning. "Did you not sleep well last night? Is there something about your bed or room that troubles you?" she asked. It was important to Martha that her little charge should find everything to her taste. Orders had been given from above to make sure that Miss Mary Bingley lived in comfort while she stayed at Pemberley.

"Oh no! My room and my bed are perfectly delightful, Martha," Mary answered honestly. "In fact, I fell asleep just fine yesterday evening." Mary frowned. "Only, I heard the most ghastly thing last night and it woke me in the middle of the night. It was..." Mary searched for the right adjective to describe the ghoulish sound she had heard the night before. "...like a howling sound," she said slowly. "It kept me up all night long. Do you know what it was, Martha?"

Martha grew noticeably uneasy in Mary's presence as she squirmed about in her seat. Thinking quickly, Martha was able to come up with a viable answer to Mary's question. "You must have heard the wind blowing through the bushes," she suggested. "They call it wuthering, that sound. I'll be sure to make sure that your windows and shutters are closed more tightly so that the wind won't blow through them again when I prepare your room for bed tonight."

In her innocence, Mary did not appear to notice Martha's discomfort. Yet, she could not agree with Martha's conjecture either and shook her head and insisted that the sound she had heard last night came from within the walls of the house. "No, Martha. It was not the wind that I heard howling last night."

"Are you sure?" Martha asked. Pulling out a brush, Martha stood up from her seat and moved towards the back of Mary's chair. Slowly and carefully, she began to brush Mary's silky brown hair. "The winds across the moors are awfully loud, Miss Mary, and I'll wager you haven't heard anything like them before."

Martha seemed insistent on having Mary believe her, but Mary was not to be swayed from her position. "No, it wasn't the wind on the moors that I heard last night. I heard... someone... crying. Someone crying, it was. And they were awfully loud wails too." Mary shuddered. "They were frightening wails, Martha, as if someone were in great pain," she added.

"Maybe it was Betty, the scullery maid," Martha offered. "She's had a terrible toothache these past few days. Been howling her head off in the kitchen all day long, she has. No one can get her to stop, not even Mrs. Reynolds. It's likely that she was still howling when she went to bed last night."

Unconvinced, Mary shrugged her shoulders and hopped out of her chair once Martha had finished tying down her plaits. Grabbing her matching brown jacket off her bed, Mary donned her bonnet and flew out the door. "Well, whatever it was, I sure hope it doesn't keep me up tonight too. I'll be down by the trout stream this morning if anybody wants me," she announced.

"Don't walk too near the edge of the lake," Martha called after the little girl. "You don't want to go falling in and having someone pick you out of the cold, muddy water!"

"I won't!!!" Mary yelled back.

Martha sighed as she heard the pitter-patter of Mary's small feet running down the long hallways of Pemberley. When she heard the outside door bang with a shut, Martha moved over to the window and leaned her forehead against the cold and frosty windowpane. With one hand holding back the white, linen drapery and the other hand resting lightly on her left hip, Martha watched Mary race across the grounds. That little girl was meant for discoveries and it will be interesting to see what she uncovers here at Pemberley, Martha's fingers tapped along her hip.

Mary scurried down to the riverbed and once there, slowed down to catch her breath. The cold English air cut against her lungs and Mary knew that she would have to take her time in adjusting to the change from India's warm climate to England's foggy and rainy weather. Leaning over, with her hands on her knees, Mary paused to take in several deep breaths. After she had regained control of her breathing and the pain in her chest had faded away, Mary looked back and made sure that no one could see her from the windows of the great house before she continued and made her way down towards the walled garden she had found the day before.

Reaching the walled garden, she walked alongside the length of it, running her hand through the ivy vines. Mary continued until she happened upon an old stone bench. Brushing off the dirt and fallen leaves that had collected there through the years, Mary perched herself for the remainder of the morning. There she sat and hugged her knees, thoughtfully considering what was beyond the walls and wondering what kind of a purpose the walls served. It was in this contemplative position that Ben, the gardener, found her.

"Good-morning, Ben."

"Ah, back again today, are ya?" Slowing down his wheelbarrow, Ben stopped to have a morning chat with Mary.

"I saw a squirrel here, yesterday," she informed him.

"Did you?" Ben asked.

Mary nodded her head in affirmation and pointed. "It went down the other side of that wall."

Ben glanced over in the direction of her finger. "Ah, missy, that'd be the Secret Garden," Ben revealed.

"The Secret Garden?" Mary wondered, turning her face away from Ben and fixing her gaze upon the secure walls. "But why is it called the Secret Garden and can I go in it? I want to see it," she determined. "Can you tell me why it's called the Secret Garden and can you show me the door?" Mary returned her eyes to Ben and looked at him expectantly.

"No I can't and I don't know the story behind its name," Ben lied, waving her question away with his callous hands, thick and crusty from years of working in the dirt. "Mr. Darcy locked the door to that garden years ago. Said no one was ever to go into that garden ever again and buried the key. Now the ivy's grown up over the door so even I don't know where it is anymore."

"But how odd," Mary said. "Why should a garden be locked up like that? Shouldn't everyone be able to walk through it and enjoy its beauty like they do in all the other gardens at Pemberley?" she naively asked.

"It's not our place to question the actions of the Master, Miss Mary."

Mary pouted. "Still, I want to go in and see what it looks like. Have you ever been inside of the garden?"

"Why of course I have!" Ben puffed his chest out in pride and hooked his overall straps with his thumbs. "Mr. Darcy and the then Miss Darcy used to boast that only I could grow the roses to be as beautiful as they were in that garden. People used to come from far and wide to see them in bloom, you know."

"Then what happened?" she asked.

Ben shrugged his shoulders. "Then one day the door was locked and no one ever went in it ever again," he answered matter-of-factly.

"But didn't you ever wonder why the garden door was locked and think to ask?"

"It wasn't my place to do so, Miss Mary," Ben reminded the little girl.

"I'd like to see the roses," Mary sighed. "I love roses. I love all colors of the rose, but I especially love red roses. Mother always says that for every color of the rose, there is a special meaning, which is what makes them so special. But the most special of them all are the red roses for they are the flowers of love." The only comment Mary was able to elicit from Ben was a snort.

"Are you sure there's absolutely no way for me to get into that garden?" Mary asked determinately.

"You stay away from that garden or you'll like to find yourself back on boat or worse," Ben warned. Picking up his shovel and potted flowers, Ben pushed his wheelbarrow away from Mary and sauntered down the garden path to do his day's work. But Ben left behind a very perplexed Mary who sat bewildered by his harsh and somewhat sudden words.

Meanwhile, down by the lake, Ben was working on a bed of heather, taking care to pull out all the weeds and plant new flowers where the old ones had withered away and died. As he shoveled and planted, he could not help thinking to himself, That young 'un sure looks a mighty lot like the last lady that ever saw the Secret Garden. I wonder what the Master makes of that.

Mary did not stay outside much longer after Ben left her. Soon, Mary's stomach began to rumble, signaling to her that it was time for lunch. Over the course of the week, though, Mary continued to think about the garden and its significance. Despite Ben's warnings, her interest in the garden did not desist. Ignoring his advice, Mary tried to learn as much as she could about the garden and the more she learned, the more her interest was piqued.

Everyday she would visit it first thing in the morning. Sometimes her stay would be brief. She would only stand there long enough to ask aloud, "Why was the garden locked up and the key thrown away?" before she continued onto some other path or garden to play in. Other times she would stay a while though. She would sit on the stone bench and fantasize about what the garden looked like on the inside. The gray, stone wall is so cold and austere. It is not the least bit friendly-looking, Mary decided. But I bet that it is beautiful inside and that once the flowers appeared in the spring, it would be a warm and inviting place.

She could especially envision the blooming roses in the summertime. The garden, Mary imagined, would be filled with yellow roses, pink roses, golden roses, peach roses, and purple roses, with the red roses growing highest amidst them. Dainty butterflies, speckled in all colors of the rainbow, would flit and float gracefully amongst the petals and morning dew would dried by the warmth of the afternoon sun. The evenings would bring cooler air and the roses would bend and bow in its wind, bobbing its elegant heads to and fro. The vision always caused Mary to hold her breath and sigh.

Finally, after days of going mad with wonder, Mary could no longer suppress her curiosity concerning the ivy-covered wall and its garden within. One morning, when Martha was helping her dress as per usual, she inquired after it. Ben had told her that he did not know the story behind its name, The Secret Garden. However, his ignorance did not suggest to Mary that there was not a story behind its name; in fact it seemed to confirm it. Thus, Mary was determined to find someone who could tell her the story.

Martha seemed a bit discomfited by the question and was reluctant to give the girl an answer. She tried to give evasive answers, but Mary gave her such imploring eyes that Martha found herself giving into the doe-like expressions of the young Miss's countenance. Trying to justify her weakness and reassure herself, Martha thought, Besides, it is not as if everyone else around the area does not know something of the story. What harm is there in Miss Mary knowing the Master's sad story? An internal challenge commenced, But, if Mrs. Reynolds ever found out that I was gossiping about the Master or anything for that matter...

Martha quickly pushed the latter thought out of her head and turned to Mary saying, "Come." She patted the seat cushion in front of Mary's vanity table. "I will tell you a story while I do your hair, but you must promise not to breathe this to a soul. There isn't a person around these parts that don't know the Master's story so you might as well know it yourself, but this is gossip, you understand, and Mrs. Reynolds does not approve of gossip, especially to young ladies such as yourself."

Mary nodded her head in assent and gave her promise. As Martha brushed and wove Mary's long brown hair into symmetrical plaits that hung straight down her back, she began to weave the tale of the Master's past.

"No one knows for sure the real story behind the garden, that's why everyone calls it the 'Secret Garden'. But it has been said that many years ago, long before you were born, Mr. Darcy met his true love on the Pemberley grounds - in a garden to be exact."

"How romantic!" Mary exclaimed.

"Indeed," Martha nodded. "The garden in which they met was the very one you found yesterday, but could not enter because of the ivy-covered walls."

"Oh."

"Apparently, the young lady had been visiting the house with an aunt and an uncle. After they had taken a tour of the house, they wandered around outside taking in the surrounding's beauty. And that is when the young lady ran into the Master. So taken with the lady was the Master that he invited her often back to Pemberley and it is said that the Master courted her in the gardens, with her aunt and uncle lagging behind as chaperones. While on her visits to the Pemberley grounds, she proclaimed the South Garden to be her favorite. She especially loved the bloom of the roses and their elegant scent in the air and in the young Master's eyes, that garden became forever hers."

Fascinated by Martha's tale, Mary found herself eager to get to the end of it and asked, "What happened to the lady and the garden?"

"There are some who say that the Master was later scorned by his ladylove and therefore, in his hurt, anger and furor, locked up the garden and forbid anyone from ever entering it or mentioning it again as he did not wish to be reminded of the lady who had hurt him deeply," Martha answered. "But the story I choose to believe is a much more beautiful and romantic one. It is the one where people say that the Master and the young lady had already met elsewhere earlier, but realized the full potential of their love for one another in that garden."

"That is a pretty ending," Mary sighed. "But I don't understand. Why then would Mr. Darcy lock up the garden if it were such a happy reminder of what took place between himself and Mrs. Darcy?" Mary questioned.

Martha smiled at Mary's innocence. "Ah, but you see, the lady in question was not the late Mrs. Darcy."

"Oh?" Mary was beginning to feel not a little confused.

"People say that unfortunate circumstances separated the two lovers, though what the unfortunate circumstances were, no one knows for sure. That is still up for speculation. However, everyone does know for a fact that after their separation, Mr. Darcy locked up the garden and forbid anyone from ever entering it again. To him, it belonged to his beloved and no other. Not even the late Mrs. Darcy was ever allowed to step foot in it and I do not think the Master himself has visited it since that time. After a while, Mr. Darcy married his cousin, the former Miss Anne de Bourgh, and they lived contentedly together up until her death following the birth of Master Colin. I don't think Mr. Darcy has been the same ever since - but people who have known him for a much longer period of time say that the true change in his demeanor took place after his true love's visit to Pemberley."

"It seems all so very strange," Mary commented. "So romantic and tragic and yet so twisted and confused. It's such a sad tale."

"Well, that's all I know," Martha answered. "The only people who probably know the real truth or at least the story closest to the real truth are Mrs. Fitzwilliam, the Master's younger sister, and Mrs. Reynolds, who has known the Master ever since he was a child. But you won't find them sharing his story with anyone, so I'm afraid you will have to content yourself with what I have told you now."

"I suppose so..." Mary's heart felt heavy with her new knowledge.

Martha patted Mary's braid and straightened her collar. "There, your hair is finally done and it's about time you went out for your morning exercise now."

Mary did not race out of the room with her usual exuberance, so Martha gently prodded her towards the door. "Go on."

Mary obediently plodded her way out the door. In the doorway, she turned around and asked one last question, "Who was the young lady?"

"I don't know, lass. I don't know that anyone knows but Mr. Darcy." Martha was wrong though; there was more than just one person who knew of the young lady's identity. And what they chose to do with their privileged information would determine how relevant they would be in the future to Mr. Darcy's life and to this tale.

* Some of the dialogue in this chapter was either taken directly from or were altered versions of those found in The Secret Garden, the Broadway musical.

Chapter 9

Night after night, Mary went to bed with the expectant hope that the next day she would be introduced to Colin Darcy, her playmate. Morning after morning those hopes would be dashed when Mrs. Reynolds brought in her breakfast. Each new day found Colin having some sort of ailment, which prevented him from having visitors. Some mornings he complained of aching bones. Other mornings his cough was too bad. And there were still some days where his irate temper rendered it best if he was left alone. Mrs. Reynolds's daily prognosis often left Mary wondering is she really wanted to meet the boy. But each night, when she found herself bored and at her wits end, she knew that she desperately wanted a playmate - someone to talk to, share things with, and someone to be with.

Meanwhile, the cries that kept Mary awake at night did not cease. Every night, she would wake up to the harsh, wailing sounds and lie awake, staring at the canopy over her bed. On the fifth night, Mary could no longer bear to endure the ghoulish echoes reverberating throughout the household. Climbing out of bed, clad only in her thin, white nightgown and nightcap, Mary grabbed her shawl and candleholder from the night stand. She walked over to the fireplace and lit her solitary candle. Soon, the bedroom was filled with not only the warmth and light of the fire, but also the rosy glow of her candle.

Mary crept silently towards her bedroom door. Taking her candle in her left hand, she reached steadily for the doorknob with her right. She turned it slowly, taking care not to make a clicking sound. Her heart and her hand froze at the sound of another loud cry. It soon passed and Mary took a gulp of fresh air. Resolutely, she opened the door and threw back her shoulders as she entered the hallway.

The candlelight cast eerie and looming shadows along the walls. As Mary made her way down the corridors towards the source of the noise, she could feel the eyes of the portraits hanging on the walls staring frowningly upon her. She tried to shake off the chill that had gathered down her spine. "Father says there are no such things as ghosts," she whispered repeatedly to herself. "I can be a brave little girl."

Mary was so caught up in warding off the threat of evil spirits that by the time she realized she had ventured into a different part of the house, she was already standing outside the door from whence all the terrifying noises had come. Standing outside the now silent room, Mary realized that she had no idea where she was or how to get back to her room. She looked up one end of the hallway and down the other to see if she could recognize any of the wall hangings or hallway decorations from her general tour of Pemberley on the second day of her arrival. Everything looked foreign to Mary though and with a sinking feeling, she knew she was lost.

The sounds of impending footsteps caused Mary to panic. Seeking a place to hide, lest she should be found out of her bed and in a forbidden part of the house, Mary swiftly opened the door in front of her and ran into the room. Keeping her wits about her, she remembered not to slam the door and instead, closed it slowly and silently, leaning up against it, holding her breath, once it was shut. The footsteps grew louder, the shoes pounding hard against the oak floors underneath. Even the silk runners could not deaden the thud of each step. Mary closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to stand as still as she possibly could. The footsteps came and went and as they faded into the distance, Mary slowly exhaled, letting out all her fears at the same time.

Now that the danger had past, Mary began to relax a little and take note of her surroundings. The first thing that Mary noticed was that the room was heavily cloaked in darkness. From the décor to the atmosphere, it was as though a dark cloud hung like a widow's veil over the entire room. Goosebumps prickled Mary's skin. Taking a few steps forward, she held out her candle to provide herself with more light. A gentle cough from somewhere in the general direction of Mary's right caused her to gasp and jump backwards. Her movements stirred the cougher from his slumbering position.

"Who's there?" the cougher angrily called out.

Mary swung her candle around. Its dim and flickering light illuminated a thin, sallow-looking boy tucked into his bed. Mary breathed in sharply again. Who was this odd creature?

"Who's there, I said." Mary stood paralyzed and shocked, her voice frozen solid within her throat, and so the boy asked again, "Well? Who are you?"

Mary took a few tentative steps forward, moving out of the shadows, making her presence known. Wearing only a white nightgown, to the boy, she looked something akin to an angel sent down from heaven above to retrieve a lost soul. Frightened by the sight of Mary, the boy pulled his bedclothes up higher, leaving enough room for only his bulging, white eyes to peer over them. "Get out!!!" he managed to shout.

"Who are you?" Mary whispered.

"Are you a ghost?" the boy stuttered, quaking underneath his sheets with trepidation.

Mary walked until she stood at the foot of the bed. Holding up her candle, she let the light shine upon her face so that the boy could see that she was not a ghost, but very real indeed. "No I am not. I am Mary Bingley. Fitzwilliam Darcy is my father's best friend and my godfather."

"I am Colin. Fitzwilliam Darcy is my father. I see no one and no one sees me, including my father."

Excited to have finally met the boy that was supposed to have been her playmate, Mary asked eagerly, "Why, you are Colin? Colin Darcy? Do you know, you are supposed to be my playmate while I stay at Pemberley!"

Colin sniffed. "Playmate? How can I possibly be your playmate when I am going to die?" he asked practically.

"How do you know you are going to die?" Mary did not know whether to believe the odd boy or not.

"Because I hear everyone whispering about it. Only time will tell when I shall die," Colin spoke proudly. Darkening his eyes, he asked suddenly, "Where did you come from?"

"I am from India. My parents sent me here to stay with my godfather, your father."

"You parents didn't want to see you either, I see," Colin spoke half-sympathetically.

Shocked by such a notion, Mary immediately objected and sought to correct Colin's inconceivable assumption. "Oh no! My mother and father love me very much and were sad to see me leave. They only sent me to England so that I could go to school. I did not have anyone my age to play with in India and Mother and Father thought I would benefit from a change of environment," she explained maturely.

"My mother died soon after I was born and that's why my father hates me."

"How sad," Mary answered honestly and frowned. She could not fathom the idea of a parent not loving his child. Mary wondered what kind of a person her godfather was. "He hates the garden too," she noted sadly.

"What garden?" Colin asked loudly.

"Why do you always scream?"

Before Colin could answer Mary's question, Mrs. Reynolds came barging into the room. Caught, both children froze in their positions. They were sure that punishment was to follow for having been found awake and out of their beds in the middle of the night. Mary was especially frightened, as she was now found wandering aimlessly around the house just as she had been specifically instructed not to do. Mrs. Reynolds however was not the least bit upset to see the two of them together. In fact, she seemed quite relieved to have found Mary.

"Ah, here you are Miss Mary! You gave me quite a scare when I went to check on you and you weren't in your bed like you were supposed to be."

Mary hung her head in shame. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Reynolds. I heard a noise and I got up to investigate."

Mrs. Reynolds merely nodded her head and walked over to embrace the little girl. "There, there, my child. It's all right! I'm just glad I found you! When I couldn't find you anywhere in your wing of the house, I began to panic, thinking that maybe something might have happened to you. But here you are, safe as can be." Brightening up, she added, "So, I see you've met your playmate at last, have you? Well, Master Colin, this is certainly one way to meet Miss Mary. I'm glad to see that for once, you aren't your usually cantankerous self. But now that you've met your playmate, what do you think?"

"I'm much too sick to be thinking about inconsequential playmates!" Colin answered haughtily.

"Now Master Colin. You know you are not supposed to think like that," Mrs. Reynolds reminded him.

"How can I not think this way when it is the truth?"

"How will you ever get better if you are bent on believing that you are going to die?"

"What is the point of living when you know you are going to die?"

Mrs. Reynolds threw her hands up into the air. "Well, I give up! There is no use talking to you when you get like this. Would you had stayed a baby. You were much easier to handle then - much more sweet and docile," she muttered.

Turning to Mary, she asked, "And you, Miss Mary? What do you make of our Master Colin, here?"

Mary scrunched up her face. She did not know what to think. At times, Colin seemed to be harmless enough. But other times, he appeared to be downright disagreeable. His hauteur irked her, especially the way he talked of dying with such pride and certainty. He could also be quite rude. Yet, at the same time, she also pitied the poor boy who so obviously yearned to be loved. Did she like him? Mary was not sure what she thought.

Mrs. Reynolds understood Mary's silence. Saving her from having to answer, she patted Mary on the shoulder before leaving her side to re-tuck Colin into bed. "Back to bed you two. It's late, children. You will have plenty of time tomorrow to get better acquainted. Miss Mary, if you'll go stand outside and wait for me, I will escort you back to your room in a minute."

Mary did as she was told and went to stand outside, leaving the bedroom door ajar. Mrs. Reynolds put Colin back into bed, straightening his scrambled bed sheets. Colin, however, refused to go back to sleep without a fight. "I don't need a playmate," he kept insisting.

"Of course you don't," Mrs. Reynolds tried to placate.

"Then send her back to wherever she came from!"

"Well, she's not really a playmate, Colin," she appeased. "You're much too old for a playmate, aren't you? You're a big boy! So, Mary will be your company. Won't it be nice to have a friend your age to converse with?"

"I don't need a playmate or company!" Colin argued, sitting up in bed with forceful anger.

"Shhh..." Mrs. Reynolds pushed him down onto his bed. "Now is not the time to talk about this Master Colin. We will continue the discussion in the morning," she promised.

"I'll speak to my father about this, I swear I will!" he warned.

"As you wish, Master Colin."

Seeing that Mrs. Reynolds did not appear to be taking him seriously, he began to threaten her as well. "I'll have him fire you, I swear I will! Once Father finds out that you are not doing as I tell you, he will have you fired!"

Mrs. Reynolds smiled softly to herself. "Your father," she informed him," was the one who suggested the idea in the first place."

Like a true spoiled child, Colin refused to lose the battle and give into his disappointments. Flailing his fists and legs, he began to beat the bed. "I won't, I won't, I won't, I say! I won't have a playmate!"

Like a woman who has had years of practice, Mrs. Reynolds quickly gained control of the situation and calmed Colin down. She rubbed small circles on his back as he hiccuped the last of his fit. In a soothing voice she peacefully asked, "Don't you like Miss Mary, Master Colin? She's such a sweet little thing. I'll wager you've never met anything like her before and I know that if you would give her a chance, you'd be great friends."

Colin turned his head away from his housekeeper, refusing to let her see his eyes and facial expressions. "She is tolerable, I suppose. But not good enough to be a playmate to me."

"I give up," Mrs. Reynolds sighed. "You are incorrigible." She kissed what she could reach of his forehead before taking away his candle and saying, "Get some sleep now, Master Colin. You need all the rest that you can get. Sweet dreams."

Outside, Mary had overheard the entirety of the conversation and was horrified and seething with anger at Colin's words, especially at his last comment. How abominably rude, she inwardly exclaimed. Capital offense!

Mrs. Reynolds came out and took Mary by the hand. As she led Mary through the long and winding hallways back to the opposite end of the house, Mary thought about Colin and his offensive remarks. The more she thought about him, the more she did so with absolute disgust. How dare he say such things about me! I don't care if he has had a miserable life. His manners were inexcusable and uncalled for. From now on, I shan't bother feeling sorry for him. He is the most proudest, most disagreeable boy I have ever met! I wish I never had to see him ever again!

That night, Mary had another sleepless night. Long after Mrs. Reynolds had left her room, Mary continued to sit up in bed, spending the remainder of her sleeping hours reviling the horrors of Colin Darcy.

After several days in Colin's company, Mary began to think herself headed for bedlam. Colin had not improved upon his first night's performance and Mary was rather loath to spend any more time than what was necessary with him. Unfortunately for her, Mrs. Reynolds thought differently. In her opinion, the more Colin and Mary became acquainted with one another, the more they would grow to like one another. Mary wondered how anybody, let alone herself, would ever be able to like a boy like Colin Darcy - someone who was spoiled, bratty, rude, and overbearing.

A letter at long last from her mother and father revived Mary's spirits a little. What did not make her homesick made her happy. She could smell the sweet scents of India in between the sheets of her letter and she whiffed each one, reveling in the memories they stirred. Four sides of paper were insufficient for the Bingley's to express their sadness in missing their daughter. Their sorrowful words brought tears to Mary's eyes. Hugging their letter made her feel a little better and she sat down immediately to compose a letter of her own. There was but one detail that marred Mary's happiness upon receiving her parents' letter. That was when her father asked after Colin and reminded Mary that she ought to be charitable in her feelings towards him, considering all that he had lost and endured. Despite the wealth that Colin had been born into, Mary was blessed with the love of two parents while he had only one. Additionally, she had her health while he had none. It was her duty, her father said, to show Colin the good things in life. Though her father spoke general and true words, Mary felt herself unequal to the task. How can I be charitable to a person who only wants to be pitied? And above all, how can I show him life's beauty when he refuses to open his eyes and see it for himself?

The one thing Mary did regret was now that she was bidden to spend her mornings with Colin, she was not able to visit the outdoors in the mornings as much as she had in the past. This of course also meant that she had less time to think about the Secret Garden too. Whenever opportunities arose, Mary would steal away for an hour or two after tea, but the afternoon rain often times made it impossible for her to go outside. More than once on a rainy afternoon did Mary wish that Colin would be less irritable during the afternoons so that they could move their meeting times to later in the day, leaving her mornings open to freedom.

Somewhere in Northern England...

Elizabeth had just finished removing the tea things and wiping up the table after sending the Moffet girls upstairs to play in their nursery for the rest of the afternoon when a maid knocked on the door. "Yes?"

The door opened and the maid curtsied, "If you please ma'am, the post just come."

Elizabeth put down the rag she was holding and wiped her hands on her apron. "Thank-you Abigail," and taking the offered letter, she turned away to see who had sent it. Abigail curtsied again behind her and left Elizabeth alone to read her letter in peace.

"At last, a letter from Jane!" Elizabeth excitedly noted. "I've been wondering why she hasn't written before." She looked at the envelope and laughed aloud. "Why, it was misdirected at first. And no wonder, she wrote the address very ill indeed." This was not the first time Jane had written an address unintelligibly. She did it with great frequency, no matter how many times Elizabeth begged her older sister to write with more care.

Elizabeth ran upstairs and briefly checked on the girls to make sure that they did not need anything more from her and then hurried to her room to read her sister's letter in privacy. Elizabeth was just about to open Jane's letter when there was another knock at the door. "Come in," she called.

"I'm sorry to disturb you again, ma'am. This letter also came for you this afternoon." Abigail had returned with another folded letter in her outstretched hand.

Elizabeth took the second letter and Abigail quickly left to room to resume her chores. Elizabeth sighed when she saw that it was from her mother. She looked dolefully at it and then longingly at Jane's trying to decide whose she should read first. In the end, Elizabeth opted to be a dutiful daughter and read her mother's letter first, saving the best for last.

My dearest daughter, Lizzy,

I have just received a letter from your youngest sister, Lydia, where she has just told me that once again, you have refused to lend her some money. Where is your good sense of Christian charity? It is not as if you need all your money anyways, being an Old Maid such as you are. What is a farthing or two to you? You have no need for fine clothes as a governess. You do not travel about society like Lydia. Lord knows I have always tried to teach you to do the right thing and help those in need when you can. But you it seems are forever destined to pay no heed to my instructions. After all, had you followed my advice all those years ago, you would not be some governess to somebody else's children. You would be happily married with your own children and probably in excellent standing to inherit Longbourn one day. Oh, how comforting and nice that would be to have one of my own daughters as the next Mistress of Longbourn. But no, that fate I see has been destined for the artful Charlotte Lucas. I have always known that she was not friends with you for nothing, Lizzy, and as such, I have always taken great pains to warn you. But then, that is another case of where you would not listen to your dear Mama. You always were your father's child and why he chooses to indulge you as he does is beyond me. But your father you will notice, Lizzy, does not promote acts of Christian kindness as I do. I entreat you, Lizzy, to follow my example in this instance and send some money to your dear sister. She and poor Mr. Wickham need all the help they can get. Ah, now there is a lovely couple. It is so unfortunate that circumstances should keep them so far away from Meryton. How I miss my dear Mrs. Wickham and long to see her. And you know, it really is not their fault that they are always living beyond their means. What the English Crown pays the militia these days really is simply scandalous! Lydia writes that it may be time for Mr. Wickham to seek another occupation with preferably a higher income. The Wickham's need all the help that they could possibly receive right now and who better to expect it from than their family? I hope you will listen to your mother for once and do as I ask you. Your father sends his love as always.

Yours and etc.,

Mama

The indignation Elizabeth might have felt upon reading such a letter was dulled by the regularity of such a letter. Over the years, she had become accustomed to receiving such periodic pleas of assistance from Lydia followed by harsh, accusatory letters from their mother regarding her lack of "Christian charity." In fact, it seemed almost odd if Mrs. Bennet did not include some sort of monetary plea on the Wickham's behalf in her letters. Elizabeth merely sighed at her mother's words and wondered for the millionth time how she could be so blind. Lydia and her husband lived in poverty not because they lacked sufficient funding but because they persisted in living beyond their economy. It did not help that both wife and husband were prone to frivolous spending and Elizabeth often suspected that if it were not for the pity that their relations felt for the Wickham's many children, they would never receive outside assistance.

Shaking her head once more, Elizabeth was glad to have Jane's letter to read today. Elizabeth always looked forward to her older sister's letters. Each one was always filled with interesting little episodes of Mary's latest scrapes, Charles's work, and the English society in India. Jane's letters gave Elizabeth a brief reprieve from her own solitary life with the Moffet's for after reading each letter her sister sent her, Elizabeth always felt as though she too were in India, sitting across from Mary at their dinner table, and being a part of their happy home.

Jane's letter lay untouched on the couch. Beside it sat a stunned Elizabeth who was at the moment twisting her handkerchief into a tight knot. She had read the letter three times over, each time finding it more and more impossible to believe. How can Mary be in England? And why of all people is she with Fitzwilliam Darcy? How? Why? When? Where? Well, Elizabeth knew how. Mary had taken a boat to England from India. And she knew why too. Jane had given a sufficient explanation in her letter. Gathering from the date of Jane's letter, when Mary would arrive in England was already a matter of the past tense. And where was obviously Pemberley. Still, Elizabeth could not believe it - she was in utter disbelief.

How could Jane send Mary to Pemberley? Sending Mary to Pemberley was almost like an act of betrayal. It was not that Elizabeth blamed her sister. After calmly reading the letter a second time and following Jane's rationale, she accepted the reasoning Jane had given for Mary being sent to Pemberley. It was just that of all the places Mary would be sent, she was sent to Pemberley.

Pemberley was the home of Fitzwilliam Darcy and many years ago, Elizabeth had once desperately tried to forget that man and all her emotions that were associated with him. After Elizabeth had thought Mr. Darcy lost to her forever, she had tried to remove herself from anything that might serve as a reminder of him. In an attempt to rid him from her thoughts, Elizabeth had gone to the Moffet's in northern England, far away from her family and friends and more importantly, far away from all the places that held some sort of memory of the man she desperately loved. Over time, as her feelings for the man did not abate nor did the memories recede, Elizabeth realized the futility of her efforts and resigned herself to be forever helplessly in love with Mr. Darcy. Yet, Elizabeth was not a strong woman for nothing and with time, she had managed to move on with her life and while not a day went by where she did not think of Mr. Darcy, the aches and pains that had once been associated with his name had slowly ebbed. However, the sudden news of Mary's presence at Pemberley brought all of those former agonizing feelings back in one crashing wave.

Elizabeth picked up Jane's letter again and reread the parts about their youngest sister, Lydia and her husband Mr. Wickham. Elizabeth snorted as she read her sister's description of the infamous pair. It appears to me that it would behoove Lydia and Mr. Wickham to learn and practice a little economy in their expenditures. "I doubt that they would ever do that," thought Elizabeth. But so it has always been and I suppose they will never learn so long as Mama continues to encourage Lydia's flighty manners and find justifications for Mr. Wickham's constant changing of occupations. "Perhaps that is because Mama and Lydia are both silly and stupid women," Elizabeth sniffed to herself. "Ah yes... what is your present occupation right now, Mr. Wickham? The church? The army? The parliament?" Elizabeth snorted bitterly at her own joke. I must admit, you were right all those years ago when you predicted nothing but trouble in the future from those two. Elizabeth sighed despondently. No, it had not been she who had been right all those years ago, but Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth knew then that when it came to Mr. Wickham's character, it was Mr. Darcy who knew him best.

Indeed, Elizabeth's own first impression of Mr. Wickham had been the farthest thing from correct. His easy manners and pleasant countenance had hidden his calculating character and he easily won over Elizabeth and the rest of Meryton as well. Duped and blinded by his charms and flattering words, Elizabeth allowed herself to be taken advantage by Mr. Wickham. Knowing that Elizabeth already had a low opinion of his enemy, Mr. Darcy, he was able to do further damage to his reputation by unjustly slandering his good name. There was truth in all his looks and he gave facts and names to support his story. There was nothing wanting in what Mr. Wickham said and Elizabeth readily believed him. Everything was done with such ease and fluidity that it was not only Elizabeth who fell into his trap. Garnering prejudice against Mr. Darcy proved to be an easier task than Mr. Wickham had originally imagined. But as always, the truth will make itself free and eventually, Mr. Darcy was able to persuade Elizabeth that it was he who had been wronged by Mr. Wickham and not the other way around. By that time, Elizabeth was suitably mortified by the way she had so quickly and erroneously judged Mr. Darcy.

Fortunately for Elizabeth, an opportunity to rectify the situation had presented itself when she and her aunt and uncle happened to be visiting Derbyshire during a summer trip. Not expecting any of the family to be home for the summer, Elizabeth had traveled to visit Pemberley with her relatives. She had immediately fallen in love with the house at first sight and taken great delight in traipsing around its extensive grounds. It was during Elizabeth's romp through the South Garden that she ran into the Master of the house. The astonishment of meeting each other there was surprising for both - a little embarrassing for Elizabeth and most pleasing for Mr. Darcy. Over the next few days, they would meet again many times. On their second meeting, Elizabeth was introduced to Mr. Darcy's younger sister, Miss Georgiana. On their third meeting, Elizabeth and Georgiana picked flowers by waterside as Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth's uncle, Mr. Gardiner, fished for carp, tench, and pike. On subsequent meetings, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy would take extended strolls through the Pemberley gardens.

It was during one of these visits that Elizabeth expressed her particular fondness for the South Garden. She loved the natural beauty of the garden, especially the way rose-filled vines would arch their way into the trees and create tiny bowers in each corner. In one such bower, was hidden a white swing that hung from a low bough and there, Mr. Darcy would push Elizabeth higher and higher into the crystal blue sky. Swinging her slender legs back and forth, Elizabeth climbed to great heights and flew amidst the singing birds. Elizabeth could not remember a time when she had ever been as carefree as she had been then. After they had laughed their fill on the swings, Mr. Darcy would always spread out a picnic he had so thoughtfully prepared beforehand. Over cucumber sandwiches, sugary petit fours, and cups of good English tea, Mr. Darcy would then read aloud from their favorite book of poetry, Poems by Lord Byron. Watching Mr. Darcy lean languidly against a tree stump and repeat the romantic words of Lord Byron's poems in his deep, silky voice, with his coat jacket abandoned by his side and the skin of his neck peeking over the top of his crisp, linen shirt, Elizabeth could scarcely believe how she had almost allowed her prejudice to deprive her of this magnificent company. Not willing to admit it, but unable to deny it, Elizabeth felt herself falling in love.

Unfortunately, the relationship that had begun shyly and timidly in the South Garden was also abruptly ended when Elizabeth received word from home that her youngest sister had run away with Mr. Wickham. Elizabeth rushed home with her aunt and uncle believing her family's reputation to have been ruined by Lydia's thoughtless escapade. By the time the couple had been found and Mr. Wickham made to marry Lydia, it was Elizabeth's conjecture that Mr. Darcy would never want to have anything more to do with the Bennet family. Alas, she never found out that it was Mr. Darcy himself who had foraged the slums of London, found Lydia and Wickham and then made the necessary arrangements for their marriage.

The next time Elizabeth met Mr. Darcy was in Hertfordshire. Mr. Bingley had returned to Netherfield for a hunting party and with him came his friend, Mr. Darcy. During this time, Elizabeth achingly observed Mr. Darcy standing about in a cold and aloof manner, much as he had on his first visit to that part of the country. He had changed for the worse and Elizabeth lost all courage to speak with him and be near him after seeing him so unwilling and so unfriendly. She kept her distance and dismally accepted the fact that any chance of her ever reuniting with Fitzwilliam Darcy had been dashed when Lydia foolishly ran off with a scalawag. Though he might have entertained the idea once before, there was no way he would ever ally himself with such a family now.

A relationship that had been plagued with misunderstandings from the very beginning, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy ended their friendship with even more misunderstandings. Never a mind reader, Elizabeth could not know that Mr. Darcy wanted to speak with her, but upon receiving no encouragement from her, believed that it was she who did not wish to speak with him. The final blow came from Jane, who one day after her marriage to Mr. Bingley came from Netherfield to call on her sister and tell her with great regret and dread that Mr. Darcy's engagement to Miss Anne de Bourgh had been finally announced. Elizabeth's body went limp at the news and her sister had held her tightly in her arms, hugging her, and giving her what little comfort she could. Elizabeth would forever remember that day; for that was the day her heart broke into a million pieces.

* Again, some of the lines during Colin and Mary's exchange were adaptations of those found in the Broadway musical, The Secret Garden.

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