Work Text:
Le muguet.
Lilies of the Valley.
Dickon wiped sweat off his brow, squinting at the hazy glow of the barely cloud-hidden sun, before regarding his pocket-sized book yet again, attempting to pronounce the phrase, yet again.
“Lee—moo—g—”
“Dickon!”
Blast it all. If it weren’t for Ben Weatherstaff—
He paused. Ben had passed away a few years hence, and sometimes he forgot. And a gardener-chef, Pierre, from Montmartre, had taken his place, though those were considerable shoes to fill. A Frenchman. Perfect. Or Parfait, as the French would say. Snapping the book shut, he followed the voice into the glass-paneled greenhouse, just off of Misselthwaite Manor’s airy, spacious kitchen, rife with the hummed melodies of Greensleeves and more.
“Pierre?”
“Je suis ici—” I am here—came the muffled reply, behind a sizable stack of potted spinach plants, grown through indoor, solarium means. “Des épinards! Regardez ça!” Spinach! Would you look at that!
Dickon’s sporadic language lessons, courtesy of Pierre, had meant he was now able to understand, in his opinion, the most rudimentary of phrases. But how to pronounce Mary’s favorite flower? “Bon,” he muttered under his breath, before pulling out the tiny tome. “Lee—moo—g—” he uttered, pointing with a finger toward the phrase as Pierre suppressed a grimace, no doubt appalled at the butchering of his own native tongue.
“Non, non, non—” the gardener-chef briskly replied. “Luh—moo—geh—” motioning for Dickon to repeat, once, twice, then a third time before giving the most perfunctory of nods. Satisfactory. For now.
“Ta—I mean, merci,” Dickon spoke, reaching forth for a pot or two to carry toward the kitchen, where a delectable vegetable chicken pot pie would be baked for tonight—he swallowed hard. And what came before that? A teatime birthday cake, a lovely cream cake.
Thank heavens the war was finally over.
Between his being stationed far away amidst the horrid whistling of explosives, and battle cries of a foreign land, and being separated from his Mary, who too was away from the manor, he was not sure which was worse.
She had grown into a lovely woman, anybody could see that. Her plain, unsmiling, once-sallow features had blossomed with the opening of the secret garden, and years hence had added increased loveliness—her eyes had grown kind and expressive, her cheeks pink from the moor's countryside springtime, her limbs steady and sure with each passing season. Once she hit a certain age though, Miss Medlock had insisted upon her being tutored. This was fine enough, as Mary was given the afternoons to frolic about the rosebushes. But with such schooling came pre-tests, compositions, and eventually, college entrance exams, for her mind was of such caliber.
Being of extraordinary wealth, Lord Craven had taken it upon himself to research all of the women’s colleges, eventually finding one in America. Bryn Mawr College, as Dickon recalled. And so she was sent over steam liner, accompanied by another family. The first three years passed with agonizing torpidity, but Dickon was grateful to have caught a glimpse of Mary once in that time, as she and he had made it back to Misselthwaite before he was stationed away.
Marry me, he had said, intertwining his fingers with hers as they lay across the bed of soft-hewn grass lining the garden itself, a sprinkling of magnolia petals creating a veritable snow shower around them. When all of this is over. When we’re home. Here. Again. She smiled, enigmatically so, as he propped himself up upon his elbows, sweeping a wave of chestnut hair from her visage. Mary, Mary, quite contrary—his eyes had taken a mischievous twinkle as she pounced him the next second, pinning his wrists as she kissed him. A most sultry summertime, indeed.
Perhaps that was indicative of an affirmative reply. She had departed soon after for her fourth and final year of college, sending mimeographed postcard after postcard of lush collegiate grounds, and the squat stone castle-like grounds just off the theater department, where she sometimes spent her free time, helping in the eaves. Being a ‘techie,’ she called it—
In some of those postcards, there were rose bushes, daffodils, and hyacinths, holly bushes too. Do you miss the secret garden? Dickon often wondered, regarding those prints. Will the other gardens supplant the one hidden within your heart?
The latter portion of her fourth year, Mary had taken it upon herself to spend a partial semester at the Sorbonne in Paris with other Bryn Mawr students, a study abroad program. Reading of her jaunts in Paris with the other ladies, Dickon wondered. Do you have an American accent now? A French one? If you spoke to me, would you sound the same as you always had?
Mary, have you changed?
But to his utter relief, as he used his temporary furlough to meet her for a coffee just north of IÎe de la Cité, she had not. His own use of the English language had been polished into a slightly posher Manchester-London hybrid, but he still reverted to Yorkshire when he was among familiar company. ‘ows ‘bout a cuppa. Let’s have a coffee. One and the same.
Of course, the weather was a mite chilly, and she was wearing the silkiest of stylish scarves and a most elegant coat, but the arms that embraced him, the voice that beckoned him to la terrasse, the lips that kissed his own—had not, much to his relief, changed a single bit.
Le muguet, she posited, noticing the tiny vase of fresh flowers, miniature white petaled bell-like in formation, her fingers touching one gently. My favorite. Lilies of the Valley.
The cream cake.
Dickon’s mind suddenly flashed forward to the present. A secret family recipe held by his older sister Martha, he knew it would be the perfect dessert to welcome her into the Sowerby family. If she was so inclined, of course.
Smelling a delicious aroma of almond and vanilla, he followed it to one of the long wood tables in the culinary vestibule, where his older sister was. “Ta,” he uttered gratefully, as Martha squeezed his arm affectionately, before handing him a buttercream piping tube and motioning toward the colorful hundreds and thousands—or sprinkles, as Americans called it.
Tongue between his teeth, he squeezed the piping, creating rosettes along the perimeter of the circular cake, then scattering multicolored hundreds and thousands atop. Perfect for Miss Mary. His Mary. If she so decided…Digging through a bottom cabinet, he retrieved a cake glass to protect the confection plus a tray, and began making his way to the garden, not before, of course, he heard a cry from the doorway, Martha’s skirts positively flying.
“Stop faffin’ wi yer ‘air,” she laughed, spotting his attempts at putting on a more polished look. “And ‘ere,” the woman continued, handing him a tiny box, plus miniature cutlery covered in napkins. “Allus ‘orgettin’—”
“Ta, sis,” he replied. Thanks. Placing the objects in his pocket, again he continued, out the side entrance of the kitchen-garden, past the first soil fields, past the second orchard garden, following a particular vined wall he knew like the back of his head. Counting a few paces, he stopped at a certain point, sweeping away a thick curtain of emerald ivy, to finagle the door open with the key in his other pocket.
He felt instantly as though he were back in paradise—an innocent, happy paradise of their own, once more, spotting the pure, pristine roses he and Mary had planted years ago. Continuing down the path, he regarded the fountain with a certain fondness, recalling the time they had splashing within, Mary’s petticoats drenched, his own trousers sodden, during an unusually scorching summer. Soon enough, he found what he had been looking for, past the crocuses and daffodils, the bluebells and such—
Tiny, bell-like clusters of lilies of the valley. Le muguet.
Dickon placed the tray upon the adjoining ground. This would do.
No sooner had he placed the tray, did he hear Martha leading a blindfolded Mary through the ivy, speaking a trifle louder, as to draw his own attention. Hurrying forth, he intertwined his hand with Mary’s tapered own. She smiled, recognizing the warmth and scent of him. Their last visit having been in the heart of Paris, it was wonderful finally reuniting within their own little retreat, of wondrous childhood memories. Allowing him to lead her, she turned back in the direction of Martha, nodding a quick thanks before the latter disappeared through the ivy to allow the couple privacy.
Still blindfolded, Mary inhaled deeply, shoulders slackening as she smelled the familiar roses of her youth, as she stepped carefully where Dickon led, past the soft greenery, past the babbling of the cool, crisp fountain water, down some steps, past the scent of bluebells and more, until he gently bade her sit. And was that—vanilla cake—and—and—“may I?”
“Yeah—”
Tearing off the blindfold, her mouth dropped open as she spotted the tiny, bell-like blossoms.
“Le moo—geh—” Dickon attempted in his best possible French, a worthy attempt, Mary decided.
“You remembered!” she cried aloud, clapping her hands in delight. “And—oh Dickon—you shouldn’t have—” The cake was multilayered, with cream and strawberries between each layer, and rosettes atop with a myriad of colorful sprinkles. “Didn’t fancy you the kitchen sort—”
His cheeks blushed a faint rouge. “’Twas Martha. Did the rosettes though,” he hastened to add as he removed the napkins and cutlery from his pocket. Thank goodness for sisters. “Will you?” he offered her the knife, and she gladly took it, slicing a couple of generous slices, each falling squarely upon a napkin.
Instead of taking a forkful to her lips, Mary regarded one of the rosettes. With a deft swipe, she took a fragment, and placed it upon Dickon’s lips; as he licked the buttercream off, his eyes grew smoldering, never once leaving her own.
Once their slices were more or less crumbs, and they had caught up with various talk of furloughs past, college experiences among the American oak trees and the soulful, serene Seine twilight, Mary clasped Dickon’s hand. “I hope you know,” she spoke softly, “that you don’t have to change for me,” she nodded toward the pocket-sized French book that had escaped his pocket.
He smiled, albeit with a touch of reserve. “We’re both home. I want to be the man you deserve.” And instantly, Mary was reminded of a certain conversation—
Marry me. When all of this is over. When we’re home. Here. Again.
“Dickon…you already are.” With that, she leaned forward, kissing him on the lips as he held her close. Seconds passed as they gradually disentangled themselves. “Mmmm…vanilla,” she laughed, before speaking her mind once again, this time gathering her skirts to stand. “Do you remember our last conversation? Here, in the garden? Is your mind…and heart…the same as it was hence?”
I would like—no, please—Dickon—I need to know—Her voice shook despite her attempt at politesse.
Pulling out the tiny box from his trouser pocket, he opened its hinges to reveal a delicate white-gold engagement band, peppered with a constellation of tiny diamonds, much like a cluster of flowers, much to Mary’s astonishment. “Yes,” he answered, as he kneeled on one knee before her. “Lady Mary Lennox, gardener and cultivator of flowers, would you do the honor of marrying me, but a humble man?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Mary shrieked, trembling with joy, her fingers shaking as he placed the band upon her left finger. A perfect fit, as he stood, then whirled her around until all the flowers were but a floral, fragrant blur, laughter and mirth in full abundance now, and for many, many years to follow.