Chapter Text
EARLY SPRING
Archibald went riding, both because the looming, drafty halls of the house were becoming too oppressive, and because Neville and father were quarrelling. It had taken three days, but they were starting to remember why they so rarely put in the effort to see each other since Neville had begun training as a doctor three years ago. They didn't quarrel in the traditional way, rushed words that were shouted and left wounds within the moment they were uttered. Rather they verbally battered until they rubbed one another raw, because they knew no matter what hurtful things were said, Neville's opinionated nature always gave way to their father's iron-clad will, especially as he greeted his younger son's suggestions as though they _were arguments. He'd been this way from before their mother died, but a spate of worsening illnesses and slow recoveries had merely made Reginald Craven cling to what he knew.
The raised voices had already begun ringing off the walls when he hurried out. The horse was surprised to see him, and did not take kindly to being readied, snorting and stamping almost as loudly as his relations. It was willing to follow the commands of its master's reins and soft heels quickly enough once it realized fighting wasn't going to result in a return to the stables, and compliance resulted in an apple, albeit one that was bruised and beyond human consumption. Out of the house, across the moor, through fields, over a bridge, through a meadow... Soon the saddle, and the posture required to sit in it, began to wear on him. The exertion of riding on a sunny day was likewise tiring, and the horse, despite being asked to do no more than trot, was starting to flag.
Dismounting at the ridge that overlooked the valley that was their next terrain, he looked down to see a girl in its depths, at work in a garden. Leading his horse into the valley he stopped at the gate—not knowing what awaited if he passed it—and called out, softly so as not to disrupt her, "Lass wouldst thou 'low me rest here? I've ridden quite far." the Yorkshire he'd grown up with and the refined speech he'd learned from books coming out in a mix. The girl turned and shaded her eyes, sunlight catching in her raven hair. "Certainly."
Tying the horse to the gate he entered, making for the bench resting under the single tree. The rest of the garden was taken up primarily by tender yellow and white roses, though a smattering of golden crocuses, fair lilies, tall iris, pansies, and delicate snowdrops interrupted them here and there.
"Share my tea." The three words were spoken so gently that he reached for the basket beside him—containing a teapot and two cups (chipped and faded to a pale white)—without question.
"You're expecting company," he observed, holding the pot and cup but making no move to fill one with the other. "Forgive me, I did not mean to presume myself upon-"
"My companion has decided she would rather spend her afternoon looking for ribbons, or so she informed me as she passed by shortly before you arrived. Please pour that tea before it goes cold. Take some oatcakes and cream, and plums, too." It was only after he had bit into the sweet fruit he'd selected from the jar, that Archibald realized he had reacted more to that same gentle tone than out of any desire to eat. Though surely, he told himself, his actions had more to do with sympathy for the girl who had packed refreshments for two, only to have half go to waste due to a friend's change of mind.
"Would your horse take food from a stranger?" she asked, washing her hands in the same pan that she had just used to water a pansy.
"He might. He allowed me to ride him today."
"You don't often go riding?"
"I actively avoid it, most days."
"So you rode quite far to make up for that."
"I suppose one could say that."
"And you would say?"
"That I rode quite far in order to get quite far away," he answered tersely.
The girl came to take an oatcake, hazel eyes curious rather than shocked or discomfited, as Neville, his father or the servants would be if they had heard his remark. Archibald followed her to his mount and held out his hand for the oatcake. "There is no reason for your kindness to end in bitten fingers."
"If you insist, sir."
Their hands touched briefly as she passed him the treat. After a few suspicious snufflings the cake was gobbled up and the water offered by the girl greedily slurped. "Won't you need to save that for the flowers?" he asked.
"There's a stream nearby. You can't hear it from here, but you'll see it if you ride on just a bit more."
He retired to the bench while she pruned every flower in her charge. Refreshed after an indeterminate passage of time, he offered her his deepest thanks for her kindness. She in turn assured him that he was welcome to rest here if ever he passed this way again.
Back at Misselthwaite—darkened by nightfall to make it even gloomier—the emotional storm had quieted. Whether out of a need to rekindle tempers or a desire to be civil, Neville would not say, only that he was tired and would be leaving for the hospital in the morning. With the fragile peace restored, Archibald was once more able to take solace in the library and his rooms. Yet the girl's gentle voice permeated his thoughts, so that the servants were privately startled to see his typically sour expression change to one of thoughtful contemplation, or—the Sowerby lad unwaveringly supported his sweetheart's claim, who swore to anyone who would listen that it was true—to see his lips twitch in a half-formed smile. Even his father noticed the change.
"You were out riding for most of the day. I assume you found much to entertain; the moor can be quite diverting."
"I'm afraid I wouldn't know, Father. I rode off the moor."
Reginald Craven's fierce face often wore mercurial expressions, and years of residing in the manor had made his elder son an expert at deciphering them. (Neville sometimes had to receive verbal translations, as he could enviably escape to London, and lose familiarity.) The thunderous frown said he was displeased, because the heir of Misselthwaite should take pride in the land he would one day own, and next time he went out he would bring back something to say about the moor. Archibald nodded, bowing to the silent command. Then the meal's customary silence resumed. Archibald wondered what his father's order would have sounded like in the gentle phrasing of the gardener.
The next day, after seeing Neville off, Archibald went riding again. He observed aspects of the moor that he could tell his father of during that night's supper, then without intending to, rode all the way to the valley. The girl had not brought a second teacup, but showed him the stream she had mentioned. He did not tell her that he had never drank water from its source, and she, perhaps sensing his discomfort, left him to bend and display his hump to greater view.
"Did your friend find her ribbons?" he asked, returning.
"Yes. Are you traveling _from something again?"
"Someone, today." The girl raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.
She did not rescind her invitation, despite day after day of him coming to her garden with nothing to give her in return for her allowance of rest and refreshment. Spring had reached its full bloom in the middle of the season before he came to the garden bearing baskets of white roses.
"They were the only color you do not have," he said in reply to her confused, delighted stare, setting them down. "I thought I might help replant them here."
"That's very kind of you."
"No it isn't. I'm entirely to blame for the extra work, it would be terribly selfish of me to rest and leave all the work to you."
She laughed, crossing to him and taking a basket. "But where did they come from? I've been cultivating flowers for years and I've never seen so many. Unless you spent several days picking wild roses." He caught a blossom drifting up on a warm breeze. "My family home has a number of gardens."
She lifted her basket and breathed in its fragrance, eyes half-closing. They snapped open as she surveyed the garden, looking for a good spot to begin planting.
"I envy your home," she said finally. "Well, these should keep us busy!"
LATE MIDSUMMER
In the weeks that followed Archibald spent every day of fine weather working with the girl in her garden, bringing at least two baskets of fresh flowers with each visit. Rainy days forced him to remain shut up in Misselthwaite, scowling at the drops that spattered against the windows and snapping with more ire than usual at the servants. His father reprimanded him for the behavior; future masters accorded their staff with all due respect no matter their mood. No inquiries were ever made as to the cause of Archibald's bad temper, however, nor what he did while out riding to put him in a better one.
Over time he came to learn that the hazel-eyed girl did not own her garden outright. Years ago parts of the valley were sometimes used for festivals, but for the most part the land had been left to the wildlife that called it home until she developed an interest in flower gardens at nine. Those who lived near enough to see the valley from their windows or private gardens—for her it was a good twenty minute walk—had thought it quaint to see the child puttering about with her seeds and trowel.
"I don't believe any of them expected it to go on for more than a year," she confessed once. "My family certainly didn't."
"They didn't approve of your interest."
"Nothing so contentious. Just that children can be horribly changeable in their pursuits." She giggled. "I think my father built the gate as an apology for underestimating my enthusiasm."
"My brother was convinced for several years he would be a banker. Do not ask me what appealed to him about that line of work, I have no idea."
"What about you?" she asked. "What were your erstwhile passions.
"I was never permitted that luxury. Or if I was I can't remember what I desired. Do you think the lilacs need more water?"
"You know the day we water them all it will rain."
"Better than having them die before they're supposed to."
He stalked away from her, and was so intent on his task that he had to ask her to repeat her question. "I said you must have had interests: horses or studies or hunting?"
"No particular subject, but I read a great deal. I still do."
"What sorts of books?"
"Poetry, myths, legends, fairy tales. Things that pass the time. I've rather accustomed myself to solitude."
"Because your brother's often away."
"Partly."
"I can't imagine living alone, not forever anyway. It's been Rose and I since our parents died."
He straightened from watering to look at her. "My sympathies."
"It was two years ago," she answered lightly.
In order to add to what money her parents had left them, she sold rare and hard-to-find cuttings from her garden. Lately the majority of her profit came from a wealthy Lady who had taken to, as was fashionable, spending the warmer months at her country estate. Roses were her favorite—something she and the young gardener had in common.
One overcast day he insisted that she only provide choice cuttings from the selection he'd brought, to make the parting easier. "Lady Oscott will likely pay a great deal for any new specimens," he reasoned.
Concurring with a nod, she began forlornly picking the white flowers. "One day I'll have a garden solely for myself and I won't have to sell any of it. Perhaps Rose's husband will indulge me."
"Your sister's going to be married?" he asked with an arched eyebrow.
"She needs to find a husband first. Lady Oscot says it won't be a problem, and I agree, but Rose has started fretting she'll have no prospects." Though never having met the great Lady, he knew that she had taken the sisters under her wing after being enchanted by the younger sibling's work. All at once he suddenly found the possibility of meeting Lady Oscott as appealing as being leeched. Diligently spreading cream on his oatcake so as not to look at her, he said, "You could always keep this garden when _you marry."
"I suppose, though it depends on _who I marry. They'd have to be someone who didn't ask whether I grow my name when I broached the subject. Oh!" She blushed sheepishly. "You've been coming here all this time and I've never introduced myself! Never mind marriage prospects when I'd make a _terrible hostess!" She brushed away his kind protests to the contrary. "I'm Lily Austin."
"Archibald Craven."
"How do you do," said Lily, offering him her hand. His hand was cold despite the day's activities, and the warmth of hers seemed to linger after he pulled away. Unsettled somewhat by the sensation, he flexed the hand.
At dusk he offered Lily a ride home, loath to let her walk the distance between the area where she had made her garden and her residence. She agreed, as she needed to prepare for a public gathering in the village.
"Rose is hoping to greet the militia that are starting to arrive."
"Does she plan to strike up a match for you both?" asked Archibald, not breaking his intensified concentration on guiding the horse along the dirt road. His light-hearted mood had abruptly soured at the thought of Lily marrying after all. Some faceless horrible lieutenant or captain who would whisk her away to a country too cold or hot for gardens.
"Not really. She'd be delighted _if someone caught my eye, but it's mostly her affair." She yawned. "I'd rather rest, but she's talked of nothing else for so long I feel obligated to see it through." He idly stroked his horse's mane.
As they neared the large three-storied house, Lily asked, "What's your surname again?"
"Craven."
"Craven, Craven."
Carrying a lantern, a young woman as fair as Lily was dark came racing toward them as fast as her satin slipper-clad feet would allow. "Lily, for heaven's sake, what kept you!"
"The garden. If you engage in a whirlwind romance tonight you'll have your pick of flowers for your bouquet and centerpieces." Rose reached out a hand to help Lily down from the horse, and in the moment it took for her sister to dismount, the older woman was smiling up at Archibald in her soft white gown, all traces of anger gone. Pretty as she was, with a rarely sun-touched complexion and delicate features, he still caught the slight tensing at the corners of her eyes as she inspected him. Hunched back and all.
"Have you taken up a helpmate?" Rose asked her sister.
"This is Mr. Archibald Craven. Mr. Craven, my sister, Rose Austin."
"_You're the man that's been delivering roses."
"I am. It seemed the least I could do after your sister has been so kind."
"Lovely Lily. She's never been remiss in her charity."
In the steady glow of lantern light Lily's blush was unmistakable. "I should change," she blurted. "Would you help me, Rose? It will go twice as fast. Thank you for the ride, Mr. Craven."
"Of course, Miss Lily. It was the charitable thing to do."
"Was it difficult holding onto him?" Rose asked, giggling as horse and rider vanished from sight.
"You can go and catch an officer's eye without me."
"Oh don't be so gloomy, Lily. It isn't my fault a cripple doesn't have a thick skin. Here I thought you were being courted and he probably just enjoys gardening. It's good you've found a fellow gardener."
"Setting aside that someone with a birth defect is just as capable of weeding as someone born without one, Archibald Craven and I didn't know each other's names until today. I'd be _disappointed to learn he only fancied me and didn't enjoy gardening. Besides, he's very nice and didn't deserve for you to talk to him like that."
"Then I'll apologize if I ever see him again, I promise. Oh please come Lily! Even if someone doesn't catch your eye I hate picturing you sitting here all alone. I'm sorry I've been so selfish lately. I'll come to the garden with you first thing tomorrow, I promise."
Lily sighed. She wasn't sure if she believed Rose, but there was no talking her out of something once she'd made up her mind. And if she declined she wouldn't be able to sleep for Rose's crying. "I laid my dress out on the bed."
MID TO LATE SPRING
HE was master of this ghastly manor in all but name. He had been permitted a quarter of fall to return full time to the sourness that had characterized him to the community at large, humiliated by the thought that Lily Austin's kindness might have been in any way out of charity. There were still times, though he didn't know why, just like he had never known why he'd spent days in the valley, when he dreamed of her gentle voice and hazel eyes. Whether he dreamed of Lily or not, sleep was the only time Archibald found some form of peace and rest since his father's health had taken a turn for the worse last fall.
His condition had deteriorated despite the administrations of several doctors, until Archie had been forced to put him in hospital. When he was not going to and from his father's bedside, he was seeing that the estate ran smoothly. The housekeeper, Mrs. Medlock was a help in this matter; she had known him since he was a youth, and followed his orders without hesitation. Neville came to the house infrequently, dispensing advice that was welcome if not always followed. There was no reason to turn away the now Mrs. Sowerby because her pregnancy was proving more trying than expected, even if it left the staff shorthanded. And though letting the massive topeary maze with all its gardens die would mean less expense, it was the only part of Misselthwaite that was truly pleasant. The park was charming in its way, but only on fair days, and the Cravens had no say as to whether that stayed or not. Besides, the maze had its mysteries, and plumbing them was the only halfway decent diversion from his life Archie could come up with. He had discovered a wall whose ivy-covered surface puckered where a key jutted out from a door; upon opening the door, he had walked onto rich soil that someone had intended to use and forgotten about, except to plant a solitary tree.
The cable informing him of his father's death was only written confirmation of what he had long deemed inevitable. But the time he had once spent commuting was filled with lawyers, papers, deeds to the houses in Paris and Rome and places he'd never heard of, funeral arrangements, and then rescheduling the burial when Neville's work—_real work—interfered. He tried to explain to the newspaper that an obituary really wasn't necessary; the late master of Misselthwaite Manor's only living relations knew he was dead, "and nobody else could possibly gain anything from the information!". The paper ignored him, though only he, Neville and the staff attended the funeral, proving him right. And then:
Dear Archibald,
I was so sorry to read about your father's death. I assume, and I hope you do not find the comment impertinent, that he was the "someone" you were trying to get away from last spring. I imagine filling your father's shoes as master of an estate has kept you very busy, especially if the two of you had a challenging relationship. If you ever have a free day for riding, my restful garden, tea, oatcakes, plumbs and company is yours for as long as you'll have it, with or without the roses.
Your horticultural friend,
Lily
In deffrence to her letter, he brought roses every other day.
"So running the estate is drudgery, but the paper said your father left you quite a lot of money. You must want to travel? Or buy books or things?"
"We have houses just about everywhere-"
"There! You could-"
"I would have to endure whatever servants are there if I had any of them opened. And between the houses' and my personal library I have all the books I could want at the moment. I'd be happy to spend money on the servants and their families if they'd let me, but they'd hardly see it as a kind gesture."
"I can't imagine anyone not seeing that as a kind gesture. Perhaps start with something that doesn't seem personal. Hold a ball and let the servants have a bowl of punch. From what you said last week it's been some time since Missel'''?"
"Misselthwaite."
"Misselthwaite has entertained."
He pondered, watching her widen a hole around a lilac. "Would you come? If I held a ball?"
"Only if you were willing to hold it in fall. Lady Oscot's taking us to her London house for the season tomorrow."
"Your season."
Lily nodded, studying an iris. "Mine and Rose's both really. Lady Oscot only bought a place in the country last year so Rose missed her chance to be presented when she was of age. Fortunately Lady Oscot says it won't be any trouble if we're presented the same year. She's been very sweet, helping us with dresses and gloves and crinolines."
As though talk of the event had drawn her to them, Rose's voice called from the gate, "Lily! Do you think I could wear some of your flowers on my bonnet? Mr. Craven! I'm surprised how often Lily mentions you in an anecdote. I know if I had recently suffered a loss and had a big place to grieve in I'd throw an entire week of parties to cope."
"I can't imagine anyone wanting to spend night after night at Misselthwaite, Miss Rose. I certainly don't."
"I'm sure grief makes it seem that way, with over a hundred rooms," said Rose with a smile that barely reached her blue eyes, before adjusting the basket on her arm, "May I have some flowers, Lily?"
"Of course. Your house can't be that dreadful, Archibald."
"Not dreadful. Gloomy would be a better choice of words. And imposing."
"You're too close to the situation," Lily insisted.
"Then I must hold a ball so you can see the truth for yourself."
"What a strange invitation," Rose laughed, filling her basket with daisies. "And not after the season surely! We'll be sick of dancing by then."
"We might not be," Lily retorted, "Some invitations might be for dinner."
"Silly Lily, the season's primarily made up of balls. And one or two garden parties, which I know will please you. We'll _both be exhausted, I guarantee it. I know you don't intend to gather prospects, but you're bound to turn heads with your hair and eyes."
"Perhaps the two of you could enlighten me on what balls are like this season." Later, he wouldn't know what had prompted him to make the statement. "I could have one next year after proper planning."
"How thoughtful, Mr. Craven. It would be good practice for when we run our own homes," said Rose, gently stroking the petals of her namesake with genuine delight. One sister loved to grow gardens, he thought, the other loved the product of the labor.
"And sadly I must return to running mine. Safe journey, the both of you."
EARLY FALL
LILY and Rose ran across the moor, lace dresses blowing in the wind. Lily had spent the summer longing to be back in Yorkshire, and after checking on what was still living in the earth she'd cultivated, decided to pay a call to the master of Misselthwaite. Rose was accompanying her out of curiosity. They had seen estates of course, both in London and at home, but no one they knew had occasion to visit this particular one, and the endless expanse of moor meant you could easily be caught out lurking by gossiping servants or the family. So neither girl had been impish enough to venture a look as children.
"There! That tiny light must be the gate."
"The moor really is so ugly compared to London," Rose gasped in answer.
"It's different, not ugly." As they drew nearer and the house came into sharper relief, Lily had to admit that she could see how Archibald might disapprove of the place in a bad humor. The towering dark mass looming atop a hill could not be described as handsome, but imposing. It was simply large, not grand or opulent like the homes of London socialites.
"It's _horrible," Rose announced with an affected little shudder. "I don't know what he was thinking of, suggesting holding a ball here. Who would want to come?"
"There are probably several roaring fires inside a house that size. And we haven't seen the ballroom."
"I'd be more worried about who might see me coming and going from there." Rose turned and strode back the way they had come with a swish of frothy lace.
"Rose!" Lily watched the lantern bobbing away, then looked to see that the candle in her own had burned nearly to the wick. No point calling Rose back when she'd made up her mind and had the longer way to go. Sighing, Lily pressed on.
She was managing even in the fading light until she lost her footing on a patch of particularly springy heather and fell. Her right foot hurt, and when she tried to stand the pain intensified. The wind blew, wuthering through the bushes, and she wondered what had possessed her to wear lace instead of sturdy wool for a nighttime visit. The clop of hooves brought her gasping to her knees, and holding up her now-useless lantern she called, "Hello? Hello!", hoping she wasn't guiding a wild pony or sheep towards her. Though she might be able to ride it or stay warmer if it felt inclined to pay her any attention.
"Hello. Is someone there?" A man's voice, deep and firm.
"Here! I'm over here! Ow." In moments a man was leaning down from a horse's saddle.
"Miss." He dismounted, a professional sort of concern in that one syllable. "Where are you hurt?"
"My ankle, I think." She had sunk back to the ground, and he reached out to touch her foot, the contact making her chirp like a startled robin.
"It's twisted. If you'll let me get you inside I can tend to it, I'm a doctor."
She agreed, and once she was settled in front of him on his horse so that he could hold onto her, he set off for what had been her destination all along. "Can't you take me to your practice? There's no need to disrupt the master of Misselthwaite."
"We won't be, my brother won't be arriving from Paris until later tonight. I'm hoping to start a practice soon, but until I can find premises I'm staying here." Handing his mount off to a stableboy that looked surprised to see him, Dr. Craven supported her, with an arm about his neck, through the massive double doors. A strict-looking woman paused partway up a sweeping staircase. "This young woman was injured on the moor. See that some tea and sandwiches are brought to the sitting room, Mrs. Medlock."
"Very good Doctor."
"That really isn't necessary, Dr. Craven," Lily protested as the formidable woman swept away and she was led along a corridor. "You were on your way out."
"I was on my way to the closest village to try and bring some liveliness to a dull evening. You're presence has already accomplished that."
Her mouth curved in a faint smile, and as he helped her sit the doctor's eyes briefly left hers to rove intently over her face and body before meeting her eyes again.
"Everything else in good order?" she asked.
"Perfect."
He could spend hours happily looking into those wide, expressive hazel eyes. The way her black hair gleamed in the light was enthralling. In short, she was magnificent, this Lily, for in the time that it took for Neville to tend to her ankle and for the refreshments to arrive, they had slipped into using first names without notice. Now they sat in the comfortable armchairs by the hastily made fire, chatting amiably.
He didn't hear Archie's tread outside, and was startled to hear his brother's voice say, "I told you I was coming back tonight, Neville. There was no reason for you to remain here." Lily leaned forward slightly, anticipation plain in her eyes. Perhaps rumors were spreading about the new master.
The door opened, and Neville's lips parted to make introductions, but Lily smiled in recognition. There was a warmth in her eyes that surpassed the gratefulness she had shown him. "Archibald!"
"Lily." His brother hurried into the room, concerned. "What happened?"
"I wanted to see you—and the house—and took a bit of a fall. Lucky your brother was at hand."
"I'm sorry you had to suffer pain for this place."
"I can't wait to come back when I can walk unaided and see it properly. The views from upper windows must be breathtaking on fine days. And there must be all sorts of hidden passageways and rooms. And I must see where you grow those roses. I insist upon that one actually."
"I don't see how gardeners can stand the autumn. Watching pieces of your hard work die as the ground freezes."
"Really Archie," protested Neville, used to his brother's sour moods but desperate to discover how the situation had changed so quickly. "I'd ask you to pardon my brother, Lily, but you appear acquainted."
"Archibald has been supplying my garden with the most splendid roses I've ever seen. And not everything dies in winter," this directed at Archie, "some things just need more attention than others. And then you clear away the dead flowers for new ones. You've been in Paris?"
"Just for the summer. We have a house there. Though nowhere near as large as this, thank heavens."
"What was it like?"
As the flames burned lower in the grate they conversed about the kindness of the Parisians, differences between French and English gardens (she disapproved of the latter's uniform neatness, and Archie assured her—seeming to know a great deal about her taste in flowers—that the former were more wild), and Neville felt his heart sink. This wasn't supposed to happen. Archie was solitary by circumstance and to some extent by nature, and while it pleased him to see his older brother happy and taking more of an interest in life, why did it have to be with the most beautiful girl either of them had ever seen! Why couldn't Archie have returned an hour later? Then the servants would have finished preparing for his arrival—Medlock had probably told him Neville was here to give them more time—and he could have made more use of the time spent with a pair of eyes that made him willing to undertake any challenge for a look of approval from her.
"It's getting quite late," he interjected into the first flag in the conversation. As if underscoring his point, a clock chimed eleven in the distance. "You'll want to change, Archie, and I should take Lily home."
"Rose is probably worried sick," Archie agreed, rising from the chair he'd taken opposite them.
"More for my sanity than my health. My sister," she added to Neville, letting him take her arm as she stood unsteadily.
"You're welcome back anytime you're ill," Archie informed her, holding open the door as Neville swept them from the room.
Over her week of recovery, Lily received two reminders of the Craven brothers kindness. The first had been delivered by hand with a note from Neville, apologizing for sending a currier in his place as he was moving to his nearby practice. It was a flower arrangement so large it had to be separated into three vases. Rose, who they'd come across in the carriage that night looking for Lily, remarked that the doctor was, "a fine man", and described the gift as, "a promising start, even if he is the younger brother".
The second was that Archie, as Lily had taken to calling him privately—it suited him better than the stiff-sounding Archibald—arrived in their parlor with a garden contained in a window box. "You must have some way to spend your time," he explained, extending the packet of seeds. "They're red and yellow roses that should grow to the size of the nail on your little finger when you're finished. It could even be a project over the winter."
"How very nice, but Lily keeps herself busy enough." Rose laughed affectionately to cover the implication in her first three words, bringing a cup and saucer round to Lily and pointing with her chin at the piano (managing to reveal the graceful curve of her neck and catch her rippling hair in the lamplight in a practiced, now subconscious move that Lily could never emulate). "She's memorized nearly every song in that book."
"Do you play?" Archie addressed her.
"Rose does. I sing. It was one of the few lessons I enjoyed at school."
"There weren't any on gardening."
"No, and they frowned upon intentionally dirtying your frock. I wish I'd had a window box garden then. Would you help me with it? And you must have some tea too; Rose, could you fetch Archie some—" She broke off, blushing. "Forgive me. Neville calls you Archie and it'''x suits you."
"Yes, I like being called Archie. And with my parents dead I require at least two more people to use the pet name. If you would prefer to that would be?—he looked at her the way a child who has never seen spring or winter looks at the world, transfixed and awed by a thing that has never been imagined—"welcome. Very welcome."
Unnoticed by either of them as they held each other's gaze, Lily blushing this time at the intensity of his eyes as they bore into her own, Rose frowned at the mention of death. None of the men who'd fancied her in London had thought deceased family an appropriate conversation topic, but then none of the young men seeking her favor had been miserable cripples.
"You wanted me to fetch something, Lily?" asked Rose, rather loudly.
"Yes. Tea for Archie." To the man in question she added, with a knowing smile, "You've ridden even further then my valley now, you must want a rest." He accepted the rest and tea. And returned for several days in a row to help tend to the miniature garden with the same zeal as he had to the proper one, long after her ankle had healed.
THE ENTIRETY OF WINTER
ABLE to walk once more, Lily wasted no time in returning to Misselthwaite. "But this house caused your injury in the first place!" Archie protested.
"This house had nothing to do with it. And I barely got a proper look at it last time."
"There really isn't much in the way of a tour."
"There's over a hundred rooms!" Lily laughed.
"Only a hundred and one. I'd hate for it not to live up to your expectations."
"The only thing I expect from today is to see a house in your company."
As the tour progressed—it took several days to give the house its due—Archie marveled at how the manor transformed in her eyes. She delighted in the variety of shadows the light created on the walls of the drafty halls, spoke of how wonderful it would be to hear those very halls echoing with the play of children. The view from every window and balcony brought an exclamation or question: the beauty of a glittering frozen pond, what games had he and Neville played with the maze at their disposal, that the moor's purple color could be eye-catching at certain times of day.
A week into the tour they were in the library, the book of French poems that had piqued their interest yesterday evening—Archie had seen some of the places that had either inspired or housed some of the poets, while Lily was fond of several songs that were no more than French poems set to music—laying open on a table. Archie read aloud while Lily nursed the dregs of her spiced cider. Though he had ordered the drinks before she arrived, Lily had insisted that he show her the kitchens so she could thank the staff, who were either so surprised to have a visitor or so astounded to see their master that they stammered and stuttered.
LILY smiled as the wind renewed its howling. "If you close your eyes the wuthering sounds like the sea."
"I'd never thought of it like that."
"Have you been to the seaside?"
"Occasionally when I was a child. My mother thought it would be a good opportunity for me to have the company of other children before Neville was born." He looked away from the window, the memory banishing the bright smile that had so confounded the servants. "They did not seem to ever want my company."
"Few of the girls at school cared for my company either after they met Rose."
"She would find ways to win them over," said Archie dryly.
"A girl's reputation is important, even in boarding school. And Rose has never shied away from saying exactly what she thinks about someone."
"Including family," he inferred, wishing for an excuse to take her hand. Lily sipped at her cider and he saw the cup shift with her tight nod of confirmation. "Please don't pity me, Archie. Rose can be selfish, but she's no dragon or witch keeping me in a tower."
That felt like a debatable topic, but instead he asked, turning the page, "Is this a song?"
She peered at the text, then began humming, picking out the melody as her eyes roved for a place to leave her emptied mug, loathe to set it on the gleaming tabletop. Archie took it to the sideboard for the servants to collect.
"They're like brownies or friendly sprites," Lily commented, interrupting herself. "I feel like I should tithe them, or give them all fresh flowers."
"The chamber maid might enjoy that. She and her family live not too far away from here, I could take you to see them in the spring. It may be the only chance I'll have to see you. I expect you'll be paying calls."
"A few, but I'm sure I can set aside a day. I can't think of a better way to spend a day than with flowers and fine company. I'll start planning arrangements tomorrow."
She could not mean his company, not in the way he fantasized at night. But he smiled, willing to be her friend if she would never see him as a lover.
MIDSPRING
It was no surprise that the military was staying in Yorkshire again for leave, but it was a surprise when Mr. Archibald Craven invited the officers to stay in his great house. Many accepted, and the neighborhood was torn between disapproval and amusement at the sight of the Austin girls running from one side of the moor to the other twice a day, fine lace dresses aflutter. Rose had begun corresponding with the newly-made Captain Albert Lennox. And though the older girl made no secret of her dislike of Misselthwaite, that didn't stop her from accompanying Lily who, everyone assumed, must have set her cap for either one of the Craven brothers.
Stunned when Archie had written to say that he shouldn't visit expecting quiet with so many guests, Neville had come home to witness the unprecedented event. He'd found a welcoming host instead of his dreary sibling, a man who was up before the servants to work in the maze before taking pleasure and pride in sumptuous meals and lithely discussions around his dining table, inquiring into what the lieutenants borrowed from his library, and ensuring that the servants never felt overwhelmed with the onslaught of sudden work.
Though Lily's enthusiasm for the house had obviously inspired Archie, the change wasn't to impress her, much to Neville's dismay. A chronically sour Archie might have frayed Lily's patience, but this cheery master meant that her attention was halved between them. She was perfectly happy to talk with Neville about anything—his practice, art, history, literature—or go riding with him. And more than once all three of them would be alone together, holding court at a picnic or discussing the house. But the light that seemed to add extra sparkle to her beautiful eyes when she came in from the gardens with Archie was absent whenever she spent time with him. He tried telling himself it was due to exertion or her love of flowers, until one evening when Rose and Lily were heading home. He'd lingered in the shadows near the stairs, curious when the self-absorbed Rose, who spent her time locked in private corners with Albert, teased, "Now which one do you fancy, Lily?"
"That's private."
"I've told you about Albert," Rose wheedled.
Lily moved closer to her sister. "Do you think he'll propose soon?"
"Don't change the subject. You _must fancy one of them. You've been coming here longer than I have and not for the architecture. But you talk to both of them, you're willing to let either one whisk you off to some part of this place, and they're both clearly-"
"Lily!" Archie came hurrying towards them, his earth-flecked clothes telling of the garden, and holding out a red shawl. "I'm glad I caught you. You left this in the greenhouse. I wasn't sure when you'd be back since you're going to tea with-"
"Lady Oscot, yes. Thank you, Archie."
Neville heard the forced casualness in her words, and apparently so did Archie, because he asked rather sharply, "What's wrong?"
"You just needn't have gone to any trouble. I always could have come back for it."
"Well, now if you wish, you can come back for," he tailed off, not knowing how to finish. Despite the changes that had occurred in his brother it was clear to everyone that what took _Archie by surprise, was that every visitor to his home seemed to like him.
"Fine company," Rose finished.
"Yes." He left them abruptly, spotting Neville as he made for the stairs. Neville waved him to silence, and they heard Rose laugh, "Not the gloomy one Lily, you can't be serious."
"He's only sad Rose, sad of being alone so long. Archie has the tenderist heart I've ever known. And his eyes-"
Rose laughed again. "Silly Lily. You've been so busy looking into his eyes that you've missed the _hump on his back. Take a look at it proper why don't you." There was a swishing sound and a rush of air as the door opened. Rose raced out, still laughing, but Lily stood, edged in the evening light and the fainter glow of the lamps. She looked annoyed by Rose's comments, but her cheeks were still slightly pink from whatever she'd been about to say about Archie. Catching the door before it closed, she dashed after her sister with a muttered, "If Albert _does propose I hope he knows what he's getting into."
It took more effort than he would have believed possible to face his older brother.
"Did you mean to surprise me with this Neville? If so well done."
"I had no idea'''are you all right, Archie?"
"I didn't think... never..." The raw hope in his face and voice made Neville's stomach churn. Archie had never expected to marry. Not once considered attending a London season for a perspective bride. Had told their father that it would be up to Neville to provide the estate an heir. He could not help but be happy for the revelations that now rooted Archie to the spot unseeing, as Neville climbed the stairs. At the same time he could not help groaning as he put his face in his hands.
He'd loved Lily from the moment he'd looked into her eyes. He'd often imagined what might have happened if Archie hadn't arrived that night, if their carriage ride to her home had been the private moment he had intended, what might have happened if somehow he had met her first (in these fantasies Neville went riding that spring day instead of arguing with his father, leaving Archie with a peaceful house). Bitterly he wished he'd foregone eavesdropping to take Archie aside and tell him that Lily made him feel more alive and happy then he'd ever been. Knowing that until he'd discovered medicine Neville had loved Misselthwaite and its lands in a way Archie never had, his brother would have encouraged a courtship. More than that, if Neville were honest with himself; Archie would have done his best to assist. Now however, both of them knew which of them Lily preferred, and the news had awakened Archie to the fact that he could have more than the happiness he experienced in her company. She made Archie more alive then he had ever been too.
He would not sabotage Archie's chances, he vowed as he swept into his bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. Yet he could not bring himself to set aside certain longings: for the day Lily would turn and see him standing there, realize that he would devote every waking moment to her happiness, let him hold her close, and be in love and whole in more than just her proximity.
EARLY SUMMER
ROSE would understand. All the same, she wouldn't have Lily bursting in on her while she was paying calls on her friends, showing off the ring Albert slipped on her finger three nights ago. She needed someone she could confide in now, not whenever Rose returned flushed with happiness and well wishes. She maintained her composure until she, Archie and Neville were in Misselthwaite's sitting room, then burst into tears. Taking Neville's handkerchief she explained, "They're building a girl's boarding school in the valley. The board's bought _all of it. I've talked to them, I've written letters, I've told them that I've been tending that garden since I was l-little, L-Lady Oscot's tried to influence them. But they w-won't listen. They d-don't c-care."
"When is it going to take place?" asked Neville. "Perhaps we can-"
But Lily shook her head, chest heaving in a silent sob. "It's t-t-today."
"Mrs. Medlock!" Neville called, "Fetch Miss Lily some tea and-"
"No." Archie put an arm around Lily's shoulders, drawing her to her feet. "Come with me."
Neville protested, but Archie led her out into the gardens until—somehow, she wasn't sure how—they arrived at an ivy-covered wall. Her bewilderment and sadness slowly gave way to surprise as Archie opened a door in the wall. It was then that they both realized he still had his arm around her, and she felt a pang of loss as the comforting weight of it was removed.
"I come here to'''be alone," he explained. "There's only one key."
Eyes wide with nervous excitement, and with no more introduction than that, he beckoned her forward. Fountains of roses in every color cascaded around her. Lilacs and daisies spilled from flower beds. Bright red poppies played about the ground, flowers she had planted before they'd met and flowers she'd never seen had a place of pride within the walled space. And nearest the wall a handsome tree with wide shady leaves rose to eclipse the brick. Lily blinked as Archie shut the door. "I've been working on it for ages. I wanted it to be'''I've been waiting for the right time to show it to you. I was sorry that you missed gardening by coming here, and I know it can't replace your garden, but if you wanted to work in it—and sell cuttings from it, I'm sure some of these varieties from Paris would do well. But only if you wanted to sell them." He was very close to her now. "Do you like it? I know there's not as much room as in the valley-"
"It's wonderful. Archie, it's perfect." She kissed him tenderly. When he didn't respond, but didn't pull away, she let her second kiss linger before drawing back. "That wasn't just because I'm standing in the most amazing garden I've ever seen. It's because you brought me here and you did all of this, and you have this way of caring so deeply for everyone—Neville knows you paid for the cottage when he let you only pay for half of his practice. And it's not the money or the house. I'd love you if you were penniless. I know it isn't ladylike to say it, but I'm not a lady. And I love you, Archie." She was still close to him, their quickened breaths mingling as she took in his wonder-struck expression. When the silence stretched on too long she stepped away.
"I heard you telling Rose, but when you didn't come back in the last few weeks... I thought you had considered what she said-"
"I don't care a wit about your back! Did you think I've just been being kind-hearted all this time?"
"I've never imagined a life with a family of my own," he said softly.
"Archie." She moved to touch him, but he wrapped an arm around her waist and placed a light peck on her lips. It was the equivalent of a European hello, but it had her beaming like a schoolgirl. She reveled in the feeling of his fingers ever so gently stroking her hair, the look in his eyes as they moved fervently over her face. The timbre of his voice as he told her he loved her too.
It was dark when they finished walking through the gardens, spending as much time with the flowers as they did absorbed in each other. At the edge of the maze he wrapped her fingers around the large iron key, and kissed her clumsily in the fading light. Laughing, she interlaced her fingers through his so that the key was pressed between their palms.
"Will you meet me there tomorrow?" she asked.
"I would meet you anywhere whenever you asked."
"Only come to the garden."
Lily raced down the path, Albert at her heels, breaking up he and Rose's strolling. She pulled up short at the wall and began scanning the ivy, occasionally poking at it with a finger.
"Oh, Lily what _are you looking for?" The laughter in Rose's voice made her smile. Rose was never happier than when she was planning or giving a party, and a wedding reception would doubtless be the biggest party of her life.
"Oh wait till you see it. The most beautiful garden I ever saw. Nobody knows about it except Archie. But the door is so covered up with ivy that I can never find it." She laughed, both at her own ineptitude, and at a sudden memory of Archie grinning at her from the garden's doorway while she searched so franticly the green plant tickled her nose. "Oh wait, perhaps it's on this other side."
"So that's where you've been disappearing off to these past few weeks." Rose was at her side now. "I wondered why you weren't... well, why the garden-"
"I can't be sad about the past in a place as wick as this. Oh yes, yes, here it is!" They'd followed her around a bend, and Lily beamed at the looks of amazement on their faces.
"We could have the reception here!"
"Rose," Albert began.
"Albert. Be serious. It's absolutely beautiful, people must see it. We can bring everyone in through the back-"
"It's private," said Albert firmly, "though it speaks very highly of Lily and Archie's work that you want all our friends to see it."
"You didn't have to accept his offer," Rose pouted. "The ballroom is lovely now, but it can't make up for the rest of the house."
Not wanting to stand in the middle of a possible row, Lily tactfully began climbing the tree. Still she heard Albert answer, "Which is why he offered the ballroom. Archie's not a thoughtless man, Rose, he knows how you feel about the place. And we're getting married in two days, it would be hard enough to tell everyone about the new location. And what will it matter, when no one will be able to keep their eyes from you, my darling."
"He's right," called Lily from her favorite branch. There was a pause as the couple absorbed where she was, then Rose and Albert's laughter floated up to her like birdsong. Mood lifted, they toured the garden, their interest halved between it and each other with Rose in good spirits once more. She watched contentedly until Archie's voice roused her.
"I see you found the door with no trouble this time."
"Someday it will be so covered in ivy even your knack for finding it won't work. We'll have to post signs."
"Then you would be a very poor caretaker and I an even poorer assistant."
"Shouldn't those roles be reversed?"
"N-"
"You've done wonders with these roses, Archie," Albert called.
"No I haven't, they're Lily's doing. This entire place is Lily's doing."
"Then I readdress my compliments to Lily. Though it is a shame something can't be done about the distance you must travel for your work. I hope it won't always remain so."
"Trust a groom to concern himself with all matters of the heart," Rose gushed. "And as lovely as you made it, Lily, we really must be getting back. Doctor Craven shouldn't be left to handle the band's rehearsal on his own."
WINTER
As the last strains of music faded, he released her unwillingly. They'd been dancing in the ballroom all night, but their guests would only leave them to each other as long as they moved to retrieve their belongings. He wondered if a day would arrive when he would ever feel as happy as he did now.
All I'd own I'd give, he had told her, holding out the ring, but all she'd wanted was a garden that was already hers. So instead they'd promised never to leave one another. With that private arrangement, the vows they had written and exchanged earlier that day had been a request for one to keep the other safe and a willingness and trust to go where the other would lead.
So he squeezed his wife's hand as she scanned the faces passing into the foyay. But his concerned was unnecessary; she seemed to expect Rose's early departure.
"At least she came," she said quietly.
"And she'll come back."
"Only if Albert convinces her. I doubt she would have come today if not for his insistence."
"You cannot possibly believe, my Lily, that anyone who loves you could ever live without you for long. You will see her, in this house, again."
"You're newest quest, sir Archibald?" she teased, eyes dancing. "To reunite the fair maidens barred from each other's companionship by spirits of disapproval."
"If my lady desires."
She looked out over the chatting throng. "Poor Neville and Mrs. Medlock are no doubt desirous of sleep."
"Yes, I believe the rest of the staff slipped off hours ago. I don't know why she didn't join them."
"Medlock will be watchful till her dying days."
"As will Neville, come to think of it," Archie chuckled. And they set off into their crowd of well-wishers.
SPRING, One YEAR LATER
The crying was intensified in every room and hall, so that Lily and Archie heard their niece long before she appeared before them. Albert collapsed into a chair, the morning light revealing he hadn't slept well or long.
"Lily. Please?" He begged. "It must be the song. I've tried everything. Rose has given up trying for the moment, and as you two don't have a governess yet-"
Lily caressed her rounded stomach happily. "Rose and I grew up perfectly well without a governess. Our child will have us, the servants, and hopefully their cousin if you come back to Yorkshire once in a while." Mary, though expected, had arrived some months before her parents' intentions to travel to Albert's new station in India. Rose claimed Misselthwaite was the only place that could accommodate them on such short notice. While she hadn't grown any fonder of the house or its master, she enjoyed time with Lily in the garden. It was enough of an olive branch for now.
"Lily, we will have to live in this house. There's nothing else for it. Ever since you sang your mother's old lullaby the night we arrived-"
"Come now, Mary," Archie coaxed softly, "you have one of the two best fathers in the world. Stop making him talk nonsense that will make your mother cross."
Mary only opened her mouth wider and increased the pitch of her shrieks. "She's going to outstrip you both in determination, Albert!" Archie laughed, voice raised.
"My dear man, she already has," said Albert, pride creeping through his tiredness.
"Give her here." Lily cradled her niece, gently stroking the black hair off her forehead. "Clusters of crocus, purple and gold. Blankets of pansies, in from the cold. Lilies and iris, safe from the chill. Safe in my garden. Snowdrops so still."
Quiet from the first notes of the song, her niece's dark eyes remained fixed on hers for a moment, as if to ask if that was all. When no more singing emerged, she let out a contented gurgle and snuggled against Lily's chest.
Archie laughed softly at the look of mingled relief and dismay on his brother-in-law's face as he took back his now placid daughter. "Don't worry Albert. You'll be able to sleep after you leave here. I've seen to it."
"What have you done, Archie?" Lily asked.
"Aren't you at all worried what that sour man you hired is doing to your roses?"
"Not at all. I trust Ben. And I am an excellent judge of character when it comes to people others call sour." Catching each other's eye, they smiled.
"Will you rest more if you trust Weatherstaff so much?"
"I sit in the tree!" said Lily, mock-indignant.
"But you should try and get used to not doing any now. It'll make things easier."
Albert nodded, and Lily shot him a look. "While this has been fun, it hasn't made me forget you never said what you're planning, Archie."
"You'll all see in a week. I'll be out with tea as soon as it's brought."
"I'll try and get something out of him, Lily," Albert called after her.
But the music boxes remained a surprise. A parting gift for the Lennox family, and the first present for their unborn child, both playing the lullaby Mary had grown enamoured of. Upon hearing it the little girl approved as much as she was able, which was all that was needed for Albert to happily accept the gift, and Rose to offer Archie a rare, albeit thin, smile.
"It will be what binds our children at first," Archie assured her as they watched the little family set off across the moor. "before they know each other. That way when Albert and Rose visit from India they'll already have something in common. It will be good for you and Rose too."
"I love it," she sniffed, blinking back tears. "Now this is what belongs in our child's room, not a picture of me."
"It can go in their room along _with your picture. They're not going to labor under the misapprehension that a nurse is their mother for a moment."
"Then your picture-"
"Would frighten it. They'll know me in other ways."
Too content to let it turn into a real argument, Lily opened the rose-patterned lid that covered both music boxes, letting the slightly sped up tune spill out. Her gasp was quite unconnected to the music.
"What is it?" asked Archie, peering intently into her eyes as if he could divine whatever might be upsetting her through sheer intensity.
"I'll have to ask the midwife, but I think the baby kicked."