Work Text:
The Writings of Martha Sowerby
My James kissed me today!
Thank the heavens Miss Mary’s been teaching me to write, or else I would have told half me friends by now, and I don’t even want to think about what would happen if it got back to Mrs Medlock! But oh it was so exciting! Mrs Medlock had sent me to find Miss Mary out in the garden, and I had barely gotten down the stairs when my James appeared and pulled me around the corner!
I think Miss Mary would disapprove of me using so many exclamation marks, but this is my diary, and she told me diaries are private and no one else is allowed to read them. So I can do what I want.
I had my back against the wall, and he had his arms on either side of me, keeping me from escaping. He was so close to me and my face went hot, even though there is frost on the leaves. James was distracting me from my job, so I tried to be stern with him, I tried not to smile. I remember exactly what I said:
‘What are tha’ doing?’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t tha’ be out in the gardens?’
James just smiled that beautiful smile of his, which just makes me heart explode, and he said, ‘The gardens can wait. Dickon’s with them.’
‘We’ll get in trouble!’ I said. ‘What if someone sees us? What if Mrs Medlock sees us?’
He looked around, so calmly for someone doing something so out of line. ‘I don’t see no one. Do you?’
There wasn’t anyone around, it was true. ‘But…’ I said, his face getting closer, so close I could see each of his freckles and count his eyelashes. I pushed the words out, ‘But I have to find… I have to… Mrs Medlock…’
And then he kissed me! I felt like I was going to fall over, but he held me steady and oh it was so wonderful! I never wanted it to end, I wanted him to hold me like that forever and ever! It felt like the spring sun coming out of winter hiding, warming me from the inside out. It felt like my heart was blooming flowers that would never die.
Perhaps I’ve been spending too much time with Dickon and his garden talk.
Eventually, James pulled away. I wanted more but knew we couldn’t. He kissed me on the cheek once before he let me out, saying, ‘Be seeing you, beautiful Miss Martha.’ And he walked away to the gardens. I couldn’t stop smiling.
I completely forgot that I was supposed to find Miss Mary. I ran up to the servants quarters to hide and think about what just happened. On the way I heard some maids complaining about getting Master Colin ready for a party.
I think in some ways I am glad that I am poor. It is easier for us to be in love. I could marry my James one day and no fuss would be made. Poor Master Colin keeps getting sent to London, and events, and parties by Lord Craven. I think he is getting worried that Colin won’t have children. Colin is still young, but he has to marry the right person. There are so many rules and standards and social standings you have to think about for a nobleman’s marriage. Lord Craven got lucky with his wife, and I think he was hoping Colin would get the same, but he seems more desperate as time goes on. There was a time when I think Lord Craven was hoping Colin would marry Mary, but that didn’t last long, and everyone knew why.
Maybe love isn’t easier for us poor people. It’s only easy when you love someone in the same class as you.
Mary gets sent off to London too, and I know Lord Craven is hoping she’ll find a husband. Today, when I finally remembered to fetch her, she was already on her way inside, face red from the cold, hair tightly tucked in her bonnet. She seemed distracted, reluctant to leave. She’s always reluctant to leave. She loves her garden.
Dickon always spends more time in the gardens while she’s away. He’ll stay out late and leave before sunrise. Some days we don’t see him at all.
It’s nearly midnight and he’s still out there. Poor Dickon. I can’t imagine what he’s going through. He’s loved her since they were children, everyone’s known it. He knows it can’t happen, though.
Still, he picks up every time she returns, still unmarried. He gets a skip in his step and treats us all to a song at dinner. Sometimes he’ll bring back some flowers to decorate the house (with some light scolding from our mother). But even when she’s home, he keeps his distance, trying not to let more rumours spread about them. He won’t look her in the eye, he’ll call her just ‘Miss’, won’t speak to her unless she speaks to him. I can see how much it pains him. I can see how much it hurts her, too. I hate that they’ve had to lose their friendship because he is poor and she is rich. It’s not fair to either of them, or Colin.
Mother tries to introduce him to girls from the village. Asks him about some of the maids at Misselthwaite, to encourage him to look beyond Mary. I think he refuses to marry until she does. I think there is a part of him that still hopes. He always was an optimist.
The front door creaks, and Martha puts her pen down. Picking up her candle, she tip-toes out of the room.
‘Dickon?’ she whispers. She sees him in the dim candlelight, sitting at the wooden table, head leaning on one of his hands, bent as if the world is weighing on his shoulders. He is sweaty and dirty, sleeves rolled up and shirt undone, held closed by his suspenders. He looks up in surprise.
‘Martha?’ he croaks. ‘Why are ya still up?’
‘I was worried about ya.’ Martha treads softly around him to find a blanket to put around his shoulders. ‘Tha’ must be cold, what were ya thinkin’?’
He starts at the blanket, as if he forgot it was winter. ‘Did na feel it.’
She sat down in a chair facing him. ‘Ya’ll make yerself sick.’
Dickon sighs. He pulls the blanket around himself, as if the weather is catching up with him. ‘Martha, I’ve done sommat terrible.’
Martha sits straighter and looks alarmed. ‘What? What happened?’
He’s silent for a minute. Martha sits patiently. ‘I lay with her, Martha.’
Martha gapes at him, her tongue frozen from shock.
‘This afternoon. In the garden.’ He lays his head back in his hands. His chin starts to wobble. ‘I’ve been tryin’, really tryin’, t’ stay away. I know it canna be. But she came t’ see me ‘fore she left. It’s so hard to deny her when I know I won’t see her for months. I thought, we’re just talkin’, there’s nowt wrong with that. But she looked so sad, and I canna bear that.’ His tears sparkle in the candlelight. ‘I gave her a hug. Just for comfort, for old times’ sake. Next time I see her, I thought, she could be married, and then I could never touch her again. But then she asks me, “Dickon, do you love me?” I thought about lyin’, maybe it would make everythin’ easier to stop. But I canna lie t’ her, Martha. So I tell her, I tell her, but before I can stop her she’s kissin’ me, and I’m lost, I canna resist her, I love her so much, Martha.’ Water is streaming down his face, his words punctuated with barely suppressed sobs. ‘What have I done?’ It comes out less than a whisper.
‘Oh, Dickon.’ Martha pulls her chair forwards and envelopes him in a hug. He wraps her arms around her and cries silently into her shoulder. ‘Does anyone else know?’
Dickon nods. ‘James,’ he gasps. ‘I think he saw us.’
Martha’s mouth falls open, but she says nothing. James must have distracted her for that reason. To let them have their moment together, to prevent Martha from being put in a difficult position. Martha fell for him over again. ‘James won’t say anythin’,’ she whispers.
‘I know,’ he says. ‘But what if she’s with child? I canna bear her bein’ disgraced. And I’m the cause of that. And Craven would send me away, and tha’, too!’ He dissolves into sobs.
‘Shh,’ Martha comforts. ‘We don’t know that she is. And if she is…then, Dickon, you’d have a child.’
His hands grip her nightdress tightly. ‘She should marry another man. Pretend it’s his. That would save her reputation.’
Martha’s heart breaks for him. ‘She wouldn’t do that, Dickon.’
Dickon heaves into the crook of her neck. She can feel his breath on her collarbone.
‘You know what happens when a rich man gets a rich lady pregnant?’ Martha says quietly.
‘I canna marry her.’
‘Why not?’
‘For the same reason a rich man doesn’t marry any poor girl he gets pregnant.’
‘Dickon, she loves you.’
‘And the rich man may love the poor girl.’
‘When has Mary ever cared about the status difference between you?’
Dickon takes a deep breath. ‘I canna ask her t’ give up so much.’
Martha, rubbing his back, replies, ‘I have only ever seen her care for you, Colin, and the garden.’
‘I canna promise she’ll have Colin or the garden if she marries me.’
‘Colin will not leave her destitute. Either of ya.’
‘Colin is not the head of the estate, yet. Her uncle will disown her, I’m sure.’
‘Colin has influence over his father. I’ve seen it. Did ya know that originally Craven wanted t’ send Mary away t’ London for good? Mary begged him not to.’
Martha feels Dickon tense at the thought. ‘He did?’
‘In the end, Colin convinced him not to. And ya know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Because he knew neither of ya would be able t’ bear it.’
Dickon relaxes. ‘He did it…for us?’
Martha nods. Dickon pulls back to look her in the eye. His eyes are puffy and red, tear stains down his cheeks. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, Dickon.’
He sniffs. ‘And ya really think he’d help us out if I ask Mary t’ marry me?’
‘I’m certain. He loves ya both and he cares less about the Craven image than his father.’
‘Probably gets that from Mary,’ Dickon laughs wetly.
Martha grins. ‘Probably.’
‘Can tha’ write to her?’ The hope in his eyes warms the room more than a fire ever could.
‘Ya mean she hasn’t taught tha’ to write?’
Dickon looks away. ‘I couldn’t have sommat regular t’ look forward to. It would’ve made it too hard t’ stay away.’
‘Well, tha’ doesn’t need t’ stay away any longer. Come, tha’ can help me.’
Dear Miss Mary,
I know this is very improper of me, but I must beg you to come back as soon as you can. Dickon has come to his senses and has decided he wants to ask you a very important question. If you would like to hear his question, I might suggest coming back unmarried if you can. He has also realised that he would like to learn how to write after all. I’ve taught him a few letters, but he is very eager to learn with you. He says your garden is missing you, and to please bring spring with you when you return. Until then, here are the letters I taught him:
I LOVE THEE MISS MARY
Love,
Martha Sowerby