Mistress of Misselthwaite

Chapter 2

It was another hour before dinner, giving Mary time to dry her hair by the fire. It dried in long stringy blonde chunks, calling upon a maid, who Martha had introduced as Ann, to take up the tedious task of pinning Mary's hair in a presentable manner. 

Although she hadn't had many new dresses during the war, Mary changed into a tan colored gown with a loose waistline and flowing, tiered skirt that stopped just above her ankles. She grimaced at her reflection in the full length mirror at the wall beside her closet. 

The dress itself had been a Christmas present, hard gotten with the labor and product shortages. When Mary had received it in the middle of winter, she'd, at the time, forgotten she had no slippers to wear with it. Now, staring at her hideous boots she'd kicked off behind her bed, Mary couldn't imagine wearing them with the dress.

Instantly, she felt ashamed, humiliation washing over her. Any soldier would have been grateful for leather boots no matter how ugly or scuffed. 

Then, Mary was angry. Angry at the great, big, terrible war for invading her country and home. For taking lovely Dickon, who'd never harmed as much as an ant, and forced him to be a soldier in a war that no one had wanted. Angry that she could no longer have her woes because the war made every concern seem so trivial.

It was that burst of anger that spurred Mary to wear the boots out of spite, though they looked as hideous with the dress as she'd expected. But she no longer cared. If the men of England could fight in the trenches, she could wear older leather boots.

Mary quietly slipped out the door and down the twisting and turning halls of the manor until she came upon a downstairs sitting room. She vaguely remembered seeing it as a child, although most of her time had been spent out of doors in the garden, while her uncle and cousin kept themselves concealed in the house. 

Colin was seated on a small sofa perpendicular with the fireplace where a large blaze crackled and popped. Her uncle, Archibald Craven, sat hunched over a writing desk, frowning into oblivion with a strange look in his eyes.

It was Colin who saw her first and set down his book beside him. He leapt to his feet crossing the room in two strides. He kissed her hand and then planted another on her cheek. 

Uncle Craven was a hunchback and had therefore been exempt from the draft, but upon just observing Colin, it was hard to see why he too remained as Misselthwaite. His childhood of pampering had not gone without consequences though. Ten years of lying in bed with a foul temper, hysterics, and no sunlight had left Colin with a weak heart, so he too had been rejected from the draft for medical reasons, although it was not reflected in his appearance. 

"Cousin Mary, what on earth are you wearing?" His eyes traveled to her feet.

Mary refused to let herself be embarrassed and explained her dilemma.

"Well, that simply won't do," he responded with an incredulous wave of his hand. "Father and I will see to it that you have new slippers."

"Ah, tha' munnot," she cried, slipping into the same Yorkshire accent of Martha that her London tutors had tried to train out of her. "I munnot bear to think of myself prancing around in new slippers like a silly girl while Dickon is over there alone an' cold an' in danger."

At this, her uncle looked up from his letter. "Oh, is that you Mary? I thought for a moment it was Martha, or that you had been possessed by the spirit of some other young girl who had not ever been out of the countryside," he said dryly.

At this, the faintest hint of red crept into Mary's cheeks and across her nose. "Hello, Uncle Craven."

Her uncle finally stood and gave the best bow that he could with his hunched back. "I'm glad to have you here safely. The raids have been so much worse these past few months."

Mary instantly thought of the school in Poplar, afraid she might be sick and unable to eat dinner with them.

"Never mind the war," Colin said. "Never mind any of your worries now that you're home. I, for one, am glad we are both free of school and responsibilities. We can spend every day together as we once did in childhood."

Mary felt her jaw twitch. 

Colin meant nothing by it. For him, everything was flippant words. But to Mary, who had seen the after effects of the raids and the women left widowed and the children left orphans, it was irksome that all her cousin could think about was that neither had duties for the time being. The idea that the two of them could gad about the countryside in the midst of a war, even one that had left Yorkshire predominantly untouched, was ridiculous even to Mary, who had once believed in magic as a child.

"Uncle Craven, is there anything that could be done in the village?" She turned back to her uncle. 

Colin's remark had prompted her to think of something to do while in the countryside. At school, they'd knitted socks for the Red Cross, but Mary couldn't bear to sit alone with only Colin as company. She needed to be out among the moor and feel somewhat useful.

There were several villages scattered about them, but the main town, Thwaite, was the biggest of them. It housed the local hospital and closest grocer and other shops without going to a bigger city. 

"Well, Thwaite Hospital is always looking for volunteers," he answered contemplatively. 

"Surely, you can't be considering becoming a nurse," Colin said, a bit incredulously. His jaw hung loosely, appalled at the idea.

"No," she said. 

Several of her classmates had gone through nursing courses at the beginning of the war, but Mary's sensibilities had always been too delicate for such gruesome dealings. Although many times she wished she'd gathered up her courage anyway instead of knitting socks by the fire with those of her friends who had remained at the school until they'd all finally been sent away from the city.

"No," Mary said again. "Not nursing. But perhaps I can help in other capacities."

"Shall I have the chauffeur take you into the village later this week?" Her uncle asked. "I have no objections to you doing any such work that would support our young men overseas."

Mary nodded gratefully as Mr. Pitcher, the butler, entered the sitting room to announce dinner. 

She found herself distracted by thoughts of what she might do to help all throughout the affair and much to Colin's annoyance. His eyes kept shining brighter, and his brow narrowed all throughout the courses. 

When they'd finally finished, her uncle excused himself first, retreating to his room with a gentle, 'good night.'

Mary attempted to leave next, but Colin caught her by the wrist when she headed for the stairs. 

"I have not given you permission to leave." His tone was teasing, but from the look in his eyes Mary could tell he was quite serious.

"I do not need your permission to do anything," she said in the assertive tone she'd discovered was quite useful with anyone who did not immediately give way to her. 

"But we've so much to discuss," he said, quite miserable. 

"I have a headache, Colin." Mary raised her hand to her head. 

It was quite hot, too, as were her cheeks. Her trip had tired her more than she'd thought.

Colin gave a disgruntled sigh. "Very well. I'll see you in the morning."

Mary rolled her eyes at him, remembering that when they were young, she'd called him a rajah after a similar little boy she'd seen while living in India. 

But he was not a little boy anymore. Sooner or later, Colin would have to grow up.