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March, 1916
Mary leaned back against the door to the secret garden and took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and savoured the smells of early spring, carried on the damp breeze that chilled her cheeks and made her wish she could pull off her shoes and stockings and run barefoot over the grass.
If only she could spend the rest of the day here.
She opened her eyes and looked around. The snowdrops were already fading away, the first crocuses and daffy-down-dillies a splash of colour against the dark earth. If she could spend the day here, she would free the soil around them, stop the weeds that were threatening to choke them. She would hoe the soil that had been driven into solid blocks by winter, and plant the seeds that had been waiting for spring. She would clear the dead branches off the rosebushes to encourage the haze of young green that was starting to show.
Oh, if only she could.
But she was due on duty in ten minutes, and an eighteen-year-old VAD may not have a lot of responsibility but it was responsibility nonetheless. And maybe, some day, in some other hospital or convalescent home, another VAD would face the exact same dilemma, and maybe her patients would include Colin or Dickon.
So, instead, Mary picked a snowdrop and pinned it to her apron. Then she took a final breath, the air sweeter here than anywhere else, and opened the door.
The bedpans were waiting.
There were, she thought, stepping out of the garden, more inspiring battlecries.
May 1916
When Mary pushed open the door to the secret garden, she was surprised to see a man inside. A corporal, his uniform immaculate as he stood easy beside a rosebush, and even when he turned to look at her, it wasn't until he smiled, big and wide and welcoming, that she recognised him.
"Dickon!" she cried, and she was across the garden in a trice, and he was swinging her round while she laughed. "Oh, Dickon," she said, when he finally put her back on her feet. "It's so good to see you! Are you back for long?"
His smile faded. "Nay," he said, and he looked away.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I needed to speak to your uncle. Needed to tell him m'self."
A clench of fear in her belly. "Tell him what?"
Dickon gave her a measuring look. "I'm to see him in an hour or so. Reckon I can trust you to keep the secret until then."
Mary tried to smile, but she couldn't.
"I can't keep the posting he got me," Dickon said. "The remount depot. I can't keep seeing men and horses off to the front while I stay safe. I feel a coward."
"He didn't mean that for you," Mary said, full of certainty. "I think he just wanted you to be where you could do the most good."
"I know," Dickon said, "but I can't stay." He looked away and his voice was low as he said, "I feel I'm killing the horses m'self. The men know they're fighting for their country, but the beasts know nothin' on that."
"I think I understand," Mary said, and, when he looked at her, his eyes were clear with relief.
"I hope he does."
"He will," Mary said, and she managed a smile. "Now, if you have an hour to kill, the tulips need weeding."
They knelt beside each other, working in silence, until Dickon stood up, stretched, and donned his tunic again.
"I've missed the garden," he said.
"It'll be here when you get back."
August 1916
"Well," Colin said, "it isn't how I intended to go up to Cambridge." He was re-reading the letter in his hand, leaning against a tree while Mary pruned the apple tree.
"You intended to go to Caius," Mary said.
"And if Caius were an Officer Training Battalion, I still would," Colin said. "But it's Pembroke for me, now I'm finally old enough. Caius will still be there after the war."
"What would you have done if you hadn't been accepted?" Mary asked.
"Oh, gone into the ranks," Colin said. "But I'd have applied again, once I'd my six months service." He frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe I should have gone into the ranks first, anyway. It would have given me more experience. Two years in the OTC at school doesn't really give much idea of what I'll be facing."
"Have you heard from Dickon?" she asked.
"No. Have you?"
"Martha says he wrote when he first arrived in France, but that was a month ago. She hasn't heard since."
Colin gave her a sympathetic smile. "He never was very good at writing. I suppose that makes it harder for him."
"I suppose so," Mary said.
Colin tucked the letter away in his jacket pocket and came to help with the pruning. "He'll write soon," he said. "He knows we'll worry about him."
February 1917
Dear Mary,
I admit, I'm rather glad that you're too young for the VAD to let you come over here, although I can imagine it's frustrating for you. (And just because I'm glad, it doesn't stop me thinking it's rather silly. There are FANY drivers here who aren't much older than you - younger than the VADs - and they go closer to the front than anyone in a hospital.)
Besides, you're certainly doing your bit where you are. Father tells me that you have the convalescing officers out in our garden, even now. When I think of what our garden did for me, I'm sure it will be doing them all kinds of good, too.
I do miss the moors, Mary, dear, and the smell of the air that comes off it, especially when it's as crisp and cold as I imagine it is now. Here in Calais, things are all over mud and it's rather gruesome. Nothing can grow in mud.
Have you any news of Dickon?
Do write to me often, Mary, dear. I think I shall appreciate your letters more than you can imagine. You must tell me every shoot that's showing in our garden.
Yours,
Colin
Mary folded up the letter and tucked it away in her coat.
"You're looking thoughtful, Miss Lennox," Captain Bedstowe said.
Mary leaned forward and rested one hand on the arm of Captain Bedstowe's wheeled chair. "What do you know about the FANY?" she asked, and the captain beamed.
"Marvellous girls," he said. "Brave as lions."
"I thought they might be," Mary said, and gave a determined nod.
March 1917
Mary was tying in the clematis shoots when Archibald Craven marched into the garden, holding the forms that Mary had left on his desk. "Do you really think I'll allow you to carry out this nonsensical scheme?"
Mary took a deep breath, stood up, and turned around to face her uncle. "I think it's an eminently sensible scheme," she said.
"Driving ambulances at the front? It's not remotely sensible!"
Mary stood up straight. "I'm strong and fit," she said determinedly, "and I certainly hope I'm courageous enough. I can drive. I've been a VAD for more than a year, which has given me some nursing experience - enough to be useful. I have every intention of doing everything I can, just as Colin and Dickon are."
"You're doing good work right here, where you're safe!" Archibald said.
"Dickon was doing good work at the remount depot," Mary said. "Yet you were full of admiration when he said he'd rather be at the front. I feel the same as he did, uncle. A VAD doesn't need my skills. An ambulance driver does." She narrowed her eyes and only just stopped herself from stamping her foot petulantly. "I shall go. No matter how long it takes to convince you."
It took three months.
July 1917
Dickon didn't expect to find anybody in their garden, let alone an unknown officer in a wheeled chair. He stood to attention and saluted without thinking, and it was only at the officer's amused smile that he remembered he wasn't in uniform.
"First days of leave?" the officer asked.
"Yes, sir," Dickon said, and the officer waved it away.
"Please, if you're not in uniform, we don't need to bother." He held out his hand. "Charles Bedstowe."
Dickon shook it awkwardly. "Dick Sowerby," he said.
"Also known as Dickon?" Bedstowe asked, and his smile widened. "I'm very relieved to see you. Miss Lennox was worried. You may wish to write and set her mind at ease."
Dickon smiled back. "I didn't know she weren't here till my ma told me. Ambulances, is it?"
"So I'm told," Bedstowe said. "Now, I promised Miss Lennox that I'd take of her garden while I was here." He pushed himself out of his chair and stood unsteadily, frowning slightly with that inward look that Dickon remembered from Colin. "Would you care to give me a hand with the weeding?"
It was a relief to get his hands into the good, brown earth, to feel the life springing around him after so long surrounded by dead mud. After an hour or so, Bedstowe looked over at him, and Dickon realised he was whistling.
"I understand," Bedstowe said softly, and Dickon breathed deeply.
"Perhaps," he said, "you could help me write to Mary?" He shrugged. "I've never been much with a pen."
"I'd be delighted," Bedstowe said.
December 1917
On Christmas Day, on his return from church, Archibald Craven left the festivities at Misselthwaite and stepped into the garden.
The ground was dusted with frost, muting the colours and blurring the lines, making the garden look as though it were hiding behind a veil. Archibald rested his hand against an apple tree, and shut his eyes. "Bring them back safe," he whispered. "Please, Lord. Bring them back safe."
December, 1918
Mary pulled her coat closer around her, and pushed her nose into her scarf. She'd hoped there'd be fresh snow for today but it was too cold. Instead of perfect, magical whiteness, the secret garden was filled with frozen snowbroth and mud, with ice underneath making it treacherous to walk.
But she'd dealt with much worse, and she stood straight as she led the way into the garden, Colin following behind her.
Dickon was already there, watching a robin eat the seed he'd scattered.
"Oh!" Mary said. "It can't be our robin - can it?"
"Nay," Dickon said, and his gaze softened as he kept watching the robin. "May be his son, though."
"I hope so," Colin said. "I do hope so."