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alixtiiTitle: The Life of a Flower
Fandom: The Secret Garden musicalverse
Pairing: Mary Lennox/Neville Craven, mention of Archibald Craven/Mrs. Medlock
Summary: Mary Lennox was twelve years old when she arrived at Misselthwaite, and Neville could not see past the familiar brown eyes looking out from a black dress, but each new year brings with it a new blooming.
A/N: Written for Yuletide 2008. The Yuletide version (with corresponding comments) can be found here.
The Life of a Flower
Mary Lennox was twelve years old when she arrived at Misselthwaite, and Neville could not see past the familiar brown eyes looking out from a black dress.
. . .
Mary Lennox was thirteen years old when Neville at last had to admit that Colin was, indeed, well.
He was glad for Colin's sake that the boy was well, of course. While he regretted his lost of control, it had been impudence for Mary to suggest otherwise that day, even in anger.
Colin was more than welcome both to the Manor and to Archie's title, of course; Neville had no doubt that his home at the manor was assured, and there was only one thing that Archie had had that Neville had wanted, really, and she had been lost to both of them for thirteen years now.
Still, it smarted a little that the girl had succeeded where he had failed.
. . .
Mary Lennox was fourteen years old when she fell ill with fever, and it fell to Neville to see her through her sickness. He had not nursed Colin for so long only to lose his cousin, and he would sit with Colin at the side of Mary's bed through the nights, pressing the cool rags against the girl's forehead.
. . .
Mary Lennox was fifteen years old when Mrs. Medlock pulled Neville aside. Medlock was a no-nonsense woman, and she laid out her concerns to the doctor without embarrassment or equivocation. Mary was a growing woman, and while Medlock would never accuse a son of Susan Sowerby's of anything untoward, still the truth was the girl spent an extraordinary amount of her time alone with both Dickon and Colin.
The fact of Mary's flowering had not passed Neville by, however, and as he had already made sure Mary regularly underwent the required examinations and was equipped with the necessary knowledge, he assured Medlock that there was nothing to fear.
. . .
Mary Lennox was sixteen years old when they traveled to Paris, just the four of them: Archie, Colin, Mary, and Neville. Archie was constantly whisking Colin away to show the boy this site or that, to share with his son the city he had learned so well, leaving Neville behind with Mary. And so he found himself in the rôle of Miss Lennox's escort, and the two of them would walk through Paris.
They passed a street-artist's exhibit, and tarried to inspect the works. It was of particularly good quality; the artist had quite a bit of talent, Neville could tell, and deserved to be selling his paintings somewhere grander than the Paris avenue.
Mary was particularly interested in the landscapes, and Neville watched as a look of strange passed over her features. She misses her garden, Neville realized. He had not thought it would have been possible to be homesick for dreary Misselthwaite, but Mary's symptoms were so clear that Neville could not doubt his diagnosis.
"Do you paint portraits?" he asked the artist.
"Certainly, monsieur," the man answered. "The mademoiselle?"
Neville nodded and entreated Mary to sit for the portrait.
The result was breathtaking. The man had, on Neville's instruction, painted Mary sitting in a garden and holding some flowers, and the painting was so vivid and colorful and Mary so skillfully rendered that Neville gladly paid the man the agreed fee plus some. When they brought the painting back that night, both Archie and Colin agreed it was a very beautiful painting and that they would hang it in the halls of the manor as soon as they returned to Misselthwaite.
. . .
Mary Lennox was seventeen years old when she left Misselthwaite Manor to go to university. Colin had complained, but both Archibald and Mrs. Medlock were in agreement on the matter, and when the two of them saw eye-to-eye there was nothing else to be done. Medlock had found a good girls' college for Mary in New York, and Mary was off on a steamship by August.
Colin was sullen for days, and even Neville found himself missing the young woman's presence. He wondered idly through the halls of Misselthwaite, alone in the silence, but whenever he passed by Mary's portrait he smiled.
He found himself passing through that hallway more often.
. . .
Mary Lennox was eighteen years old when she returned from her first year at university. Something had come up in the manor which had demanded Medlock's attention, and so Neville had volunteered to go in the carriage and fetch Miss Lennox. She was dressed in a black dress, just as she had been the first time she arrived at Misselthwaite, but this time as the carriage entered the moor a smile lit up her face.
For the first time Neville looked in her eyes and did not see Lily there.
. . .
Mary Lennox was nineteen years old when Archie married old Mrs. Medlock--well, not old, as the widowed housekeeper hadn't been all that much older than Archie himself, but to Neville she was still old Mrs. Medlock and always would be.
. . .
Mary Lennox was twenty years old when Neville married her.
"Now you are my aunt as well as my cousin," Colin said good-naturedly. "Must I call you `Aunt Mary' now?"
"I should be very cross with you if you did," Mary answered, and Colin only laughed and gave his beloved cousin a great embrace.
. . .
Mary Craven was twenty-one years when she finished her last year at university. Neville traveled to London to meet his wife, as he had met Mary each of the last two years.
She was waiting for him this time not in black, but in a bright green dress, and her smile when she saw him was enough to make the months spent apart almost seen worth it. "Hello, Neville," she said to him as they embraced. "Did you miss me?"
"With all my heart, darling," he told her, and it was the truth.
. . .
Mary Craven was forty-two years when Neville died. She wore a green dress to the funeral, refusing to wear black. Mrs. Medlock--that was, Aunt Maria, the elder Lady Craven, but Mary couldn't help but still think of her as old Mrs. Medlock sometimes, and neither had Neville been able to, she knew--had nodded approvingly. "This place has seen enough black to last until the end of time," she said.
The younger Lady Craven hadn't understood, but Samantha Craven was used to not understanding a good many things which went on at Misselthwaite Manor, knew the secrets shared by Mary and Colin from their childhood were deep and many.
Mary walked out into the gardens. It was spring, and seeing the things come alive around her did much to soothe her soul. She would miss Neville forever, but she knew how important it was to let him go, to let his spirit rest.
She heard the shouts of the children playing in the next garden. "Race you to the fountain!" a boy cried out.
"Archibald Neville Craven, not so fast!" a girl's voice rang out in response.
Mary entered the next garden to see Colin's two children playing with Sissy Sowerby. "It's Aunt Mary!" cried out little Archie, the youngest of three, and quickly changed the direction of his sprint so as to end up in Mary's arms.
She embraced the boy quickly. His sister, Lilian Rose, was right behind him, and Mary pulled her into the hug as well.
"Can we help thee, Missus Craven?" Sissy asked politely.
"Aye, that thee can," Mary said, slipping into Yorkshire and eliciting a series of giggles from the two Craven children and a shy smile from Sissy. "There's nought would do me half as good as to see the three of you children at play."
"You sound like Sissy when you talk like that!" little Archie said, laughing.
"Aye," agreed Mary, still speaking Yorkshire. "T'was her father who taught me to speak it. Taught me to speak Yorkshire, and other things besides, more important things. Taught your father, too, the three of us in our garden learning things and watching the magic work its ways."
"I read a book," interjected Lilian Rose, "and it said there was no such thing as magic. It said scientists studied things in laboratories, and they said so."
"Perhaps," said Sissy, thoughtfullly, "perhaps it doesn't happen in laboratories. Perhaps it only happens on the moor, near the earth. Maybe there's a magic in the earth which lets things happen."
"There's no such thing as magic!" Lilian Rose said with confidence.
Mary smiled. A child of Colin Craven's who didn't believe in magic? Something had to be done about this right away.
Fandom: The Secret Garden musicalverse
Pairing: Mary Lennox/Neville Craven, mention of Archibald Craven/Mrs. Medlock
Summary: Mary Lennox was twelve years old when she arrived at Misselthwaite, and Neville could not see past the familiar brown eyes looking out from a black dress, but each new year brings with it a new blooming.
A/N: Written for Yuletide 2008. The Yuletide version (with corresponding comments) can be found here.
The Life of a Flower
Mary Lennox was twelve years old when she arrived at Misselthwaite, and Neville could not see past the familiar brown eyes looking out from a black dress.
. . .
Mary Lennox was thirteen years old when Neville at last had to admit that Colin was, indeed, well.
He was glad for Colin's sake that the boy was well, of course. While he regretted his lost of control, it had been impudence for Mary to suggest otherwise that day, even in anger.
Colin was more than welcome both to the Manor and to Archie's title, of course; Neville had no doubt that his home at the manor was assured, and there was only one thing that Archie had had that Neville had wanted, really, and she had been lost to both of them for thirteen years now.
Still, it smarted a little that the girl had succeeded where he had failed.
. . .
Mary Lennox was fourteen years old when she fell ill with fever, and it fell to Neville to see her through her sickness. He had not nursed Colin for so long only to lose his cousin, and he would sit with Colin at the side of Mary's bed through the nights, pressing the cool rags against the girl's forehead.
. . .
Mary Lennox was fifteen years old when Mrs. Medlock pulled Neville aside. Medlock was a no-nonsense woman, and she laid out her concerns to the doctor without embarrassment or equivocation. Mary was a growing woman, and while Medlock would never accuse a son of Susan Sowerby's of anything untoward, still the truth was the girl spent an extraordinary amount of her time alone with both Dickon and Colin.
The fact of Mary's flowering had not passed Neville by, however, and as he had already made sure Mary regularly underwent the required examinations and was equipped with the necessary knowledge, he assured Medlock that there was nothing to fear.
. . .
Mary Lennox was sixteen years old when they traveled to Paris, just the four of them: Archie, Colin, Mary, and Neville. Archie was constantly whisking Colin away to show the boy this site or that, to share with his son the city he had learned so well, leaving Neville behind with Mary. And so he found himself in the rôle of Miss Lennox's escort, and the two of them would walk through Paris.
They passed a street-artist's exhibit, and tarried to inspect the works. It was of particularly good quality; the artist had quite a bit of talent, Neville could tell, and deserved to be selling his paintings somewhere grander than the Paris avenue.
Mary was particularly interested in the landscapes, and Neville watched as a look of strange passed over her features. She misses her garden, Neville realized. He had not thought it would have been possible to be homesick for dreary Misselthwaite, but Mary's symptoms were so clear that Neville could not doubt his diagnosis.
"Do you paint portraits?" he asked the artist.
"Certainly, monsieur," the man answered. "The mademoiselle?"
Neville nodded and entreated Mary to sit for the portrait.
The result was breathtaking. The man had, on Neville's instruction, painted Mary sitting in a garden and holding some flowers, and the painting was so vivid and colorful and Mary so skillfully rendered that Neville gladly paid the man the agreed fee plus some. When they brought the painting back that night, both Archie and Colin agreed it was a very beautiful painting and that they would hang it in the halls of the manor as soon as they returned to Misselthwaite.
. . .
Mary Lennox was seventeen years old when she left Misselthwaite Manor to go to university. Colin had complained, but both Archibald and Mrs. Medlock were in agreement on the matter, and when the two of them saw eye-to-eye there was nothing else to be done. Medlock had found a good girls' college for Mary in New York, and Mary was off on a steamship by August.
Colin was sullen for days, and even Neville found himself missing the young woman's presence. He wondered idly through the halls of Misselthwaite, alone in the silence, but whenever he passed by Mary's portrait he smiled.
He found himself passing through that hallway more often.
. . .
Mary Lennox was eighteen years old when she returned from her first year at university. Something had come up in the manor which had demanded Medlock's attention, and so Neville had volunteered to go in the carriage and fetch Miss Lennox. She was dressed in a black dress, just as she had been the first time she arrived at Misselthwaite, but this time as the carriage entered the moor a smile lit up her face.
For the first time Neville looked in her eyes and did not see Lily there.
. . .
Mary Lennox was nineteen years old when Archie married old Mrs. Medlock--well, not old, as the widowed housekeeper hadn't been all that much older than Archie himself, but to Neville she was still old Mrs. Medlock and always would be.
. . .
Mary Lennox was twenty years old when Neville married her.
"Now you are my aunt as well as my cousin," Colin said good-naturedly. "Must I call you `Aunt Mary' now?"
"I should be very cross with you if you did," Mary answered, and Colin only laughed and gave his beloved cousin a great embrace.
. . .
Mary Craven was twenty-one years when she finished her last year at university. Neville traveled to London to meet his wife, as he had met Mary each of the last two years.
She was waiting for him this time not in black, but in a bright green dress, and her smile when she saw him was enough to make the months spent apart almost seen worth it. "Hello, Neville," she said to him as they embraced. "Did you miss me?"
"With all my heart, darling," he told her, and it was the truth.
. . .
Mary Craven was forty-two years when Neville died. She wore a green dress to the funeral, refusing to wear black. Mrs. Medlock--that was, Aunt Maria, the elder Lady Craven, but Mary couldn't help but still think of her as old Mrs. Medlock sometimes, and neither had Neville been able to, she knew--had nodded approvingly. "This place has seen enough black to last until the end of time," she said.
The younger Lady Craven hadn't understood, but Samantha Craven was used to not understanding a good many things which went on at Misselthwaite Manor, knew the secrets shared by Mary and Colin from their childhood were deep and many.
Mary walked out into the gardens. It was spring, and seeing the things come alive around her did much to soothe her soul. She would miss Neville forever, but she knew how important it was to let him go, to let his spirit rest.
She heard the shouts of the children playing in the next garden. "Race you to the fountain!" a boy cried out.
"Archibald Neville Craven, not so fast!" a girl's voice rang out in response.
Mary entered the next garden to see Colin's two children playing with Sissy Sowerby. "It's Aunt Mary!" cried out little Archie, the youngest of three, and quickly changed the direction of his sprint so as to end up in Mary's arms.
She embraced the boy quickly. His sister, Lilian Rose, was right behind him, and Mary pulled her into the hug as well.
"Can we help thee, Missus Craven?" Sissy asked politely.
"Aye, that thee can," Mary said, slipping into Yorkshire and eliciting a series of giggles from the two Craven children and a shy smile from Sissy. "There's nought would do me half as good as to see the three of you children at play."
"You sound like Sissy when you talk like that!" little Archie said, laughing.
"Aye," agreed Mary, still speaking Yorkshire. "T'was her father who taught me to speak it. Taught me to speak Yorkshire, and other things besides, more important things. Taught your father, too, the three of us in our garden learning things and watching the magic work its ways."
"I read a book," interjected Lilian Rose, "and it said there was no such thing as magic. It said scientists studied things in laboratories, and they said so."
"Perhaps," said Sissy, thoughtfullly, "perhaps it doesn't happen in laboratories. Perhaps it only happens on the moor, near the earth. Maybe there's a magic in the earth which lets things happen."
"There's no such thing as magic!" Lilian Rose said with confidence.
Mary smiled. A child of Colin Craven's who didn't believe in magic? Something had to be done about this right away.