‘Mercy me, where have you come from!’ Dickon exclaimed. ‘It’s not even dawn yet.’ Mary had been banging on the door of the Sowerby’s cottage for several minutes, until a bleary-eyed Dickon had come to answer it. The cottage was low, with white walls and a red tiled roof, but though it was small, every window was brightly curtained and the garden was neat and well-tended. It looked much more inviting than the grim, grey grandeur of Misselthwaite Manor. Mary thought that she could curl up and sleep comfortably under a patchwork quilt in one of the tiny bedrooms in the eaves of the cottage much more easily than in the great four poster at the Manor. But this was no time for thinking about sleep. She had to be back in time for breakfast – she had climbed down the ivy before dawn, and didn’t have long for her errand.
‘I was so sorry Martha was dismissed. She didn’t do anything wrong, you know, it was all Miss Crichton’s doing.’
‘I know. Martha told our mam all about it. It’s not right what that woman done to Martha – nor to you and Colin. Have you come all this way to ask after our Martha?’
‘Sort of. It’s important. I need you to help me. I must contact my uncle, urgently. I need to tell him about Miss Crichton. Martha said she would help and she said she’d take a letter for me but now she’s not at the hall, so I climbed out of my window and ran here to ask.’
‘Climbed out of your window? Well I never!’ Dickon said, his eyes warm with admiration. ‘Tha’s got some spirit, Miss Mary!’
‘Can you go to the Post Office in Thwaite village and post this letter for me? I have a shilling here, but I don’t know if it will be enough.’ She thrust the letter and the coin towards Dickon, who took them, a bemused expression on his face.
‘I’ll make sure it is,’ he said.
Mary had vowed that she would keep her secret to herself, but the warmth of Dickon’s tone tempted her to trust him.
‘We’re going to run away,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘My uncle needs to know that Miss Crichton is treating Colin very badly. And the servants too. It’s not just Martha – now she has taken the keys from Mrs. Medlock. Whoever heard of a housekeeper without her keys?’
Dickon shook his head slowly. ‘And locking the pair of you in your rooms and half-starving you. It’s wrong. Ay, I’ll make sure your letter’s posted, don’t fret.’
‘You won’t tell anyone about the running away though, will you?’ Mary asked.
‘Nay. But don’t you be telling me no more about it. I can’t let slip what I don’t know, now, can I?’
Mary nodded. There was the sound of a door opening inside the cottage, and Martha appeared at the door, wrapped in a warm shawl and carrying a bundle. Her eyes were red, and Mary thought she might have been crying.
‘It is you! I heard what you said. Mother’s still asleep, and we’d best keep it that way, for although she might feel sorry for you, she wouldn’t be able to help you run away, not in good conscience. But I can. Here.’ She thrust the bundle towards Mary.
‘What’s this?’ Mary said. The bundle was heavy, but not hard or awkward, and appeared to be wrapped in an old hessian sack.
‘Blankets. If th’art running away in the wilds of winter, tha’ll need to keep good and warm, you and Master Colin both. I don’t want to know where you’re going, but I do want to make sure that wherever you end up, you’re not going to be cold. Take these. And here,’ she turned back into the kitchen, coming back with a loaf of bread and a lump of cheese. ‘These are for you too.’
‘Won’t you get into terrible trouble?’
‘I’m in trouble enough already. Out of a job just before Christmas and no references, neither. But our mother won’t mind when she knows who they’re for – and why. We’ll post your letter and bring your uncle home, one way or another. You just hold on until he comes.’
‘Thank you. Both of you,’ Mary looked from one kind face to the other. ‘I wish I could stay longer. But I must get back before they notice that I’m gone.’
‘Good luck to you, Miss,’ called Dickon as Mary crept away into the dawn.
‘Thank you, Dickon!’ she replied, and then she ran back to Misselthwaite Manor as fast as she could, her bundle bumping on her back. She stowed it carefully under a wheelbarrow to protect it from the weather until she and Colin could pick it up after nightfall. That was the first part of her plan in place. She climbed nimbly back up the ivy and into her room, just as Miss Prosser’s footsteps could be heard in the corridor outside, coming to knock on her door to wake her.
Liz Taylorson 