Coming alive with the garden

He is sitting rather stiffly.

Not as stiffly as Mary, possibly.

But still, stiffly.

And silently.

...He is not sure what he's supposed to do here.

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If Colin is stiff, then Mary's back could be carved out of wood.

Very straight wood.

Her hands are in her lap; she's watching Archibald. You're not supposed to eat until your host starts, she is fairly sure. And she is not going to be the first to do things Improperly.

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The butler and footmen set out the soup course and withdraw to the servants' parlour, where half the housemaids and cooks are waiting eagerly for reports.

Archibald lifts his spoon silently and swallows. He's always hated dinners like these.

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Father eats, son eats.

He is not certain why they had to eat here.

Really, if they had to eat anywhere, they could have eaten in the garden.

The soup's not bad.

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Mary takes a sip or two of her soup. Primly and silently.

The silence is getting boring.

Experimentally, Mary kicks out with her foot to see if it will connect with Colin's leg.

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Alas, the table is too wide for that, and the settings too far apart for Mary even to reach Archibald.

After a few more sips, it occurs to Archibald that as the head of the household, he has the responsibility of making conversation. If Lilias had been there, of course, it would have been her place.

"How is the garden today?" Archibald inquires carefully.

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Colin shrugs.

It's the garden.

It's always the garden.

It's not as if they won't take care of it.

So of course it's always going to be well.

"Alive."

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If it had been Ben Weatherstaff or Martha asking - or Duo, or Wellard, or any of a great number of other people - Mary might have volunteered that the baby birds are all out of the nest now. Or that the ground is covered in fallen rose petals, now that winter's approaching, and so it smells like roses whenever you walk.

That is probably not going to happen in this conversation.

"Flowers are starting to die," she announces, instead, "because it is fall," and takes another sip of soup.

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Archibald winces and sets his spoon down, his bowl half-finished.

At length the footmen return to clear away the soup course and bring in the fish.

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Colin does not, really, like fish.

It may be eyed. A little.

Like it might bite him. Or Mary.

...Though that might be funny.

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Mary is perfectly happy to eat fish.

But she does not want the part with the eyes.

"I do not want the part with the eyes," she says. Just to be clear.

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The youngest of the footmen struggles to maintain his gravity. He serves Archibald, Colin and Mary from the fish plate (leaving the part with the eyes safely on the serving-dish) and escapes before unduly embarrassing himself.

Archibald says, "I believe the head is served for purposes of decoration. One doesn't usually eat it."

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"--How," Colin demands, "is something staring at you decoration?"

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"It is not pretty," Mary agrees. Frowning.

"Decoration is meant to be pretty. It is only sad."

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"Is it?" Archibald inquires. "One eats the fish in any case, whether or not it has its eyes. I am not sure seeing the eyes makes it sadder."

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"I do not," he says, stiffly, "like my food to look back at me."

Which means, yes, it's sad, and also kinda gross.

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Mary scrutinizes the fish, thoughtfully.

"It is sadder," she decides, "because it does not look as if it wishes to be eaten. You do not notice when you cannot see the face, and when you do not know much about creatures.

"Dickon has been teaching us to understand creatures, but," she adds, loftily, "it takes practice."

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Archibald says, "I think that I should like to learn. Is it difficult, understanding them?"

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"You might," he says, kindly, "be too old."

Old people have a harder time learning!

He read that in a book.

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"Ben Weatherstaff can talk to the robin, I think. But you should have to learn from Dickon."

Mary looks rather haughty.

It's still something of a sore point that Dickon is not, in fact, here.

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Of course Dickon is not here. One does not invite the poor tenants' children to formal dinner at the Manor.

One may, however, learn useful skills from the tenants' children, in certain situations. "I shall have to ask him about it."

The footman returns to collect the fish plates and the tray with the eyes, exchanging them for a side of roast beef and a platter of potatoes with rosemary.

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This is better!

And not staring at him!

Colin is not so much poking at this as actually eating.

But also being quiet again.

He bets Ben Weatherstaff learned when he was younger, and really--well--Father is old. But he will not disappoint him.

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"He will teach you if you ask nicely."

In fact, Dickon will probably teach him even if he doesn't, but Mary sees no need to encourage an attitude of not-being-nice-to-Dickon.

Mollified, somewhat, she ferries a potato to her mouth.

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"Then when I see him, I will ask."

Archibald considers the two children sharing the table with him. The man's social skills have always left something to be desired, but he knows that Mary and Colin don't trust him, and he wishes that they did.

"Perhaps-- perhaps you both might help me ask. I am not very good at asking to learn about things," says Archibald Craven at last.

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Colin eyes him.

"If you do not ask, you cannot learn." It's a little patient.

"Dickon will not bite."

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