Regrets I
He looked across the room, scanning quickly to catch a glimpse of her, her reflection in the mirror or on the a glass door, her form slender and lithe as a ghost's, her face radiant amongst the sea of other faces, other forms. That face he still couldn't forget, its contours he searched in the dark hours of the night. At night he dreamt of the feel of her skin and the imprint of his flesh against hers, the softness of the strands of hair freed from the shackles of the hair pin, the faint tinkle of the black onyx earrings that blinded him the moment the light reflected her radiance, when he stared at her.
He thought that the night of the protest sealed their fate, that they were bound by something more than fervor, eagerness, passion even. He remembered the swell of her breast as she drank the last dredges of brandy, which he offered to calm her nerves upon Sybil's return. He caught the glistening wetness of her skin on her neck, her temples, above her lips, and he knew how he wanted to touch her, feel her pulse mingle with his own.
They hadn't touched until she told him not to pay attention to the things she said. He couldn't argue with her then. Indeed, her words were far from his mind. Instead, it was the sense of her, and need that overwhelmed him, as a wanderer in the desert lunges after the first sighting of an ocean of sustenance within his reach. He had drunk in her sweetness, felt her urging, and responded to her need for him, her fingers brushing the bristles of hair on his half-shaven face. And he had felt the throb of her pulse as his hands ran the length of her neck, the hollowness of her collarbones, the soft mounds of her back as he traced it through the thin, sequined black dress.
For that one magical night they were alone, her father having gone up to see her mother, the servants keeping their careful distance.
"Marry me," he had said, pulling away from her, anxious to convey the sincerity in his request. For a moment, her eyes looked pained, accusing. Then they grew wide and softened. It was all he could do to not get lost in their depths, the layers giving her away so he could almost reach the treasure buried in the deeps—her ardor, her affection, her passion, her love.
"I love you." His words seemed amplified, as if from a loudspeaker, a siren in the room. He didn't hear the shuffling of the staff in the kitchen, Carson's walk of inspection, the buzz of the night animals.
She pulled her eyes from his, her hands glided to her side and disappeared under the hard oak table so they were out of reach. She looked down and bent her head slightly. He studied her closely, and saw the dark eyelashes brushing her cheeks, the tiny freckles dusted near the bridge of her nose. Her eyes opened wide again but were clouded, searching, this time. Her lips parted slightly, as if to say something.
"Take your time, of course, " he said, driven by what appeared to be fear, fear of her answer. Not "No," but "Yes." It would have been too much. He could see now he couldn't have handled that much happiness.
He heard the ticking of the grandfather clock in the room. He noticed the cut of dried bread in the half-eaten sandwiches.
"Yes," she said, and he steadied himself, wrung his attention back to her words and their meaning.
"Yes, I think it's best I have some time to think this over." He found himself nodding but she quickly brought out a hand and touched his folded hands.
"Thank you," she said, smiling, and he was warmed when he saw the white of her teeth, perfect but for the slight long incisors on each side. She was unique in every way, like no other woman he had met. Changeable yet steady, she was an enigma he yearned to solve. It delighted him to find his thoughts aligned with hers, and it propelled him to discern the mystery of her actions. She seemed both secretive and open, like a favorite path one traverses again and again, only never failing to be surprised by its new revelations, yet taking comfort in its familiar landscape. When he was with her, he felt joy and challenge, excitement and change. He was both lost and found.
He welcomed her grasp, held her hand in both of his.
"I'll wait…yes," he said, reassuring himself and her.
As he watched her disappear into the house, half of her skirt trailing after her as she lifted and clutched the other half to her side, her body lustrous as a pool on a dark wintry night, the cream of her skin, hands, neck and face illuminating her like a halo. He thought he would wait as long as it took, if only he could watch after her like this, awed by her beauty and spark, wit and brilliance, reassured she was his.
As he searched for her in the crowded drawing room, hoping to see her, fearful of her absence, he admitted that it was he who had proved false. He had left her.
"Would you have stayed, if I had accepted you?" she had asked, her lace gloves stained with her tears, that summer's day during the last garden party at Downton. He had been hurt by her hesitation, fearful she wouldn't love him without his money, that she couldn't love him otherwise.
And yet, he couldn't deny that he loved her glamour and the riches that made her who she was—the silk of well-tailored dresses that hugged her body, the glitter of jewelry that matched the shine of her eyes, the style of her hair, the manner of her walk, even the proper distance between them that made the wanting, the need more poignant, the separation more painful. He had wanted to provide her nice clothes and a full house, entertain her abroad and fulfill her wishes. And yet, his pride had come in the way, had blinded him to reality though he had denied it. He had wanted Mary to choose him completely, forgetting her other needs, her independent streak, her wholeness.
He was filled with shame when he recalled how common he had been, expecting convention when she was the reverse in so many ways. Even when he knew, now, that convention satisfied but little. For Lavinia had tried. She had offered her affections, wrote to him, waited for him. He was glad he had a sweetheart to write to, make plans with, start a life away from the trenches and mayhem of war.
And yet.
And yet. He had give up trying to forget Mary. For the more he did so, the violent the memories that assailed him, that continued to pierce his consciousness unawares. The sight of her walking down the length of the living room floor, as he stood watching, hiding behind the drawing room door; her giggling with him over dinner in honor of Anthony Strallan; playing games at the night fair and her honest admittance of her cares—which he had thought bold, unladylike, admirable; sharing jokes about his mother and her grandmother's feuds over the flower show.
That he missed her friendship took him by surprise. He always thought he had to break his romantic entanglement with her, curtail his lust. But he hadn't imagined how impossible it was to shut her from his life. He had come this far. He had to see her.