For a moment, Mary does not quite recognize herself in the mirror. There's an angry flush to her skin and she looks wild, eyes as wide as saucers. God knows what she might be able to do about her hair without Anna, but she'll try. It's fine. Everything is fine. She sprays water on her face, trying not to notice the way her hands are trembling.
There's a mark on her clavicle, and another one, thankfully less noticeable, higher up her neck. Just like her treacherous skin to betray her. Will her scarf cover it? She hopes so.
There's a pile of clothes on the floor, that she grabbed herself out of her suitcase moments ago, after leaving the bed. She hopes they will not be too wrinkled. The blouse buttons at the front, thankfully, as she has to dress herself this morning. It's fine. She can do this. They had better be early for the train, they can't afford to miss it. Taking some extra time to get ready in private is a good idea. She can wake him up later.
She is most definitively not thinking of crawling back under the sheets with him, of having him in her own bed back at Downton every day – her cold widow's bed, where Mattew's absence lingers stubbornly.
No. She is not thinking about Matthew, not now. This was a holiday of sorts, an indulgence if you will, and no ghosts are allowed.
She has been quite nervous lately. Unhappy, perhaps. He suggested the trip in the end, and why would anyone object? She was supposed to be paying social calls, and he was supposed to be handling business regarding the estate, and it was hardly their first time travelling to London together, so it did not raise any eyebrows.
And if they stopped for a further day in a lovely – and perfectly discreet – inn on their way back, well, who was to know or care?
She doesn't know how long she spends in that bathroom, but she cannot stay in there forever. She opens and closes the door as carefully as she can, and softly steps into the bedroom. It's flooded in the bright light of the morning. She can't exactly deny what went on last night under this light.
It's really quite unfair, she thinks, how handsome he still is. But then again, she finds time treats men more kindly. Oh, she knows she can still put on a show - haughty and elegant will always come to her easily – but it takes longer every day to prim and fuss in front of the mirror until she is happy with her reflection. Her thin face threatens to turn gaunt with age; the slender figure she was once so proud of seems to be growing softer with each year. But Tom, graying hair, extra pounds and all, is still disarmingly boyish under the morning light.
She wants to touch him so badly. She barely has since she opened her eyes. Absurdly enough, considering what they have done, only their elbows were touching when she woke up, and that had been enough to send her bolting out of bed.
'Don't want to get up,' he mumbles at last, eyes still closed.
In another world, a world where the clock is agreeable enough to stop turning when prompted, they might never leave this bed. A fine world it would be, where happiness was uncomplicated, unburdened by grief and guilt, where responsibilities would be happy to wait patiently behind a closed door without complaint. But that has never been the world they live in.
'We probably should leave soon, though,' is what she says. She swallows her silly hopes and fantasies. It's easier this way.
He looks at her at that but she won't quite meet his eyes. He knows too much, knows her too well. He can see right through her, and God knows what he will see.
'You are dressed already.'
'I thought I'd get started before. Wouldn't want us to miss the train.' Is that her voice? It doesn't sound like her voice. She hopes, rather desperately, that he does not touch her: this was an indulgence she cannot afford. Any more, she thinks, and putting herself together would be impossible: her skin would show the cracks. Everyone would know, as surely as if it were written on her face.
Lady Mary Crawley, not-quite Countess of Grantham, does not walk about with her heart on her sleeve like a love-sick girl. She is too old to play the fool.
To be fair, she kissed him first. She doesn't know why she is impatient with him, why she keeps snapping at him while he drags their luggage into the station, when she only has herself to blame. She has never been one to make the first move, but then, she never thought herself the kind of woman who would want to sleep with her dead sister's husband, and here she is. Even after a certain age, one still retains the ability to surprise oneself, it would seem.
He is so warm and kind with her - he has been a comfort to her for so long in so many other ways. It didn't feel thrilling or illicit or dangerous when she kissed him, that's the thing: only natural, the most natural thing in the world.
'I don't feel guilty,' he will say later, as they board the train back.
He looks scared out of his wits, but he meets her eyes head on. 'I know I should, but I don't. We haven't been happy in so long; how could our finding happiness together be so terrible? Who would begrudge us that? Haven't we suffered long enough?'
'It does not matter,' she says evenly, because apparently he is going to have this conversation right now no matter how she feels about it.
'Mary, it does matter,' he insists, voice rising, and she knows she has to put an end to this, and she has to do it now.
'I do not wish to discuss our reasons for doing this or how others might judge us for it. You tell me you do not judge yourself and I half want to believe you, but others would judge, Tom, they would if they knew; you are not stupid enough to pretend otherwise. I too am glad it happened, however selfish it may make me. But it cannot happen again. We both know that.'
He frowns, jaw set, but does not argue back. She feels the tension radiate off him, and reaches for his hand. It is foolish surely, but they are alone for a little while longer and she needs him to understand. He is her ally in so many things; they have been on the same page for so long, a disagreement between them seems unthinkable now.
'What we have is important to me. But this? This leads nowhere,' she sees him cringe but soldiers on, voice firm. She knows what she has to say, and she will say it even though she doesn't want to.
'I won't be your mistress, Tom. And you can't exactly expect me to be your wife.'
For a moment he looks as if she's struck him. He draws breath to answer back, then seems to think better of it. The objection Mary is half dreading, half hoping for never comes. She thinks of Sybil, brave, brilliant, carefree Sybil, and of the hot-headed young chauffeur who wouldn't take no for an answer, so different from this man who now won't look at her.
'So,' she says at last, carefully untangling her fingers from his. 'We understand each other.'
He smiles at her, an ugly, unconvincing thing. She pretends not to see the spark of anger in his eyes. 'Don't we always.'
'Good.'
They spend the rest of the trip in silence.
