She had gone six months without thinking of Evelyn Napier. It was no record, as she had gone eight years without really thinking about him in the past. Perhaps six months was a stretch—sometimes, it was true, his face would creep into her mind, the way his eyes ( so blue but not that blue ) gazed into hers with something that she could only identify a love, a pained, irrational, yet unmistakable love. Love from a man whom she known—or thought she had known—considered her to be without virtue, or at least not good enough to even venture a proposal at the time when it would have been more than convenient, but needed.
Love and an admission to blindness to her—many—faults.
Mary might have carried herself in a way that suggested otherwise, but she was all too aware of her weaknesses, and her failures in the past. She had been cold to him, when none of it had truly been his fault. And admittedly yes, she had been hurt when that proposal she had counted on—had bragged to Edith about—had never come. It had been enough of a blow being turned down by a Duke before her encounter with Pamuk, but her friend—a man she had laughed with, a man she had seen as nothing less than honorable—had been devastating. Although they had written throughout the years, even when he was at war, there had always been a wall between them. She knew that he knew—even if he had not started the rumors—and she always wondered how much that had affected his view of her.
Blind where you're concerned…
It had meant so much more than his simply defending her to the then insufferable Charles Blake—it had meant that after all this time, after all he knew, he still thought the best of her.
He still loved her.
In fact, she had feared hearing the words fall from his lips, so she had turned her back to him, struggling to process what he had said and what he hadn't. She had no idea what she felt at first—perhaps confusion, and definitely shock. When she finally got inside to change, she felt anger.
How dare he?
How dare he say it now, when it counted the least? How dare he hide it for a decade—or more, God only knew when this had begun—and only tell her after nearly dying in a war, in which case he might never have gotten the chance to say it? How dare he catch her off guard with such a timidly passionate statement? How dare he gaze in her in such a way and make her question what would have been had he asked her when she had needed him…
They didn't speak for the rest of the day, as he was out inspecting farms, and then visiting his godparents, and she was saving pigs. It had been a day of absurdities, and yet he had been impressed after she recounted the tale—almost unsurprised. 'Mucking it up with the best of them', he had said, with his smile endearing and…was it loving?
The only problem for me is it's greatly increased the competition, he had joked, and she had grimaced. The last thing she needed, aside from Tony Gillingham being here and finding out her friend was also in love with her, was her friend's boss of all people to be added to that queue.
She had still been unable to face him the next day, with his words in the garden in mind. Of course his premonition had come true, and Charles had also fabricated a trip to Downton just to tell her what Tony had.
Months had passed and the dynamic duo had still not given up. In the meantime, she had heard nothing from Evelyn Napier. There was a letter, of course, from him addressed to her mother, thanking her for her hospitality, but nothing concerning her. And yet she waited, because she knew or thought she knew a letter would come.
Six months in, she decided to take matters into her own hands.
"May I speak to Mr. Napier, please?"
"Mr. Napier isn't in, milady—he's in France."
France? He had said nothing about France—he had said nothing at all, really. Surprise danced across her features and she took a moment to collect herself before asking his butler through the telephone, "Do you know when he'll be back?"
"He didn't say, milady. Only that he needed the change in scenery."
He had always been the traveler, but an indefinite leave of absence with the London season approaching was odd. "Did he leave an address?" A few moments later, she hung up triumphantly, the address to his flat scrawled neatly on one of her father's blank cards. If he thought that he could escape that easily, then he truly was blind where she was concerned.