Mary was exasperated again.
It was July, and in her opinion the muggy weather was entirely inappropriate for any day that wasn't spent by the lake. And what's more, she shouldn't have to explain to her sister again why she didn't want to play tea party.
"Edith, I've told you. You can't serve caviar chocolate sandwiches. They're disgusting. And no guest wants to come to a tea party and be confronted with a thousand nosy questions. You make a terrible hostess." Mary watched her seven-year-old sister's face fall. She knew her words were like daggers, but someone had to teach Ediththat people didn't appreciate being interrogated at social gatherings (even pretend ones). It amazed Mary sometimes how ignorant her sister could be about things that to nine-year-old Mary seemed like common sense.
"May-May, why are you always so mean to Edith?" Sybil's little voice chimed in from the floor near the fireplace where she was brushing her doll's hair. "She doesn't like it."
"Oh, what do you know, Sybil? You're only four," Mary retorted.
"Almost five!" the girl said with a brandish of her hand, five chubby fingers spread. "And anyone can tell Edith hates it when you do that. Look, she's about to cry again!"
"I am not about to cry!" Edith said, wiping a stray tear drop from the corner of her eye.
"Goodness gracious," Mary snapped, closing her book and standing up from the armchair where she had been reading. "I'm going to find some peace and quiet. And Edith, don't follow me." She didn't look to see her sister's face, but she hoped the message was clear this time.
Summers at Downton could be very long and dull in Mary's opinion, especially when her family wasn't on holiday visiting Aunt Rosamund in London. The days were usually full of French lessons, etiquette, writing, and drawing. Normally Mary didn't mind, but she grew tired of it when she had to sit in the squelching heat and ignore Edith's pathetic cries for attention. C'etait tres ennuyeux. Luckily, this week the girls were given a break from their studies while their governess was visiting family in Bedfordshire.
From the hallway, the house seemed still and silent. Mary knew her mother had taken the carriage to her grandmother's house for the afternoon. She could hear Mrs. Hughes' voice floating down the hallway from Lord and Lady Grantham's bedchamber, where she was teaching a new maid how to arrange her mother's jewelry. This would be the perfect opportunity to slip away.
Mary crept downstairs and looked both ways before tiptoeing across the floor of the great hall. At the front door, she slowly lifted the latch and stepped outside, latching it closed behind her. She took deep breath and let it out. Freedom, she thought, blinking as her eyes adjusted the bright sunlight beaming down from the great open sky. No more sisters to nag at her. No more pretend tea parties to suffer through. Just the wide estate of Downton to explore and discover on her own.
She skipped across the gravel road and toward the woods on the edge of the property, meandering through the grass. Beneath the shade of a large oak, she picked dandelions, gathering them into a bouquet and singing quietly to herself.
"Here we go gathering nuts in May,
Nuts in May, nuts in May,
Here we go gathering nuts in May
On a cold and frosty morning."
Mary pretended that the hot, muggy air had turned cold and frosty. She pulled her arms close to her chest. Brrr, she thought to herself. She saw another dandelion in the grass, this one a white puffy ball with its seeds exposed. She picked it up and wished with all her might: I wish that Edith would go away to another family and leave me alone. She took a huge breath and exhaled with puffy cheeks, and the white fuzz scattered into the sky. Like snow, she thought.
She moved further across the property, into the trees that marked the edge of the woods. Her parents always told her not to cross the tree line alone, but today she was feeling brave.
They don't have to know, she thought.
She stepped over twigs and leaves, hearing the soft crunch of her shoes moving across the forest floor. It was a very satisfying sound. She looked back where she had come from and saw that the house had disappeared behind the trunks of trees she had passed. She turned ahead and kept walking. She felt like an explorer. Edith would never be brave enough to do this.
The sun was mostly hidden by the trees, but if she looked up she could see the light shining through the leaves, making them glow. How pretty, she thought.
Suddenly, she heard a noise. Her eyes snapped back down to the area around her and she stopped in her tracks. She turned her head to the left and right, but didn't see anyone.
"Hello?" she whispered, not sure what she was hoping to hear in reply. She heard the noise again, the sound of leaves rustling and twigs snapping, and her heart started beating faster. She subconsciously took a step back, then another, when suddenly, from behind a tree came a blur of red fur. Startled, she jerked backward and tripped, letting out a small cry and tumbling onto a log lying across the leaves behind her. She felt a flash of pain from her right knee on her way down.
When everything had settled, Mary looked up again at the forest around her. It was empty. The flash of red fur - had it been a fox? - was gone. Mary felt silly for being so frightened. Her hair was disheveled, the bottom of her dress was probably dirty, and she felt a twinge from her knee. Twisting her leg back in front of her, she looked down at the origin of the twinge. On the front of her white tights was a rip the length of her shin, and a small amount of blood was collecting in a cut on her knee. Mary felt a flash of panic: her mother would be furious. She bit her lip fiercely to hold back the tears threatening to surface. I'm such an idiot, she thought to herself. Now what am I going to do?
Slowly, Mary lifted herself from the ground, using the log as a support. She tried to put weight on her right leg and felt another small twinge of pain shoot up her calf. With small steps, she hobbled her way back out of the trees, then forced herself to stand up straight as she made her way across the grass and toward the servants' door on the side of the house.
Opening the door slightly, she peered into the corridor inside. Empty. The servants must be in town for the afternoon. She slipped through the door and latched it softly.
"Lady Mary?" Mary's knee hit part of the stone wall and she grimaced. Carson's deep voice boomed through the corridor. "What are you doing down here?"
Mary turned with her head hanging, knowing she'd been caught red-handed. "I- I... needed to get some fresh air," she murmured.
"What did you say?" The butler's voice was stern.
Mary spoke up, quickly wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. "I said, I needed to get some fresh air."
Carson saw her wet cheeks, and his voice softened a little. "My dear, are you crying?"
Mary's voice was barely audible as she answered, "I hurt my knee."
"Ah," Carson said, at a loss for words. After a silence he asked, "Does your mother know you went out?"
"No."
"Mrs. Hughes?"
"No." Silence.
"Well, then." He was quiet again, his face in a frown. Then he let out a sigh, and his expression relaxed. "Come with me," he said.
Mary followed him down the corridor to his study.
"Wait here," he said, and left her to sit on her own. When he came back, he had a basin of water and a clean white cloth.
"Now," he said, pulling a chair up next to hers and dipping the cloth in the water. "Tell me what happened."
Carson listened to Mary tell her story. As she spoke, he gently patted at her knee with the damp cloth to remove the dirt from the cut.
When Mary was done, Carson sat up and placed the cloth back in the bowel. He leaned down until he was at her eye level and said, "You were very foolish to go out alone, Lady Mary." Mary turned her eyes to the side, ashamed. "Your mother would be unhappy to hear that you disobeyed her."
"I know," said Mary, staring at the grooves in the stone wall behind the desk.
"I like to think that you have learned your lesson."
"Yes," said Mary.
"Which is why," Carson continued slowly, his face softening, "I believe that I shall keep the details of this unfortunate circumstance between you and I."
Mary's eyes flickered back to meet his. "You mean... you won't - ?"
"No, Mary. I won't tell."
Mary's eyes lit up. "Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, flinging herself out of her chair to throw her arms around the butler's neck.
Caught off-guard, Carson's arms hung suspended in the air, not entirely sure what to do about the skinny doll-like body attached to his torso. After a moment, he softened his arms, wrapping them around the girl. He patted the back of her shoulder gently, then cleared his throat. "I'll hear no more of it," he said, pulling away to pick up the basin from the floor. "Why don't you go enjoy yourself upstairs with your sisters? I'm sure Edith would be grateful for a companion."
"Ugh," Mary said with a look of disgust. "I'm so tired of Edith. I don't know how many more days I can stand locked up with her in this house."
Carson paused and eyed her from beneath his furrowed brow. "Now, Lady Mary," he warned softly. "Lady Edith is your kin." Mary rolled her eyes, but Carson shook his head. "No, hear me." Mary turned her gaze back to meet his serious one. "That is a bond that goes deeper than many of us realize," he continued gently. "She relies upon you now, but one never knows when the tides will turn. Someday, she may be all you have left."
Mary tried to imagine that what he said was true, but couldn't fathom a world in which she needed Edith for anything.
Carson gave a pat on Mary's hand, then stood with the basin and turned toward the door of the study. His voice stern again, he said, "I expect to not hear any more tales of your adventures in the forest, Lady Mary, do you understand?"
Mary hopped off of her chair, and brushed off the bottom of her dress. "You won't. I promise." As she walked out of the room, she popped her head back into the doorframe and looked up at the butler. "Thank you, Carson," she said, with as much sincerity as her little frame could muster.
As she turned to skip off down the hall and up the servants' stairs, Mary felt a little less peeved with the world than before. She was glad she had Carson. The weather wasn't so terrible, really - it was quite preferable to the winter snow. Perhaps she could give Edith another chance today.
A tea party didn't sound like such a bad idea after all.