Pocket Full of Stars

by Miss Carrot

This is a story of Lavinia growing up - from "the talented Miss Swire" to "just Miss Lavinia Swire". It is also a story about lucky stars, which are sometimes much nearer - or much farther - than one would expect.

A/N: This story was written for the Winter/Christmas Exchange at .com as a gift for myconstant.

I would like to express my gratitude to two wonderful betas: manarai, who turned my pidgin into English, and Evangeline, who made this text readable and British. Thank you, girls, you are great.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted belong to their respective owners. I make no profit from this endeavour. The title comes from the song by Nine Black Alps.

Summary: This is a story of Lavinia growing up - from "the talented Miss Swire" to "just Miss Lavinia Swire". It is also a story about lucky stars, which are sometimes much nearer - or much farther - than one would expect.

Pocket Full of Stars

It was not as though she had problems with herself. Quite the contrary – Lavinia Swire was in perfect understanding with her psyche and she anticipated no obstacles whatsoever to disturb her absolutely logical way of viewing the world; at least not now. What was important was to appreciate the fact that Lavinia was a completely ordinary person. She did, because – opposite to anyone else – she did not see any disgrace in admitting it. Safety was all she felt now. Safety and calm. It was good, was it not?

Of course, she could not understand it at first. As the only child of her widowed father she was treated like a precious jewel of rare value. He wanted to make her his little princess and so she was treated, it was perfectly clear to her now. Only the best governesses with finest references, a whole parade of Italian maestros of music, dance and painting, teachers from the continent who spoke all languages known to man. Not to mention her frocks – thinking of it now, absurdly rich for such a young girl – made out of the richest fabrics, trimmed with laces, decorated with ribbon and embroidery. So she was – seated in her shimmering gowns in the drawing room by a piano or a harp, undoubtedly a fine young lady.

'Miss Swire is so talented' claimed all the maestros and teachers, regardless of the subject. 'She could master any instrument, any language, whatever she should fancy.' Her father was certainly proud of her then. 'My little lady' he used to say, 'my dearest one. I would give you the brightest star from the sky if you only said one word'.

She loved to listen to it. The feeling of uniqueness, divineness, was overwhelming. 'The talented Miss Swire' she murmured to herself, until she fell asleep. She imagined then a tall, slender lady playing the piano and singing romantic ballads in a sweet voice. Then, in her dreams, the people surrounding her sat in silent awe long after the song was finished. And then, then, they all came to her, vying to pay her sophisticated compliments. She felt as if the brightest star, promised to her by her father, was shining on her forehead. 'The talented Miss Swire' she heard the whisper returning and she was never sure, was it she or the dream crowd. 'The talented Miss Swire'.

Because of this, her debut was much more difficult then it should have been. As a matter of fact, it was not difficult – it was a disaster, crushing her golden cage of flattery into tiny pieces. Lavinia never decided which was worst: the garden party, the charity bazaar, or maybe the tea party. She could practically see herself once again, in the drawing room of Mrs Carrel, sitting proudly in her best cream silk dress, going to the piano, singing a sentimental ballad… And then, a dozen of other girls, singing and playing much better – or much worse – than she did. She could not hear anything about the talented Miss Swire. The hopeless Miss Bradford, the astonishing Miss Henley, the gifted Miss Thorne – yes, their performances were discussed, but nobody seemed to remember her act. Could anyone have imagined anything worse?

If anyone could have, it hadn't been Lavinia, too young and too deeply wounded in her pride. She was torn between two desires: to show them all – whoever should they be – that their indifference meant nothing to her, and at the same time, wanting nothing else but to hide in the darkest corner and weep over her tragic failure. However, she did not give up. She attended all tea-parties, charity events and balls, she played the harp, held the elegant conversation and did her best to look more glamorous than the other debutantes. But there was no joy in it, only a kind of moral duty to herself and to her father. She felt as if the brightest star slipped away from her fingers, fading somewhere in the distance. Searching for it was all she could do; hard as it was, she could not imagine herself doing anything else.

Her efforts, however, were not futile, as Lavinia managed to attract a group of suitors. Three of them, to be precise. The first one was almost the age of her father, bald, his every sentence punctuated with sweet stench of rotting gums. She rejected with a memorised phrase without even giving it a thought; she was not that desperate. The second one was young and good-looking, and charming, and romantic, and Lavinia would have fallen head over heels for him had he not tried to seduce her. He dragged her to a small dark room, forcefully pressed his mouth to her lips and tried to pull off her dress. She was wise enough not to subject herself to a heiress-hunter of the worst type. The third one was her personal hero. She owed him everything that followed.

He was a young widower and therefore a bit alienated. Most of the time he watched everyone very carefully, rarely spoke to anyone and never danced. Lavinia was quite surprised when he started to accompany her and talk to her in quite unexpected manner, once kind and good-hearted, once sarcastic and bitter. She was not sure whether she enjoyed his company and he must have felt it somehow.

'Are you fond of theatre, Miss Swire?' His question came out of a sudden and she just blinked, taken by surprise. 'Acting, plays, rich words of poetry… Do you enjoy it, Miss Swire?'

'Yes, I suppose I do' she answered. As a matter of fact she was not much into theatre, but she was a fine young lady, was she not? But suddenly she found herself speaking very quickly, in an unnaturally high voice, 'It must be a wonderful feeling to become a hero, a queen, a fairy – anything you could imagine, and everyone believes you and watches you with admiration. I wish I could experience it, even if once in my life. Don't you, Mr Hawthorne?'

She looked up at him and saw something bright fade in his eyes. He smiled in a very weird way, the corners of his mouth going down.

'Well, I suppose you do', he said and it sounded more like an insult than an answer.

Before she managed to produce any response, with her cheeks suddenly reddened and lips shivering with annoyance and anger, he bowed curtly and walked away. She stammered his name, seriously livid now, but he did not look at her anymore. Left all alone, her pride wounded yet again, Lavinia still was not sure what the right thing to do was. But this time she made a better choice.

Not at once, of course. Initially she was afflicted too much to even think about Mr Hawthorne calmly. It did not mean that she had not been thinking about him – she could not drive him out of her head, actually. It was not like her heart was broken, because she did not care for him in this sense. As a matter of fact, she doubted whether she even liked him. But he insulted her, with his lack of concern if not with anything else. However, as her tears dried up and her fierce anger about his behaviour calmed down, she started to consider Hawthorne's words. And then, having repeated the whole situation in her head so many times that she was not annoyed anymore, just tired – then she realised. And decided to stop it at once.

That day, when 'the talented Miss Swire' died a sudden death and 'just Miss Lavinia Swire' was born, she waved goodbye to all the stars above. No more fighting; no more pretending that they could be hers. No more acting.

The fighting as such was not brought to an end. It was only the front that changed in a way she would never have expected. She decided to carry through with her resolution starting with her clothing, which seemed a rather neutral subject, but it appeared that it was naïve to consider her dresses her own business.

'My daughter will not wear potato sacks' her father interrupted, not even allowing her to finish her explanation. 'You are a young lady of a certain position and you need to look the part.'

She tried very hard to explain that she was not a lady and she had to look like nothing but herself, which could work much better in patterned muslin dresses than in ornamental mousseline ones. She argued that all the silk and laces were just overwhelming her, and when it failed she claimed that she could not stand the gossip about her inappropriate, overly fancy gowns. But her father was relentless. Lavinia could not understand his persistence but decided that the matter of clothes was not so essential after all – which was what she believed – and went on to pursue her more important goals, which, much to her irritation, appeared even tougher.

'There is no such possibility', said her father firmly after she announced she chose not to make fool of herself anymore and not to play harp or sing in front of the public. 'Your education obliges you to take active part in the life of the society. What are you planning to occupy yourself with, if not with music?', he asked, but did not wait for her answer. 'Nothing, of course. Unless you lately took interest in law or politics, which escaped my attention?'

Having tried and failed many times to convince her father of her rightness, she found herself defeated. She was not allowed to dress more modestly or quit her musical performances. However, she did not try to impress anyone anymore. She tried to enjoy herself, which was not easy – yet she started to take pleasure in listening to others. Once or twice she heard a friendly voice saying 'this Miss Swire was never an interesting person, but now she seems completely faded in the comparison to the other debutantes', but she did not mind, or did not mind that much. For the first time in her life Lavinia did not force herself to fit into an ideal model. And all would have been well if not for her father.

He did not change his mind one iota. If she did not want to be his little lady of her own free will, then she would be it under constraint. Lavinia gave up the arguments, but craved for an explanation of his behaviour. It was a betrayal for her, betrayal of her unconditional love for her father. She felt abandoned and guilty, and wanted to know the reasons. She received her answer all of a sudden and, even though it was a bitter one, it felt as if a purulent wound had been purged.

'Please inform Mrs Mallory that on Friday we will have a very special guest at the dinner', asked her father, which was rather exceptional, as recently he rather rarely dined his friends at home. 'And I expect you to prepare yourself properly. I will not see any of this protesting bags of yours', he gestured towards her loose dress of peachy cotton muslin. Eventually she managed to wear such gowns at home, when there were no visitors, and little as it was, the victory made her more calm and sure of the aptness of her choice.

'As you wish, papa. And if I may ask, whose visit do we expect?' she added, quite curious now. It could not be one of father's clients or partners, because she would not participate in the dinner. 'Is it a friend of yours?'

'I am glad that you are asking, my little lady.' Her father stood up, came to her and placed his dry, yellowed palms on her shoulders. 'In fact it is a dearest friend of mine, Sir Robert Norrington. I hope you remember him, as you two have met at Mrs Edgeworth's charity dinner. I would like you to greet him warmly, I am sure that you two will have a wonderful time together.'

'You are not talking about the bald toothless old man who talks of nothing but horse races…?' asked Lavinia in a weak, trembling voice. She could feel her cheeks turning pale and at the same time she could feel all the pieces of this jigsaw falling into place. 'You are not intending me to… Not with this ugly… No! I have already rejected him!'

'I know you did, silly. But Norrington is old, generous and blindly in love with you. I managed to convince him that you were just acting as flirting coquette then and now you have the only chance to accept his proposal. Which', father silenced her with a gesture of his palm, 'you will do with gratitude. Indisputably.'

'I will not. Never!', She whispered furiously. Large red spots appeared on her pale cheeks. 'I would rather die in a poorhouse disinherited by you!'

This statement must have made her father really furious. She has never seen him in such a state. His palms were shaking, his face turned dark red and he panted hardly. For the first time of her life she was afraid that she crossed a border she would never expect existed.

'And so you will, you stupid girl. There is no use of you, not ever! An unprofitable, lost investment! Do you have a slightest idea how much you cost me?' He started to count on his shaking fingers. 'Your teachers, your dresses, all of your nonsense shining rubbish? Can you even imagine these sums? The debts that they created? How do you intend to repay me?', he suddenly lowered his voice and stared at her firmly. On his face was manifested a deeply rooted grudge. 'Tell me, you ungrateful creature. Tell me, how.'

She did not. She could not bring herself to utter a word. She was not even able to argue, since her father was somehow right. There was no other possibility for her to repay her debt as a good and thankful daughter; no other choice but to marry that ugly old man, which was a repelling perspective. However, reasoned she after having a good cry during the rest of the evening and almost whole night, now she understood the whole concept and did not see any of her fault in it. There was no betrayal as well, since her father did care deeply for his "investment" and could not be responsible for her irrational illusions. Her role would be fulfilled then.

But then – after she managed to ask Sir Robert for a week to think his generous proposition over – the opportunity appeared. After all this time she still considered Mr Sutton her unaware saviour. He came on Tuesday after the proposal and asked for her father.

'It is unfortunate that Mr Swire is not at home. Sir Richard Carlisle said that he would not wait any longer', Mr Sutton wiped his sweaty forehead, visibly nervous. 'If you will not mind me saying, Miss Swire, you should resolve this problem as soon as possible. Carlisle is a dangerous man to fall afoul of.'

'But what problem exactly, Mr Sutton? Do you mean financial problems? Debts?'

'I will not trouble such a charming young lady with these questions', Mr Sutton realised his mistake and made his excuses. But it was too late. Lavinia might not have been a businessman, but she knew exactly who Sir Richard Carlisle was. She heard enough gossip, did she not. And it became perfectly clear to her what she should do.

Repay the debts.

When she was planning the whole affair, she was feeling terribly inadequate. Great scandals should destroy great careers, should they not? And even if she had no doubt the scandal would be great, considering the importance of the information she was intending to reveal – her career was not great at all, not so much to ruin. She very much hoped, however, that it would discourage Sir Robert from the marriage. In a moment of honesty with herself she admitted that it was the main reason.

The plan was not complicated. She usually visited her uncle every week or two for dinner, but this time she just came a bit earlier, when her uncle was not home yet.

'I will wait in the library', she said the butler. 'I will find something interesting to read there.'

Her find was interesting indeed, even for her. And, according to her expectations, it was even more so for Sir Richard. To her relief, he did not ask awkward questions, he just skimmed through the papers raising his eyebrows.

'Do you accept it as the repayment?', she asked nervously, with her hands trembling terribly even clasped. 'Does it satisfy you, sir?'

'Yes,' Carlisle's eyes glittered like those of a cheetah. 'It certainly does. But I will not accept any returns of favours, so – does it satisfy you, Miss Swire?'

'I am sure it will', answered she, a bit confused, but sure. She was undoubtedly able to bear the consequences – or so she thought. Eventually it turned out that she had had no idea what had she agreed on.

Because a social hell started. Her name was somehow on all tongues, even thought Sir Richard kept his promise and did not reveal the source of the leak. Or maybe he did not reveal it just officially, because everyone seemed to know about her participation in this scandal. She did not have much experience in social life, she was still very young, but it was suspicious even to her. So she was not surprised, that her father combusted: he shouted at her at first, clobbering the table with his fists. He did not even care to listen to her explanations. Then he fell silent, which lasted for long weeks. Lavinia had then practically no chance to speak to anyone, because all doors were closed for her, no invitations came and her family acted as if she had not existed. She missed ever the ugly Sir Robert, whom she did not see after the incident. He sent her a polite note, in which he promised to remain her friend forever, but – "taking the recent events in consideration" – their ways had no option but to part. Lavinia was left absolutely alone.

It was more painful that she had ever expected. After a month or two she craved for the tiniest sign of forgiveness, but it did not appear. She was not proud enough to bear the shame nobly; she was not rebellious enough to treat it indifferently either. Her hopes that the scandal of such an ordinary person would go with the wind and be forgot soon proved to be naïve. Lavinia found a kind ally in Miss Eppinstone, who was a heroine of a scandal herself. She was said to run a business by herself, which was already reprehensible in itself, but the failure of the business worsened everything. This acquaintance would not help to recover a damaged reputation. But when Miss Eppinstone, who acted friendly toward Lavinia during the season, wrote to her with an offer to engage in organisation of a small charity concert, Lavinia agreed without much thought. It was an opportunity, little as it was, and she needed anything to occupy herself. Her father did not object – he did not speak much to her yet, as a matter of fact – and she threw herself in organisation of the event.

She did not perform, of course. She was not even particularly visible at the concert, sitting in the corner and observing the guests. Miss Eppinstone came to talk to her once or twice. They gathered more money for the orphanage that they expected and Miss Eppinstone thanked her for her participation. Lavinia on the other hand enjoyed the quiet, invisible tasks of an organiser. Therefore she offered Miss Eppinstone her help in any other events, which was warmly welcomed. Suddenly Lavinia found herself very busy, writing letters, keeping books and making lists of performers, which consumed a lot of time and energy. Slowly she returned to the community through the back door, but she could not manage to join the social life unrestricted. Once set aside, she always felt as a stranger – and it was made clear to her, however subtly, that she still was one. But Lavinia was quite happy doing her small part, especially that the backstage tasks suited her well.

But then – the war came, and her little world, which just started to run orderly, suddenly fell into pieces. Miss Eppinstone, whose boundless energy and ideas became a frame of Lavinia's activity throughout last seventeen months, decided to undergo training as a nurse. Lavinia found it very romantic – tall, beautiful Miss Eppinstone, in light blue dress and white apron, walking among the wounded. 'It it not romantic at all, not when you are there', argued Miss Eppinstone, when they met to say goodbye. But from Lavinia's perspective it was and she did not intend to come any nearer to the front. She was not a romantic heroine, was she now.

Which did not mean that she was not willing to help her country. She was good at organising events and collecting funds – which, as it soon appeared, became really essential – and she wanted to do it, but she just needed someone to lead her. But with Miss Eppinstone away it was difficult to find a person involved enough to organise a charity event and friendly enough to cooperate with the disgraced Miss Swire. She was looking for possibilities which did not appear. She almost came to conclusion that her help is simply dispensable, which would not be such a great surprise, but one day she received a note from Mrs Coleridge. It was rather rude and left no doubt that Lavinia was the last person she was willing to turn to, but it was also an opportunity to take part in organisation of the Christmas charity concert. She agreed, even though she well knew that it would not be a cooperation as pleasurable as with Miss Eppinstone – but what she would do, sending invitations and putting up decorations, could not be that hard. She was too ordinary to cause any problems, after all.

How wrong she was. She had not the slightest idea how many problems she could cause just by being where she was told to be and doing what she was asked to do. Mrs Coleridge was not pleased with anything she did: Lavinia's calligraphy, which was good (nothing extraordinary, but still a good handwriting), suddenly appeared to be "scribblings of a blind child"; the chairs that she ordered and arranged to create more seat places "did not suit the room and made the impression of chaos"; the lists of visitors and performers were "almost impossible to decipher and full of mistakes". After two weeks Lavinia had enough, but she could not withdraw, because she would never get a second chance. She repeated it to herself constantly, trying not to pay attention to Mrs Coleridge's insults – which, though effective, earned her the nickname of Miss Slowpoke. Therefore she greeted the beginning of the concert with a sigh of relief, which however did not last long.

'I assume that you must be exhausted, Miss Swire', said the younger Miss Coleridge in a whisper that was perfectly audible for all the women gathered in the small changing room. 'Mama said that you surely need a good rest, so maybe you should sit in a some calm, quiet place…'

'Thank you, Miss Coleridge, it is very kind of you and your mother. I am sure that listening to our performers will help me recover', interrupted Lavinia, straightening her back. She was not proud enough to say that she – unlike both Coleridge sisters and their mother – really did take part in organisation tasks. But she was also not humble enough to be forced out of the concert quietly.

'But I am afraid there are no free seats left. You must have miscounted them, I am afraid', the older Miss Coleridge stated, standing up and heading towards the beautifully decorated music room. 'So please just stay here and have a good rest. I am sure we will need your help very soon. Just imagine', added she in a lower voice, but still perfectly audible, 'that she would sit here in this disgusting frock and tell anyone how it was she, the great Miss Swire, who saved our concert. It is simply revolting.'

Lavinia had no idea how to react – she was merely shocked. After all her efforts she was nastily insulted and left alone, like a piece of trash. She fought with her tears but lost, and now sat there with red swollen face, red watery eyes and in a tear-stained dress (which might have been a bit richly embroidered, but was definitely not disgusting). And then somebody came in.

'Oh, I am sorry, I thought it was the cloak room. I did not mean to… Excuse me, but has anything untoward happened?', queried the man, seeing her red face. 'May I be of any use?'

'No, it… it is no… nothing', she stammered, trying to wipe her tears with her glove as she could not find her handkerchief. She inhaled deeply and managed to calm her voice down. 'Please, do not allow it to bother you, sir. You were looking for the cloak room – it is the next door to the left'.

The man bowed shortly and left, but gave her a concerned look. She straightened her back, wiped her eyes with her gloves and decided to join the concert guests during intermission, although now she felt not only insulted, but also involuntarily humiliated by this unknown man. This evening nothing worse could happen, so she could go to the music room without fear. So when she heard the commotion of conversations and laughter, she stood up, smoothed the folds of her gown, pulled on the damp gloves and tried to smile. She just hoped that her eyes were not too red.

Both Coleridge sisters pretended not to see her, and their mother treated her return with a similar scorn. But Lavinia did not intend to hold any interesting conversation, she just wanted to show them that she did not care – or did not care that much, to be precise. Their faces however indicated that it was a failed attempt.

'I am glad to see you are feeling better', she heard suddenly. It must be the man from the changing room, she thought. She did not see him clearly then because of the tears and she did not bother to pay attention. Now he stood there with the older son of Mr Stonecroft and smiled at her. Dear Lord, how handsome he is, thought Lavinia and immediately felt ashamed. It was not proper for a decent young woman to think such things. But he was handsome and she could do nothing but feel her face colour up.

'Yes, thank you, I am. Your concern is very kind, sir', she answered, angry for her red cheeks. 'I hope that you enjoy the music, Mr Stonecroft?', she turned to Stonecroft, hoping for an introduction. 'I could not join the concert because I suddenly felt unwell'.

'It was beautiful, Miss Swire. I personally enjoyed the Italian romance sung by Miss Lloyd and Miss Asherby, I dare say it was a wonderful performance. But I have no particular taste for music, I am afraid. So please let me introduce my friend, Captain Matthew Crawley – I am sure that he will offer you much more interesting opinions.'

Matthew Crawley, she knew this name. Her father mentioned him once or twice with much acclaim, so she imagined Mr Crawley to be around his age. But Captain Matthew Crawley was young, handsome and definitely a good man. To her surprise he did not just offer a bunch of conventional, bland sentences and leave. He actually engaged in conversation with her, asking about music and the organisation of the concert itself. He seemed impressed by her contribution to the event, even though she was talking about it as cagily as she could. Stonecroft just stood there and finally excused himself, which went almost unnoticed.

'I am very glad that I met you, Miss Swire,' said Captain Crawley, when the guests were signalled to take their places for the second part of the concert. 'I really hope that we will have more opportunity to talk about your experiences. It is quite unexpected, but undoubtedly remarkable, the perspective of yours'.

Lavinia did not hear the second part of the concert. She did not see the Coleridge sisters sneer and giggle or notice their mother huff with disdain. She was thinking only about the charming smile of captain Matthew Crawley, his honest interest in her opinion and his frank recognition. For the first time in a long time she was feeling happy without the bitter smack of resignation. As she was leaving she looked up to the dark winter sky. Among the black spots of clouds there were stars; plenty of them and ripe for the taking. They were far away, but clearly visible, and she could swear that they were blinking to her knowingly. She again felt the redness heating her cheeks. It was unreasonable and a part of her knew it well, but the other part wanted to forget that Matthew Crawley was out of her reach and just enjoy the bliss.

She tried to persuade herself that these thoughts were silly and it probably would work if he did not make it so difficult for her. They suddenly were meeting on streets and in parks, so often that she had to question the coincidence. They spent hours talking during the social meetings and she already heard the first rumours and accusations of hunting for an heir. They became the main topics during the dinners at home, when her father praised Mr Crawley's virtues without even a pause for breath. But her debts were already reimbursed and since her behaviour was impeccable, she had no friends in the society and had also no idea which heritage captain Crawley was entitled to, she did not feel guilty. She tried not to hope or make plans, she just experienced the happiness, especially as she knew that he would go back to France soon and forget her. This thought frightened her to death, the possibility of him being wounded was her worst nightmare that broke her dreams full of warm, acclaiming smiles and shining stars. As the date of his departure neared, her nightmares were becoming worse. She started to act nervously and irrationally, and according to her that was the reason for what she did that evening.

'I reckon I should be glad to come back to France', stated Mr Crawley, walking with her through the sleeping snowy garden of Mr Asherwood's residence after a farewell dinner for the visiting officers. 'There is never so much snow and the wind is not so freezing, so it is far more pleasant'.

'Oh, surely you should', she said in low voice, demonstratively looking only at the tips of her shoes, covered in snow. She promised herself that she would not let him know how she was feeling about his departure, but it was so hard to pretend that everything was well. 'I am sure that France covered in snow is a picturesque place. Even when the bombs are falling', she added, the grudge in her voice small, but perfectly audible. What have I done, she thought panicky, I have just destroyed everything.

'It is not that dangerous', said Mr Crawley after a long while. 'I will be fine, I am sure. And I will return safely, I promise…'

'Don't you dare!', she interrupted, and her voice immediately became high-pitched and trembling. 'Don't you dare play with me! That I do not deserve.'

'I am not…', tried Mr Crawley, but Lavinia was not in the mood to listen to his flimsy excuses. Now, when she had already ruined everything, she might give up the rest of acting. Again.

'Of course you are not. You are just a good-hearted, kind man who took notice of an absolutely ordinary girl, set aside by the society. You spent a lot of time with her, you talked to her a lot, maybe you even…' she paused for a moment and touched her cheeks. They were so warm that she could feel it even through the gloves. 'Maybe you even liked her a bit, who knows. I am grateful for it all, I truly am. But now we reached the end', she looked up at last, looking as firm and determined as she could with her red hot cheeks, red cold nose and blinking watery eyes. Mr Crawley, visibly shocked, wanted to say something, but he did not manage to utter a word. 'No, do not interrupt me. You are a perfectly fine man, Matthew Crawley, and you have a wonderful future in front of you. Go and chase it, because it is not here, not with me.' Now, when she said it aloud, she saw it very clearly. She wanted him to deny her words, but she knew that they were undeniably true.

'Miss Swire, you are…'

'Yes, I know. A well-mannered young lady does not say such things. But I could not care less. I just want you to…' No, that would be a lie. She inhaled deeply and started again. 'I needed to tell you that you must not waste any more time on an ordinary girl like me. Go, perform glorious deeds, and find your happiness with a fine soul-mate. You deserve it. But just come back safe, please', she finished in whisper. She felt terrible, so open and vulnerable. It was the right thing to do, telling the truth was always the right thing to do, but she could not stand his gaze now. Now he will say something gallant, she thought, and then he will pretend that nothing has happened. He was a gentleman, after all. And then, then – he will disappear from her life forever and go to France, the place cursed by God…

'Lavinia, will you listen to me now?', he asked, his voice trembling with muffled laughter. She looked up – and he really did laugh, shaking his head. Everything in her curled in pain. He did not even bother to act gentlemanly in front of such a silly girl… 'And you do mean it all, I know that. Of all people in the world, you would not pretend, not play with me. Never.'

His words, his laughter did not make sense to her. She wanted to say that of course she had meant everything what she had said, but she could not bring herself to utter one word. But Mr Crawley did not seem to look for confirmation.

'My dear, dear girl. There is nothing in you which is ordinary. Nothing', he repeated, not giving her time to protest. 'You are kind, proud and brave. And you are honest and fair, and all of your words and deeds are genuine.', he said, suddenly serious. 'I admire it in you and I always will. That is – if you want me to.'

'You cannot be…'

'Quite the contrary. I am. With you by my side I can face any future which lies in front of me, perform any glorious deeds which I will have to. But I need you. I need your honesty, your kindness and your smile. Lavinia Swire, will you marry me?'

For a short moment she felt as if she was standing under a shower of falling stars, beautiful, white and sparkling. She needed just to reach out with her hand and she could have not one, but a whole handful of brightest, luckiest stars. Have them all and stop deliberating whether she was worthy of them or not.

'For your own sake I should say "no"', she said finally. 'I should not let you care for me that much. But you are all the happiness I have, Matthew. Yes, I will marry you. In this world there is nothing that I want more.'

She did not remember the rest of the evening well. She recalled his smile, his fingers brushing the frozen tears out of her cheeks, his mouth whispering something about promises and future, and gratitude, and safe return. But in his reassuring presence there was the intimate feeling of the bright, trembling bliss inside, as if her heart was a pocket full of stars. And there was nothing ordinary in it.