Matthew died and all Mary could do was live. Her heart beat despite her and the breath washed in and out of her, her flesh intent on its own agenda. She could not stop her ears or fail to smell the morning porridge, the toast the hospital's cook burnt, lilies indiscriminant with their fragrance, indecorous in the small room. Carson would frown. She didn't recall much of the time after she had been told—the window across was filled with light in lozenges matching the panes and she felt the pillow beneath her cheek, but they had given her something, a shot, not even bothering to ask her to swallow a powder or a draught, and she slept enough that when she woke, she had accepted as truth that Matthew would not return. It was one of the few thoughts she could form; her sharp wit, a gift from Granny, had abandoned her and her mind felt empty, dull, unnatural. Could one live, beheaded? It seemed she must.
Anna had understood her without asking, which was a blessing as she could not have made a cogent demand. Anna shooed away Nanny West who was ever and always ready to take the baby back to the nursery, closing the door firmly behind her, while Mary slid down in the bed and let Georgie root against her, his belly pressed to her ribs. He was very soft, except for the curve of his skull, his gums, the awl of his heels in her again, less intimate this way but all she had. He would purse his lips in his sleep, already missing the nipple that had just slipped from his mouth. Nursing him was what her body wanted and as her brain had seemed to give up all desire, she allowed herself to be an animal, all suck and cramp, the scent of his buttery shit a comfort, her embroidered nightdresses stiff with milk. She had tasted it, stroked his face greedily slick against her breast and licked her wet finger; it was sweeter than she had thought. She spent her days only on thirst, infinite cups of tea that Anna brought, or just one, she couldn't be sure. She was hungry at night, a vixen who had failed at her hunt, listless in her den, and Anna was the one who knew what to bring her.
What must Anna had said to Mrs. Patmore? That Lady Mary was to have cake every night, the layers thick with jam or cream, flavored with chocolate, almond, rum or lemon, thick slices, unwieldy as doorstops, glacé cherries or cocoanut elaborate as French lace draped over the top and sides? What would the cook have done? She must have arranged the bowls on the worktop and begun baking right away. There had not been a night without. The first piece had been unexpected, someone forgetting that the grief-stricken widow was barely eating, a wraith disappearing into the steam that rose from the tea like a djinn, and she'd been brought the pudding Matthew would always have wanted. She'd teased him for his gluttony during their engagement but he'd confessed the fourth night they were married, after he'd made love to her with less delicacy and more conviction, a filthy ardor she had not believed him capable of, that he'd dreamt of cake in the trenches. And now she understood, she was in her own mire and there was such deep satisfaction in the startling thrill of sugar, the butter and egg that made crumbs tender, vanilla custard on her lips so rich she did not have to recall how he would have licked it from her mouth, insistent nothing be wasted. She must become fat, enormous, save that the baby suckled so often, eager or blissful, a mystic consuming his God, his latch like the turning of a key, the egg cracking on the bowl's rim. Mary ate and ate and Georgie did as well, the most alive they could be; the baby did not know what he had lost and she could not grasp it, any more than she could comprehend gravity, so she turned to the next slice of cake, filled with marzipan, almonds tiling the circumference; it tasted of Matthew's nightmares, hers now, what he'd left to her with their son. When she looked in the glass, she expected her eyes to have become blue, blinked, and was disappointed.