A/N: I don't know whose idea this was originally but it was clearly something that needed writing. For the lovely mrstater on her birthday and HAPPY (alternative) DOWNTON DAY to all Richard/Mary shippers out there! :)
"There's something funny about the- Mrs. Patmore! There's something funny about-"
Daisy skidded to a halt in the corridor as the cook finally turned round and paid attention. "What is it now, Daisy? Can't you see I'm busy? There is a wedding reception going on right now, or hadn't you noticed?"
"But Mrs. Patmore!" She wrung her hands but now seemed embarrassed.
"Oh for heaven's sake..." She pulled Daisy out of the way of a line of extra footmen with trays of canapés as they marched in a regimented line down the corridor. "Right, make it quick. And if anyone's out there turning the water into wine just tell them to keep on at it!"
"Noo... Mrs. Patmore, it's about the cake."
"The cake? Daisy, if you've done anything to that-"
"I've not touched the cake, Mrs. Patmore, that's just the thing! It's really..." She lowered her voice and looked around anxiously. "It's really big. I mean, it's really, really big."
"Oh for the love of- What do you expect, girl? Did you think we were going to serve fairy cakes at Lady Mary's wedding?"
"No, but, like, Thomas and William are trying to move it and they can barely carry it upstairs!"
"Then don't stand here wittering to me as if I didn't have better things to do with my time but go and help them! What do you think you're paid to do?"
"Yes, Mrs. Patmore!" With a frightened glance she ran off.
The cake was indeed very large by any standards. Wheeled in on a trolley covered with a shiny, white cloth, it towered over both the footmen straining to push it. Daisy ran behind them holding her hands out as if to catch any bits that dropped off the wobbly top, only the entire cake seemed strangely rigid. Probably just the icing.
"A kitchen maid in the saloon," tutted the dowager countess as she always did. "However did Carson approve it?"
"Oh, hush, Granny," smiled Mary, "I don't mind and neither does Matthew, do you, darling?"
But she was still looking at the cake.
"The moment has come," said Matthew, taking her hand. "Eight years, a world war, the Spanish 'flu, and more guilt than you can shake a stick at -"
"Matthew," she interrupted him gently, "I am your stick."
"I'm not sure we should talk about this in public, my dear," he murmured, his eyes full of mischief.
Mary only shook out her bobbed hair and laughed. "Come on, let's cut the cake."
She walked forwards, her veil trailing on the ground, but in a cautious way, almost as if she was half afraid of it. Matthew followed a few paces behind.
"Let's cut it together," he said.
"Always together," she murmured in reply and raised the knife, a faint buzzing in her ears.
"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fe-ellow... and so say all of us! And so say all of us! And so say-"
The cake seemed to explode, bits of icing flying across the room. Someone screamed and Mary leapt backwards, somehow avoiding tripping on her veil, her heel landing heavily on Matthew's foot who let out an extremely undignified squeak of pain.
"Good God!" exclaimed Sir Anthony Strallan.
"It's Richard Carlisle!" said Edith in a wondering tone of voice. "What's he doing there?"
"My cake!" moaned Mrs. Patmore and fainted clean away into Dr. Clarkson's arms.
It was indeed Richard Carlisle, and Mary could not take her eyes off him. Neither could anyone else either for the very good reason that he was stark naked and standing inside the remains of the wedding cake.
"Who knew," murmured Sybil near by, "that he was quite so rich in all areas!"
Her husband glared at her. "For god's sake, think of the baby!" he snapped in warning, rather incongruously.
Mary felt perfectly faint. Her stomach churned, her head swam, she felt as if she was falling. Of course it would all be perfectly fine if he didn't look quite so... cocky about it all. Hands on his hips, one eyebrow raised, as if being naked in a wedding cake was a perfectly reasonable place to be. She dropped the knife with a clatter on the floor.
Finally he spoke, looking straight at her, his blue eyes boring into her. "Sorry about the cake, Mary."
She started to walk closer towards him, keeping her gaze firmly fixed on his eyes. Behind her, she was aware of Matthew. He was saying something – ordering her to stop perhaps or, or- she did not know. All her attention was fixed on the man in front of her who had been so presumptuous as to ruin the perfect wedding she had always dreamed of. But it was becoming harder to concentrate as blackness began to seep through the edges of her consciousness. She felt incredibly dizzy and sick.
Now Richard had stepped down from the trolley, as elegant and panther-like in its strides as ever. "Mary," he said quietly, then more loudly. "Mary!"
She continued to walk closer and closer until he put his hands on her shoulder and began shaking. "Mary! Mary!"
She twisted her head away from him, pressing her eyes shut, not wanting to deal with this right now, not today, not ever. Finally she whipped her head back and opened her eyes, meeting his very close to hers in the dark.
"What is it?"
He stopped shaking her. "You're unwell. You were shaking, muttering..."
She frowned, moving her legs experimentally against the sheets. They felt hot and heavy and her stomach still churned with very real upset. She swallowed several times until the sensation passed. All the time her husband watched over her, stroking her hair back on her sweaty forehead.
She forced a smile. "I had the most extraordinary dream, you know. That I had married Matthew."
He snorted and flopped back on his pillow, reaching for her hand as he did so. "That'd be enough to upset anyone, I'd think!"
"Now don't be nasty, dear," she murmured without trying. Her heartbeat was still elevated and she rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up to her stomach as if that could settle the nausea. "You were in it too."
"Was I?" Now he was interested.
"Yes. You were..." She thought about it and laughed quietly. "You were very impressive!"
"Did I stop the ceremony? I would have done, with pleasure. You know that."
"No, you jumped naked out of the wedding cake," she replied matter-of-factly, "but there was more to it than that. The dream was trying to tell me something... Someone said something."
"It was probably telling you," said her husband in a whisper, turning to wrap his arms round her, "to agree to go with me to Scotland next weekend. They have a famous French pastry chef at the hotel. I must have mentioned it."
"You probably did." With the warmth of his body against her and the encompassing darkness friendly and comforting around her, the details of the dream were starting to fade along with the sudden sensation of sickness that had accompanied it. "A weekend in Scotland would be lovely."
He kissed the back of her neck. "I knew you'd come round."