The Criterion Restaurant bustled with activity, despite it being an evening in the workweek. To the less-practiced eye, one would simply see couples, families, friends all gathered together at tables, eating and drinking. They would not be able to distinguish a specific conversation among the loud chatter and clattering of table utensils, nor over the loud jazz band that played on a raised platform, squashed in the corner of the main room of the restaurant. Yet a single man saw more. This man was smoking his favorite cigar, La Aroma de Cuba, which also happened to be the favorite of one Winston Churchill.
Though a cloud of smoke settled around the gentleman, his intense pair of ice blue eyes cut through the haze easily. He knew these people. They were his people. Being a newspaper magnate made him the proprietor of information. He didn't just report news. He made news. At the end of the day, it was up to him on who received attention in his papers. He could create and destroy celebrities, politicians, socialites, nobility. If there was ever a more appropriate exemplar of the adage, "the pen is mightier than the sword," it would be Sir Richard Carlisle.
It was this gentleman who looked on the room of high-class citizens dining and knew them all by face or name . . . or reputation. But there was one in the room he knew better than all. Lady Mary Crawley sat at a table not far from his. He had noticed her immediately, much as he had the first time they had met at Cliveden. As if her presence was something his mind and body unconsciously knew as if it were his own, he honed in on her the second she appeared. Honestly, it was a tad irritating. It had been three years since he had last seen her, and he had rather hoped to keep that gap growing.
Yet, here she was, a few tables from him . . . completely unaware of his existence. Really, it felt like they were engaged again. Sir Richard had long since mourned over his one and only love and returned to the life he excelled in. Being an eligible bachelor had its merits, after all. There was certainly no lack of interested women. This was also the new reign of the Modern Era. The 1920s had heralded a resurgence of life and progression. Many old, conservative families had found themselves without money or power at the start of the new social revolution. Their time was over. The world now existed for Richard's people. The Modern men and women of the world. And they were starting it with a party.
Looser skirts, higher hems, more skin, more flash, louder music, closer dancing, harder alcohol. Reputations were being traded in for life, and Richard was collecting. Yes, life was going very well . . . and now here was Lady Mary, looking quite uncertain in this new world that surrounded her. Sir Richard recalled how abysmally bored she had looked at Cliveden. Then, it had been the function and the people who had nearly driven her to an early retiring for the evening. Though Richard could not clearly see her all of her features, he noticed the strained pull of her lips and tense shoulders. She was, once more, abysmally bored. Though he could not chalk this up to the function, so it had to be . . . people.
It was then that Sir Richard noticed the gentleman who had brought her into the restaurant. He knew the man by face, name and reputation. Anthony Foyle. Or, Lord Gillingham, as his title bespoke. Though that was really all the man had. Richard had edited the article about Foyle's family and estate. Whatever was Mary doing with a pauper like him? He highly doubted her father approved . . . though if Richard had learned anything, it was that Lord Grantham cared more for a title than money. As impractical as that was.
So, here the newspaper magnate sat, smoking quietly at his table whilst his associates laughed and gossiped around him. If his distracted attention was noticed, they were either too drunk or too absorbed in their own stories to care. He really should just leave her be. They had parted on as amicable of terms as could be had in a situation like that. Mary was something toxic to him. She had somehow inspired great ardent feelings in him where no other woman had done before. And she had turned him into a foolish, jealous brute that he admitted to being, but otherwise despise about himself.
More importantly, she had hurt him.
Sir Richard played a careful game. His newspaper, thus far, was the controlling news publishing in London and throughout the British Empire. He'd come from rags and dirt floors to rich business suits and silk sheets. All of it had been done through grunt, teeth-clenching work. Every week day, he worked. Oftentimes, he left for his office before the sun rose and only returned to his home long after the sun had set. Sometimes, he didn't leave his office at all. Through that consistent, back-breaking effort, he had created an empire. And like all empires, they could eventually be destroyed. Sir Richard knew the game. Reputations danced at his fingertips, but it was a double-edged sword. His own life had to be spotless, if he wanted to continue his credible reporting. Yes, he was a self-described womanizer, but he was hardly the worse, and he was hardly the only. More importantly, men of his status and wealth were able to get around it. On some level, it was even expected. On another, it was quite accepted.
Because of this strain, Sir Richard had also found it difficult to make a meaningful connection with a woman. They were often interested in him for his money, or the fact that he could make them very famous, indeed. Though he was most certainly a Modern man, he still rather believed in the old concept of love. He just also believed that love with additional benefits was more of a practical fit. Enter Lady Mary Crawley. True, his initial interest had merely been one of legacy. She could offer him plenty that he could not otherwise gain on his own, thanks to his common blood. But ever the observant man that he was, he slowly began to see Mary through their irregular visits. He recognized a thirst in her that he had seen in himself. She was starving for more.
And then she went the opposite of more and married her cousin instead. It still baffled him. Yet it wasn't something he thought of much anymore. He had done something he had not done before. He had fallen in love with her. At forty years of age, he had tasted the sweet fruit of love, only to find after he had bitten into it, that it was sour. It had taken him some time to heal. He saw her engagement announcement to Matthew Crawley announced in his own paper, and then her eventual marriage as well. Her scandalous story remained locked away in his desk. He had thought about publishing it many times.
It only seemed fitting. She had hurt him. Him! He, who was supposed to be impenetrable, sharp steel. She had wounded. He wanted to wound back. But he did not. As the new year of 1922 came to toasts and cheers, Sir Richard had burned all the notes he had made of the scandal. Since then, he had returned to what he did best—work. It was his life once more. Work and the occasional dalliance. It had been good. He was good.
Yet, there she was.
Sir Richard Carlisle reached for his glass of whiskey. Letting it swirl in his glass, he watched as Lord Gillingham rose with an apologetic smile and left the table. Richard watched him leave the room, wondering. Well then. If there was ever a moment . . .
It seemed his feet were miles ahead of his mind. With the lasting taste of whiskey on his tongue, Sir Richard found himself walking towards Mary's table, his empty glass of whiskey left behind with his associates who only glanced at his retreating form. Dressed in his formal wear, Sir Richard became quite aware that he was in a similar suit when Mary had broken off their engagement. Ah well. History. He was a man restored to pure confidence now. In fact, he felt more self-assured and comfortable than ever. Perhaps their break up had actually been a blessing in disguise.
His hand passed over the silk of his shirt, and then swept up into his sandy-laced-with-white hair, smoothing it back. Mary still did not see him. She sat as properly as she could at the table, looking over at the band. Sir Richard cleared his throat, standing just behind her.
"Hello, Mary."