In response to a delectable prompt submitted to me on tumblr, asking for a scenario where Mary tells her husband Richard that she is expecting another man's child.
I don't own Downton. But I so enjoy toying with the characters!
"So what do you expect from me?"
His question smacked her squarely across her spine, her skin tingling as if the contact had been physical.
"Nothing, really," she breathed, twirling on her heels to face him, her hands fidgeting unconsciously. "Except a divorce, perhaps."
He took two steps in her direction, nostrils flared, breathing labored, his temple pulsing visibly.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
He was pacing then, and her heart paused in her chest, her legs somewhat unsteady beneath her. But she wouldn't sit. Not now. Not with him. Not like this.
"That wasn't my intention, if that's what you mean," she returned, her voice sounding tight to her own ears.
"No, never," he spat, stopping in his tracks. "It has never been your intention to make a mockery of our marriage or to play me for a fool. But you've managed to do both quite expertly, haven't you?"
Her stomach lurched, and she swallowed down the urge to be sick, the bitter sting of bile burning the back of her throat.
"It wasn't like that," she attempted, clasping the chair rim to steady herself. "Neither of us intended…"
"You have never intended," Richard yelled, pausing to draw a steadying breath. "But you've always allowed it to linger, this thing between you, this connection both of you should have severed the moment you became engaged to other people." His face was red now, redder than she had ever seen it. "What does Lavinia think of all this?"
She closed her eyes, unable to look at him as one hand moved to her forehead.
"She doesn't know," she began, clutching the wood until her knuckles were white. "It wasn't…it isn't Matthew's, I mean."
Richard's eyes narrowed as he moved in too close for comfort.
"Don't lie to me, Mary," he breathed through clenched teeth, his tone low and dangerous. "Don't try to protect your golden boy when soon enough all of London and Yorkshire will know of your infidelity."
"I'm not lying," Mary insisted, meeting his gaze head on. "I haven't seen Matthew for months—not since Christmas. And besides, he would never betray Lavinia."
"As you have betrayed me?"
Hot ire sprang up inside of her, something uncoiling at his accusation.
"As if you've been a paragon of virtue," she accused, his breath hot now near her temple.
"It's not the same," he growled, his breath bearing the lingering scent of whiskey and cigars.
"Isn't it?" she questioned, her eyes widening as her pulse raced on. She refused to flinch as his lips pressed together until they nearly disappeared, making his face resemble a misshapen pumpkin. "Please explain to me why it's acceptable for you to sample the various delicacies London has to offer while I'm left to dine alone every evening."
"Because I haven't sired any bastards," he stated, turning his back on her and moving to refill his glass. "I've made quite certain of that."
She felt sick, her palms uncomfortably clammy as the world began to swim around her. She couldn't stand any longer, she would faint if she did, so she moved to the sofa by the window, sitting with a deliberation she did not feel.
"I suppose I should appreciate your honesty to some degree," he murmured. "That you at least had the decency not to attempt to pass this baby off as mine. Of course, the fact that I've been in America for the past two months would make that rather difficult to do."
"I would never lie to you about a child," she stated, her arms crossing over her mid-section instinctively. "No matter what it cost me."
"Am I supposed to thank you for that?" he questioned, facing her with something close to a smirk. He laughed then, a bitter, strangled sound that made her every nerve tighten. "I must admit to enjoying the irony of it, however. That Matthew will finally have a child—your child, but one he'll be unable to claim and who will never be able to inherit. Justice has an odd way of serving itself, doesn't it?"
"I've already told you," she rebutted as she returned to her feet. "This is not Matthew's child."
He examined her then, moving in close until they stood nose to nose.
"Christ, your serious, aren't you?" he noted, surprise etched across every feature. "You're actually telling the truth! So who's the lucky man, Mary? What other unsuspecting idiot has fallen prey to your feminine wiles?"
She swallowed past the sand-like texture of her throat.
"No one you know."
She hoped her words would satisfy him, and they did, at least for the moment. A bitter sound rumbled up from his throat, and he backed away from her, from their life together, from years of going through motions that had gradually lost their meaning. He then tossed down the rest of his whiskey, shaking his head in disgust before grabbing his hat and coat.
"You'll be hearing from my attorney tomorrow," he stated as he opened the front door. He looked at her then, the air stagnant between them, his gaze full of anger and regret. "Good luck to you, Mary. God knows you'll need it."
And with that, he was gone.
She sat again, staring out the window, seeing everything and nothing as day-long minutes ticked by. This was getting her nowhere, this mindless waiting about, and he had to be told, it was the only decent thing to do. God, now that Richard knew, the news could be all over London and en route to Yorkshire before the night was over. Her eyes moved to the telephone, and she braced herself for what was to come, picking up the receiver and dialing the number he'd given her after things had gone further than either of them had intended.
She breathed in through her nose, trying to steady her hands as she waited for someone to answer, nearly jumping out of her own skin when someone actually did.
"Henry Talbot, please," she managed, her words nearly lost before they reached the receiver, and she closed her eyes to the room around her, mustering all of her courage for the conversation to come.