He's her husband, and she loves him and trusts him.
It is truly wonderful, being able to finally look at him in public with all her feelings, all the emotions reflecting in her eyes, without the fear of getting caught. To take his hand in hers when they sit next to each other in church. To simply feel his presence beside her, warm, solid, reassuring.
At the end of the day, they go back to the soft, friendly space of their bedroom, all rich fabrics and well-known furniture. And then—then he touches her.
And everything changes.
She had once told him that what happened to her happened because of lust. She never mentioned any of the other things: the fear, the cold, heavy weight above her, the pain, the anger (at him, at herself). The utter, all-consuming helplessness.
Sometimes it's enough for him to hold her, and whisper sweet nothings into her hair, to make the ever-present nightmare go away. Sometimes, when he kisses her and says her name, he becomes the only reality she knows. Only one she'd ever known. There's no more hurt, no more cold, iron claws grasping the heart in her chest and making her suffocate in the darkness, gasping for air and reaching out to touch her sleeping husband's back, making sure he's still there, reassuring herself that he's alive and well, and loving her despite everything.
But sometimes, it's not enough.
She hates weakness: in others, yes, but first and foremost in herself. She feels sickened by the tears that threaten to spill from under her eyelids, by the need to call out for help.
She knows this feeling will pass, and she will be herself again soon enough. After all, a lady mustn't show her true feelings. A lady needs to be strong. The future Countess of Grantham cannot allow herself to succumb to irrational fears.
And yet, on some nights, she does.
These are the nights when she gets up without as much as a whisper, and walks the dark, empty hallways of her house, barefoot and clad only in a thin nightgown, until she finds a room downstairs where the embers on the fireplace haven't quite died out yet. She replenishes the wood (Lady Mary Crawley building up a fire, who could ever have believed that?), curls up on a sofa and watches the flames rise and fill her eyes. She hopes to be warmed by them, embraced by the heat. She hopes they would burn out the hurt and the coldness inside her.
She's happy to be alone on those nights.
But sometimes, the door behind her opens with a soft creak, and she smiles.
He's not her husband, but she loves him and trusts him.
They will never be able to publicly acknowledge their feelings, but that doesn't worry her. Isn't what you share in the privacy of your room (his, hers, but not theirs, there is no such place in the whole house) far more important than what you show to other people? It is enough for her. It always has been.
At the end of the day, they climb up the stairs and close their respective doors behind them, and wait until everything quiets down. Then she goes to him, or he comes to her. And everything changes.
They touch, they hold each other, they whisper words that cannot leave the confines of small, dusty rooms where everything is just hard wood and leafing paint. Sometimes it is enough for her to rest her head on his chest, listen to his heartbeat, feel his breath on her hair, to forget about all other things: regret, frustration, missed opportunities, time which cannot be taken back.
But sometimes, when she rests in his arms, embracing him tightly in the narrow bed that hadn't been intended to hold two people, enveloped tightly by his love and her own need for him, it becomes too much.
She knows this feeling will pass, and she will feel like herself soon enough. A housekeeper should care about the house and its inhabitants before her own heart. Which she does, each and every day—and she knows it to be one of the reasons why he loves her so much—until something cracks silently inside her, and she finds herself completely overwhelmed with her love for this man (not a family of strangers), the need to build him a home (not a house).
These are the nights when she gets up, disentangling herself from his arms, and walks quietly down the stairs, retracing the paths her feet follow every day, relearning to love every corridor, every room, reminding herself that there are people here, resting peacefully behind closed doors, whose well-being depends on her. (Not only her, she has no illusions about it, but they'd be lost without her, and they know it well enough, as does she.) She hopes the house would talk to her, make her remember why she'd come here in the first place.
She's happy to be alone on those nights.
But sometimes, she sees a light under the door to the library—the drawing room, the small boudoir—and goes where she's needed.
She opens the library door and sees a thin, almost transparent silhouette wrapped in fine silk, curled into a ball on the sofa, hands like paper birds cradling dark, heavy head. She approaches her, softly, quietly, as if she was a wild animal ready to prance at the first sign of danger.
Dark, haunted eyes follow her as she sits down in an armchair by the fireplace. She doesn't return the look. One shouldn't look an animal in the eye. One shouldn't spook a fawn.
"I couldn't sleep."
A gentle shake of the head. "Neither could I, milady."
Mary Crawley's limbs uncurl slowly, one white arm falling gently off the sofa, fingers brushing the long, thick hairs of the rug. "I hoped things would get better in time," she says into the silence stretching between the sofa and the armchair, some of her words meant for the housekeeper, some meant for the night itself. "I hoped I'd get used to the way they are."
Elsie Hughes looks own at her hands, embraced by the red glow from the fireplace, and lets one corner of her mouth rise in a grimace that isn't quite a smile. "They always manage to catch us at our most vulnerable, milady."
They both realize that the other woman is talking about something entirely different. They don't ask for particulars—there's no need for them. At some deep, molecular level, they both hurt. They both need help.
Neither of them wants to ask for it.
So they sit, together, apart, too far to reach, too close for comfort, and let whisks of emotions flow through the air between them, and dissolve in the heat from the fire.
"Will I be fine? Will it go away?" These are childish questions to ask, and Mary knows it—but she needs to hear the answers all the same. Especially since Mrs. Hughes would only tell her the truth.
"Eventually," Mrs. Hughes doesn't look at her, or at her own tired hands, but closes her eyes and rests her head against the soft upholstery of the armchair—something she never would have done during the day. (But the night changes many things.) "It might take longer than you expect it to, though." She skips the 'milady' with ease, and Mary lets her, not feeling very much like a lady in the first place—not tonight.
"How long?" she presses on, although she already knows the answer.
"Only a lifetime, if you're lucky."
"Is it worth it?" Her voice is small and weak, almost getting lost in the wide, empty space of the library.
Elsie Hughes thinks of the children she never had. Of her own house, with hydrangeas blooming wildly in the garden. Of Charles Carson's hands when they touch her hips, his lips resting on her forehead.
And then she finally looks up and sees Mary Crawley—Lady Mary, the uppity minx as she used to call her yesterday, two years, or a lifetime ago—the way she really is, flesh and blood, tiny tremors and tears.
"I believe so. I will tell you if I was wrong when I get there."
"Good," Mary answers, and closes her eyes.
By the time Daisy comes to build the fire for the day, the library will once again be empty and cold.
Mary will pass Mrs. Hughes in the first floor corridor just before luncheon.
They will avert their eyes, and smile at the floor.
Everything will be alright.
Until the next time.
The End