June, 1912
"And so, it gives me great pleasure to announce the engagement of my daughter, Lady Mary Crawley, to my cousin and heir, Mr. Patrick Crawley. Please join me in wishing them a long and happy life together." The Earl of Grantham raised his glass of champagne and toasted the young couple beside him as the room filled with polite applause and much more commentary.
"Poor Mr. Patrick Crawley," the Lady Honoria Ashton said, gazing towards the front of the room where the newly affianced couple was receiving well wishes. "He could have done much better than her."
"You mean with the likes of you?" asked her companion, a Miss Isabelle Winston, who might have been called beautiful if it were not for the shrewish expression of her eyes. "Please credit the gentleman with some taste, my dear Honoria."
The voluptuous blonde sniffed. "Well, he doesn't look very happy, does he?" she asked, watching as Mary suffered to have her cheek kissed by old Mrs. Brampton while Mr. Brampton pumped Patrick's arm with enthusiasm. Both were smiling properly, but it did not require a very attentive observer to note the bored look in the lady's eyes, nor the way the couple's bodies were angled away from each other.
"You seem inordinately concerned. I do hope you're not planning to offer Mr. Crawley some comfort later."
"And so what if I am?"
"My dear!" exclaimed Isabelle, forgetting her champagne to stare in dismay at her friend. "You cannot be serious!"
Honoria said nothing, merely tipped her head defiantly and began to move towards the couple of the hour. Isabelle hurried after her, attempting to stop her friend.
"Have you lost your mind?" she hissed, trying not to draw attention to the pair. "He is not even that handsome, his income is merely average, and he may not come into the title for many years yet."
Honoria finally turned, batting away Isabelle's arm in annoyance. "He's tolerable and sweet enough, but don't be a fool. I'm not doing this for him. It's her. She's so cold and heartless, I just hate to see her so happy. But don't worry, I won't make a fool of myself, not yet." Without waiting for a response, she spun around again and hurried her way to the front.
~x*~x~*x~
Most evenings were bad enough, but there was something especially tedious about this one, Mary noted as yet more supposed friends came forward to exclaim over her good fortune. She had expected to enjoy the evening, anticipated that she'd quite like being the center of attention, but as the minutes wore on, she felt increasingly trapped by the insincere well-wishes, the false excitement, the need to keep up a smile in pretense she was enjoying the moment. If one more person noted that they were a well-matched couple, she would scratch the smile off of their face.
There was a momentary lull as the Taylors moved on and Cora appeared by Mary's side. Her smile appeared much more joyous and genuine than her daughter's as she surveyed the room and prided herself on one fait accomplit. Her most stubborn of daughters was finally engaged; now she could turn her attention to Edith.
"A wonderful turnout, isn't it, darling?" she beamed. "Everyone who is anyone is here, including that lovely Lord Hervey. Perhaps he may become interested in Edith."
Mary raised a doubtful eyebrow. "A future Marquess? Surely even you can't believe that is a possibility for Edith, Mama."
"Perhaps not," Cora conceded. "Maybe he will still be available when Sybil makes her debut next year." With this cheering thought in mind, she peered more closely at her daughter. "Are you alright, darling? You don't look like a happy, blushing fiancée."
"What is there to be so pleased about when it's only been expected for the past ten years?"
Cora's smile faltered a bit. "It's a good match for you—and you agreed. Everyone is looking at you. You must try to look a bit more pleased."
"Couldn't I claim a headache and escape?"
"Your own engagement ball, darling?" Cora asked, attempting to not look overly horrified. "You know how everyone would talk."
"Oh, let them talk," Mary snapped. "My hand is already claimed for, so what does it matter if people gossip? I'm surely not interesting enough for it to last beyond a week." She waved down a passing footman with additional glasses of champagne and toasted her mother. "You've done your duty by me and gotten my neck in the noose, Mama, so you can wash your hands of me now."
Cora sighed and conceded defeat. When her daughter was in such a mood, there was no way to stop her; she would simply do whatever she wanted to do. "Just dance with Patrick once, please," she pleaded, "and for heaven's sake, be discrete when you leave."
~x*~x~*x~
It required a mere half-hour and Lady Mary had successfully extracted herself from the ball being held in her honor. She had danced with her fiancé once, flirted with a few other lords, and then ensured everyone saw her disappear onto the balcony with her cousin in tow. From there, it was a simple matter to sneak upstairs and to trust Patrick to be discrete upon his return to the ballroom. If nothing else, she had to appreciate her cousin's malleable temper and his agreeability when it came to her plans.
She was now stood atop the stairs, her hand on the banister, listening to the noises of the crowds below. The musicians were playing another cheerful tune and the guests, well oiled by endless fountains of drinks her father had supplied, were boisterous and happy as ever. She doubted her absence would be much missed.
She hurried down the hall and into her room, where she rang for Anna, who appeared unsurprised to be summoned at so early an hour. The ever-faithful maid helped her out of her dress and, without a word, into another, a deep blue gown not nearly so fine as the others in the wardrobe. With a few quick twists, her hair was also changed into a simpler style before Anna's deft fingers removed the jewels about her neck. Looking at herself in the mirror, with the slight flush of excitement upon her cheek, Mary acknowledged that she hardly looked like the same woman whose engagement had been announced downstairs mere hours before.
As quietly as possible, she followed Anna down the servant's stairs and out the back door where a cab stood waiting, Mr. Carson beside it. He gave her a grim and unhappy look, but stoically said nothing as he helped her into the car. She caught one last glimpse of his knitted eyebrows before the cab glided smoothly down the street. Carson might be disapproving, but she wasn't worried; she knew she had him wrapped around her little finger and he would never give her away.
Settling back into the poorly upholstered seat, she breathed deeply, enjoying the London night air and allowed the tension to leave her body. It felt good to be outdoors, away from the tedious press back at her home. She knew what she was doing was dangerous – Carson had repeatedly tried to convince her to bring an escort – and yet, as an anonymous woman in a nondescript cab, she felt a world of endless possibilities opening up before her. As a lady used to the strict confines of societal expectations, it was a heady, addictive feeling.
The cab stopped before a music hall where lights and music and the sound of laughter spilled out the door. Mary stood a moment in front of the building, gazing up at the broad façade bearing large posters and adorned with plaster statues and gaudy colored lamps, wondering what sort of people awaited her inside, before bravely squaring her shoulders and marching in. Smoke and the scent of many bodies pressed together assaulted her nose as soon as she did.
The interior was much as Mary could have expected from the exterior, with tarnished looking glasses, gilded trellis work, and faded upholstery that once perhaps was crimson. It was not Mary's first time within a music hall, but she had only been escorted to a few suitable ones, located near Leicester Square, and was unfamiliar with the more bourgeois variety.
Uncertain what to do, Mary surged forward, searching for an empty stall. On stage, a dancer was contorting her body in time to the music, striking a few impressive poses, but with no fluidity to her movements. The music itself was loud but forgettable and perhaps it should have been no surprise that a few of the awkward young shop clerks began to glance in Mary's direction, more interested in the unescorted lady with the haughty bearing than the performance on the stage. It was with no little relief when Mary located an unclaimed stall, though the drinks on the table indicated it hadn't been vacated too long ago.
Settling into the seat – Mary uttered a quick prayer that the place was not too unclean – Mary observed the others attendees with interest. A family with three girls had claimed the stall next to hers and she watched with amusement as the two eldest subtly nudged and pinched each other while seemingly paying rapt attention to the performance and the youngest remained oblivious throughout. It seems, Mary mused, sisters are the same the world over. A few tables over, a young man in an ill-fitting suit was smoking and shooting her obvious glances. Mary shot him her most quelling look and trusted her haughtiness would stand her in good stead, even here.
It seemed she had waited hours before a man came hurrying to her stall. He was a good-looking young man and Mary spent a moment admiring his broad shoulders, his gleaming blond hair, his bright blue eyes. Assuming he was her waiter, she was about to place an order when he spoke first.
"Look," he told her coldly, "I don't know what game you think you are playing, pushing yourself into my stall, but I know the type of woman you are and I assure you I am not interested."
~x*~x~*x~
A/N: So should I continue?