Between Us
The child was full of life, vigorous, and such a joy to behold, with rosy cheeks and crimson lips like his mother's, and piercing eyes and thoughtful frown like his father's. Mary held him close, drank in his soap-scented hair, kissed his hand, smelling of baby cologne. It was too sweet and too right. The child wriggled, trying to thrash and escape. He kicked her and she felt his shoes strewing mud on her white dress.
"There, there, dear. It's just me. Stay with me a little."
The last line was a whisper, but then a harsh, stabbing pain struck her. He had hit her stomach and she lurched forward, her half-eaten meal rising to her throat. She felt her head spin, a pain coming on like the migraines she had started experiencing over a year ago.
Then, she had worn a dress like this, ivory with green embroidery hugging her waist. It was summer and they had gone for a picnic with some friends of Matthews, the Lanes. Patricia Lane was around the same age and had been trying for a baby for a few years. She had been rather jealous when Mary had confided in her. Even after Dr. Clarkson confirmed the news, she still hadn't told Matthew. She had waited to tell him, but he found out too early, when it was too late. She couldn't tell if his eyes spoke of pain or relief. Sometimes she felt as if she had lost, had been losing, long ago.
But Liam had changed that. She didn't know what to make of the child. Sometimes he really was impossible, the way he squirmed away from her even when he was tired. For she had held him when he had curled into a ball on the floor the other night, exhausted after playing with the new train set she had brought for him from London. He insisted on playing by himself, though she had tried to join in his games. He was a careful child, she thought then. And the trains, which now lay on the floor, looked as good as new, the red so sharp it bled against the pale yellow carpet. She always left them where they lay, and the servant cleaned up later.
She still wouldn't, couldn't let go of Liam, now, even though he was yelling and starting to cry. She wanted to pacify him, rock him to sleep. She wanted his warmth.
"Let go of my son."
The order was a shrill cry that reverberated throughout the length of that large hall. She was sure the servants heard it downstairs, but she had little time to consider, for Sybil came behind her and grabbed Liam away from her. The child was now crying, his face buried in his mother's neck, his chestnut hair becoming one with hers.
"That's enough, Mary." Sybil's eyes, red and swollen, glared at her. Her hair was tousled, as if she had lain awake on her bed, agitated. And Mary knew she had, for Tom was still away, and there were other things. She looked at Sybil, with her parturitioned belly, her mother's figure, so different from the youngest sister she had rescued and chided not too long ago. Sybil had always gotten her way; Mary had never envied her for it—they were not her dreams, not her ways.
"I'll put him to bed. Now." Then she turned away with the child, who was now quiet, hidden in his mother's arms. One would think she knew him in that way, that he was thus familiar with her, that this was a regular occurrence. Mary watched the two of them disappear into the stairs and Sybil's off-grey dress now cut her figure like that of the nurse she once was. But her step was arduous, the child weighing her already exhausted frame. Mary was about to say she would send for Rosa, but stopped. It was not her place. She could not gauge a mother's burden. Or her strength.
After she had seen to the servants and handled matters for the night with Mrs. Hughes, she tiptoed upstairs and walked along the long corridor, one that was as familiar to her as skin. Here she had first learnt to walk, and here she had fallen. Here she had argued with her mother and questioned her father. And now Downton was hers, because of Matthew. She felt a sudden chill and covered her arms with her shawl.
She passed her room and continued the path to her sister's. How many times, when they were girls, had she stopped by that room secretly to look in on Sybil—when she was ill with scarlet fever, when she had returned after the count, when she had eloped with Tom. She would wait for the familiar whisper, Sybil just as proud to own up to her defeat, to show her fear in front of her sister. But Mary sensed it in the contrived "goodnights"—muffled, if she were in bed, clearer if she were huddled near the dresser. But she hadn't opened the door to let her in and Mary understood.
"I will be reading for a little while," Mary would say, offering her support. But Sybil never came. She never allowed her to reach out, except once. The night she had come back with Liam from Ireland, Mary had found her slumped on the floor. She hadn't said anything, but Mary—anyone—could tell she was distressed. A young mother not yet 25, her husband away, her life stalled. She had held her that time and Sybil had let her, the same Sybil who had patiently nursed others, rolled her eyes in exasperation when work was not done, and flitted away too quickly.
The door to Sybil's room was now opened and Mary peeked in, hesitantly. There was no sign of Sybil and the bed was unmade. Mary quickened and ran across the room until she reached the door that led to the balcony. When she opened, she found Sybil there, leaning against the wall, smoking.
"Am I not allowed one moment to myself?" she hissed.
"I was worried about you."
At that, she spat, and Mary stumbled at the revelations of her sister's behavior. She looked away in disgust.
"Go on then." Sybil's dark eyes shot like daggers.
"I meant, that is, you…"
"No, I meant leave. Just go."
Mary wanted to turn and walk away then and there. In the pale glow of dusk, her eyes fell on the sheen of a bottle, tucked in the shadows. She sensed the pungent smell on Sybil's breath.
"Darling, come inside."
"No. Just leave me."
"You'll feel better in the morning." It felt flat, disingenuous, and she realized the inadequacy of such maxims her mother used to repeat. But she missed her mother, who was away visiting Edith. Mama was always able to calm Sybil.
Sybil threw the cigarette so it narrowly missed the hem of Mary's skirt. She watched the stub flicker angrily before crushing it with the heel of her shoe.
"Enough, Sybil."
"Enough? Enough?" She let out a wild cackle and Mary sensed something in her voice that made her shiver. Still, she did not leave. She couldn't give up.
"Don't touch me. And don't come between my child."
It was as if Sybil had slapped her across the face. Mary felt herself smarting, felt something stinging her eyes. Sybil looked surprised herself, as if for a moment unsure of her voice. Her face shook a little, refuting her claims. But the moment passed and the night was cruel, the wind urgent.
"How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from my business? Why do you have to put your mouth into things where you are not wanted? In the name of what? Honor? Family? I have my own now. Mine entirely. I am not a child. And leave my child to me."
She dropped the last words like a bomb and Mary's heart raced. Her lips parched. Yet she didn't feel humiliated, only prepared.
"I know what this means for you.." and before she could stop herself, "There is a way, Sybil."
Sybil stopped in her tracks.
"No. No. You can't speak to me like this. Do you understand?"
"Sybil, I know you are upset. I know how hard it has been for you all these months. I have seen it."
"And what? You can't help me. Don't you see that? No one can. All you want is my son and you want to remove me so you can have him." She was screaming now and the air throbbed with the violation.
Mary felt a hand on her arm, a strong hand, an unwelcome touch. She pulled hers away instinctively, willing the spectre to disappear. But he was behind her, his breath hot and steady, as his hand reached for her again. Still she could not meet his eyes, could not bear for him to be here, see her like this, after all that happened. She shrugged him off, just as his arm came circling around her waist. Swiftly, he turned her to face him.
"Mary."
It took some time for her to register his eyes, mark the dark depths in the blue, the eyes of late she remembered, wishing she could not. She could tell how it pained him, how he had to keep back, how he looked at Sybil, who was inching back into the shadows, alone in her wrath. Nothing came out of his lips—what would he say, to whom? She wrenched free of him. He caught her again, found her again, before she had a chance. He had come too early, heard too much. For hadn't he seen her shame—for she will call it that, however much he told her otherwise—on the sheets as she had bled? Facing him was almost more unbearable, especially now, like this.
She turned and ran from him, knowing there was no freedom in her inheritance, that this house would keep her imprisoned, with nowhere to run to, even from her husband.
A/N: Thanks for reading! As always, feedback is lovely. Although this is a one shot, I might consider expanding if there's enough interest.