Chapter One
"Impertinence, rank impertinence. Indeed!"
The Countess of Trentham sat down with a huff. Her breath came in short gasps, as if she were too indignant to even breathe.
"As if the money were Sylvia's. It's all William's, you know, poor William who was murdered – probably by Sylvia herself, for all we know –"
The Countess fanned herself, evidently overcome with the idea of her niece even contemplating the possibility of cutting off her allowance. Not that Sylvia was so vulgar as to refer to it directly, of course – she was, after all, a Carton, and the Cartons were far too well-bred to speak about money. No, she had just casually dropped at a recent dinner party that her Ladyship might think of diversifying her sources of income.
"Aunt Constance, you really ought to think of putting up that property of yours. Why sit on a pile and never use it? The value of real estate is shockingly unnoticed by our nobility – really, to think of the benefits –"
As if her Ladyship could ever contemplate selling her London townhouse! Why, it was the only thing she had to show off. It had been in the family for years.
The dark-haired, dark-attired maid in the corner quietly continued to undress her mistress, well used to the old lady's tirades. After the death of her niece's husband the Countess's source of income – and the resulting flood of invective – had been transferred over to Lady McClore, who now lived in sumptuous state in London, fully enjoying the power her dead husband's millions inferred. Evidently the scope of Sylvia's bullying antics had now been extended to include her dependent aunt.
"Will you be needing anything else, your ladyship?"
"Hmm? Oh no, no. You may go now, Mary… put up the property, indeed!"
The countess settled into bed with another huff – only to drop off into a deep snore as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Mary sighed as she descended the staircase. It had been a hard day, and her ladyship had managed to make her task more odious than usual.
She had not changed much in the last year. A slight, quiet thing with large frightened eyes and "hardly a word to say for herself" was how the help had described her when she first arrived at the Countess' residence.
"Looks like she'll be gobbled up by the old cat in no time. Old lady will buy her cheap and keep her hungry, that's what she'll do. Doubt the little mouse will last more than a month."
Thus the naysayers were surprised to find the "little mouse" staying longer in the Countess' service than any other previous maid – in fact, she actually received a raise, something unheard of in this penny-pinching household. Gossip was rife about how this happened, and whether it had anything to do with the murder of Sir William McClore, who was rumored to have been at the brink of cutting off the old lady's allowance; however none of them were able to inveigle a word out of the young woman. Eventually they gave up in disgust.
"That one knows how to keep her mouth shut. I'll wager her ladyship pays her well on the side – the old girl knows a good thing when she sees it."
To Mary such talk was of little consequence, just as fictional as the mythical bribes that never found their way into her modest pocket. Her life was the same as ever – the daily tasks about the house, tending to the querulous old woman, listening to her complaints and bearing her demands and temper with as little reply as possible. What the Countess gave her at the end of each month was hardly worth her skill as a lady's maid (now far greater than most, given the exacting standards of her employer), and certainly far below the value of her silence on certain indiscrete words uttered by her ladyship concerning Sir William. But it was enough to keep her widowed mother in Glasgow comfortable. Other than that she had few expenses.
Her only happiness came late in the evening, after the Countess went to bed. She closed the servants' door behind her and buttoned her heavy coat tight as she walked briskly out toward the London pavement. On the far corner the street lamp illuminated a tall, strong-shouldered figure.
"Late as usual, I see."
His deep voice had a mocking bent, but his hands clutched hers in a warm grasp as she drew near.
"I'm sorry Robert – the Countess was at Lady Sylvia's dinner-party, you know, and she came home in such a state –"
"Ah, I see Lady Sylvia has decided to give the purse-strings another tug. What did she threaten this time, cut off the Countess's vacation funds?"
"Worse. She hinted her ladyship might want to sell the house."
"Hah! Now that's a remark to get the cat riled. And what would her ladyship's maid do then – follow the old girl down to a flat in the suburbs?"
As he spoke, Robert Parks drew her close and wrapped her in his coat. His warm lips nuzzled the top of her head.
"What am I to do if you leave me now?"
"Robert – it isn't like it's going to happen any time soon, you don't think?"
His deep chuckle sounded close to her ear.
"No, I don't think so. Sylvia McCordle may get a laugh out of scaring her relatives but she's too much of a snob to cut them off entirely. Nothing worse than destitute old aunts to ruin your reputation, you know."
They began strolling down the city pavement. The early winter nights were frigid, but neither said a word to show they cared.
The two had begun meeting soon after their encounter at Gosford Park. He came knocking at the door one day, ostensibly with a private message from Lady Louisa. When Mary shut the parlor door and asked him what she should tell her ladyship he crushed her lips in a sudden kiss.
"I'd rather you didn't tell her I came at all."
After that, he waited for her every night. She learned to slip out after the Countess fell asleep and meet him at the street corner. They had little to do but take long walks around town, and the increasing cold made it difficult at times, but in spite of the discomfort she lived for these brief meetings. Sometimes they even managed to squeeze a day off and go on a boatride, or a picnic to the country. But mostly they were confined to evenings at the flicks – and if they could manage it, a few hours in each others' quarters.
The first time she had been nervous, frightened. He had held her close and softly stroked her trembling protests away as he placed kisses down her neck.
"Shhh, darling, shhh… I won't hurt you. I promise."
It had hurt, quite a bit. But at the same time it had been oddly warm and comforting – the tight embrace of his arms, the touch of his lips, the sound of his breath in her ear. The scratchy sensation of his five o'clock shadow nuzzling against her skin. After it was over he laid his head on her breast with a deep sigh of something almost close to fulfillment. She put her arms about him and stroked his hair, content.
Such encounters were few and far between, however. Their half-day holidays rarely coincided; and he could hardly risk being seen in her room, or she in his. The best they could do was walk and talk until it was too cold to be out any longer.
He was more taciturn than usual tonight. Mary felt his large, warm hand gripping her little one as they walked along."She'll work you to death, you know."
His rough voice startled Mary. Her breath came out in a surprised puff of white cloud as she spoke.
"I – it's not so hard, Robert."
"I mean she'll never let you go. You're underpaid and overworked and she knows she'll never get anyone as good for the same amount of money."
"It's enough for mother. I don't spend much – you know that."
"I know."
He stopped abruptly and turned to her.
"What if you left?"
She was so surprised that for a moment she could not speak.
"Leave my place? Why – Robert, what an idea. Even if I could get a situation it would be weeks – and Mother would never get by if I didn't send my wages."
"She could if I sent her mine."
His voice was quiet. In the yellow light of the street lamp his face was intent, his gaze almost too strong to bear.
Too stunned to speak, she raised her eyes with a frightened look.
"Robert – I –"
"I'm asking you to marry me."
He gently cupped her face in his hands, a thumb stroking her lower lip. Almost by force of habit she nested her cheek against his palm.
"Will you?"
For a split second, she could not find the words to say. And then the whirling lights came back in focus and they burst from her mouth in a quiet rush –
"Yes. Oh, yes."
Author's note: After I thought I had completely lost interest in fanfiction, this movie sent me straight to my laptop. Which led to an unpleasant realization -- evidently almost no one writes Gosford Park fanfics. If anyone out there could send me links/files/etc., I would be forever and utterly grateful.
And if you, by chance, have been as starved as I have for Mary/Roberts stories... there's a review button waiting. Send me your thoughts, likes, dislikes, flames, flowers! Remember, authors only upload when they think the audience is interested ...