Snatches of Scant Hours
Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey
A/N: Downton's Season 2 timeline was confusing at the best of times, so please forgive any inconsistencies in that respect in this story.
Their first kiss was an accident.
Their heads had been together. Lavinia had been showing Mary a particular passage in a letter Matthew had sent her – something trivial, 'give my love to cousin Mary' or something equally as cool – when Lavinia's lips had grazed the corner of Mary's mouth, her cheek, before Lavinia had hurriedly pulled back.
Mary had glanced up and the two of them had giggled over it, though the laughter didn't reach their eyes and there was something curious in the atmosphere, as though it had suddenly become strained.
The next time, it was in comfort.
Mary had followed her, out of the hospital, into the gardens, round a corner, up a winding path – and there she was. Lavinia was standing stock still, back to Mary. Mary tentatively put a hand on her shoulder.
Lavinia jerked and spun, and Mary saw that silent tears were falling onto her cheeks, and dripping off her chin.
"He's – he's sent me away," She choked out. She pressed her fingers to her lips.
"Oh my dear, my dear," Mary was never good in situations like this; she was reserved by nature, and English to boot. But she anxiously put her arms around Lavinia, and embraced, as though trying to put her back together by sheer force of will.
Lavinia was, Mary thought, holding her, so middle class in some ways.
Mary kissed her cheek as they parted, and Lavinia, somewhat more composed but still hiccoughing in grief, leaned forward to place one on her cheek in return.
They paused, noses inches from each other. Mary could see the faint dusting of freckles on Lavinia's nose and would think later that it was Lavinia who leaned forward first, but if she were honest she wasn't entirely sure.
Their lips had met, and they stood, merely pressing them together. Mary could taste Lavinia's tears and her tongue nipped out, subconsciously Mary would later insist to herself, to brush them away. Lavinia's tongue had met hers in turn.
Mary simply had not mentioned it again – it was easy, after all. Lavinia was gone on the morning train to London, back to her humdrum middle class existence. Mary secretly wondered what it was like, what she did, where she went, who she went with and if she missed Matthew. Though more often, in the dull moments, of which there were plenty, Mary wondered if Lavinia missed her. Why she would, though, Mary couldn't say.
When she eventually came back, Mary was sure Richard had had a hand in it. How exactly he had convinced Lavinia to do it, Mary would never know.
He denied it, of course, using that brusque, slightly patronising really-Mary-what-is-this-nonsense voice. "The poor girl is just in love," Sir Richard had smirked, draining his glass. "The only reason you can't understand it, darling, is because selfless acts are unfathomable to you,"
He was, in some respects, correct. What a bloody fool, Mary couldn't help but think, watching her across the room. Had Mary been sent away from the man she was engaged to, pride would never let her darken his door again. Though, Mary thought as she sipped her wine, that was probably why Lavinia had Matthew and why Mary had missed out, again and again.
However, Mary was, despite everything, so very pleased to see her.
They had kissed again under the mistletoe that Christmas. Mary had been seeking relief from what was ultimately a rather muted, dull day – there seemed very little to be joyful about, what with the war still going on somewhere in Europe – Mary found it too tiresome to keep track – and Matthew crippled, resentful and silent.
The tension was palpable. After Mary had snapped at Edith, and Mama had told her coolly that she was not being pleasant, nor in keeping with the holiday spirit, Mary had slipped away, to wander to the front door and peer out listlessly at the snow.
It was cold out here. Mary could see her breath rising and she reached out to write her name on the mist on the glass.
"It's been a rather grim evening, hasn't it?" A soft voice said from behind.
Mary jumped and twisted her head. "Oh. It's you."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Lavinia came and stood beside her, staring out into the deserted grounds.
"It has been. A grim evening, I mean," Mary replied. "How did you manage to slip away?"
"Lady Violet was sniping at Mrs Crawley," Lavinia gave a half-smile. "It was relatively easy,"
"Matthew will miss you,"
"Oh, I don't know,"
A silence fell and Mary was aware of the warmth of Lavinia's arm, gently brushing her own.
"It was very noble of you," Mary said abruptly. "To come back,"
"I love him," Lavinia replied, though Mary thought her reply had the ring of an automatic response to it. "Though, sometimes –" She halted abruptly.
"Hmm?" Mary pressed.
Lavinia drew a long breath, before continuing. "Sometimes I don't think he's particularly pleased that I'm here,"
Mary licked her lips. "Oh?"
"His face when I came in…in the dining room, that night…wasn't exactly joyful. It was then that I thought…" Lavinia paused, struggling for the words and gathering courage. "I thought…"
"You thought?" Mary was notoriously impatient.
"I thought: Lavinia, you have made a mistake,"
The words hung heavy in the dark hallway.
"Oh," Mary didn't quite know what to say.
"It has been…difficult, these past months," Lavinia continued.
The silence, heavy before, was now suffocating.
"Well…I'm glad you came back," Mary offered softly.
Lavinia gave her a half smiled sadly, and then looked up. Mary followed her gaze.
"Mistletoe," Lavinia said, rather pointlessly.
"Yes," Mary returned, and looked down again, at the bridge of Lavinia's nose and those faint freckles she had noticed months before. "Though no one seems to be much in the mood for kissing…I don't know why Carson put it up…"
"Perhaps so he could catch Mrs Hughes under it,"
That would usually have elicited a giggle from Mary, but none was forthcoming. She merely stared down and slowly bent her head to press cold lips against Lavinia's.
"Happy Christmas," She murmured against Lavinia's mouth.
Lavinia kissed her in return, entirely chaste, entirely appropriate.
"And to you," She returned quietly.
They broke apart, as Sybil came searching for them, wretchedly informing them that Granny was demanding they play another round of charades.
"Coming, Sybil, darling," Mary replied, noticing how Lavinia snatched her hand from hers as Sybil approached.
Mary thought of this encounter in the weeks to come, watching as Lavinia grew thinner and paler before her eyes. She was shrinking, bowed under against the weight of an honourable promise given hastily and the condescending eyes of those around her.
Mary tried to think of some way to alleviate the burden, but couldn't. She merely watched, helplessly, from the sidelines, as Lavinia's cheeks grew more hollow and her eyes more desperate.
She thought of telling someone, Granny, Mama, even Papa, but couldn't quite form the words. How would she tell them that they were poisoning Lavinia, killing her ever-so-slowly with their thinly veiled disdain?
She wondered if she should tell Matthew to send her away again, for her own good, but couldn't. That, Mary thought, was the difference between she and Lavinia and where Richard's analysis of her rang startlingly and painfully true – should she ask Matthew to do it, it would seem like petty jealousy and that was more than Mary could bear.
So Mary waited for the snatched moments of quiet with Lavinia, to probe and lead her back from the edge with a kind word and lingering caress.
On the night after the war ended, they had had a little party. There was only family in attendance, Richard, Lavinia, plus a few close neighbours, nothing like the pre-war parties, though Mama had tried her best.
They had met on the landing after the clock had struck eleven. Lavinia blushed and said she had been getting a book from Edith and Mary hadn't thought she needed to explain herself, it being her house.
Lavinia's lips were pressed together and Mary, who had drank more wine than she cared to admit, smiled woozily at her, running one finger along her jaw, before coming to rest it on Lavinia's lower lip.
Lavinia had looked up at her, eyes widened, perhaps in curiosity, perhaps in something else.
"Are you happy the war is over?" Mary asked in a murmur, planting a kiss in the corner of her mouth.
"Yes," Lavinia replied. "Yes I am,"
They had clung together as Mary backed her into the bedroom, one arm snaking delicately about her waist whilst the other undid her silken dressing gown. Lavinia's pale skin was flushed as Mary pressed her against the bed spread, shirking aside her dressing gown. Lavinia responded with a surprisingly amount of aggression, pushing Mary's gown off her shoulder and planting a kiss in the hollow of her shoulder.
Lavinia was a virgin, and though Mary technically was not, she may as well have been considering how much knowledge of the intimate act she had. Lavinia was softer than Kemal, warmer, more responsive, and her gasps guided Mary's hands and tongue. They arched together, eventually shuddering into climax in the early hours of the morning.
Light was filtering through Lavinia's drapes when Mary stirred. She had been twirling Lavinia's hair around her finger for the past hour or so, as Lavinia dozed against her breast, mouth slightly parted. Mary, now rather painfully sober, thought she really ought to make a move back to her own room, or run risk of stumbling across the kitchen girl coming to light the fires.
She sighed, and slowly started to untangle herself from Lavinia's sleeping form, pausing to gaze down at her, at the pale face, the tangled hair and even at the greasy strip appearing across her nose. She quirked a smile, placed a soft kiss on her cheek and left.
They never spoke of it again, though Mary often wished she had the nerve to bring it up. She thought, late at night, when the candles had been blown out and she was squirming safely in the privacy of her darkened bedchamber, of Lavinia's mouth around one of her nipples, her fingers between her thighs.
She couldn't seem to bring herself to think of Matthew when her own fingers swirled inside her. Her thoughts of him were purer, more wholesome. When she thought of Matthew, she could imagine presiding over the village fete together, reading amusing extracts of newspapers aloud to each other in the evenings and even, perhaps, pushing a perambulator around the grounds together. With Lavinia, she imagined something entirely different; nights spent rolling sweatily together under the sheets, bite marks on pale thighs, gasps and moans echoing into the night.
She found it difficult to concentrate on anything but Lavinia's mouth when in company. Her lips speaking, sipping, biting. Mary bit her own lip in return, crossing her legs together.
It was Anna who found her sobbing on the cold September morning after Lavinia had died. Anna had approached her on silent feet, laying one hand on her shoulder. Mary, ever grateful for Anna's silent, stoical presence, pressed it to her mouth and shook silently, willing herself to grieve wholly in the few scant hours she had before she needed to face the world again.
End