I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.
December, 1917.
Fools rush in. He would have to be careful, he was adept at using any information in his possession to achieve what it was he desired; he had made a living from it. As with any scandalous story one had to be careful how much one revealed to the subjects and at what juncture. Richard mused upon this as he dressed for dinner. He could have guessed but he had not needed to, he saw everything in their brief exchange in that ghastly make shift hospital ward. Something, perhaps a spark of jealousy had tugged his mouth into a slight grimace and he had intervened when otherwise he may have watched unseen for a few moments more. Was he angry? No. Love and devotion had not been part of his proposal to Mary, he was not sentimental, he knew she saw him very much as he saw her; a worthy foil. However it was rather unpleasant to find himself in receipt of the result of another man's actions, as beneficial as it may end up being for him.
He had never possessed any desire to be a father, it was not a responsibility that appealed to him. Infants he found inconsequential, children unfathomable, and he failed to understand the erstwhile devotion lavished on them by their parents. He supposed he could pretend, he could certainly pay for a public school education and a life of privilege. Surely a small price to expend for the elevation in his position that marrying Mary would provide. He would hardly have to play with the child or bathe it, it need not require any extra effort on his part. What he must eliminate now was the new element of risk attached to this development. Clearly it had driven Mary's desire to accelerate the wedding preparations but now that Matthew had returned there was the threat that she may baulk at the final post. That would not do, that would not do at all.
No, he thought as he straightened his collar, there could be no mistakes at this late stage.
"I cannot remember the last time we were graced with your presence at dinner, Mary." Her grandmother raised an arched eyebrow and surveyed her eldest granddaughter as the women gathered in the drawing room.
"You are feeling better, dear, aren't you?" Cora asked, anxiously.
"Yes, much." She lied.
"We can collect the dress from Ripon tomorrow, are you excited?"
"Of course."
"Goodness, Mary, do not allow yourself to be overcome with enthusiasm will you?" Violet shook her head slightly and shot a look at her daughter in law. "This is your moment after all."
"I was sure you enjoyed being the centre of attention." Edith cut in. "Soon you'll be all alone in your big London house, just as you've always wanted."
"Oh do shut up." Mary snapped back, too tried to rise above her sisters baiting.
"Edith, you might try to be supportive." Sybil interjected. "Mary is bound to be nervous, I know I would be."
"I am not nervous."
"Of course not." Edith gave a high laugh. "Why would you be? You will do whatever it is you want to. I wouldn't be surprised if you leave him at the altar!"
"That is enough!" Cora hissed. "She would do no such thing." The very thought struck fear into her heart.
She would do no such thing. She felt a kind of reckless abandon threatening to impinge on the edge of her consciousness. During dinner she had avoided looking at Matthew, who too seemed as if he wished to be somewhere else. She felt that if she looked at him he would surely know the truth. He would not be able to stay for the wedding, he told them, he would travel to London the following morning to spend the rest of his leave with his wife. This was her last chance, she must do this now or risk sending him away never knowing, she must purge her soul and damn the consequences. She had everything to lose and nothing to gain but with this came a certain freedom, ruined but released. Please, release me.
She excused herself from the drawing room and made as if to bed, Anna caught her as she entered the library.
"Shall I prepare you for bed, m'Lady?"
"No, Anna." She replied, her voice, tight. "There is something I must do first, you might find a reason to make Captain Crawley come to the library."
"I'm sure I can think of something, are you going to... tell him, m'Lady?" The maid asked.
"I must, I cannot live with my conscience, is that very selfish?"
"I think you should listen to your heart." Anna replied, with a smile.
December, 1939.
I found you sitting on the jetty overlooking the river, a long strip of reed in your hands. It was unseasonably warm and you wore short trousers and a white shirt that was dirty around the cuffs. You had been missing for over two hours and a rising panic had coursed through the house, nanny was wringing her hands and weeping inconsolably, earning herself a number of firm words from Carson who organized the search party. Papa had called the police which I suspected was an over reaction, but I was so absorbed by a sick feeling of dread that it was all I could do to set off in search myself. After fifteen minutes of calling your name and violating all your secret hiding places I was on the verge of breaking down when I saw you.
"Teddy!" I exhaled, the relief intense and complete.
You did not turn around and I knelt down next to you. You had been crying and your face was grimy and tear stained.
"Oh, Teddy." I hugged your little body close and you yielded slightly. "Everyone is looking for you, we were so worried."
"Is Papa looking for me?" You asked, turning your face to mine and my heart sank.
"No, darling."
"Oh." You said. "I thought he might come to find me." And you kicked your legs, looking down into the dark water.
It had been three weeks since Richard's death.
I once found you awake, well past midnight, your nurse sleeping deeply and snoring loudly as you stood at the curtains; your face peeking through whilst your body remained shrouded in material. I didn't wish to startle you so approached quietly and waited. I can see you there now in your blue waffle pajamas, little bare feet pressed together as you looked out into the street outside. I thought perhaps you had seen a cat or a feral urban fox and were tracking it's progress from your vantage point. I was poised to clear my throat and alert you to my presence when I noticed a piece of paper on the floor behind you. Silently I reached down to pick it up, it was a drawing, the meaning of which it was rather hard to decipher. Possibly a horse or even a dog. Isis? What was clear was the shaky script across the top of the paper. For Papa.
I replaced the paper and retreated from the room. I stood outside the door and took a steadying breath, my heart ached for you. I couldn't bring myself to ease you from the window and put you back to bed so I returned to my own room. I sat on the edge of the bed for what seemed an interminable length of time before peeking around your bedroom door once more. You were asleep on the floor, your bottom in the air, your arms tucked underneath your chest. I lifted you up into bed with some difficulty for you were heavy with slumber, crumpled underneath you lay the drawing and I smoothed it with my hands. I took it with me because I wanted you to think he had kissed you goodnight and found it. I looked at your confused little face that day by the water and I was so ashamed to think of that picture folded into a drawer in my dressing table.
"Teddy, Papa isn't going to come back." I steeled myself. "He has died."
Your legs stilled and you looked up at me, those eyes that were so blue, so captivating.
"He said he would take me to his office."
I could not imagine Richard saying that. I have no interest in that child - were the words he had once uttered within your earshot - No interest at all.
"I'm sure he intended to." I lied. "Now let us go tell Grandpapa to send the police away."
"The police!" Your face lit up as you took my hand. "Papa once asked a policeman to take off his hat so I could try it on." You said as you skipped along next to me, tears forgotten.
I wonder if you remember this incident, we never spoke of it afterwards. Was there a relationship there that I did not see, that was hidden? Or did you construct something in your five year old mind, something to cushion the rejection you obviously felt. Afterwards you would still occasionally mention him, always in a manner that suggested you expected him to return, and then it stopped and we never spoke of him again.
There was nothing to say. I underestimated how much it would affect you; I assumed you saw him as I did, an addition to our lives in name only. His death released me in a sense, but in every other way I remained bound.
I long for that little boy now, for that balmy afternoon when we walked back through the grounds hand in hand to a rapturous welcome.
December, 1917.
She did not turn on the lights and took a seat in the library. She trusted that Anna would find some subtle way to bring him here without arousing her father or Sir Richard's suspicions. This would be where it would end, she expected nothing from him except perhaps some absolution of guilt, some deflection of responsibility and suffering. She would be hurting him, again, after she had sworn she would not, but she had brought herself to the point where she simply must unburden her heart.
She saw him in the doorway before he was able to make her out sitting there in the dark.
"Mary?" He said, finally, squinting in surprise.
"Please shut the door."
He did as she asked and she turned on a small light on the table to illuminate something of the gloom.
"Anna said there was a telephone call for me."
"There is no telephone call." Her heart hammered relentlessly against her ribcage.
"I see." Matthew frowned. "So am I to take it that was a ruse to bring me here?"
"Please, sit down." She beckoned to the seat opposite her.
"This seems somewhat ominous, Mary." His voice not as light as he had intended.
"There is something I must tell you."
"Really?" He smiled cautiously and she envied the naivety she was about to shatter.
"I'm pregnant."
The words hung heavy in the air around them as a crushing silence prevailed. Once said, never to be re-summoned, gathered up hastily and stuffed away into some hidden place to be forgotten. Momentarily something was lifted only to be replaced by the sight of Matthew's expression, his face slack and colorless.
"Is that why you're marrying him?" His voice was dull and flat as he looked into her eyes.
She nodded.
"The child is mine?"
"Yes."
He stood and turned away from her, his hand covering his mouth. The stillness was suffocating and she felt a slow and pervasive panic spread hotly through her, an unpleasant tingling across her skin as she watched his still back and bowed head. What should occur now? Evidently she had seen no further than this point, groping blindly to reach this moment when surely some of the weight would be lifted. It was not; it doubled and spread, a gulf deepening between them.
"Matthew, please say something." She whispered.
He turned around slowly, his face blank.
"Don't hate me." She heard herself say.
"I could not hate you." He replied quietly.
"I am so sorry." Her voice cracked and she longed to reach out to him.
"I think I need to sit down." He lowered himself unsteadily back into the chair, gripping the arms tightly.
His head spun and he felt quite sick, everything he so tenuously clung to disintegrating around him in one short sentence.
"I planned to tell you, that night you came to dinner but then..." She struggled to say the words.
"I married Lavinia." He finished for her, self loathing pervading his very being. "What made you change your mind?"
She looked away.
"I could not let you be killed without knowing the truth."
"And what must I do with the truth?"
"There is nothing you can do."
He rose then and she thought he would surely walk away. Do not look back.
"I must do something." And his voice was barely a whisper, the conflict in his heart visible in his agonized expression.
"Can you turn back the clock?" Mary replied, using a gloved hand to catch the stray tears that fell.
His own tears stung in the corners of his eyes then and he moved to close the gap between them.
"It depends on what it is you wish to change."
"I wish it had been our wedding night." She said after a pause, the color high in her cheeks.
"Oh, Mary." He said sadly, shutting his eyes for a moment.
She stood, smoothing a crease from the front of her gown, not willing to look at him as a sob clawed through her, tearing and ripping a weary path.
"Good night."
She made to leave but felt a hand clasp hers. She turned back to face him.
"It is too late." She whispered.
