A/N: Thanks so much for reading, everyone! I'm a bit nervous about the Lavinia POV in this chapter, so I'd love to hear your thoughts on whether or not it's working. Thanks as always to my fabulous beta ju-dou who, by the way, has a new story up that you absolutely must read if you like Mary/Richard, or if you just like flawless writing ;)
Lavinia shivered in the morning chill and huddled beneath the umbrella that Isobel had pressed into her hand as they hurried out the door, making them even later than they already were. Lavinia could not blame her desire to buy even just a little more time, to keep her son close just a moment longer. True to the older woman's prediction it had begun to rain, fat droplets pattering on the umbrella and on Matthew's cap as he walked from her to board the train. He waved from the window and his smile immediately gave rise to a lump in her throat; she fought it back, hands clenched hard around the umbrella's carved wooden handle, and smiled back. She stood very still for a time despite Lord Grantham's chauffer waiting in the car – he had been so kind to send the man to take them to the station and here she was wasting his time for no reason. But as she watched the train disappear, she found that she did not want to move from this place, from the exact spot in which Matthew had last seen her. As long as he was there in the train with rain-dampened hair and that half smile on his lips, she wanted to be here – her knees trembling and a strand of hair come loose and clinging to her cheek, the hem of her skirt growing wet from the rain. Once she was gone it would break that fragile connection. It was silly of course, but she had always been superstitious, even as a child; it came of having no mother, being raised by the nanny who had cared for her since birth. Her father had always said so, though his tone had been affectionate.
"Are you ready, Miss?" Lavinia jumped, the umbrella wavering unsteadily as she turned to see the chauffer regarding her with an expression of concern.
"Oh yes, I'm terribly sorry." She followed him to the waiting car where she huddled into the back seat, pressing her numb fingers between her knees for the few minutes between the station and the house.
She found that Isobel had already gone up to the big house, in need of a distraction most like, eager to fill her hands with work and keep Matthew from her thoughts. She imagined Isobel and Sybil changing bandages and making their rounds with the patients' medicines – did it help them to forget? She could go up and offer to write letters for the patients or fetch books from the library, she supposed, but no, going to Downton would mean seeing Mary, and Lavinia was simply not sure she could face that just yet.
Instead she sat in the drawing room with a book to which she paid no attention at all, choosing instead to gaze out the rain-streaked window. This was a spring rain and not a winter one, of that she was sure; it smelt of earth and leaves unfurling, a scent as new to her as the aroma of Lord Grantham's library – paper, leather, the smoke of fine cigars – or the particular scent Mary dabbed behind her ears and in the hollow of her throat.
Mary.
She ought to be thinking of Matthew – Matthew in the train, every minute farther from her, Matthew pulled irrevocably back to an awful place thick with the smell of death. But the worry that filled her stomach like hunger was for Mary too, and try as she might Lavinia could not help but remember her friend's voice clear as water in the darkened library the night before.
They hadn't known she was there – how could they? She had only wanted to give the family a few moments alone, a quarter of an hour to themselves. Kind as they were and much as she thought they really were fond of her, some days she felt like a child allowed to join the grown ups, a burden to be put up with. Most of all, she felt like an intruder – no matter how vivid the memory of Matthew's assurances that he too had been the outsider once, she could not seem to overcome the notion. So she had slipped quietly into the library just after dinner, moving into the unlit depths of the room and savoring the relief it offered her aching head as she ran her fingertips along the spines of invisible volumes. And there in a secluded corner, blocked from view by shelves and darkness, her footfalls silenced by the carpet, she froze at the sound of the heavy door opening and closing once more. She ought to come forward, ought to clear her throat and make herself known; she rehearsed what she would say – I was only looking for that book I was reading earlier, or, I thought I'd left my gloves in here. It was most likely Carson come in to tidy up, and she imagined his expression on seeing her there, the hushed retelling later for the assembled servants – found her in there all alone, how odd, how very peculiar. What words did they exchange below stairs, behind discreet hands? She did not like to think of it, but she did wonder if they had as much trouble as she did envisioning the day when she would be Countess in Lady Grantham's stead. She did not move from her place behind the shelves. Sir Richard's voice came seeping through the darkness like something spilt; it chilled her quite through, as it always had done. She knew that hard edge pressed close behind his words, had only to close her eyes to call up the memories that even now had the power to make her go weak with anxiety.
In the drawing room at Crawley House Lavinia started from her reverie at the sound of Molesley's footsteps. The valet made his shuffling way through with an armful of Matthew's shirts to be laundered, and only once he was gone again did she realize that she had been gripping the arms of her chair rather too hard. It was nearly luncheon now and she really must go up to the big house and suffer the subdued conversation and the well-meant sympathetic smiles of her future relations. She must sit beside Mary, perhaps talk idly with her in the drawing room afterward, all the while avoiding the memory of that overheard admission of the night before – I don't know. She would carry that with her, never looking at it directly yet incapable of leaving it quite alone; it would draw her doubt like the raised ridge of a scar attracts the finger or the eye.
The meal was, as Lavinia had anticipated, altogether dismal. No one was much disposed to discussion and Lord Grantham seemed in a foul mood, though he hid it behind a newspaper. Lady Grantham tittered over her and asked with wide, regretful eyes how Matthew had got off that morning and whether she was feeling quite alright. Behind the countess, Lavinia caught sight of Mary, who gave a superior roll of her eyes then offered up a small smile of apology. Odd, Lavinia thought, how the woman who was her rival for Matthew's affection could be the one whose sympathy she valued most – from whom sympathy had only ever seemed perfectly true. Mary seemed tired, shadows gathering beneath her eyes and a subdued air about her movements. Lavinia wondered if this was how the other woman showed heartache – rather than in fits of tears and red eyes for days, as she did – and the idea drove away the last of her appetite.
When the others had wandered from the dining room to their various tasks – Cousin Cora fretting vaguely over the hour of the servants' luncheon and the nurses' rounds – Lavinia waited uncomfortably for Mary to bid Richard goodbye so they might walk together. She lingered by the staircase, fiddling absently with the buttons on her coat and the angle of her hat as they exchanged inaudible words in the swath of light falling through the open front door. The scene's resemblance to that of the previous evening was unbearable, and she was immensely grateful that this time she was unable to overhear their conversation. Mary's shoulders were set and her smile stiff; they did not look like lovers, the space between them conspicuously wide and not, Lavinia thought, on account of propriety and Carson, who stood waiting to see off the motor. She watched Mary lower her head at some remark of Richard's – his face had taken on a semblance of concern, his brow furrowed at Mary's indifference. He reached for her hand and Lavinia felt compelled to look away from the calm ease with which he unclasped her fingers and held them for a moment in his own. She remembered a day in St. James' Park, the smell of his cologne as his voice rumbled through her, Loyalty is a quality to be rewarded, Miss Swire, and I am sure you will not disappoint your father, or me. She had wrenched her arm from his as if stung, so violently that a nanny with two small girls in tow looked scandalized and bustled her charges away down the path. He had looked at her appraisingly then, and the sneer that curled his lips made her voice tremble with rage when she said, It is nothing to do with you.
There was the sound of the motor pulling away, and Lavinia turned back to see Mary busily pulling on a pair of dark kid gloves. She looked up and met her eyes across the hall, and Lavinia marveled at the lack of any sign there, any indication of distress or even vexation. They were dark and warm, inviting as Mary said, "Shall we go, then? The weather's turned and I can't stand to stay indoors another moment, can you?" No trace of the cornered animal Lavinia remembered, a panic that had blossomed in her own chest.
Arm in arm they made their way through the park and toward the tree line; since Lavinia arrived they had quickly exhausted most of the nearer walks, and a city upbringing had endowed her with a healthy curiosity about everything to do with the countryside. She loved the walks that threaded their way through the wooded areas of the park, and the wealth of green, growing things she was just learning to identify. Mary was occasionally helpful in this field, pulling a name or a fact from memory like a forgotten handkerchief from the depths of a pocket. She handed them out absently and half smiled at Lavinia's knack for remembering them, reciting them back on a later walk in a tone that suggested a child called to the front of the schoolroom.
The path was damp from the rain that morning and Mary felt the cold of the ground seeping up through the soles of her boots. The new leaves overhead were still slick and bright with droplets; light shivered about them as the clouds fell away. "Mary," her name took the form of a question, braced carefully in Lavinia's voice that quavered only slightly. "Mary, I wonder how you're getting on. With Sir Richard, I mean."
"Oh, as well as can be expected," Mary said as brightly as she could. "He's rather unsophisticated, you know. Of course you know." She gave a complicit smile that was so reassuring that Lavinia found herself returning it, and recollecting in the same moment why it was that Matthew had loved this woman. "But I suppose that's why he's marrying me." When she looked at Mary, all Lavinia saw was a tight-wound knot that did not want to be undone, that clenched like a fist under her inquiring gaze.
"And why are you marrying him?" It felt like the bravest thing she'd ever done, saying the words aloud. She felt her cheeks redden and her pulse flutter. Mary raised an eyebrow but continued to smile.
"You'll think me tactless to say so, but he is inordinately wealthy. And powerful – the ideal husband," Mary laughed. The sound was brittle, empty space spreading behind it. It made Lavinia's heart ache for this woman that had become, in a very short space of time, the closest friend she had. She let her eyes fall shut for the space of a moment, and in the dappled dark she felt Richard's fingers on hers as she passed him the stack of files she had carefully wrapped in brown paper. He chuckled when she flinched away and her mouth went dry, stomach lurching painfully at his closeness. What a good daughter you are – you'll make a faithful wife one day. They were the only words she would never relay to Matthew. When she opened her eyes again Mary had tilted her head back to search for a bird whose song came trickling down to them from overhead. Without wanting to she imagined the thing Richard had used to trap Mary into an engagement that seemed nothing more than a convenient arrangement – she saw his hand tighten about Mary's wrist, a hard ring about the leaping pulse, his curled mouth hot on her white neck. Where had it been, and had Mary submitted to it quietly? She doubted that, but thinking too hard on the particulars brought her perilously close to tears.
When she spoke, her words came out in a rush. "Mary I – I hope you won't think me rude but that isn't what I meant. Only, I was in the library last night after dinner and you came in with Sir Richard. I wanted to leave but I couldn't help overhearing, I should have shown myself but..." She noted with embarrassment that she sounded on the verge of tears – what a child she was, composure falling to pieces when it was not even her place to feel ashamed.
Mary's eyes were fixed on the branches overhead though the bird had stopped its singing, and now she brought up one gloved hand to cover her mouth. She let out a tremulous breath, closed her eyes for a long moment, but still she did not speak. Lavinia noted the distracted flutter of Mary's eyelashes, a kind of movement beneath her skin like the indescribable shifting of light, a change in her expression that was impossible to define.
She knew.Lavinia, whose one fault had only ever been loyalty to her father, an instinct to protect her family. All this time they had been talking and laughing together and innocent Lavinia had surely been thinking only of her falseness – had she been able, all day, to see it pinned to her chest like a scarlet letter? And yet there was a kind of relief in the realization as she let the weight of it settle onto her – at least there was one less person who saw her as she was not, one more who would cease to regard her with that heartbreaking trust she did not deserve. Much as she had craved it from Lavinia, she found that this seemed fairer, this inevitable unveiling of her sins. Lavinia was a friend – the word still struck her as odd, like an imperfect note on a badly tuned piano, perhaps, for when was the last time she'd had a friend? She did not deserve to be lied to.
"I know how he is," she whispered, and it took Mary a moment to realize who she meant. She looked up into pale hazel eyes, a face that had gone white and which wore, to her surprise, an expression of complete understanding. "I know how you must feel, I – "
"Do you?" Mary said, rather too sharply. She had dropped her hand and was regarding her friend directly, no pretense shaping her features. Lavinia felt unable to speak; she shook her head a little, eyes lowered. "No," Mary said, "I don't imagine you do. But...well, thank you for saying so, anyway."
"But I do know that he's ruthless, Mary. What he's capable of. You forget, I knew him before."
Mary let out a breath and looked away. "Yes," she said quietly, "I had forgotten. I'm sorry."
"He uses people to his advantage – "
"Well," Mary cut in before she had the chance to finish, before she could formulate the warning she knew was probably too late. "So do I. It seems we are more evenly matched than we thought."
Lavinia did not know what to say to that. They stood motionless, each woman's gaze fixed inward. Lavinia cleared her throat once more and said, "Is it really worth all this?" She was shocked at her own boldness, but it was as if, once she had begun, the desire to keep speaking her mind was too great to quell.
Mary gave a bitter laugh. "For my family to be allowed to go on as they are? To be able to show my face in public, in respectable society? To have a life, you mean?" Lavinia blushed. "I rather think it is, yes."
She felt a little abashed, but still she could not stop herself from asking, "But, to marry someone you don't love? Someone who would force you…" She did not want to say the rest.
Mary smiled then, a real smile, and the beauty of it made Lavinia's throat constrict; she heard Mary's voice rushing back to her from the night before, from between the books and the darkness, I don't know. Mary said, "We cannot all be so lucky, my dear." They were so close then, as close as they would ever be to an admission, the words themselves hovering in the air about them so that both women felt their presence keenly; Lavinia almost thought she could have reached up to take hold of them, that they would be live and warm in her hands. We cannot both marry the same man – in the end it must be one of us or the other.
I have lost my chance, it is too late, Mary thought. In the end, it cannot be me.