Mary found herself walking almost desperately, day in, day out. She would wander far from the main house at daybreak and return at the tolling of the dinner gong. Weeks turned to months and she slowly began to return home earlier, she began to sleep once more, and she worked harder than she had thought possible of herself. Arabella rarely occupied her thoughts, and Henry was now only a name on the divorce papers. Cruel as it sounded, and though she longed for her daughter, the living clung to her now. George had turned seven which meant that she had been without the one man that truly ever loved her for her for almost a decade.
"I cannot hear Matthew's voice anymore." She whispered as she sat alongside Tom by the fire one evening, the rest of the family having retreated to their rooms for the night.
"You've been through a lot, that's to be expected. I still hear Sybil but I have Sybbie to thank for that."
Tom's daughter did indeed share her mother's breathy voice and the passion that could be heard when she spoke even of the most insignificant of matters. George, dear blonde haired George, his father's image in all but the deep brown eyes that were so wholly Mary, George sounded like his Grandfather.
Mary did not appear anguished as she spoke these words, her voice clear, proud and cutting. She shocked Tom profoundly as she retrieved a lighter and a packet of cigarettes from her purse, offering him one simultaneously. Taking it almost imperceptibly eagerly, Tom inhaled deeply and lay back against the crimson sofa.
"I'd ask when you developed so delightful a habit but it would be best if I saved myself the trouble, wouldn't it?"
Mary had become more difficult to read these past few months and as he had once prided himself on calculating her every mood, he found that he had not the energy. Mary Crawley was her own woman, and Tom Branson knew that he had to leave her to her independence.
"There is only one thing better than the cloudiness that these wonders generate and Doctor Clarkson has expressly forbidden it. For now, cigarettes shall suffice."
"He doesn't want you to fall pregnant again?"
"Tom Branson, if I ever come to you engaged and pregnant again you have my full permission to throw me off a cliff. I say, there will be no more marriages." Blowing the smoke into the air above her small frame, Mary shut her eyes against the tears that threatened to spill over. The law of the land would forbid her from remarrying anyway, no matter how much she wished it.
"I never really saw you as the marrying sort anyway. And no, that is not a euphemism!" he interjected as he saw her black eyebrows narrow and a slight wrinkle appear on her pale forehead. "Your not someone who needs a husband to derive self-worth, or position or money. You're Lady Mary Crawley, née Crawley," Mary chuckled slightly and allowed him a smile. "and the Mary I know allows nobody to tell them who she is. Losing your baby does not define you either, and I know that you have been punishing yourself. No, Mary," he held up his hand as she made to leave, knowing what was to come next. "Mary, you need to eat."
Mary had always been thin, it had been her trademark. This was different. She was skeletal. Mary rarely ate any meals and the ones she did consisted of fruit and very little that would truly sustain her. That was why any drink went to her head and any cigarette filled her stomach. Tom knew that this was a by-product of Henry, a remnant of a man of fashion who sought only to destroy what was once so beautiful. Her once full cheeks sagged and lay under dark shadows which eternally accompanied her eyes. She moved as though each step caused her pain and he worried that her scar had yet to heal. However, it was her arms that scared him most. He could probably make a circle with his index finger and thumb and asked her to slip her arm through it, and she would have room to spare.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I must say, I am dreadfully tired, anon, dear Tom."
And so she fled, into the night.
She did not greet him as she walked into breakfast, but he noted that she loaded her plate with eggs and bread, bacon and sausages. She sat down before him and ate, slowly and pointedly. But she ate nonetheless. Robert looked at him from behind his newspaper and winked his gratitude. It was not much, and Tom doubted that one stern talk from him would cure her, if it was even something to be cured.
"Murray has the last of the papers today, Papa. I think I shall treat myself to a nice trip this summer, with the children."
"What, Sybbie too?" Tom asked, royally confused.
"You can join us if it poses a problem."
"Is that wise?"
"A divorced woman and her brother-in-law? I'm afraid it takes far more to shock the French, dear Tom."
Mary stood, her plate empty and her cheeks flushed pink.
"Come, Tom. We have work to do."
"No walk?"
"No, not today."
They reached the office following a companionable stroll, though it worried Tom that no words were spoken. And he had reason to worry, for as soon as they were safely ensconced in their shared office, the entirety of her rage erupted from her small frame.
"How dare you!" she snarled, throwing off her hat and coat. "You have no right to comment on my life!"
"Really? Well I do apologise for worrying about one of my closest friends. You know I saw you on what I can only describe as your deathbed. Blood stained sheets and the palest face I have ever known. I saw that face again last night."
"I am not your wife, my body is not yours to pass comment on." Her voice was rising now and her cheeks flared red.
"No, you are no wife of mine. But you are the only mother figure that my daughter will ever know. You need to be here for her."
"Please," Mary scoffed, turning her back on him. "One of your little politicos will be along shortly."
He grabbed her arm and then quickly pulled himself back.
"Why a trip Mary? Why do we have to run off together?" his anger dissipated as confusion took over, and then she cried. Sobs wracked her frame as he pulled her into the warmest of embraces.
"I'm so sorry. Forgive me." She croaked as she wet his suit with the salt of her tears.