A/N: Hard as it may be to believe I have just figured out how to pop a little authors note in, I am quite simple clearly. I want to say thank you so so much to everyone who has reviewed/favourited or read, you spur me on. A huge special thank you to Ariadne, my fabulous beta, without whom I would find it very hard to keep up my momentum, you are an angel. Anyway I hope you all enjoy this part, things are getting tough!
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
December, 1917.
Mary could not breathe and she did not trust herself to stay in the room with him, she could not bear to see the tormented expression etched across his features a moment longer. She walked straight past a confused Carson and pulled open the front door. He called after her in concern as she stepped into the bitterly cold night in her flimsy evening gown. She continued to walk, the gravel crunching beneath her feet as an opaque darkness stared back at her. The cold pinched her skin and she felt her teeth begin to chatter, the chill took away what remaining breath she had and she felt herself gasping for air but she could not turn around.
"My Lady!" Carson called, leaving the front door open and going after her.
He caught up to her and removed his own jacket, placing it over her shoulders as he looked into her pale face.
"What are you doing, my lady?" He asked, kindly. "Please, come back inside."
She allowed him to gently turn her around so the beacon of light shining from the door to the house filled her eyes. Outlined in the entrance hall Matthew stood, his face bathed in shadow as behind him her father and Richard stepped forwards.
"Mary!" Robert called, moving past Matthew to take her arm from Carson. "Where in God's name are you going? You'll catch your death, come inside at once!"
He looked in concern at his daughter as she allowed him to lead her back inside.
"Carson, send for Anna," he instructed, touching Mary's cold cheek, his brow lined.
"Mary?" Cora and the other women were exiting the drawing room and her mother moved swiftly towards her, taking her other arm. "Are you ill?"
"I think we should send for Clarkson," her husband said, beckoning once more to Carson.
"No," Mary managed, spurred from her daze. "I'm quite alright, I wanted some fresh air, I didn't realize it was so cold."
Looks were exchanged amongst those assembled, an awkward silence swelling the air.
"Well I think I will have the motor, thank you, Carson. I do not intend to risk frost bite," the Dowager Countess declared.
Matthew could not take his eyes from her and if they noticed he did not care. The throng dispersed and Mary disappeared up the stairs flanked by her mother and Anna. She did not look back, he didn't expect her to. His hands were clenched at his sides and when he caught Richard's gaze traveling down to his fists he released them quickly. The other man looked up and caught his eye, a small humorless smile spread along the older man's mouth and he raised his eyebrows.
"I'm going to check on the men, Matthew, I shall meet you at home."
"Very good, mother," he nodded briefly at her as out of the corner of his eye he saw that Richard was still watching him.
"I shall finish my port," Robert declared. "You are both welcome to join me," he said, his face troubled as he returned to the dining room leaving the other two men alone in the hall.
"I think I will walk back to Crawley house."
"Yes perhaps that would be best," Richard surveyed him, the indecipherable expression remaining on his face. "I think that is quite enough excitement for one night."
"What do you mean by that?" he responded sharply.
He did not remove his gaze and they stood silently for several seconds.
"I'm sure you need time to recover before you join your sweet little wife in London."
"I don't care for your tone," Matthew gritted his teeth, his throat tight and uncomfortable.
Richard leaned in so his lips were inches from Matthew's ear.
"And I'm sure I will not care for your little bastard but we all have our crosses to bear," he whispered.
Matthew's heart lurched and a strange heat filled his head, he felt as if he had stepped outside of himself and there was no feeling in his hands as he seized Richard by his lapels and forced him back into the wall. He had never experienced the phenomena of seeing red but everything in front of him was quickly bathed in scarlet, in the blood of thousands. His face contorted in anger and the two men stood suspended in time, nose to nose. Richard did not fight back, he had been thrown off balance but no matter, the power was his, a mere physical display of aggression was not going to usurp that.
"My my," he chided. "I think you must control your temper, Cousin Matthew or I just don't know what I may be compelled to do."
"If you touch her…" Matthew spat and he did not feel in control as his hand moved to close around the other man's throat.
"Oh, I'll do more than touch her," he hissed back and this time he reached up to take hold of his assailants arm, they struggled for a moment until Richard regained some control. "You will leave and I will marry her, or the whole world will know what a slut Lady Mary Crawley really is. Did you think you were the first?"
Matthew felt his grip loosen.
"Of course you did but it only took a telephone call for me to find out about the Turkish attaché who died in her bed! You should be grateful that I will take her because nobody else will!"
Matthew retreated for a moment, as if winded, sweat standing out on his brow.
"Leave now," Richard said, straightening his bow tie. "Or I will not guarantee to keep her from harm."
April, 1940.
I cannot speak of the horror here. It is cruel, bloody and there is no reprieve. I can only think of home, of Yorkshire. As heavy fire rains down and all seems hopeless I think of my family, and I think about life and what it has meant to me thus far. I must remember, I cannot live solely in this hell as my comrades fall around me; as it becomes clearer that our situation is desperate. A piece of me remains with every man that falls in the mud, a part of my soul that I will never recover, that will fester in France decomposing beyond recognition. I do not know what will be left of me if I return.
I have seen death, I have felt acute personal loss, but it has not prepared me for this mindless extinguishing of life. One man here, Jack, told me he would rather die than live out the war, burdening his mother with uncertainty, with a slow burning grief. His father died in the Somme. He asks so I tell him that my father survived, he nods and smiles sadly. I looked out for him, Jack, as if fate had brought me to him to prevent history repeating itself. I thought that perhaps I could bring him through with me, that he could survive to return to his mother. There is no poetry here, no intervention from God to provide recompense for the sins of the past. The world owed Jack, it owed him a father and a life and it took away both.
Jack asked me about my father, he hoped to hear of what it would have been like to have that secure bond. I could tell him only that sometimes knowing one is loved must be enough to replace everything else one might wish for. We cannot always love and be loved freely. I did not tell him that I often felt that I had lost a father twice. I could not share this indulgent thought with its taint of self pity.
He was the first father, the father I felt belonged to me without thought, an innate if distant belonging. I remember a little of him now and I remember his death. Being here I have found things visited upon me from the past that I had never recollected before. I remember his hat on the coat stand, the way it remained there, occupying it's space day after day. It bothered me; it should not have been there. It should be on his head. Eventually I took it, with the vague assertion that I would keep it for him until he needed it. Then, when the realization that he would not need it again dawned on me, I hid it at the top of a wardrobe. It smelt of his aftershave and I liked the way it looked on my head and felt in my hands.
I know so little. If I am to die I wish for closure, to complete a circle, to understand but I cannot - Mama, I know - I told you as you took my hands and struggled for the words. You broke down then and there could be no questions, I could not see you suffer for my need to know why and how, to settle everything that had lurked unbidden in my mind for so long - Let us say no more now - As I climbed aboard the carriage and moved to adjust the window on the door, you waved and I looked away for a moment to compose myself. As I did so I saw him, pushing his way along the platform until he caught sight of you. He reached you and his eyes met mine, I stood and pushed down the window as far as it could go. I reached out my hand and he took it, squeezing tightly, his lips a straight pained line and a tear cutting a path down his face.
I felt your kiss burned to my cheek and in his eyes I saw the promise of all that was unsaid. I looked back out of the window as the train moved off and I saw him hold you close as you both raised your hands in farewell. I hope that it is not too late; that the pain and deceit that so many years have woven can be eased. I will not lay down to the final sleep here, there is much left to say.
December, 1917.
"Can you tell?" Mary asked, standing side on and looking in the mirror.
"No, m'Lady," Anna shook her head.
"You'll have to loosen the corset," she said, exhaling heavily and turning her back to the maid. "I can't breathe," a barely contained note of panic in her voice.
Anna unlaced the back of the corset, her fingers moving deftly and quickly as Mary struggled to take a steadying breath.
"I'm sorry, I need to sit down," she said, sinking onto the seat at the dressing table, her hands shaking. "I don't know how I'm going to make it through this day."
"You will," Anna said. "Because you have to," she added gently.
Mary closed her eyes, she must draw everything from her deepest reserves, maintain a mask that she could not let slip. This time tomorrow it would be over and then she would be ensconced in her gilded cage. She could not allow herself to feel nor to think, she must remain numb and in control. This moment must be the last glimpse of weakness, the beginning of the lie that would run through the rest of her life. She was becoming an accomplished if inconsistent actress, she would need to be. Everyone walks down the aisle with half of the story untold. Oh Granny if only you knew. A knock sounded on the door and her sisters and mother entered the room. Mary swallowed a wave of nausea and turned to smile at them.
"How are you?" Cora asked as Mary stood and allowed Anna to lace up the back of the bodice.
"I'm fine, Mama," she replied.
"This dress is just so beautiful," her mother said wistfully as Anna removed it from where it hung on the outside of the wardrobe.
Beautiful it was but it may as well have been a hair shirt. It fitted her perfectly and she let her mother and Sybil smooth and adjust it around her. It was so white, blindingly pure. Her mother was speaking about her own wedding day but Mary was not listening, the corset still felt too tight and she breathed in self consciously. She knew it did not show but she flinched minutely when Sybil's hand brushed the lace over her stomach. Edith was fussing with the skirt of her bridesmaid's dress and as she looked up she caught Mary's eye momentarily. They had sparred and sniped for as long as she could remember but with this Mary often felt as if Edith saw more of her, of what ran beneath the surface. Sybil had always been adoring and trusting of her eldest sister, and she drew the best from her. Edith and Mary had tried to destroy each other, summoned the darkest sides of their characters and today there was only darkness. Edith saw it in her sister's eyes.
They left her, the motor waiting to take them to the church. They each kissed her cheek and Mary frowned in surprise when Edith reached to squeeze her hand briefly. She managed a small smile in return.
"Can we send Papa in?" Cora asked.
"Of course."
Her father paused in the doorway, catching his breath as he saw her.
"You look beautiful, my darling," he smiled, taking her hands in his. "I am very proud."
Oh do not be proud of me, Papa. You would hate me if you knew.
"I want only to tell you this," he cupped her cheek in his hand. "I will always be your most fervent protector and greatest advocate, never doubt that and I will not truly give you away."
Not to him. The words were unsaid but she felt them there in the air between them. You must, Papa.
He lay awake. He had barely slept since he had arrived in London. Lavinia was asleep beside him, the soft curve of her back outlined in shadow, her coppery hair loosely tied and splayed on the pillow. She had tried to kiss him, tentatively and gently but he could not formulate the appropriate response, his body was cold and unyielding. She breathed softly and evenly and he was suffocated by her presence. The wedding would be over now, the guests departing, the family stepping back and slipping away. She would be alone with him. Anger had been replaced by a deep pervading sickness, a harrowing guilt and an almost uncontrollable desperation. I will do more than touch her.He could not bear the thought of Carlisle's hands on her skin, his lips on hers. He closed his eyes and he was drawn back to an unnaturally humid day, to the way they fell into each others arms. He could not relive it, not now.
He had let her go, he had no choice. He was shocked by what Carlisle had told him and it cast a different light on the events of the years past but in reality it faded into insignificance. He did not care. She was carrying his child; it was as if a parallel world was mocking him, giving him a glimpse of what could have been whilst simultaneously withholding it from reach. He could not be sure that Carlisle would carry through his threat but if he did he was in no position to offer Mary protection, to shield her from the world that would close all doors to her. What kind of man was he? He did not know anymore, the honorable hero at the front, the middle class solicitor, the heir apparent. All of those things meant nothing if he were willing to leave her at the mercy of that man.
We will always have this.
He doubted he would ever have forgotten but he would have continued to do what was right, hope he survived the war to build a life with Lavinia and wished only for Mary's happiness. Now whatever he did it would not be what was right, none of this was right, nothing could ever be right again; not without her.
It is too late.
