I have been simply overwhelmed by the responses I have received to this story. Thank you so very much for all of the messages here, on tumblr and especially for the precious reviews. :) I do try to answer reviews personally, but for those of you who review anonymously or do not enable PM's here in the realm of ff, let me offer my deepest gratitude for your words of encouragement and thoughts about the story. They mean the world to me, even if I cannot tell you that personally.
I simply must offer most special thanks to the amazing Orangeshipper for her overwhelming support and fantastic insights into this story! Thank you so much for reading several versions of this chapter over and over again as I tried to get it right. :) I owe you several cups of tea, my friend! And to the fabulous patsan for her support, deep thoughts and wise words...we must have coffee soon!
I originally envisioned this as a 5-part tale, but it will undoubtedly go six, and perhaps even seven. So Chapter 5 will not be the final installment as I had originally intended. I do hope that is alright. I hope it will post in one week, but if not, it will undoubtedly the following Monday. :)
So we last left Matthew injured and guilt-ridden and Isobel confused yet determined. Shall we now catch up with Mary?
She grimaced at her body's continued discomfort, shutting her eyes in denial as she rubbed her temples soundly.
Getting out of bed had become a true effort. Sleep had cruelly mocked her yet again, the irritating rays of morning sun peeking through her drapes making her all the more irritable as they basked in taunting cheer. Her head began its routine pounding, and she grasped the large glass of water left by her bedside, gulping it greedily as she waited for it to perform its magic. She was weary, overwhelmed, uncertain of where her life was taking her.
And everything just ached.
Mary knew she didn't look well. As if her own mirror did not attest loudly enough to that fact, Mrs. Jacobs made certain to remind her of it nearly every waking hour. The past few days had been especially physically trying upon her, and she had finally sent for the doctor, as much to silence her overly-protective housekeeper as from any real thought that the local physician could offer any measure of relief.
She had actually laughed when kindly Dr. Meadows had inquired how well she had been sleeping, her merriment quickly morphing into tears she could not curtail as exhaustion took its toll. The poor man had taken it all in stride, giving her hand a fatherly pat as he simply allowed her a good cry. He then gently ordered her to increase her food intake and to rest more frequently, reassuring her that she should feel like her old self again after a few weeks if she followed his advice.
Her old self…if only it were that easy.
Her appetite had fled the moment his eyes had flown open in shock, continually decreasing in the weeks that followed until she finally made her decision to begin life anew away from Downton. It had improved somewhat over the months, but food somehow had never regained its former flavor or appeal. She ate because it was necessary, drank to sustain life, waking continually to dawns that held little promise.
And sleep? If only she could clasp it to her breast, allow herself to be warmly lulled into an oblivion without interruption. Yet her own life taunted her in that arena to the point that she was now on speaking terms with the stars upon which she gazed while pacing her bedroom floor. Night brought nothing but agony. As the sun made its escape, every drop of self-recrimination she attempted to shelve during daylight's healing rays crept out of hiding, descending upon a soul already weary with a cruel zeal. She continually cursed her own weakness, wrapping herself in weighted reproach that did nothing but exhaust her.
How vastly different her life would now be if she had possessed the fortitude to step away from Matthew rather than giving herself to a man who was not her own with such abandon.
How might circumstance have altered between them had she admitted everything to him when he first proposed?
And what if she had simply chosen to scream when Kemal Pamuk entered her bedroom…
Her bed had become a traitor, her sleep interrupted with a frequency that steadily increased. Her mind was now her enemy, assaulting her in the darkness with inquiries too personal for the daylight as months of continued silence had worn on her.
Was he still engaged?
Had they married and no one dared tell her?
Was he alive?
Would anyone tell her if he wasn't?
His name was strangely absent from all correspondence, left out of any conversation with a deliberation that had begun to make her worry.
She was quite certain it was her mother's doing.
Cora had taken great pains to help her get settled, spending weeks with her as she assisted in hiring a small household staff, organizing the small but elegant home, and actually taking time to attempt to draw her daughter into one conversation after another. Depression, her mother had asserted, a condition that Lady Grantham had been determined to help her overcome through activity and household management. Mary had actually found great comfort in her presence, coming to rely upon Cora's care and gentle conversation in a manner quite unexpected. Perhaps it was because her mother was the sole person who knew the entirety of her situation, that pretense was blissfully unnecessary as she had nothing further to hide. There were moments when she had even managed a smile, a feat she was certain her mother saw as a measure of personal success.
A new wardrobe had been compiled, one still suitable for an earl's daughter yet unassuming enough to afford her the ability to blend into to her new surroundings. Mary had been adamant that no one here be allowed to connect her to her past, taking on a name with no title and adopting the façade of a heart-broken widow who had lost her husband to the war. Her status had earned her some local sympathy and silenced any speculation concerning a young woman living alone. Yet she kept almost completely to herself, still not ready to take up permanent residence in this unknown territory as she knew she would eventually need to do.
Yet she even now shivered at the memory of her initial confession, still shaken in reliving that moment of disclosure behind a shut door when she voiced to her mother why she could not stay. She could stomach it no longer while he remained attached to Lavinia, had lost the strength to continue the farce of having true feelings for Richard…
All because of what had transpired in that cabin.
She had sworn Lady Grantham to secrecy, unable to face just how disappointed her father would be with his golden heir if he were aware of what had happened between them.
And how devastated he would be knowing his daughter had fallen…twice.
How else would he understand why Matthew had walked away from her with no proposal? No letters? No, her father would have had to have been made privy to another night of folly, another splotch on his eldest's reputation in order to fathom Matthew's rejection of her and the difficult choices thrust into her life.
Matthew's dismissal had been painful enough. Her father's would cripple her entirely.
Cora had suggested America, a clean start in a new world. But Mary had quickly refused such a notion, choosing to travel north rather than across the Atlantic. She told herself that remaining in England would keep her steady, that being somewhat close to family would afford her a tenuous connection to the girl she had been even as she began her life as a woman she did not yet know.
But the truth was that she could not yet imagine being a continent away from him, even though a part of her wanted to banish his presence from her memory forever. She could never escape him, no matter how far she ran. He had etched his very being inside of her even as he had stared down at her in disgust, binding himself to her in a distorted manner from which she would never be free.
"Damn you, Matthew Crawley."
Had she actually said it out loud? Mary looked around her bedroom, sighing into its emptiness as she made her way to the vanity and began to brush her hair. Evans predictably arrived within minutes, taking up the tasks of a part-time lady's maid as she did every morning. She was no substitute for Anna, but her soothing conversation coupled with a kindness of spirit was a comfort, all the same.
Sounds of life stirring elsewhere in the house eventually beckoned her from her seat, and she grasped them as a lifeline, stepping away from the precarious cliff of despondency over which she peered too often. Looking back served no purpose now.
No. It was time to move forward.
She walked through her morning duties in an unhurried manner, noticing little things that had too long remained unseen. Her senses had oddly become heightened to the slightest of touches, the smallest of sounds.
There had been recent moments of stolen peace that had taken her by surprise, a shred of hope that would clasp her by the finger in a small token of promise. Life had begun to tug at her in a manner unknown, demanding that she pay attention, unleashing a fullness in her chest that would nearly render her breathless at times. A fleeting softness touched her face, a smile appearing that somehow infused a measure of profound strength.
If only she knew what to do with it all.
Private musings were startled by an insistent knocking upon her front door, drawing her from her seat in an unsettling fashion. There were no scheduled deliveries for today, no visitors expected.
And then came a voice that stilled her heart.
Isobel.
Dear God, what was she to do?
She cringed, rooting herself to the floor as her pulse became deafening. Timing was vital, and Mary wondered frantically if she could somehow keep this meeting short enough to ensure no damage was done. Two duties struggled for dominance, forcing her to lay one quietly aside as she took up the unwanted mantle of hostess. She swallowed resolutely, taking a breath to steady herself as she haltingly made her way to the top of the staircase.
If there was no way to avoid this meeting, she might as well be done with it quickly.
She only prayed she would give nothing away.
Each footfall echoed in her ears, and she nearly faltered the moment Mrs. Crawley's form became visible. The older woman turned in her direction, smiling at her a bit too brightly as Mary's insides began to churn.
It was as if she were standing in another world…another life…such a tangible tie to the man she was attempting to forget standing physically before her. Mary bristled at the scrutiny of eyes focused much too keenly, steeling her own gaze as she steadied her legs determinedly.
"Mary, my dear, how good it is to see you. Please forgive my unexpected call. I hope I didn't catch you at an inconvenient time."
Isobel was startled by the younger woman's appearance, the lack of color upon her cheeks only heightened by distinct dark circles smudging her eyes. That she was uncomfortable with her unexpected arrival was palpable.
Extreme caution would indeed be prudent.
"How did you find me?"
Mary had no time for pretense or polite conversation, cutting to the quick of the matter with a tenaciousness Isobel could not help but admire.
"Your mother. She gave me your address."
Mary drew back slightly, physically stunned by what she considered an absolute betrayal.
Why would her mother do such a thing?
"What else did she tell you?"
Dark eyes watched Isobel warily, the young woman before her still clinging to the banister that held her upright while effectively blocking the staircase.
"Only your location, dear. And she would not have done so had I truly given her a choice."
Relief and confusion descended hand-in-hand, spurring her to ask yet another question even as she feared where further conversation might lead.
"What do you mean?"
Isobel took another cautious step towards her, marking her words carefully.
"Matthew has been asking for you incessantly. He is quite determined to locate you."
Her ire crested, his nerve in this belated quest granting her a modicum of strength.
"And if I don't wish to be located? Everyone was to be informed that I had gone to America."
"And we were, dear," Isobel returned quietly. "But I had to make sure. Matthew misses you terribly, you see."
"Matthew? Misses me?"
The questions were punctuated with noise of disbelief as she shook her head adamantly in denial.
"He made it quite clear that he wanted nothing more to do with me the last time I saw him, Isobel. I cannot fathom that he has so drastically changed his mind."
Dark eyes narrowed with a flash of steel, daring Mrs. Crawley to challenge what had just been declared with subdued ferocity.
"War changes things, Mary."
As if she weren't well aware of that fact. This war had changed her life beyond recognition.
It had cost her everything.
"Perhaps he should discuss those changes with Lavinia," she bit back, drawing herself up as tall as she could. "She is the woman he is to marry, after all. I would only be in the way."
Sharp bitterness permeated each syllable, any attempt at indifference now cast aside.
"He ended his engagement to Lavinia months ago. Did no one tell you?"
She suddenly felt suspended, the room and everything within it frozen in time. Even the railing within her grip lost its texture as she formulated a response.
"No."
Why had her mother not written to her about this? Had she feared what the news might do to her? Launched a misguided attempt to protect her from further heart-ache or shattered hopes?
"He wrote to her not long after you left, actually," Isobel volunteered, watching Mary's expression all too closely. "Told her that she deserved a better life than she would have with him and that he was releasing her from their understanding."
Of course, Lavinia deserved a better life. Lavinia deserved a future with a measure of hope.
But she? What was it Matthew felt she deserved?
Was she living it already? The thought made her shiver in a cold rage.
"And this gives him the right to summon me back to Downton?"
"I don't know any of the particulars about what occurred at your last meeting, but I know he feels dreadfully about how things were left between the two of you. He wants to make amends, my dear," Isobel explained, noting her attempt at lowering Mary's hostility had gone horribly awry.
Her chest was heaving, unwanted tears pricking the corners of her eyes as months of repressed hostility finally found a voice.
"I'm not concerned with what he wants, anymore. He's done quite enough already."
The words were launched in a fury, nearly knocking Isobel over with the force of deep injury.
"I actually left my home, my family, distanced myself from everything I know so he could move on with Lavinia. And I have worked extremely hard to build something for myself away from him, on my own. I cannot be expected to uproot my life every time he changes his mind, no matter how badly he feels!"
She was suddenly spent, all fight gone from her as she fought back tears with a will of iron now melting at an alarming rate.
"Can't he just leave me alone?"
To say she was shaken would have been a gross understatement. Isobel stood somewhat stunned by the extent to which this woman so loved by her son had been wounded by him.
An unnatural quiet settled upon the room, the sounds wafting from the kitchen the only noise to be heard. Mary wished she had a drink, something strong and stout to take the edge off of pain freshly exposed.
"Forgive me, Isobel. I know that none of what happened between Matthew and me was of your doing."
The fragile state of her voice drew her, compelling Mrs. Crawley to dare reaching out. She touched Mary's arm, concerned at its cool, clammy texture, noting again the heavy weight in her eyes before the younger woman spoke.
"Perhaps it would be best if you left."
It was neither a simple request, nor an angry retort. It was a plea born of desperation.
But one she must choose to ignore.
"Mary, I wouldn't have travelled all this way to see you if it weren't important."
Confusion and frustration fought for dominance as Isobel's words were processed, both crumbling to ash as something worse sank in merciless talons. Cold fear gripped her, stilling her heart, squeezing her throat as she clutched the railing in a brutal vice.
"Is he alright?"
Her expression begged for an answer. And Isobel was now certain.
This woman loved her son.
"He's been injured, Mary."
He gaze rounded, breathing suddenly difficult as the room narrowed around her.
"What?"
Isobel dared a step in her direction, as much out of concern for Mary's physical strength as her own desire to read her.
"His spine has been bruised, my dear."
Splotches dotted her vision, the sensation of sinking nearly overwhelming her as hands quickly guided her to a chair. Matthew…spinal damage…it could not be.
"Breathe, Mary. That's it. Nice and steady, my dear."
Her head was still spinning, and she dropped it to her lap, trying to absorb the truth, to shut it out, to keep herself from crumbling when the glue holding her together had lost its grip.
She heard footsteps followed by a whisper from Mrs. Jacobs as a glass of water was pressed into her palm.
"Drink this, Mary. It might help."
Shaky hands guiding the cup to her lips, the cold liquid steadying her body as her insides twisted themselves into a crumpled knot.
"How bad is it?"
The question was barely audible yet insistent. No matter how pained the expression staring up at her, Isobel knew that directness was required.
"He can feel nothing from the waist down."
What little color she had drained from her immediately. Her hand covered her mouth in an effort to comprehend, to ward off nausea, to take back words of condemnation she had just unleashed.
"Oh, God."
A surge of grief spilled over floodgates of protection, tears pressing out of her with an audible wail. Her body shook from sobbing, feeling the assurance of an arm around her shoulder, a hand atop of her own as a part of her soul was severed.
How long they sat there, weeping, clasping, comforting, neither knew. The ticking of the clock seemed unnaturally loud, and Mary bit back the temptation to throw her glass in its direction. Everything she knew had been demolished yet again, hatred she had attempted to whet into precision now no studier than a paper hat.
She finally stood, her brow creased tightly as a decision was reached. She made for the stairs, pausing in a wordless summons for Mrs. Crawley to follow despite the incessant pounding in her chest.
Isobel deserved an explanation. And the truth was now much too persistent to escape.
A quiet path was traversed to a small room nestled in the corner. Here Mary paused, resting a hand upon the door's surface before daring to enter its warm confines. They were now afforded absolute privacy, and she led Isobel purposefully towards the back wall where her reality was confronted in a manner most humbling.
Hushed whispers confided what Isobel had feared to learn, Mary's dark gaze fixed upon what she had fought so fiercely to conceal. The past was received with sealed lips by a woman too overcome by competing emotions to utter a sound.
They stood in absolute silence, a delicate camaraderie forming in the room's recesses. The enormity of what was facing them stared up at Isobel unblinkingly, shaking her in a manner that rendered her speechless. Mary looked at her with a question, and she nodded in response, willingly accepting the burden entrusted to her with steady hands. She marveled at the strength of the young woman before her even as she ached for all she had faced alone.
And all that Matthew would face upon her return.
"Come back with me, Mary."
The request was whispered, met with a glance neither surprised at its utterance nor hopeful in its outlook.
"I can't yet. It's too soon. I'm not strong enough."
There was no anger in her assertion, only a frank honesty Isobel accepted with no rebuttal.
"You've been through quite an ordeal, my dear, and recovery does take time. When you've regained your strength, we shall journey together, if you wish."
A single word struck her, its impact widening her gaze in confusion.
"We?"
Eyes met unflinchingly, an enormous gesture traversing the space between them.
"I shall stay and help you recover if you will allow me to do so, Mary. I should like to assist you in any way that I can."
Mary shook her head, attempting to process too much, too soon as one question fled her lips.
"What of Matthew? Don't you need to be with him?"
The clenching of her heart was almost painful, the need to be at his side quite pressing, even as she knew she could not leave Mary as she had found her.
"Matthew has round-the-clock care from a staff of professionals. As much as I miss him, he can manage without me a while longer."
She leaned in closer, pressing forward ever so slightly.
"But just who is looking after you, my dear?"
The stifling silence of the room was her sole response.
A small cry was then uttered, a growing ache in her breasts compelling Mary to sit down. Isobel moved towards her, bending over the younger woman as a wordless transaction was made with tender assurance.
"You can stay."
Words offered quietly took her by surprise, but the need before her was obvious. Isobel squeezed Mary's shoulder, fighting back the tears cresting at the cusp as she nodded firmly.
"He did have something quite particular that he wanted me to tell you," Isobel wavered, wondering if a direct word from Matthew would be helpful or destructive. She hesitated, waiting for a reaction.
Mary braced herself, seeing with startling clarity his face before her, sensing the exquisite softness of golden hair wafting between her fingers, closing her eyes as the past and present merged in a manner most profound. She breathed it all in, clasping him physically to her chest before turning her attention back to Isobel. "Tell me."
Mrs. Crawley paused, her mouth suddenly dry as the statement's magnitude took root.
"He said that he could never despise you."
A lip quivered, eyes sealing themselves against the force of pressing tears. Words deserted Mary, an almost imperceptible nod her sole acceptance of this offering.
She could manage no more.
Isobel exited the room, giving Mary some needed privacy after the ordeal of exposing so much. Her own nerves were raw, her soul weary yet full as she dared to think of the road before them. But too much was at stake to even consider backing down now.
How welcome was the wall against her back, how thankful she was for its steadiness and coolness of texture. She shut her eyes firmly, seeing Matthew's broken body, sensing Mary's broken spirit. Yet between the two there existed something of exquisite beauty, untouched by the hurt that had marred them, perfected in a breath-taking wonder. Her attention was commanded by yet another sob from the room, this one low and guttural, the unmistakable cry of a woman in pieces attempting to hold herself together for one she loved more than herself.
And Isobel knew that this precious new life, just days old and so very small, would now be latched on to her breast, resting in utter contentment as his mother fell slowly apart.
A penny for your thoughts?
