The Heavens Opened
March, 1915
"I just don't know what Papa is going to make of this," Mary said, her hand resting on the iron balustrade, turning to him so the light cast a glare onto her cheek. "Us, dancing on the graves of a fallen family."
"You're not superstitious are you?" Richard replied, a smile alighting on his lips.
Mary raised her eyebrows and inclined her head. "I don't know."
"Bad luck? A curse?" he teased.
She gave a small shrug. "I'm sure bricks and mortar can't contain such things."
"I certainly feel more comfortable here than in your happy ancestral home," Richard said, his eyes moving away from hers for a moment.
Mary stiffened. Their engagement had not prompted an outpouring of enthusiasm from any quarter, that was certainly true, and as Richard squinted in the cascade of sunlight pouring from the glass cupola above their heads, she wondered if he was more discomfited by the fact than he let on.
"Well today Mama and Papa are distracted by seeing Sybil off to London."
"If only they could trust you to make the right choice." He spread his palms and leant forwards slightly over the balustrade. "This bar is a little low," he said.
Mary smirked. "Lets try not to make a habit of leaning over it then."
"I'm mindful of safety, you know." Richard smiled, taking her hand and chafing her fingers with his thumb.
"Are you really?"
"Safety and comfort."
"In that order?" She asked.
"I think they're both quite vital to a happy life."
"I suppose we don't want to worry about children leaning over this," Mary said, tapping the rail with her free hand, holding his gaze.
"Indeed," he said, and the smile lit his face, the dimples so incongruous beneath his hard cheekbones. "I'll have it ripped out and replaced."
For one strange fluttering moment, Mary had the sensation that Richard would burn this house to the ground and re-build it any way she chose if she asked, that he would do anything she asked.
"Are we going to be living cheek to jowl with workmen?"
"Today is their only day off. Like your grandmother, I am not a great believer in week-ends."
"I hope you will be when we're married. Am I ever going to see you?" she asked.
"I have earned the luxury of Sunday rest, and a few more days besides. I'll show you the study." He tucked her hand through the crook of his arm and led her down the gallery.
Richard pushed open a door before they reached the corner, to display a room paneled in oak; handsome carved bookcases worked into the walls, the smell of recently polished wood pungent in the air. Mary's eyes focused on the window that ran nearly from floor to ceiling, and was filled by the marbled dark sky outside. The myriad rainbows from the chandelier hanging over the saloon, still dancing on the periphery of her vision, vanished entirely, like the sun shone only above the dome itself. A rumble cracked somewhere in the distance and rolled towards them across the fields, to throw itself against the huge empty house. Without warning the rain shattered through the cloud, slicking against the windowpanes as if thrown by a wrathful god. Richard turned to her. "I think you were right about bringing the car."
Mary raised an eyebrow. "I think it is actually hailing."She stood in front of the window, her gaze following the trails of water, slapping and pouring over the glass.
"Its just as well there's a great deal to explore here. By the time we're finished it will have stopped and we can walk back." He shifted next to her and when Mary glanced at him he was frowning. "I'm sorry. I should have thought. We might be late for dinner."
Mary's lips twitched. "Oh, Richard, for a moment you almost looked genuinely distressed by that fact."
He looked away from the window and caught her eye. "You're right. I don't find the prospect of an extended period alone with you especially distressing."
Mary lowered her eyes for a moment, and as Richard turned his body towards her, he took her hands in his. "You do like the house?" he asked, that tinge of insecurity evident again in the creases of his forehead.
"Yes, I do like it."
"It's befitting an earl's daughter?"
Mary's lips pursed. "It's probably rather more than I deserve," she said, meeting his look waveringly.
His brows knitted. "I don't think that's the case."
"Richard," she began, her face still, every movement controlled as she let her hands go loose in his, lest he think she was imploring him to understand what she had to say. "My behaviour has not been befitting an earl's daughter…"
"Mary," Richard refused to yield his grip on her hands. "There is nothing you need to tell me."
"I do. I should have told you before I accepted you." She felt nauseous, the back of her neck prickling as the drumming of the rain beat a painful rhythm against her temple. "The Turkish attaché who died at Downton, did so in my bed." The words unfolded cut by cut inside her mouth and she could almost taste blood, a metallic bitterness at the back of her throat, as she looked up to meet his eyes again.
"You made a mistake," he replied, after a short pause, his voice firm but his expression gentler than she had seen, more understanding than she thought him capable of. Yet he could not understand.
"I can offer no excuse."
"I'm not asking for one." Richard released one of her hands, and raised his fingers to touch her cheek, his hand was cold and it soothed her flushed skin. "Your secrets are my secrets now, but your life is your own, and you only need tell me what you want me to know."
"You don't want to know the dark recesses of my heart?" she asked, tensing as his fingertips rested on the underside of her jaw.
"There is nothing too dark for you to share with me, but I won't ask," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, his thumb resting on her chin to tilt her mouth up towards his as he kissed her, once, softly and carefully, his other hand moving to rest at her waist. When he pulled back Mary stepped away too, to gain some distance between them, to examine his face for the sincerity she felt in his kiss. Richard dipped his gaze for a moment, turning to glance at the window. "Perhaps they'll send a car," he offered.
"Thank you," she said, her hands itching inside her gloves as she pressed them together in front of her.
Richard reached up and removed his trilby, holding the rim of the hat loosely in his hand as he turned away. Mary swallowed uncomfortably, unable to read the expression on his face.
"For kissing you?" he asked, his back to her.
"For trying to understand."
"I hope I do understand," Richard replied, he faced her once more, harder, businesslike, and yet with his hat removed he seemed almost boyish. "I don't pretend to be a great sentimentalist, but I hope the gratitude you feel is not connected to the fact that no-one else is willing to have you now."
Mary's jaw clenched, and she could still feel the moistness of his lips on hers although her mouth was dry. "That is not what I meant. But you're right, I am damaged goods."
"And that isn't what I meant. I suppose pride dictates that I don't want to be a last resort."
Silence weighted the distance between them, and Mary fought the urge to close herself off completely from him, to retreat, to step away, run down the uncarpeted marble staircase and plunge into the rain. Was he second best? She had hesitated in accepting Matthew, a fraction too long, and the depths of her secret had been too much to reveal to him. Why? Because she did not feel he could accept it, she would be changed irreversibly in his eyes and he would turn away, she had been almost sure of it. Almost. Now she would never know if she had misjudged him. Richard offered her what she thought she could never have, a man of her choosing, who would not cast her aside once he knew, who would stand beside her unflinchingly. Somehow, she knew he would do that: he was an ally, and he saw through to what she hid from everyone else, and he didn't recoil.
"I could not marry a man for the sake of expedience," she replied. "Or to merely please or displease my family."
"Then what tips the scales in my favour?"
"You are my choice. And in my life I have made very few choices of my own."
"You will not regret this one." Richard stepped forward to close the gap between them, dipping his head to kiss her cheek. Mary caught his arm and her lips found his, and for the first time since that night she felt a band around her chest loosen, she felt something of herself revealed and soothed under his touch. Richard's hat fell to the floor and his hands gripped her waist and pulled her against him, propelling her backwards a step so that the shelves of the bookcase dug into her back. Mary gripped the thick tweed of his coat and felt the heavy press of his body against hers before suddenly he pulled back, releasing her and stepping away. Richard passed a hand through his hair, half turning away as if to regain his composure for a moment. A rumble of thunder built, echoing in the room, the flash of lightning that followed searing Mary's vision with white light. Richard rubbed his brow, stooping to collect the trilby from the carpet.
"Shall we see the rest of the house?" he asked, avoiding her eyes.
"By all means." Her heart was pounding, and she could still feel the grip of his hands around her waist.
"We have seen every bedroom, drawing room and billiard room. As well as each pantry, scullery and meat safe," Mary said, unable to resist rolling her eyes. "And the rain has not stopped. You really would think Papa would send Branson to collect us."
"He must think more highly of me than I thought."
"Or, he's been so busy worrying about Sybil's induction into the world of nursing that he has completely forgotten I exist." Mary huffed.
"Perhaps Branson is on his way, the driving conditions are hardly ideal. Shall we sit somewhere and light these?" Richard asked, holding up the candles he'd found in the kitchen.
"Sit where? On what?"
"Or I could carry you several miles through the rain?"
"Are you likening yourself to a certain fictional romantic villain, or are you the hero?"
"I don't think there would be anything heroic about being the reason you contracted pneumonia."
"Mm." Mary looked up at the ceiling, at the twists of wood that were worked into the corners of the paneling and spread like spines to a point in the centre.
Richard followed her line of sight. "I was thinking of having this ceiling redone. Plastered, so we can commission an artist to paint a mural?"
Mary tried not to let her distaste show, but the narrowing of Richard's eyes suggested he detected it in the press of her lips. "Too gauche?" he asked.
"I think this room is quite fine as it is."
He smiled. "I'll save the mural idea for somewhere else."
"The en suite bathroom, perhaps."
"You're afraid I'm planning to turn this house into a modern eyesore." He stepped closer to her, and Mary felt her breath quicken at the memory of his warm mouth against hers.
"Not under my guidance," she replied.
"Then I am entirely in your hands."
"Goodness, what a responsibility."
"I'm sure you think I've got a lot to learn." He put the candles down on the window seat, before spreading his hands, and Mary noticed they looked as rough and work-worn as they'd felt on her skin.
"I'm a patient teacher," Mary said, and this time she reached for his hand.
"But I will be duly admonished for mistakes?"
"Is that not a part of learning?"
"None of us should suffer interminably for our mistakes, do you not agree?"
She did agree. She had suffered, and it had felt like it would never end. The threads began to loosen, breaking and disintegrating around them. The ghost departing, the press of Richard's fingers through her glove drawing her through, the suffocating weight of Kemal's body leaving her. Another roll of thunder cracked and built outside, shuddering through the room and resounding from the walls.
"I will give you the life that you do deserve," he said.
"And in return?" Mary swallowed, the remnants of a business arrangement lingering in his words.
"We can save those sort of declarations for our wedding day." He squeezed her hand. "Now, what are we going to do about this situation?" He gestured at the window and the continuing rain.
"Light some candles, and see if perhaps we've overlooked a cupboard of board games."
"My father taught me to play chess," Richard said, righting the candles and reaching into his coat to take out a packet of matches, the flame illuminating his face briefly so that Mary was reminded again, how very handsome he was. "Unfortunately his own grasp of the rules was rather questionable. Needless to say, I was duly expelled from the chess club."
Mary could not recall Richard alluding to his childhood in the few months since she'd known him, and all she knew of his father was that he was alive and living in Edinburgh. "My father used to play board games with us on rainy days. They always ended badly, Edith storming off, crying. Sybil overturning the board to relieve the tension…"
"And you?" he asked, turning back to her with a wry smile as the candles jumped into life on the window seat.
"I had always won, so what else mattered?"
"Of course," he grinned, striding across the room to collect a pile of dustsheets and put them on the ground by the candles. "Perhaps its as well there aren't any board games."
With a brief show of displeasure Mary sat down on the pile, her knees pressed together as Richard sank down beside her, his own legs splayed so his elbows rested on his thighs. "You don't have brothers or sisters?" she asked.
"No," he replied, removing his hat and discarding it to one side. "Well, that isn't entirely true. I had several, but they all died."
"Oh," Mary said. "How awful."
"Not an unusual story," Richard said.
"What did your father do for a living?"
"He worked for an undertaker, making coffins, a mute at funerals."
"Is this when you tell me you had an Oliver Twist role of your own?" Mary asked.
Richard turned to her, his shoulder brushing hers. "Actually, I did. Thankfully such tradition is largely gone. My father spent most of the time doused in gin. It was cold, miserable work." Seeming to sense her discomfort, he smiled. "I still carry off a top hat remarkably well."
"I'm sure you do." She shivered slightly, a draft from the window bending the flames of the candles. "You had a difficult childhood," she said, finally.
"No more or less difficult than the vast majority of the population. But rather different to that of the privileged few," he said, with a glance at her. "I will warn you now that I can't ride a horse."
"It isn't a vital requirement," Mary said, and as she said the words she felt her cheeks colour slightly as she thought how dismissive she'd been of the mere way Matthew had held his cutlery, and now here she was, engaged to a man who had been an undertaker's mute.
"You look cold," Richard said. "Will you accept my coat this time, when there is no-one to discover us?"
"Yes, thank you," she replied as he shrugged his arms out of the heavy tweed and placed it over her shoulders.
"It's kept me very warm. I think it was rather too thick."
"It's for shooting," Mary said, as he placed it around her shoulders.
"Ah," Richard said, tilting his chin. "You might have to dress me for the country, as well as teach me to ride a horse."
"I wonder how much all those things really matter."
"If they matter to you, they matter to me."
She looked at him, his eyebrows knitted in earnest, and she believed him. "Why don't you tell me what matters to you?"
"My work has always been the most important aspect of my life, but it has been everything to me for too long."
"It won't comfort you when you're old?" Mary asked.
Richard grinned. "The money it's made me might. But no, I don't want to die alone at my desk."
"My, that doesn't sound like a newspaper magnate speaking."
"Even I have a sense of my own mortality."
Mary looked around the bare room, the neglected opulence, and for a moment she too had a sense of how easy it was to lose out, to opt out, from necessity or by design. She had once told Carson that she knew she would never be happy, but she had not known, she had decided. She decided that there was no way back from the point she'd reached, and even though her love for Matthew had grown, it had never quite been able to flourish past that barrier.
She had been to birthday parties in this house, cosseted affairs where children played sedate party games, and a nanny hovered at each back, to deal a swift tap to any young charge keen to overindulge on cake. Mary recalled being bored, not by the routine nature of present giving and musical statues, but by the inevitability of it all. The fact that she would have fun, grimace as the birthday boy spat all over the cake whilst he blew out his candles, and then it would end. It would be nice, and it would end. Perhaps to an extent that was what she felt with Matthew, not that she was bored, but that it was too perfect, too precious, and too likely to end. She glanced at Richard. He was not perfect, and she felt easier for it, safer.
"Could you still be happy, if your work was all you ever had?" she asked.
He looked to her, but she kept her face in profile, until he too turned away to look ahead of them, half of his cheek darkened and quivering in the flame of the candle. "I thought I could. But I was wrong. I'm not sure I know a great deal about being happy."
"Were you happy as a child?"
"I don't know, so I suppose the answer must be no. I was surviving and there is some joy in that, but not much room for outright displays of happiness, for things that stick in the mind." He paused and smiled, almost apologetically. "I'm afraid I may be making my boyhood sound rather pathetic, a real life member of Fagin's gang."
"You survived, there is nothing pathetic in that."
"I think you are also a survivor."
"Not in quite the same way."
Mary met his eyes, darkened in the grainy light, the drumming of the rain an ever-present beat against the window behind them.
"We all have scars," he said, his voice low.
"And are they not ugly?" Mary asked, her eyebrows raised, but her composure faltering.
"You will be beautiful to me regardless," Richard said.
"My," she replied, shakily. "That might be the most romantic thing you have ever said to me." That anyone has ever said to me.
Mary almost thought she saw the colour in his cheek deepen, but the light was failing, and at first she was not sure what she saw in his face, as she allowed her fingers to touch the slightly rough skin of his cheek. She let her hand caress the angle of his cheekbone and her fingertips moved to rest in the soft hollow where his jaw met his ear. "Perhaps we can survive whatever comes next together?"
"I am quite certain we can survive most things together," he whispered, and as she lent forward she inhaled his words, and they tasted like an oath.
She kissed him, and she did not think of Matthew, or of Kemal, as her other hand rested against his chest and her fingers closed around the material of his waistcoat to pull him closer. He removed her hat, his thumb by her ear and his fingers tangled into her hair. Mary felt a prickle of heat across the back of her neck and she shrugged his jacket from her shoulders, taking his face in her hands.
"I think I prefer this to chess," Richard said, as they parted, his lips still touching hers. Mary let her hands fall to his shoulders, and she found herself easing her fingers underneath his jacket to remove it. His eyes widened slightly in surprise and he slipped his arms from the sleeves. "You can't bear to see me in the wrong tweed for a moment longer?"
Her lips curled into a smile. "No."
"Well, let my education begin in earnest," he replied, moving to kiss her once more, but chastely, his hands lightly at her waist, so she could feel the restraint in his touch, and the caution in his kiss.
"Are you afraid neither of us will survive the scandal of being found like this?" she asked.
"With six weeks until the wedding, I hope I have sufficient self control to prevent such an instance occurring." He swallowed, his Adam's apple rolling above his starched collar, a flush on the side of his neck.
"Have you ever lost control?" she asked, as his hand moved to take hers.
His eyes shadowed and he lowered his gaze. "Of course."
"An experience not to be repeated," she said. She had allowed a man into her bed, a man she barely knew, with whom there was no chance of any kind of future. An unthinking action that had so nearly derailed her entire life; but now she was thinking, and she did not feel like she was losing control, she felt as if she were gaining it, grasping hold of the future as she removed her gloves and slipped her hands underneath his waistcoat, to lightly touch the taut muscles of his lower back through his shirt. She kissed his neck, and felt his breath quaver in his chest.
"It's almost like you're trying to lead me astray, Lady Mary." His voice rumbling against her lips where they rested against his skin.
"Very well," she murmured, raising her face to look into his eyes. "I'll go and search for a chess set." Mary stood, brushing the creases from the front of her skirt, and casting her gaze to the window in a show of feigned disinterest.
Richard pushed himself to his feet hastily, dislodging the pile of dustsheets so they spread across the floor. He took one of her hands and tugged it slightly so she looked back at him. He tilted his chin to look down on her slightly, the fingers of his other hand resting at the curve of her jaw. With his eyes sparkling in the gathering dark, Mary saw a man who needed little encouragement to flout the rules. "Lets not be hasty," he said, leaning to kiss her, and this time she detected no caution and very little restraint, and she welcomed it, embracing the fact that she could indeed do as she wished, here with him, for what else really mattered?
"You don't wish to do things properly?"
"I'm not sure that's who we are," Mary replied as her back hit the wall.
Richard undid the buttons of her coat and slipped his hands around her narrow waist, dipping his head to kiss her neck. Mary could feel the press of his fingers underneath her ribs, and she felt as if he was drawing each gasping, shuddering breath from her, and she wasn't just allowing him to, she wanted him to.
"Maybe this is the way to exorcise any demons from this house," Richard said, as his fingers moved to undo the buttons of her blouse. Her breath caught in her throat, and he looked up, his hand stilled against her chest for a moment. "I can stop. You can tell me to stop," he whispered.
"Don't stop," she breathed, as he kissed her collarbone.
"Are you sure?" he mumbled.
Mary pressed her hand to his cheek and met his eyes. "I have made my choice."
This would not change it. She didn't want to turn back, and she wanted it to be too late to do so. Outside the sky was rolling, darker upon darker waves beyond the window, when inside they were untouched, as if cast out on a tumultuous sea, buffeted in an impenetrable vessel. Richard kissed her again, his hands falling to her back to unbutton her skirt and slide it down over her hips. When she slipped her hands inside his shirt he flinched, and she ran her fingers down the dip in his back to the waistband of his trousers.
"Your hands are cold," he murmured.
"Then I must warm them up," Mary said, letting her blouse slip down her arms. She undid the buttons of his waistcoat.
"You are beautiful," Richard said, standing still as she tugged his tie away from his collar, his eyes roving over her bare shoulders.
Mary felt herself tremble as she opened his shirt, and let her fingers hover over the firm skin of his chest. Richard pressed his hands either side of her hips and turned her around so her palms were flat against the wall. She closed her eyes, and she felt him tugging at the laces of her corset. She had never been undressed by anyone but a maid, but she suspected, no, she knew, that she was not the first woman Richard had eased from her corset. She was not distressed by the fact, they were neither of them unmarked, and Mary felt exposed under his touch, revealed, but not vulnerable. She gasped as she felt his warm breath on the back of her neck. As he loosened the last string, she let the corset fall to the floor between her and the wall, the loss of its constriction providing a measure of relief. She bent slightly to untie the straps of her stockings, but Richard reached round so his large hands covered her slender ones and did it himself. He let his hands rest on her thighs for a moment, before she turned back to face him and their lips met. This time Mary did feel her control slipping and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he lifted her up, pushing her harder against the wall, her legs entwining around his waist.
Richard's fingers dug into the underneath of her thighs, and Mary could feel the heat of his skin through her chemise, the weight of his body pressing her into the wall. He held her tighter and stepped backwards, so she could feel the muscles of his forearms tensed against her back as he lowered her onto the pile of sheets. He paused, his arms either side of her where she now lay, the dark seeming to coat them as she let her legs fall from his back. Richard kissed her at the base of her neck, and she could not help but close her eyes as he supported his weight on one arm, whilst with the other hand he slipped off the remnants of her underwear, hastily followed by his own trousers.
This certainly was not doing things properly, but the feelings that the rules need not apply to her had never left Mary. The world is changing. Her world had changed, and it could not be undone, so she would no longer try, and maybe someone like Richard was what she had wanted all along, someone who would make her untouchable, someone with whom she did not need to hide. He discarded his undershorts onto the pile of clothes and tugged one of the sheets over them, eliminating the cool air of the room to send them into a flutter of warmth as the sheet billowed in a wave above their heads for a moment before covering them. Mary ran her hands through his hair as he kissed a path across her chest, the fingers of his left hand trailing down the dip at her waist and over her hip, where his grip tightened. She arched her back and wrapped her leg around him, drawing him closer so that he groaned into her chest.
"A new beginning," he said, his cheek pressed to hers and his lips at her ear.
Mary gasped, as 'going back' became out of the question, and she pressed her fingers into the dips at his shoulder blades, the muscles of his back rolling under her hands. She did not want to go back, she would never go back, and the past seemed to converge and flatten behind her, blank and as grey as the room around them. This was the behaviour of a fallen woman, an inevitable repeated misdeed, except that this time she knew she would be caught, and the freedom that gave her was like nothing she had felt before. She was everything society said she was, and with him, it did not matter. Any thought seemed to slip through the mesh of her mind, until nothing held, nothing except the feeling of Richard, the thunder of building pleasure, and the sound of her own voice as she cried out.
May, 1915
"If I were to be completely frank, I would declare this the most vulgar display I have ever had the misfortune to witness," Violet said, under her breath.
"I think you are being quite candid enough, Mama," Rosamund said, arching an eyebrow above sparkling eyes. "But I must agree. Never has Cora's background been so acutely obvious. I can hardly believe Mary consented to any of this."
Violet gave a snort of mirth. "Quite. I suppose it could have been worse, the full American tradition dictates that the gifts are displayed prior to the wedding."
"Mary looks rather strained," Rosamund replied, with a smile to a guest passing by the damask clad table to their right, where an ostentatious array of silverware was displayed. "Although, I would look much the same had my new husband delayed my honeymoon - to Scotland of all places – to deal with business."
Violet shuddered, adjusting her position on the chaise lounge. "Perhaps they should wait until after the war is over, when a rather less…grim option might be available."
"Mary, darling," Rosamund said, as Mary extricated herself from one of the guests and sank onto the chair beside them. "What a lot of silver. Where will you put it all?"
"I hardly know, Aunt Rosamund," Mary replied, with a sigh. "I have a headache just contemplating the endless storage possibilities."
"I was just saying to Rosamund; it is such a shame the war has put paid to all comfortable travel. It may have helped you rekindle some of your bridal glow."
Mary swallowed, pressing her lips together as she caught her grandmother's eye. "Heavens, do I look so very awful? Should I retire to bed at once?"
"You will endure this occasion to its completion, unless you have a very good reason to retire." Violet raised an eyebrow, and held her gaze a fraction too long so that Mary looked away, a flash of colour on her cheek. "And it being less than two weeks since the wedding, I feel we must put any sickly pallor down to fatigue."
Mary felt it would be desirable to remove herself immediately from her grandmother's attentions, but thought that if she stood up she would probably faint, possibly onto a table of precarious displayed china. This tea party had certainly not been her idea, and she would much rather have sent thank you cards and allowed the gifts to be absorbed into everything else they seemed to have acquired to move into Haxby.
"And when will the house be ready for habitation?" Rosamund asked.
"Richard says it won't be more than a few weeks."
"I see. Everything has come together remarkably quickly." Rosamund picked up her teacup from the table, and watched Mary over the rim.
"Yes, well, Richard doesn't like to waste any time."
"That is evident," Violet said.
"Mary," Cora hissed, sliding over to them. "You need to be circulating."
"I think you are doing enough circulating for both of us, Mama. And to be perfectly honest, I can no longer recall who I've thanked and who I haven't, so I think I will just give up now and allow you to do the rest."
"That really won't do," Cora said, her smile floundering.
"Fine." Mary sighed and rolled her eyes.
She stood and felt instantly light headed, reaching to steady herself on the edge of the table, as a wave of nausea brought out beads of perspiration on her forehead.
"Mary, dear?" Cora asked, taking her arm. "Are you unwell?"
"I think I must be," she replied, shakily. "Excuse me." Covering her mouth with her hand, Mary made a hasty departure from the room, leaving Cora flustered, her smile tightening.
"She's exhausted."
"Hm," Rosamund mused, exchanging a glance with her mother.
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Cora demanded, in a high whisper.
"I didn't say anything." Rosamund's eyes widened in mock surprise. "And I quite agree. Mary is clearly exhausted, she must be left to rest."
"Well, why she couldn't wait until after tea, to be overcome by tiredness, I do not know," Cora huffed, leaving Violet to give Rosamund a pointed look as she replaced her teacup in the saucer.
"I can't say I feel entirely comfortable residing in your bedroom," Richard said, tugging at his tie, and turning to glance at where Mary was sitting up in bed, a book open in her hands.
"We're married, whatever bedroom we're in," she replied, with a smile.
"Of course, and for appearances sake, I am technically sleeping on the bachelors corridor. I think Carson is taking a perverse pleasure in sending my breakfast tray there every morning, so I have to traipse down several corridors in order to eat and dress."
"Well, it would hardly be proper for your valet to dress you here."
"I suppose not," Richard said, laying his clothes over the chair.
Mary closed her book. "I've been meaning to ask you. Do you not own a pair of pajamas, or is it some sort of strange custom that requires you to sleep in your undershorts?"
He grinned and raised his eyebrows, throwing back the sheets and getting into bed beside her. "Do you find it terribly alarming?"
"No," Mary replied, unable to resist smiling back at him. "But what if there was a fire?"
"If there was a fire, my lack of nightclothes would be the least of anyone's worries."
"My mother would have a heart attack."
"It's just as well there is no reason for your mother to see me in my undershorts then." He leaned back against the headboard. "And I couldn't help but notice that I received a somewhat frosty reception from your mama this evening, my dear."
"It's not you. I didn't live up to my role of gracious bride this afternoon," she said, with a sigh.
"The past two weeks have been somewhat relentless, your smile faltered, that is understandable."
"I'm afraid it did more than falter."
Richard leaned across to kiss her. "We will have a Scottish castle to ourselves in less than a week." His hand reached to touch her neck. "You need not smile once the entire time."
Mary kissed him back, and she thought not of their first chaste kiss at the altar as man and wife, but of him biting her lip as he gripped her hips on the floor of Haxby's dining room, when nobody was watching. The wedding had been everything one would expect, as lavish as she had ever dreamt of, and the only nick in the occasion, the undeniable glimmers of either disapproval or disappointment that seemed to run through the expressions of her family. Isobel came, kissing Mary's cheek and giving her hand a squeeze, almost as if all was forgiven, although the hardness around the older woman's jaw suggested it was not. How could it be? When she had everything; a future, and Matthew was gone, so far removed from Downton it was almost as if he had never been there but for the whisper of his name on their lips.
"What excuse did you have to give to escape the interminable display of gratitude this afternoon?" he asked, his fingers trailing to her collarbone.
"I felt rather unwell."
"Really?" Richard asked, with a smirk.
"Yes, really," Mary replied. "I'm sure I'm simply exhausted," she added, with a quick smile and shake of her head, when his brow creased with concern.
"I would like to say that Scotland will cure whatever ails you, but alas, I can't vouch for the weather in that regard." His eyes glittered in the candlelight. "But, I can promise to be the very best of company."
"And that is the only assurance I need," Mary replied, resting her fingers underneath his cheekbone.
Richard fell asleep almost at once, on his front, his arms folded beneath the pillow so that she could see the toned line of his bicep in the shadow. He looked younger in sleep, his face smoothed, his hair falling slightly onto his brow. She sighed, and leaned to extinguish the candle beside the bed, a sweeping dark descending on the room, so black that she was completely blind to her surroundings, only the sound of Richard's regular breathing holding her in place. Mary felt light headed as she leaned back, and an uncomfortable feeling close to panic clutched at her chest, almost forcing her from the bed to draw back the curtain in search of moonlight. She blinked, and slowly the room reformed hazily, so she could at least see his outline beside her. Breathing shakily, she lay down, on her side, his face inches from hers, and considered waking him.
Mary had lain awake on many occasions, with terrible things vying for position in her mind, and nobody to tell them to, nobody she wanted to tell. This was not terrible, and yet she had been unable to say anything, her face falling into her usual mask of composure. Was she worried about how he would react? Yes. But more than that, she was worried about her own response, of what she had yet to allow herself to feel.
"Richard," she whispered, in a tone that was certainly unlikely to wake even the lightest sleeper, and if she had learnt anything in the last few nights it was that Richard was not a light sleeper, her tossing and turning in bed leaving him undisturbed. "Richard?" she said, a little louder, his name tightening in her throat, and her hand moving to shake his shoulder.
He did not stir. She nudged his arm once more with increased vigour, and said his name, so that this time he grunted and shifted position, although his eyes remained shut. Anxiety gave way to annoyance, and an increasing desperation to be unburdened from the pressing silence of the room. "Richard!" Mary snapped.
"Hm?" He rolled onto his back, jumping in alarm when her hand touched his arm again.
"Are you awake?"
"What? Yes. What's the matter?" he groaned, rolling onto his side to face her. "Is there a fire?" He yawned.
"Should I make myself decent?"
"There isn't a fire," Mary replied.
"So, you've woken me simply for your own amusement? I warn you, Mary, I am very disorientated if woken suddenly." His hand moved to rest on her hip.
"Not that disorientated," she said with a smile, as he tugged her closer to him.
"I'm finding my bearings."
"I think you've found them." Her hand rested against his warm chest, and she felt her own heart quicken.
"Mm, is this why you woke me?" he asked, slipping his hand under her nightdress, his fingertips trailing up her thigh.
"No," she said, and she thought that he must surely be able to hear her heart pounding, or feel it pulsing through her skin, rising and falling in a sickening wave.
"Well, whatever the original purpose, I can think of a few good reasons to stay awake now." His hand clasped her waist, and Mary could make out the line of his cheek, the blurred edges of his shadow, and she could well imagine his expression. This was rather cowardly, she thought briefly, to impart such news in the dark, to disguise her own fears as well as his. Yet she knew she could not bear to see even a flicker of doubt on his face, or for him to see it in hers. Was this who they were? The truth, shrouded in darkness? She had looked him in the eye when she had told him about Pamuk, and there had been no fall through a catalogue of horrified expressions as she perhaps expected, so she underestimated him. If he thought she was afraid, he would not ask. She need only ever tell him as much as she wished to, and if she was underestimating him now, he need never know. This safety, this privacy for the vulnerable parts, made it easier to imagine sharing that with someone else, with him, who would not force, who would not demand a reason for every feeling, a motivation for every action.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, finally.
"I see." And she could hear the drifting quality of someone fighting sleep in his voice, his hand no longer gripping her against him, his fingers relaxed on her skin. "The thought of remembering to write a thank you to whoever bought that hideous claret jug weighing on your mind," he said, drowsily, and Mary thought she could make out his eyes closing.
"I should have said something before, but I wanted to be sure."
"Sure about what?" Richard murmured.
"I'm pregnant."
The air seemed to possess the weight of a body, bearing down on her, and the silence that followed smothered her next breath. "What?" His voice seemed far away, although she could feel his breath on her lips. "What did you say?"
"I'm pregnant, Richard," she repeated. "And I'm afraid Granny suspects, so the timing could prove rather awkward," she added, as if to breeze over the initial revelation.
"Timing," he said, dumbly, alighting on a word at random.
"That day, when we were stranded at Haxby," Mary added, pointlessly, her mouth suddenly very dry.
"Yes. I'm familiar with the occasion you're referring to." There was another pause, an elongated, thundering silence and for a brief moment Mary considered leaving the confines of the bed. But then his hand, which had slipped back onto her thigh, moved back to the dip of her waist. "Well, that is a shock," he said, but the steady timbre had returned to his voice.
"Yes, well, I suppose we weren't thinking," Mary said, swallowing the lump in her throat.
"It just shows the benefit of spontaneity," Richard replied, and Mary could hear the smile in his voice. "If there was electricity in this damn bedroom I would turn the light on, and dazzle you with a smile most unbecoming of a ruthless press baron."
"Oh," she breathed, unable in that moment to conceal her relief. "You're pleased."
"Yes, I'm pleased. Do you want me to go out to the hall boy and request a candle, wearing only my undershorts, so that you can see the pleasure etched into my face?"
"That won't be necessary," Mary said, feeling the thudding in her chest recede.
"Perhaps I can find another way to convince you then." His lips brushed hers, and his hand tightened around her waist. Her fingers trembled on his neck, where she could feel his pulse, flickering rather more quickly than could be considered normal. He kissed her deeply, and Mary closed her eyes, her body relaxing against his, her insecurities disintegrating into the darkness.
"That was quite convincing," she said, as they parted.
"It was meant to be." And now his hand passed over her waist and lay against her flat stomach. "I think we have both made the right choice."