A Modern Arrangement IV
O'Brien had spent most of the day packing the evening dresses, afternoon dresses, and night dresses that Cora required for even a week in London. Robert had looked at the trunks with a familiar despair, with a houseful of females he seemed consigned to traveling with trunk upon trunks. Now and again he would tease Cora about the fact she could not seem to leave the house without a dozen parcels and packages. Each time she would remind him half of the trunks were undoubtedly his…and he was dimly aware that Bates had spent the day in much the same fashion as O'Brien. Still, he could not restrain himself from entering the bedroom saying, "Are you planning on leaving any of your clothing here?"
Cora considered him via his reflection in her dressing table mirror, before frowning and saying archly, "Very amusing."
Taking in her state Robert said, "You certainly have contained any excitement you feel about London or Mary or Matthew." He unknotted his robe but made no move to sit or lay down.
"Don't be ridiculous Robert," She chided continuing to glance at her husband only through the reflection of the mirror. "Of course I am looking forward to seeing them."
"You certainly do not give that impression." He said standing with his hands buried in the pockets of his dressing gown.
"Well," Cora answered at length, "You have to admit. The situation is hardly ideal."
Robert nodded lowering himself to sit on the edge of the mattress. "A great deal more ideal than the alternative."
"I suppose." Cora agreed in a tone suggesting more doubt than conviction.
"Suppose," Robert spat out removing his robe. "Sometimes I truly fail to understand you. Am I to believe that you consider Sir Richard Carlisle a better alternative."
"Not better, certainly." Cora turned to face Robert adding, "Only perhaps …" She shook her head clearly uncertain precisely what to say.
"You said yourself the idea of her enduring a lifetime with him was unthinkable."
Cora narrowed her eyes stating, "I am perfectly aware of my words. And I do not remember advocating Matthew as a substitute."
"I seem to recall you rhapsodizing about how very perfect they looked together not very long ago."
"Yes," Cora granted taking a long pause before adding, "But that was before… It is all so very different now."
Utterly confused by his wife's words and state of mind Robert said, "You are happy they are married?"
"I suppose." Seeing that her words were maddening to Robert, Cora hastily added, "I am not certain how I feel. I know you wish me to be so, but I am not. It is certainly not what I desired for my daughter."
"I fail to see why not." Robert said stubbornly. "He is a good man, and he and Mary are terribly fond of one another." His words were firm as he concluded, "Many a marriage has started with less."
"You are referring to our marriage of course," Cora observed bluntly. "I would argue that however true that may well be, that we started in a considerably different place."
Robert stared at her in something akin to shock, "You would begrudge a man happiness because he was wounded fighting for this country."
"Robert," Cora said reaching for her brush, clutching it tightly with her fingers trying to relieve the intense anger that seemed to be coursing through her body. "Do not be dramatic or ridiculous. I would never think such a thing… Credit me with some sensitivity."
"I credit you with immense sensitivity," Robert commented his tone icy, "That is why I find your current behavior so infinitely confounding."
"Do you really Robert?" She sighed tiredly. "I sometimes believe it must Herculean effort on your part to remain oblivious to the true state of things."
Robert bristled at her words, the war had changed so much, up ended the order he was so accustomed to… It seemed all the women in his life now felt free to accept proposals, elope to marriages, enter universities without his permission. Now his wife was suggesting he was oblivious. It felt like much to much, the war had ended but no one had gone back to their previous roles. "Deluded to what," He said feeling only marginally interest in her comment, and hugely frustrated by her tone.
"Since the day Mary was born I have searched and worked and hoped for her marriage." She looked down at her hands with a kind of desperation. "A woman who has no sons becomes a kind of businesswoman. Except instead of running shops or selling crafts, we sell our daughters. All the time I was bringing Mary up; the French lessons, the governesses, the deportment, the dances it was all an exaggerated advertisement. You must know this we spoke of it so many times."
Robert considered her words, realizing that no he had not known that or not known that in the way she imagined. He had expected Mary would marry well, of course she had not been alone with other types, but the reality of it had seemed different to him, perhaps he had been delusional but he had thought all of that was about something different. "Matthew is a good man, you love him nearly as much as I…Surely that is enough."
"It should be," Cora said near tears. "I know it should be, but Robert it is so alien to all I planned, all my hopes.."
"That is what I do not understand," He said gently, he saw now perhaps to late, but he did see now that whatever Cora's emotions they came not from anger or dislike of Matthew but from something different and deeper and something a trifle sadder.
"All my plans and hopes and dreams were for one kind of life for our daughter, our girl. I spent twenty-six years seeing a kind of life for Mary." She paused clearly attempting to reign in her feelings. "I've been forced to readjust my plans for my daughter many times, Robert." She said sounding pained and near tears, "But I never reckoned on her marrying an middle class solicitor let alone one who cannot….." She let the words fall away, not feeling quite the new woman who could speak of such things, even to her husband.
Robert watched her wanting to cross the room and comfort her and feeling utterly incapable of doing so. And so they sat across the room, neither enraged or comforted by the other and instead feeling a kind of puzzlement that they had lived together so long and yet understood so little about one another.
.~.~.~.~.'
Matthew's office had telephoned around seven saying he was assisting a senior partner at the Bailey, and would be detained for some time. Mary and Sybil had dined alone. Sybil dominated the conversation with anatomy discussions, which Mary found as unpalatable as the topic was unsurprising, whenever Sybil fell for an idea she fell head over heels. From socialist chauffeurs to membranes, there was no half way for Sybil. Mary shuddered at the idea of what Sybil would be like when she actually had patients to discuss.
When Sybil retired with an anatomy text, Mary had decided on an early night and had curled up in bed with a novel. Around ten she heard the front door open and Matthew speaking with Edwards. She heard Edwards and the footman carting Matthew up the stairs, a vision he never allowed her to see, and which she knew he found emotionally shattering. Though he seldom commented, Mary knew Matthew bristled at needing any assistance whatsoever and hated the idea he had to rely on the servants for basic tasks. She tried to be cheerful and sardonic, hoping to amuse Matthew and cheer him with her commentary, but he seemed to design his schedule and life to exclude her whenever and however possible. His work seemed to bring him pleasure, she surely did not.
Still Mary forced a smile when she heard his wheelchair squeaking outside her… well their bedroom door. Modesty mad her reach for her dressing gown, spread at the foot of the bed. However, she quashed the impulse to cover herself, reasoning that Matthew was her husband and she wasn't about to add some silly Victorian pretense to her behaviors. She was hardly the virginal maiden why clutch at a chastity which she no longer possessed? Besides Matthew claimed to not care, and she was half curious if that was true. Mary felt her lips twist upward at the familiar knock, "Come in dear."
Matthew rolled in still dressed in his coat and tie. "I hope I did not wake you."
"You did not, and you do not have to knock." She reminded him with an affectionate smile.
"Right." He agreed distractedly, in a tone that suggested he would go on knocking.
Opting to alter the subject she asked, "How was your day?"
"Pleasant. I assisted with another senior at the Bailey most of the day."
The idea of Matthew assorting with the Bailey criminal set troubled her, but she had decided to be an ideal solicitor's wife or at least try and fake the role. "That must have been very…interesting."
Matthew studied her for the briefest moment before laughingly observing, "You should have entered the stage. That performance was ery nearly flawless."
Feeling uncertain if Matthew was teasing or complimenting her, Mary frowned saying, "I certainly do not know what you are referring to…"
"Poor Lady Mary," Matthew said relaxing, "Married to a middle class solicitor who spent the day with actual clients and probable criminals."
"Upper middle class." She said using Isobel's disclaimer and pulling a face at him.
"Aha yes upper middle class." Matthew grinned and Mary saw some of the tension had relaxed from his face. "I liked it actually."
"I am glad." Mary said warmly. "That's all I want." Nervous that she had betrayed to much, given away something she had best keep hidden she looked away. When she looked back her face was again vague and unreadable.
Matthew studied her, "Well it is good to feel useful." He glanced pointedly at the dressing room door.
Feeling a desire, neither unknown nor atypical, to keep him with her, Mary said, "Tell me about your case."
"I am sure, rather I would imagine you would not be interested."
Mary angled her head, "I spent dinner listening to Sybil rhapsodize about femurs and tibias, be assured a bit of lawlessness would be much appreciated."
Matthew smiled delightedly, another expression that she could tuck up inside her heart with the to seldom expressions of happiness her husband demonstrated. "Well I am afraid it is hardly the makings of a Collins novel… Still," He paused clearly pleased by her interest. "A young veteran with a bit of nervous had a attack and damaged some property." He shrugged, "A not atypical event I suppose." His brow creased and she watched his shoulders tense.
"He must have been grateful for your assistance."
Matthew shook his head, a curt motion that seemed born of equal parts frustration and helplessness. "All we could do was get him off a charge. We, no one can repair his mental or physical state."
"Matthew," She said pushing back the cover and coming to where his wheelchair sat, "Perhaps you cannot do all you wish, but you have made a start." Thinking of her own life and their marriage she added, "Whatever is left to endure, at least you provide a means out of the ennui of inactivity."
"Perhaps." He agreed gravely, clearly unconvinced by her words. "Perhaps," He said echoing his own words.
"Matthew," She said.
He refocused on her saying, "Sorry I went somewhere for a moment." Then suddenly as if only just seeing her, said surprised and with a certain tenderness, "I have never seen you with your hair down."
"Oh," Mary said touching her hair uncertainly.
He chuckled though he did not seem particularly amused, "Funny thing for a husband to say to his wife of a week, I suppose."
Mary rolled her eyes, "Not for our kind of marriage." She said comfortably retreating to their familiar mantra.
"Whatever kind of marriage we have," He said gently, "You are really beautiful."
She smiled hoping for sincere and not siren as she said, "I would hope you would think so. You married me."
"Just not that kind of marriage." He said determinedly before turning his wheelchair toward his dressing area. "Goodnight." He said rolling into the room.
"Goodnight," Mary said as he rolled into his dressing area, leaving her uncertain what the conclusion of their conversation meant and feeling despite her inclinations somewhat hopeful.
.~.~.~.~.'
"How was your evening sir?" Robespierre questioned as Sir Richard Carlisle his master came whistling down the hall, still dressed in his white tie, tails, with a cape draped over his shoulders.
"Excellent, excellent." Carlisle responded offering a cheery smile. "I had a deliciously rare steak and washed it down with a wine of the finest vintage. And I topped the evening by depriving a young lady of her virtue. All in all a most excellent evening." He said concluding his account with an even wider smile.
Robespierre offered no comment, he merely opened Carlisle's door and followed his employer through the door. His profession had skilled him in stilling his tongue, in subsuming his life in favor of his employer's life. Robespierre had gone to work for Richard when he was only Mr. Carlisle and watched with a certain pleasure as his master climbed the social ranks. He had long ago left behind any judgments regarding Richard's character. Mr. Avers, his first butler, had instructed him beginning when he was a boy of 14, a street urchin who Avers had made into a valet through determination and a certain forbearance, "It is not for you or my sort to think to much about anything, it is only your job to think how you can best serve the sort you will serve." Robespierre had made those words a kind of gospel, now he seldom thought of anything but Sir Richard. After he handed Sir Richard his dressing gown, Robespierre noted, "An invitation came for you earlier."
"Oh," Richard answered knotting his dressing gown. "That is hardly surprising so many people do enjoy my company."
"Indeed, Sir." Robespierre granted before saying, "However, I believe this invitation might be of especial interest to you."
"Oh," Richard said, his interest clearly piqued, taking the letter Robespierre proffered. He eyed the address in something akin to surprise before breaking the seal and reading the brief note. Returning the letter to the envelope he announced in a delighted tone, "Lady Painswick wishes me to come to supper."
"I see." Robespierre answered in a measured neutral tone, careful to display no emotion. Privately Robespierre believed a great deal of his longevity with Sir Richard was due in no small part to his lack of emotion. Sir Richard was fond of his own views, and largely intolerant of the views of others. Robespierre had long ago learned to keep mute on most topics.
"It is a new idea." Richard observed delightedly, "Inviting the jilted groom to a meal fêting the bride and groom." He smiled adding, "I am certain Lady Mary and the solicitor would rather I not attend."
Robespierre nodded predicting, "Then you will not attend."
"Do not be ridiculous why should I deprive the other guests, the pleasure of my company. Besides knowing it will place Lady Mary in an anxious state and ruin the solicitor's evening? Quite the opposite, I really must attend." Sir Richard touched his gown and smiled at the handsome visage staring back at him in the mirror. Chuckling contentedly he predicted, "This is certain to be the most successful of Lady Painswick's suppers for the season."
.~.~.~.~.'
Bending at his knee, Edwards allowed Matthew to swing his arms around his shoulders. "Are you ready sir?"
"Yes." Matthew said watching rather than feeling Edwards shift the lower part of his body up and onto the bed. Paralysis was odious enough on its face, but it was a special type of degrading to force a man to be slung by another man onto a mattress. Early on it had been worse, he had to submit to other men sliding his clothes on and off changing him as if he was a overgrown baby. He'd put a stop to that quick enough.
Now in an exhausting routine he slid his own clothes off and on. The first weeks had been brutal, he'd been exhausted and sweat soaked just from changing pants and putting on pajamas. Now it had turned into a kind of awkward dance whereby Edwards turned to the wardrobe selecting Matthew's clothes for the next day, while Matthew struggled to undress and dress himself.
Before the war he'd grown accustomed to having Mosely dress and undress him. It was a routine and solicitors did adore routines. Now though having so little control over so much of his life, Matthew insisted on performing such rituals himself. So he would turn and roll his body until he could slide off his day clothes and slide on the bottom half of his pajamas. It was a time consuming chore and one Edwards could have completed in mere minutes, but Matthew clung to the notion that he must perform such tasks for himself. "I am just about ready," He said feeling utterly drained by the simple task of changing clothes.
"Very good Sir." Edwards replied finishing a task he could have completed in seconds and crossing the room. He placed the hot water bottle near Matthew's feet and then wrapped his feet in warmed flannel. Then pulled the blanket up to Matthew's knees. At last he pulled the sheet up asking, "Is there anything else sir."
"No." Matthew said in the most distant of tones as if addressing a person or topic of little interest.
"Very good then." Edwards agreed nodding and exiting the room. Matthew watched with a detachment he'd perfected over weeks and weeks in various sick beds, and at Downton.
He did not give Edwards' further thought chiefly because he understood little about Edwards. Indeed, the very thing Matthew prized about Edwards was his lack of any kind of understanding about the butler. To his pleasure, Matthew possessed absolutely no idea what if anything Edwards felt about any topic. The anonymity and sterility reassured Matthew. He cherished the notion there might be another like him in the world, a man who had severed his feelings as surely as war could sever a limb.
Bates and Mosely were both filled to the brim with feelings. Bates forever playing the wounded noble victim, and Mosely all eagerness and wistfulness. After the Some, Matthew had begun the difficult, yet necessary task of letting go of feelings. And after his injury he had said goodbye to expectations of any kind. All the old emotions, hopes and feelings had no place in his postwar existence. You just could not see the things he'd seen, endured the horrors of the trenches and the stench and the smell and then go back to the old naivety and persona. So much of his leaves had become extended play acting sessions. A tapestry of memory and pretense, playing at old routines, that left him mentally exhausted by his returns to camp.
His injury emotionally shattering as it was, had mercifully ended such rubbish. And his recovery and the end of things with Lavinia had only strengthened his resolve and conviction that his emotional pre-war life was completely over. If his body could not produce desire that was almost a relief, for after all the deaths and destruction he certainly had no love left in him. Had he been capable of walking and taken Lavinia down the aisle, he knew he would have tidily made a hash of her allusions of his nature. A nature if it had really existed, that had been blown to bits long ago…
No Mary was better. Mary channeled her emotions. She had lost a lover and calmly carried the body down a dark corridor, seeming quite recovered in the briefest of days. Mary could always move forward, retaining a cynical, brittle tone that showed she moved on, never letting the past shackle her.
Besides Mary viewed him as a friend, a cousin and nothing more. Mary would not go on wanting emotions that were stillborn inside of him. He could learn from Mary, mimic her humor and disdain. She could educate him in restrained emotions. He could aid her through whatever scandal was to occur. Then he could release her to some other man, allow her to find real happiness, and go on about his way. He had worked all this out in an instant when he proposed. It was all decided.
Yet, as he lay in bed he kept envisioning the woman lying in the next room. Mary was unspeakably beautiful, any fool could see that. After his accident however he had taken to viewing her beauty in a detached fashion. She was beautiful, but it seemed to have nothing to do with him and he certainly was not going to feel anything in relation to her beauty. And he still felt that, could not imagine not feeling that.
And yet, here he lay thinking of how pretty an image she made…. her soft hair spilling down her back, her smile relaxed and easy, her eyes half drowsy, calling him darling, asking him about his day. Such was the origin of several choice pre-war fantasies. But the old dreams did not include a crippled half man solicitor. Matthew had no taste for the kind of pal marriage with the neutered husband playing dumb to his wife's growing loneliness and pains. He despised men who chained women inside a union which would leave them childless, and unfulfilled, shamed by desires and yearnings that were perfectly natural. When Mary had referred to a woman who just wanted to be with him on any terms, he knew she meant Lavinia. Just as he knew Lavinia meant it when she said she'd stand by him, the irony of her standing beside him would have made him laugh if it was not so tragic.
The absolute last thing he wanted was Lavinia or any woman equating love with sacrificing a natural life of marriage and motherhood for the role of sexless nursemaid. No, he must keep strong and let such feelings remain dead as they should be… So he closed his eyes, pushing aside the image of his wife in her night dress, steeling his mind and turning his thoughts to nuanced technicalities of corporate law, vowing that the domestic visions of a beautiful wife would not soften his stance. Besides, he knew no soft or good thing would follow him into his dreams. The prewar dreams of loving Mary, of racing his bicycle across Downton with a son or daughter, of laughing carelessly with Sybil, or his mother…. Those dreams stopped forever the night of his first battle. Now he dreamed of mud, and rats scurrying, and shells exploding and death always death. His dreams were a dark, fearsome place where nothing lasted save the things one most wanted gone. All the emotions he repressed during the daily came surging to life each night. And at night the only sensation he felt was pain and a kind of naked terror that made him want to cry out in pain and fear. No pleasant domestic image could ever last long once he closed his eyes. And now he closed his eyes with a horror he could never wholly shake. There was no place for Lady Mary Crawley in the barren wasteland, and he thought if she ever knew what existed in his mind she'd run as fast as she could toward Sir Richard Carlisle or any man that could save her from this neurotic, broken cripple she'd married out of fear and pity. Even a manipulative, cruel magnet would best a useless imbecile. And so he would never let Mary know about his dreams either before or after the war. As long as she never knew he could keep her in some fashion until he could let her go off to the happy life he could certainly never provide her. That decided he closed his eyes against the woman lying sleeping in the next room.
Writing this chapter two things became clear Matthew is seriously depressed and clueless that Mary loves him. And Sir Richard considers himself the hero of the story. This was such an intense chapter to write, next chapter is Lady Rosamond's supper which will be crazy!