"The Dinner Party, continued"
Author's note: I like playing with unreliable narrators and needless to say, Mary's PoV demands bitter disdain. I hope my readers will remember that the opinions included herein in no way reflect the author's real views regarding Edith Pelham née Crawley.
Mary knows how these evenings go: she's been raised for them, primed and trained for them, and she could still charm every man in the room if she were so inclined. But it has all grown so tiresome – with every year that passes her patience wears thinner. She'd much rather be at her own house, with people she actually likes.
Instead, she is standing on a side of the room, indulging in more champagne than is probably wise, while Darrington goes on and on, as condescending and smug as he was during dinner. She looks around the room, hoping someone will come to her aid, but Bertie seems to have led Tom and her father away, and none of the guests close to her seem inclined to rescue her.
Laurence Darrington seems to be the kind of man who only expects humming and nodding from his conversational partners. Just as well, as she can zone out and wonder privately whether he dyes his hair – she is certain he does – or whether he spent longer than her in front of the mirror setting the waves just so. She'd rather wonder about his coiffure than follow what he is saying too closely; he seems perversely delighted at the thought of her covered in mud, talking to farmers. She wonders if someone told him about that business with the pigs back in the day.
It's when he brings up Tom that she cannot ignore him any longer. He makes another arch comment about how eccentric it is of her to have such interests or keep such company, looks down his sharp nose while commenting on her baffling interest in the plight of the common worker -what is that supposed to mean, she is a land owner, not a communist- and she has finally had enough.
"… surely, a woman of your means and position would prefer to-"
"Surely it is more sensible, for a woman of my means and position, to prefer the company of a hard-working man who understands how to manage a large estate rather than someone whose only knowledge of money comes from spending other people's fortune to his heart's content."
Few things have ever given Mary the satisfaction of this moment, with the man all but choking on Bertie's fine champagne. She watches him walk away, leaving her standing by herself like a conquering queen with what she imagines is the rush of a battle won. Edith not so discreetly rushes to join her.
"What on earth did you say to him?" she whispers to her, nervously eyeing their guests. Marchioness or not, Edith will never learn to walk a crowded room like she truly owns it.
"Nothing he did not know to be true," she answers. "You needn't worry - the matter is done."
"Well, I don't suppose you hit it off."
"How you and Bertie could think I'd hit it off with that ridiculous man is beyond me."
Edith sighs. "Bertie had his reservations if you must know. But he's got money, position, a house in London, he is bound to inherit a title of his own, he is tall and dark and dashing in that way you've always liked… he is unattached, most importantly, which at this point in our lives is a minor miracle. I've always found him rather conceited, it's true, but I imagined you would not mind. He hunts and rides and-"
"He is a pretentious bore. Does he have money, truly, or only a disposition to squander it? I don't imagine he has worked a day of his life."
She doesn't much care for the surprise in Edith's face in that moment. It's not like they are still in 1912, for goodness' sake.
"You could have brought more interesting company, quite frankly. Or did you think the talk of your intellectual London friends would fly straight over our heads?"
"I thought this company would be more to your taste. Clearly I was wrong."
"Perhaps you don't quite know me as well as you think you do," she replies, but Edith is already narrowing her eyes in a way she's learnt to be suspicious of. She can see the wheels turning in her sister's head – this is bad, very bad. Mary should hold her tongue, but she can't. "You had no success as a match-maker for Tom," she continues, "and you will not have any success with me either. So next time you feel the impulse to interfere-"
"Must you always be so selfish?" Oh, that's rich, coming from her. She will not dignify that with an answer. "I am happily married, with a family and a life of my own, and I would like my siblings to know the same happiness. While you? If you are determined to grow into a pale imitation of Granny, deriving satisfaction from snapping at everyone, I suppose none of us can stop you. But must you entrap Tom as well? I want him to be as happy as I am, and you only seem to want him to join you in your misery."
Misery? Misery is what he had with that editor girl Edith all but married him off to – by the time they finally broke off the engagement, Tom was the most miserable she'd seen him in years. He wouldn't stop moping until he set off for Ireland for a month with his daughter to get his mind off that disaster. But no… clearly the Marchioness of Hexham knows best. Was Mary this smug when she was happily married? She hopes not. "What makes you think I am not perfectly content living the life I want to live?" she says to her sister. "I do not need to cling to the first man that comes my way to feel content, I'll have you know. I have means, I need not marry the first single man that comes my way-" this may be painting her financial situation a little too optimistically, but Edith need not know that. "And as for Tom, well, perhaps he simply regards Downton as his home and doesn't wish to leave it. Surely he can make his own choices."
"His loyalty to you prevents him fr-"
"And what if he chooses me," Mary snaps, cold and furious. "What of it?"
For a moment neither of them move, and the realization of what she has said settles heavily in her stomach. She locks her jaw and raises her chin, and forces herself not to look away. For her part, Edith is gaping at her like a fish.
"You cannot mean it."
"I-I only meant you shouldn't meddle," Mary's voice sounds off even to her own ears. Suddenly she'd like nothing better than to take a step back and sink into the nearest sofa and somehow hope the floor will swallow her whole. She breathes out shakily and glances away to the rest of the room, where their party goes on. She's relieved beyond words when their mother walks into her field of vision, asking Edith's opinion on God knows what and dragging her swiftly into conversation with her and Mrs. Pelham. Mary excuses herself with an unconvincing smile, claims she's tired after the excitement of the day and leaves the room, walking down the dark hall on legs threatening to buckle under her. It's the champagne, clearly: nothing more.
She almost steps right into Bertie, coming from the opposite direction. She apologizes and slides past him awkwardly, loses her footing on the carpet and would have made a pathetic spectacle of herself if Tom, walking right behind their brother in law, had not caught her in time. She stumbles against him and closes her eyes, trying to get the world to stop spinning. She hears Bertie's concerned voice and insists it is nothing: it was merely too warm inside the room and she felt somewhat dizzy, certainly nothing worth alarming the rest of the party. The two of them lead her into the ante library, past the door at the end of the long corridor, to sit in an arm chair close to one of the French windows which Bertie opens himself. It is cooler there, and quieter, which is a blessed relief. Tom gets her water and insists he'll stay with her for a while and Bertie leaves them to it after Mary once again reassures him she is fine. Tom's hand rubs her back the moment the door closes behind their host, drawing sparks across her bare skin. She is acutely aware of the fact that someone might come in, but she can't help herself: she cups his dear face with her hands and presses her lips to his softly. Already, there's comfort and familiarity in the gesture and she revels in it.
"Are you alright?" he asks when they part, voice low and concerned.
I almost ruined everything with Edith, she almost admits. But she doesn't want to spoil this stolen moment, not when finding private time is proving so difficult. "I miss you," is what she whispers instead. It is a silly thing to say, perhaps – they see each other every day – but he seems to understand. They meet in the middle and it's different this time, slower and more heated; she remembers his eyes from across the table as he looked at her and desire pierces her sudden and sharp. His hand is cupping her jaw, holding her there as he kisses her, and she closes her eyes and lets the rising tide of arousal wash over her.
"Not here," she breathes out when they part. She feels too exposed like this: if anyone were to open the door, they would be the first thing they would see. Tom takes her hand and walks her across the archway leading to a small study, pinning her against the bookcase until they are half hidden behind one of the columns.
"I am not sure this is any more private," she laughs, lightly scratching the back of his neck.
"Would you rather we went up together?"
"I wish we could," she breathes out. "But it'd be too risky."
"This is risky," he replies. They are so close she can feel the words against her lips. "It doesn't seem to bother you that much."
He wastes no time, she'll give him that. He is quick and careful not to leave any incriminating evidence; his mouth doesn't wander down her neck, so there will be no reddening marks on her skin to cover later. When he runs his hands up her legs and pushes the delicate fabric of her dress around her hips, she knows there will be no tears on the garment when she inspects it tomorrow. His fingers are warm and sure when he finally touches her, and it's not quite what she wanted but oh – oh, it'll do. She can't quite kiss back; she is gasping for air, her own fingers scrambling for purchase on the shelves behind her. His other hand cups her face when she throws her head back, cushioning the back of her skull and dragging her forward again until they are face to face and it's too much; she can't hold his gaze, not now, not like this. She bites into his palm when nothing else will muffle the sounds torn from her throat and she is neither careful nor considerate about it: she can't help but hope she'll leave a mark behind.
They need to take time to compose themselves, afterwards - she helps him with his tie before they leave, and fixes her hair on the grand gilded mirror by the main door. She is silently grateful she did not choose to wear dark lipstick that night. They look – well, not quite presentable, but not quite that guilty if glimpsed from afar. She is a little flushed, the skin around her hairline damp with sweat, but she can blame the heat inside if pressed. It should be enough.
When she cracks the door open slowly, she is greeted with nothing but silence on the other side. The staircase on this side of the castle is seldom used, she knows. The corridor she should walk through to reach the wing where their rooms are seems deserted. If she strains her ears, she can still hear a few voices down the hall – some people have not retired for the evening it seems. She jumps slightly when she feels Tom's hand curve around her waist. She is held back for a moment, his chest pressed against her back as he drops a lingering kiss on her cheek before releasing her. Mary leaves the library alone, treading lightly across the corridor and smiling like a fool all the while.
Author's note: do you know how difficult it is to allude to sexy times against a bookcase and NOT rip off Atonement? As always, I am thankful there's still people out there willing to read this strange, indulgent little thing. Thank you for the feedback. There's an unexpected guest narrator for next chapter, which I hope you will enjoy.