A/N: I haven't forgotten this fic. Along with the usual time constraints and a never-ending cold, I've also struggled with this chapter - the relationships, the format and the sheer length - I'm now fed up of staring and re-editing it! Anyway, here's a bumper chapter to thank you for your patience.
She is waiting for him.
Standing outside her home, she watches the car pull up and stop. He gets out with the usual lazy swagger, trilby and newspaper under his arm.
He pecks Mary's cheek before turning to her, eyes lingering just a second too long before his lips twist into a smile:
"It's nice of you to meet me."
She tears her eyes away, hoping the colour in her cheeks will be blamed on the cold air. She puts Mary firmly between them as they walk inside:
"I hope you enjoy your first Christmas at Downton, Richard."
"Richard doesn't believe in Christmas, do you?"
"It's true that I usually work over Christmas. It will be nice to spend a few days away from the office this year."
"Well, all work and no play-"
"The presses still need to run, Mary," he snaps, "even over the holidays."
Cora is dismayed by Mary's sharp, defensive manner. It reminds her of the girls growing up - Mary baiting and teasing Edith until finally provoking a reaction. She automatically adopts the role of peacemaker: "Come and see the Christmas Tree."
She stops them in the Great Hall, pleased with the huge fir tree, swathed in tin soldiers, lights, tinsel and decorations. Richard glances at the tree, then turns to her with a tight, knowing smile: "It looks magnificent." He talks in the soft, intimate voice that sends a warm shiver up her spine. She turns away from him, grateful that Mary is too pre-occupied to notice her discomfort.
"The house will look bare without a Christmas Tree, Richard."
"What's the point?" he protested. "No one is going to see it."
They both surveyed the entrance hall, the only room at Haxby that had not changed in the last six months.
"I'm sure Mary would-"
"I doubt Mary will be coming back to Haxby much, barring the minor miracle of us marrying before Christmas."
He was right. Cora knew in her heart that her daughter and Richard Carlisle were unsuited, but she couldn't contemplate the consequences of their engagement being annulled. What would happen with the Pamuk affair? With Haxby? With her? She firmly put those thoughts out of her mind:
"But doesn't decorating put you in a more festive mood?" She raised her eyebrows and smiled at him. It was a smile that, until recently, used to win her husband over. "I can bring a small tree and decorations from Downton."
He shrugged in mock defeat:
"If it makes you happy, Cora..."
Richard's Downton Christmas has fallen short of every expectation. His gift ideas were dismissed as extravagant and showy, so they instead exchanged presents befitting the aristocratic Grantham family - folding slippers, ash trays, tie clips, collar stays - uninspiring gifts which had no doubt been ordered in advance by the butler. She gave her husband a hand-stamped silk tie, offered with a tentative smile and accepted with a gruff nod. He is barely able to contain his envy.
Today she is the Countess of Grantham and consummate hostess - distributing presents, encouraging conversation and organising refreshments. She refuses to look in his direction. He knows the reason - after his shameless flirting in the Hall, even a glance across the room is enough to make her blush and bite her lip.
His irritation simmers throughout the day, manifested in grumbling about the servants and other trivia. Even when seated together at dinner, Cora still refuses to speak to him beyond mere pleasantries. He mutely watches the Christmas pudding - another tired ritual - being brought out to a chorus of oohs and aahs. The conversation, hardly inspiring so far, descends into inane nonsense:
"Don't forget to make a wish."
"Let's all make a wish."
"A wish and a prayer."
"Is this about Bates again?" he is compelled to interrupt, ignoring his fiancée's disapproving glare.
"My new maid says the Servant's Hall is full of it. How terrible it is."
"We mustn't lose faith," Matthew declares confidently. "He's been wrongly accused."
"I'm sure you hope so," he replies smoothly.
"We know so," Matthew's mother replies with finality, daring him to contradict her. Richard looks round the table, seeing a family who seem to believe that because a man is a 'good fellow' and 'one of their own' he is therefore innocent of murder. He turns his attention to the Earl:
"How has Mr Murray managed to have the trial held in York?"
The question has had the desired effect. "I don't know, but thank God he has," he splutters, looking distinctly uncomfortable at his aristocratic privilege and influence being highlighted and questioned. The conversation moves on, but Richard is still aware of the steady gaze across the table, conveying the polite disdain of someone forced to entertain an unwelcome guest. Richard nonchalantly takes a swig from his wine glass. The aversion is mutual.
Cora wanders into the Library, pleased to see the fire recently lit. She has tried to transform this room from her husband's private domain into something warmer and more comfortable. She glances to the ledgers on the desk. She knows he is still giving money to the maid, but she hasn't challenged him. She doesn't want to know the details and a confrontation would hardly repair their fragile relationship.
She is settled by the fire with a book when he comes in:
"This-" he hands her a letter "-came for you in the evening post." The next words are practically spat out: "It's from Sybil."
She scans the letter, registering Sybil's chatter about Dublin and Branson. She re-reads one sentence and gasps. He spins round:
"What is it?"
"Sybil's pregnant."
"I see," he sighs, hardly the reaction she expects from someone about to become a grandfather. "So that's it then. No return. She's crossed the Rubicon. I wondered why she didn't ask to come for Christmas."
"Would you have allowed it?"
She trailed her fingers lovingly over the Mackintosh writing desk, a beautiful dark mahogany piece inlaid with luxurious mother-of-pearl and ivory. She grimaced when he covered the surface with photographs, first editions and other supposed career highlights.
"It's my desk," he pronounced defiantly, yet the teasing smirk on his lips dared her to move his prized possessions. She picked up some of the photographs and clutter, arranging them on a nearby bureau while his low chuckle rang in her ears.
"So," he casually changed the subject. "You're not going to Sybil's wedding?"
"No." He raised his eyebrows in surprise and disapproval. "He hasn't forbidden me from going, Richard. It's just...the way it looks if I go."
He nodded slowly, indicating understanding rather than agreement. "If you go to the wedding with Mary and Edith, the Earl of Grantham is left on his own nursing his whisky and his wounded pride." She turned to the window, instinctively folding her arms across her chest. The conclusion was, as usual, disturbingly accurate. "Do you want to go to the wedding?"
"Of course I do," she retorted, although Robert's implacable opposition meant it had never really been a option. She studied the formal parterre gardens outside, wondering what to say next. She felt compelled to defend her husband. "He's not a bad man," she managed.
"Yes, I'm sure he has many virtues." He sounded bored - he had clearly already reached his own conclusions. "No doubt he's an honourable man and a loyal husband."
She winced slightly at the word 'loyal'. She took a deep breath and turned round, hoping he hadn't noticed.
He had. He had stepped closer, studying her with something approaching concern.
"No one knows..." she whispered. There seemed little point in concealing the truth. And perhaps it didn't matter that he knew of Robert's affair.
He nodded slowly. "Affairs aren't scandalous, Cora." It was surely meant to be reassuring, but she had something quite different on her mind. He was close enough to touch, she wondered what it would feel like to be encased in his arms, she only had to reach out...
"Bookcases!" he proclaimed. "I've had them set up in the Library, but..."
He was still talking as he walked out. She stood alone in the room, taking a moment to compose herself. She was shocked by her feelings, but cannot bring herself to regret them. She trusted him. And with each visit to Haxby, with each moment together, she was beginning to think more highly of him.
"Not long now. Does everyone have a glass?"
They are assembled in the drawing room to await the New Year. The Earl stands in the centre of the gathering, making great show of checking his fob watch, a superfluous gesture considering the mantle clock behind him. She stands beside her husband, beaming smile on her face, pretending to consult the watch.
The clock strikes midnight to a chorus of "Happy New Year". She is still smiling when her husband leans in to kiss her cheek.
The Earl and Countess look every inch the genial host and hostess. He knows it is a facade. He knows she is unhappy.
He knows the Earl does not deserve her.
It is early morning by the time she gets to bed. She is exhausted from the celebrations and light-headed from too much champagne. Her head falls onto the pillow, her eyes close...
She is awoken by a hand on her hip and a gruff kiss.
"Happy New Year."
"Mmm..." She mumbles into the pillow, vaguely aware of fingers trailing down her thigh, yet too tired to respond...
He moves his hand away with a loud sigh and collapses back onto the bed. "So you won't be by my side for the shoot or the trial?"
It takes a moment for her to register what he is saying, far less how to reply. "Mary will be at the shoot, darling...and Rosamund."
"It's hardly the same."
Recognising the dangerous tone in his voice, she opens her eyes, inching closer until she is resting on his shoulder. "I haven't stood behind the guns since the girls were small." Her fingernails scrape lightly down his pyjama shirt. "I'll be there for luncheon."
"And the trial?"
"We've already discussed this..."
"I see," he barks in her ear. "So you would be happy to let the man hang?"
She has automatically backed away. "There are other - more discreet - ways to support him without having to testify or-"
"Or offer public support," he finishes.
She searches for something to placate him or make him understand. "Darling," she tries softly, "even to be associated with a man accused of murder-"
"I refuse to listen to this," he roars, the volume alone enough to rouse the whole house. Blankets are violently ripped off the bed and the door practically wrenched from its hinges in his hurry to leave.
She sinks back into the pillows, refusing to give in to the threatened tears.
Sleep will be impossible now.
"So Bates has been arrested?" She rolled her eyes and continued inspecting the dining room:
"The table needs to be set further back, to give the footmen more space."
"Hasn't he already been in prison?" he persisted.
She nodded. "We need to think about the lighting..."
"And he's still at Downton!"
She turned round with a heavy sigh:
"He was Robert's batman during the South African war."
"Well, your husband must be heavily indebted to his batman then, to support him in a murder trial..."
"It's a trial, Richard. He could be found innocent."
"But that doesn't matter, does it? It's the association that's damaging."
He cannot talk to her. Sharing the same house and sitting together at dinner is not the same as the teasing banter and lingering glances of Haxby.
Mary's company is scant consolation. A week of disappointment and rejection culminates in the shoot. He is incensed by the way Matthew casually calls Mary to his side, the way they laugh together, the way she clearly prefers Matthew's companionship.
He tries to persuade himself that it doesn't matter - after all, Mary is indebted to him. She will become his wife-
"I'm only asking to set a date."
"But what's the hurry?"
"Hurry?" He clutches her wrist to prevent escape. "Glaciers are fast compared to you on this, Mary."
Shrugging off his grip, she walks quickly towards the drawing room. He chases after her until they are coolly facing each other in Downton's Great Hall. He reminds her of their pact:
"I warn you, even my patience has its limits." Her eyes widen in surprise at the implication. "Do you want the world to know how the late Mr Pamuk died?" he hisses. "In your bed?"
Mary's surprise is transformed to abject horror. A cold chill runs through him as he gradually becomes aware of the onlookers. Cora stands outside the drawing room, looking equally horrified. He follows her gaze to the other side of the Hall.
To her husband.
A/N: As you can see, I've made it quite difficult for myself with time jumps, relationships etc. I'd be glad to know what you think. Thank you again to MissPixieWay for beta'ing and generally boosting my confidence. Next chapter (The Truth) will follow directly from this one.