You are the loveliest of readers. Yes-you!
Thank you for being here, whatever time of day it is in your corner of the world. Thank you for taking the time to read. Thank you for leaving feedback if you do. I hope you feel the hugs I am sending your way. Forgive me that I am unable to answer every review personally as I so love to do. My personal life is extremely busy right now, but please know they are all read, absorbed, and appreciated. You have no idea how my face lights up when I am alerted that I have received a review. :D Truly.
Many, many thanks to my precious friends, miscreant rose and Cls2011 for the read-throughs, feedback, and laughter you bring to my life. You two are the best.
Well, I covered a year in 4 chapters and then spent the next 6 chapters focusing on one day. I think it's time to move forward a few days and give these two a little nudge. I hope you approve. Oh...and Downton Abbey is not my personal property. It's just on loan from Julian Fellowes.
She awoke suddenly, sucking air into her lungs with the ferocity of one who had just been pulled from the sea. Her body hoisted her up straight, and she glanced around the room, allowing her eyes to focus on surroundings still not quite familiar.
She was guest here, at Crawley House.
And today was her wedding day.
She moved her feet out from under the covers, sliding them into the comfort of warm slippers as her arms fought off a chill. Somber clouds didn't bode well for the dress she had chosen, and she now wished she had insisted on a deeper hue than the egg shell she had purchased at the insistence of her mother. How ironic to be a bride with so little input into the planning of her own ceremony.
How unlike her to care so little.
A special license had been obtained, their need to wed in haste and privacy unquestioned by the proper authorities. The mere thought of having to endure the reading of the banns made her want to recoil, the scrutiny of the church too heavy for her to contemplate. She slid frozen fingers beneath her arms, finding little comfort there as she sought the covering of her robe.
Christopher still lay sleeping in the cradle her mother had purchased, although Cora had left it still protesting Mary's decision not to stay at Downton. Mary had latched onto Isobel's invitation with the fervor of a drowning woman, more thankful than she could voice for the temporary reprieve graciously laid at her feet. Her mind was too crowded, her spirit too unsteady to face the stares of those who dwelled within walls of her home. And Matthew was there.
It was just too much.
Her brow creased in thought, an ache beginning in her temples as she imagined how it would be when she arrived there today. Whispers hidden from the family, discussions that would take place out of her hearing, glances shot in her direction from lowered brows and placid faces. She swallowed down a foul taste in her mouth, closing her eyes in an attempt to find a strength she feared lost to her.
When she next entered Downton's hallowed halls, she would be married. She would be his wife.
This was good, this was right, yet so wrong and terrifying, as well. To marry the man she loved too much under circumstances so out of order, to become his when she sometimes feared she both loved and hated him in equal measure, how would they survive?
How would they build a marriage?
His injury forbade physical intimacy, a fact for which she was quietly thankful as the act had brought her nothing but pain. But how such knowledge must eat at Matthew, how must it make him feel even less of a man than he already did. Isobel had confessed privately that there was a chance his injury would heal, a possibility Mary prayed in secret would come about. No matter the hurt between them, she shattered internally every time she saw him in that chair.
He had become a part of her the afternoon their child had been conceived, bound to her by cords unbreakable no matter how frayed they had become. Yes—she wanted him to be whole again. But how would she handle it if he did?
It was a question for which she had no answer.
She fought down a knot in her stomach as the waking sounds of her son caught her attention. This was for him, she reminded herself as she had many times over the past several days. Their hasty union was for Christopher—for his future, for what could be salvaged of his reputation.
Mary cupped the child in her arms, bringing him to her breast in a routine that soothed them both. Anna would be here soon, she knew, to assist her in dressing, to bolster her spirits. Her presence the past few days had been a balm to savaged nerves, her smiling acceptance something Mary drank in greedily, her conversation a nocturne in which she wrapped wayward thoughts. If only Anna could come with them to Cumberland.
She must end this line of thought immediately. Flights of fancy offered no viable solutions.
Anna would remain at Downton, and she and Matthew would head to the North to dwell among people they didn't know and repair a life they must accept. This was now her existence. This was reality.
A warm hand reached for her breast as her son burrowed in closer, the rhythmic tug on her nipple almost hypnotic. She closed her eyes and was transported too quickly back to the cabin, into arms that stroked her nakedness, to lips that had kissed places kept hidden. She sensed whispered endearments breathed into her pores, caresses crystalline in their perfection until marred by the stigma of her past.
Oh, God, Matthew. How had they allowed what had been beautiful to become so corrupt?
He had been a regular caller, arriving yesterday with a bouquet of roses that had rendered her speechless. Conversation was stilted, awkwardness thick, yet they had persevered through tea until Christopher awakened from his nap. As uncomfortable as they were with each other, Matthew was a natural with his son. The manner in which he held him had grown more familiar, the joy on his face unmistakable the moment his child entered the room. Mary harbored no doubts concerning his suitability as a father. Their son would be cherished by both of his parents, regardless of how their relationship played out.
I will make this right, Mary. For all of us. I am determined.
He was determined.
She looked at the roses now in a vase on the vanity, situated strategically next to a box he had instructed her not to open until this morning. Dread and anticipation gripped her insides, flooding her with a rush of nerves she felt down to her feet. She had nothing for him, she had apologized, feeling uneasy at being the recipient of so much attention when she had been given so little for so long.
You've already given me everything when you gave me Christopher and agreed to be wife. It's my turn now. Please allow me to at least attempt to make up for lost time.
Her response had been a silent nod.
Lost time. Months of dazed confusion and bleakness now collided with a future that stood on wobbly legs at best. But it was there, at least, bearing with it a chance for her son to claim both his name and his title, even as it teased her with glimpses of hope she dared not yet entertain.
A knock on her door drew her from her musings, and she covered her exposure with her son's blanket.
"Come in," she instructed, expecting Anna to enter on queue. But it was her mother who stood now in the doorway, beaming at her with eyes unnaturally bright.
"Good morning," Cora smiled, entering quickly and shutting the door. "How are you, Mary?"
She honestly had no idea.
"Alright," she answered, attempting to shift Christopher to her other breast discreetly. "Or as well as can be expected under the circumstances."
"Are you at all nervous?" her mother pressed, eyeing Mary too closely for her own comfort.
"If I just admit to it, will you stop asking so many questions?"
Cora shot her a look Mary held without blinking, moving to a nearby chair and making herself at home.
"I take it the roses are from Matthew," Lady Grantham observed, gazing at them appreciatively. "They're lovely."
"Yes, they are," Mary retorted, easing further into her chair.
"And is the package from him, as well?" Cora prodded relentlessly.
"Didn't I just say something about not asking questions?" Mary breathed, her frustration tolerance precariously low.
"Very well," her mother returned. "But it's good to see him at least making an attempt to do the right thing."
"I'm not certain what the right thing is anymore, to be honest," Mary tossed back. "My life has been hazy for so long that clarity is almost painful."
"We both know you're doing the right thing in marrying Matthew," Cora stated flatly, leaning forward. "It's what is best for you and for Christopher. That is indisputable, Mary."
"Nothing is indisputable," she argued, feeling more on edge with every word her mother spoke.
"The fact that you are now a mother is," Lady Grantham asserted. "As is the fact that you are not yet married."
Mary sighed in exasperation, fighting the urge to take Christopher and flee the room.
"You're not having second thoughts, are you?"
She gazed back at her mother with eyes that nearly betrayed her.
"I can't afford second thoughts," she answered. "Not anymore."
They sat in silence, too many feelings competing for dominance in a body that was already tired.
"You told me just days ago that you still love Matthew," Cora dared. "And that he professes to loving you."
Love. The word bit and soothed simultaneously.
"Yes," Mary admitted. "I did."
"And I assume that hasn't changed," her mother continued, narrowing her gaze.
"No," Mary confirmed. "But it's complicated, Mama. Loving Matthew hurts."
Loving Matthew had nearly destroyed her.
"I know it does," Cora replied softly. "But all love hurts at some point, Mary. It's up to you and Matthew to help each other heal."
The mere concept of healing dangled just out of her reach.
"Sometimes I wonder if we're capable of it."
The words slipped from her, and for a moment she wished she could summon them back.
"You're capable of more than you realize," her mother affirmed. "The past several months have proven that."
Small lips slid from her breast as Christopher began to fight against his covering, whimpering in protest with lungs gaining strength.
"I'll leave for now," Cora offered as she stood. "But I'm on your side, Mary. Do remember that."
The door closed, leaving her again in relative solitude. Mary raised her son to her shoulder, rubbing his back to soothe his stomach, grabbing a cloth to protect her nightgown. She stood with him slowly, making her way towards the vanity and the box given to her by his father.
"I suppose it's time to open this," she crooned, her voice hushed and mellow. "I wonder what your Papa has given to us."
She picked it up and returned to their seat, working nervously to loosen ribbons while balancing her son on her chest. Paper was easier to disengage, and she opened a small box, staring wide-eyed at what lay inside.
It was the dog, the small stuffed dog she had pressed into his palm when he had left her so long ago, on that day that had sealed their fate. She held it with trembling fingers, her breath now coming in snatches as she drew a note from him into her line of sight.
My Dearest Mary,
I hope you will accept this good luck token you so generously bestowed upon me all those months ago. I credit it for saving my life and bringing me back to you. How welcome my presence is in your life is questionable, I know, and I could never fault you for any misgivings you may hold as we embark upon this new life together. God only knows that you have every right.
We shall face challenges ahead, you most of all, my darling, as you are accepting a husband with physical limitations. How I wish I were a whole man again, one who could care for you properly, one who could stand beside you rather than face life from a chair. But in spite of my disabilities, I shall never cease to do all that I can to earn back your trust and respect and to build a life for you and Christopher.
Thank you for making me a father. Thank you for agreeing to become my wife. I now wish you such good luck as you will have to live with me from now on, a fete my mother assures me takes a great amount stamina.
I shall see you at the church.
All of my love,
Matthew
All of his love. Such good luck.
She only prayed it would be enough.
This wasn't how it was supposed to have been.
It was his wedding day, the day he would meet his bride privately in the front of the church. The day he would marry Lady Mary Crawley. And he was doing it from a wheelchair.
Damn. Damn. And damn it all again.
His stomach had been off all morning, rocking precariously as he fought down persistent fears of letting her down. How could he even attempt to be an adequate husband for a woman such as Mary? She deserved a gallant procession, the accolades and adoration of the entire village, an extravagant celebration fitting of her station as an earl's daughter.
Yet she was settling for a broken heir who couldn't even support his own weight throughout the ceremony, one who had left her heart-broken, shamed, and pregnant. And one who would never be able to make love to her properly or grant her another child.
He hated himself with as much passion as he loved her and their son.
The thoughts of his child feathered a shred of hope across a heart scarred. He could no longer afford to wallow in self-loathing with his nose buried in the sand. He was a father now, father to a son he was determined would be a better man than he.
Matthew was actually relieved that his father wasn't here today, although he felt like a reprobate for harboring such thoughts. How disappointed Reginald Crawley would have been to know his son had acted in such a manner towards a woman. His mother's admonishment had been difficult enough. To have borne the weight of dishonoring both parents would have been more than he could have shouldered at the moment.
But Mary had no choice. Today she would stand under the scrutiny of both parents and her grandmother, of sisters and an aunt, and she would return to her rightful home to face many who had known her since she was a girl. This she would do now as a marked woman, a woman many would consider fallen, a woman he had forever branded when his body had entered hers.
Yet she continued to bear it with a dignity etched into her spine and a steadiness that set her apart. He marveled at her skills as a mother, felt a pride for which he had no right whenever he witnessed the raw love she held for their baby.
Her strength humbled him with the challenge it laid at his feet.
They're beautiful, Matthew. I wasn't expecting flowers.
And what were you expecting, Mary?
There had been no answer, only a fixed gaze into her tea. But he knew what she had been thinking, words she had censored to spare his feelings yet again. She expected what he had given her since the day he walked out of that cabin and out of her life: nothing.
What a stellar beginning to a marriage.
I believe you, Matthew. But I'm not certain that I can trust you just yet.
Truth voiced from her lips the day he met his son still weighed on him heavily, prompting him to show her, to convince her that she was worth far more than he could ever offer. At least he would never quit trying to persuade her of that fact.
He adjusted his cufflinks yet again, impatient for the moment he would make her his wife, dreading the bumpy start he was certain they would experience. Would they share a bed tonight? Would she even want to sleep in the same room? Would she allow him to take her arm, to hold her hand, to kiss her cheek? Or would she shy away, repulsed by any physical display of affection, no matter how limited in scope?
Would a proper kiss from him ever be welcomed by his wife?
Restless fingers sought his pocket, and he shook his head at its emptiness. It was now in her keeping, the talisman he had stroked daily since she had made him promise to bring it back. He had nearly thrown it to the ground when he had stalked away from her, had examined it in anger with tears pooling and shaking fists. But to let it go had been impossible, to be apart from it akin to losing a lung.
But this was right. It was time.
Perhaps the gesture would mean as much to her as it did to him. Perhaps the dog would remind her of happier moments, of a past shared and partaken. Of flirting over sandwiches, of laughing over salty pudding, of a kiss at the train station that had shaken all he thought he knew.
He needed her even more than she needed him. And he wanted her more desperately than he craved the use of his legs.
A brisk rap at his door caught his attention.
"Yes," he called out, wondering if Bates had left something behind.
"May I come in?"
It was the smiling face of his mother that greeted him, a slight quiver in her lips the only indicator of conflicting emotions.
"Of course," he returned, looking back at her. "You look lovely, mother."
"I took extra care this morning," she admitted, moving to the nearest chair. "It's not every day that one gets to be the mother of the groom."
His eyes fell to his lap as he shook his head yet again.
"I'm sorry the circumstances are not better," he stated. "I've not exactly given you any reason to be proud."
Her back straightened in response.
"Stop it, Matthew," Isobel instructed firmly, narrowing her gaze. "You mustn't begin your marriage feeling defeated. Mary needs you to be strong for her today. She needs you to bolster her courage, not to drain it."
"I believe Mary holds the lion's share of courage in this relationship," he observed flatly.
"She has been extremely brave," Isobel agreed. "Of that, there is no question. But constantly weathering the elements can be exhausting, especially to a new mother. I believe it would mean the world to her to have you meet her with confidence at the church today."
How he wished he had more of that to offer.
"Has she told you this?" Matthew inquired, leaning forward in his chair.
Isobel shook her head.
"You know Mary," she observed. "She's quite adept at keeping things hidden. But I've learned to read her somewhat during our time together in Cumberland. Underneath that polished persona is a frightened and bruised young woman too private to ask for help under most circumstances."
"But she will allow you to step in if needed," Matthew added quietly. "You aren't the one who bruised her."
"No," Isobel agreed. "But had both you and she not been in such dire straits when I found her, I doubt she would have trusted me to the extent that she has." She pursed her lips tightly, folding and refolding her hands. "Learning of your injury was a harsh blow to her, Matthew. Mary loves you more than you know."
"God only knows why."
Isobel stood slowly, walking with measured steps until she stood beside him.
"Love isn't logical, I'm afraid. Surely you've realized that by now."
Of course he realized it. His lapse of judgment had tormented him for months on end.
That day, that moment, standing with her alone in that cabin, unable to look away, too possessed by her to reason, too in love with her to think. What had begun as innocent touches had been engulfed by blind passion, spurred on by emotion and the fragility of life. The taste of her skin had never left him, the essence of her still in his pores. The feel of long fingers buried in his hair, clutching his shoulders, stroking his back, these were ingrained now, as vital to his existence as the blood in his veins.
"How am I supposed to do this, mother?"
The raw ache in his voice constricted her chest, making her chin quiver as she steadied her hand.
"Be honest with her," she instructed, touching his shoulder. "And let her be honest with you, even if it hurts. Show her she is loved. Let her hear it from you with regularity, even if she cannot reciprocate for some time." Isobel paused, breathing in audibly as she stared hard at her son. "Be patient with her, Matthew, especially when it comes to engaging any form of physical intimacy."
His face overheated as blood rushed to his head.
"The marriage bed is not exactly a concern for us," he muttered, unable to hold her gaze. "Or have you forgotten?"
"There are other ways to be intimate," she stated matter-of-factly, taking him by surprise. "Ones I hope you will both want to explore someday as trust is rebuilt between you. But do keep in mind that Mary has been badly scarred twice. This may be an area of difficulty for her for some time."
Every muscle he could feel cringed uncomfortably. Was he really having this conversation with his mother?
"I would never force my attentions on her," he insisted. "No matter how limited they may be. Surely you know that."
"Yes," she returned. "I do. Just take things slowly, my dear boy. And listen carefully to what she doesn't say. So much of Mary must be translated in silence."
The truth of her observation struck hard.
If only he had listened to what she had been hesitant to speak after bodies were spent. If he had pushed aside battered pride and heard masked agony, had considered her pain of more importance than his ingrained expectations.
How different would their lives now be?
"Well, I'll leave you for now," Isobel stated, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. "You're a very handsome groom."
"Thank you, mother," he replied, smiling up at her. "For everything. And especially for finding Mary and Christopher." He swallowed with difficulty as bare emotion welled up in his chest. "You know, he's only been a part of my life for a few days, but I cannot even fathom life without him."
Her sniff was muffled, yet it somehow filled the room.
"I'm just glad I was able to help," she responded, her face brimming with mixed emotions. "Now make the most of this opportunity, my darling boy. Don't let that chair stop you from being the husband and father your family needs you to be."
And with that, he was left alone.
The church was cold and quiet, every step towards the altar echoing in a blatant mockery of its empty pews. Her hands trembled even as her palms continued to dampen, her throat so dry she feared her vows would be inaudible.
Just breathe, she instructed herself, approaching her fate unsteadily with more questions than answers. She stared at his back sitting straight in his chair, remembering how it felt beneath her palms, moistened by a sheen of sweat, recalling its bare rejection of her when he left her in that bed.
No. Such thoughts had no place here and now. This was her wedding day.
He then turned his chair in her direction, giving her a smile she had not expected, making her feel light and heavy at the same time. It was the smile she remembered when he walked into the concert, when her heart had stilled at the knowledge that he lived.
God—she didn't know how to feel anymore.
She sensed her father's hesitant stare, knowing this day was nearly as difficult for him as it was for her and Matthew. Disappointed hopes and shattered expectations had led to an emotional retreat, one from which the earl had just begun to emerge when he had first seen her today.
You look lovely, Mary.
She had nearly faltered at this show of tenderness, forcing herself to swallow back tears when he drew her in for an embrace. His smell was a comfort, reminding her of when he had been indestructible in her eyes, an unacknowledged hero for whom she had wished she had been born male.
Now she had a son whose rightful claim to Downton might never be acknowledged. The twisted irony of her life nearly buckled her knees.
Her mother caught her eye, holding Christopher close with a nod of affirmation. So many details had been seen to by Cora, her support of Mary's need to have her child at the ceremony the swaying factor in garnering her father's approval. The only people in attendance not members of the family were Anna, Bates and Carson. Keeping the baby hidden would serve no purpose today.
Anna had taken such care with her hair, and Mary had stared at herself in a wordless fog, seeing the girl she had been dancing with the woman she had become. Silken fabric sliding against her skin was a luxury she had all but forgotten, and she basked in its texture though it did little to warm cool skin.
Was Matthew cold as well, she wondered. She supposed she would soon find out.
Her vision tunneled, blotting out shards of the past and fear of the future. Breath quickened in time with her pulse, and her hands shook rebelliously as she forced herself to look into eyes that saw nothing but her. Could he see the dots of perspiration forming above her lip, betraying her nerves as they taunted chilled fingers and toes? Did he sense the longing of arms unaccustomed to being empty for such stretches of time?
They had arrived at the altar. She could hear nothing but her pulse.
Words spoken filtered through a haze impossible to shake, and it struck her that she couldn't feel her feet. She kept her gaze forward, responding as directed, processing less than she should. Vows spilled from her lips automatically, and she welcomed the numbness protecting her heart from emotions that could split it asunder.
Then she felt it, the stroke of a finger, the warmth of his hand, the first crack in a dam that could not falter. Not here. Not now.
Oh, God, Matthew.
He could still get to her too quickly, could still touch places forbidden, could still render her all but defenseless just by being who he was. His goodness was a torment, forbidding an indifference she needed to survive the next few minutes, the following hours, the upcoming night. If she allowed him a footing, he would overtake her like the incoming tide, leaving her breathless and drowning yet again without the strength to tread water.
She couldn't live like that again. Once had left her heart hemorrhaging and had rendered memory a torment. Pieces of her life still dangled haphazardly, refusing to conform to places they should fit with familiarity. For now, there had to be distance. For now, she could not let him see parts of her still patched and inflamed, too vulnerable for his inspection, too treacherous for her own peace of mind.
His eyes found hers again, brimming with sentiment she was not ready to hear. Then hands were bound, their union declared. Was the ceremony over already? Quiet instructions prodded her onward, and she leaned down to kiss him, seeing hot mortification stain his cheeks at the fact that he could not stand to seal their marriage properly.
His struggle made her wince. Oh, Matthew. Oh, Matthew.
Lips brushed with a lightness that took her breath and rendered her legs unsteady. Her stomach cinched at her body's reaction as fear and longing struggled with guilt for dominance. Why was it his kisses never remained on the surface? What right did they have to push in as they did? How in God's name was she supposed to deny entrance to the one person she had freely given a key? The same person she had just taken as her husband.
They were married. She was his wife.
Oh, God, what had they done?
There was no going back, she knew that well, but moving forward…moving forward…
Her face felt clammy as her head swayed forward. An odd moisture coated her mouth, as her body felt heavy and her feet started to float. Blackness began to dot her vision, and she realized with an odd sort of detachment that she was going to faint.
"Matthew."
His name slid from her throat as his face stared back in shock, and he helplessly watched in horror as her body slid to the floor.
Today is the one year anniversary of the day I posted my first chapter on -Chapter 1 of In the Company of Strangers. What a year this has been! Thank you all for making this journey such a rich one. You have blessed my life. :)