"A contract of true love to celebrate."
-William Shakespeare,The Tempest

There was a feeling of domestic life that swirled around her Mary thought with a small smile. And it was not completely unappealing to be the mistress of this temporary home where all the decisions and they were never questioned. Carson would be proud of the way she ran, what Matthew called, "Crawley Cottage."

Since Isobel had left several days ago; Mary was proud of handling the menu for their meals and making sure the cleaning lady knew not to disturb Matthew if he was asleep. She had to marvel at the fact he seemed to be able to slumber almost anywhere and at the drop of a hat.

Currently, he was stretched out on the devon in the small den off the terrace. The room received excellent afternoon sunshine that he enjoyed basking in, especially as it had turned cold again outside. The temporary reprieve in the winter weather had only lasted so long. It was now no longer possible from him to enjoy so much fresh air. Mary thought it a strange coincidence that the weather had changed, once Isobel had left.

Although there was still a transparent unease between them, they both stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. And so she sat in a parlor chair that offered a view into the den, so that she could keep an eye on the maid. Mary didn't trust her to stay away from her slumbering husband. Matthew's dressing gown was covering the pajamas he was wearing and there was a newspaper still open across his chest. His bare feet were stretched out across an ottoman footstool, but one of his slippers had fallen to the floor. The late morning sunshine was shining all around him, creating a halo effect as it bounced off his golden hair. Mary enjoyed this view.

In the kitchen, she heard the distinct rustling of the cook preparing to leave. Mary left her embroidery on the chair and went to talk with her. For lunch she had prepared quiche, as Matthew was still eating a simple diet and she would return for dinner when ratatouille would be on the menu.

"C'est un plaisir à cuisiner pour les jeunes mariés beaucoup d'amoureux," the bold middle aged woman said as she departed.

Mary stood in shock at this declaration for several minutes, before she stepped outside onto the terrace for fresh air. She needed to feel the sharp bite of the cold to make the flush of her red cheeks relinquish. The ocean waves crashed into the beach as Mary stared at this picturesque view.

"It is a pleasure to cook for newlyweds so much in love," the woman had declared.

Everyone could see what she didn't want them to see. She felt exposed by the cheerful words that seemed so obvious to the cook. When her teeth started to rattle, Mary went inside. She noticed the cleaning lady straying dangerously close to the den and decided to change her focus. Mary asked her to prepare some tea and biscuits. As she once again resumed her seat with her embroidery, she noticed her husband yawn and stretch as he awoke.

Looking at him and knowing what she knew, pained her like a throbbing toothache. Matthew turned her gazing eyes and she looked away. Muffling another yawn he picked up the newspaper that was draped across his chest and resumed reading it, as though he had not just awoken from a nap.

"Good heavens!" He exclaimed with excitement, which made Mary look up from her needlework. His remaining slipper fell from his foot with a soft thud.

"Mary!" he called as he held the newspaper. Matthew pulled himself up and came rushing towards her.

"Hariclea Darclée is to appear in the title role of the opera, La Tosca," Matthew said with exuberance. "Her last performance is the day after tomorrow in Florence."

Mary felt rather embarrassed that she didn't know what he was talking about and so she was silent. Matthew stood before her barefoot in his pajamas with an almost childish grin of excitement, but she couldn't share his animation. She felt irrational jealousy towards this woman with a peculiar name, Hariclea; it was ridiculous.

However, the location stirred something in her; Florence. The city he had wanted to take her to as in apology after the debacle on Christmas Day. It all fell into place in her mind suddenly. Matthew had wanted to tell her something that day; presumably he had tried and failed to share his secret. Now she had another chance it was divine prophecy intervening on their behalf. Could she accept now?

He stepped closer and showed her the paper. "I'd love to take you to this, to salvage our…" Matthew paused, "honeymoon," the word seemed to be choked out as though he had swallowed a bitter pill.

And yet his tone was still pleasant as he continued, "It would be something memorable for us before we go home."

Mary smiled as she stared at the picture in the paper, and then she looked up into his hopeful face.

"Well," she said standing up, "You've already made our honeymoon memorable."

Mary had not meant the remark to sound callous and yet Matthew reacted as though he had been slapped. He took a small step backwards. She hadn't realized he was this sensitive about her wording and it slightly aggravated her, that he would always seemingly assume the worst. Speaking their own awkward words, without the finesse of quotations, however, was a necessary evil. And so she tried to pick up on the wording that had so pleased her.

"I think this is a fine idea," Mary said with a smile. "I'm not ready to go home either," she said.

He reached for her hand and she offered it without hesitation.

"So, wife, you will let me take you to Florence?" Matthew said lightheartedly the mirth having returned to his tone.

"Yes, husband," she responded without delay.

When the maid arrived with the tea and biscuits, Mary didn't automatically release his hand and her husband's tender smile spread across his face. It wasn't much, but it was a start in the right direction. For if Mary knew how to say, 'I love you,' with her eyes, she would have.

It was dusk as they arrived in Florence, a city sheltered in a mountain basin; the heart of Tuscany and the birthplace of the renaissance. An ancient and stately mediaeval city that was surrounded by olive groves and rolling hills.

"Where are we going?" Mary said as she clutched her husband's arm. She did not know any details about where they were staying. It was a mysterious adventure that had her feeling a very pleasant excitement that tingled throughout her body. Although this experience could easily be interpreted as the damp snow crunched under their shoes, Mary disregarded the notion. She was induced to sniff the air as it was filled with the aroma of roasting chestnuts and wood smoke. The savory smells made her stomach growl.

"Hmm," she said at the pleasant aroma. Mary saw the smile on Matthew's face at her reaction. It almost made her blush. A lady should not hum under her breath. And yet he didn't tease her, instead he shared her sentiment as he too sniffed the air.

"A smell, a true Florentine smell, every city let me teach you, has its own smell."

Matthew's breath came out in swirls as he spoke through the chilled air. Mary squeezed his arm at this quotation from their favorite book. She found herself closing her eyes, only for a second as she enjoyed this moment.

"We will turn right at the banks of the Arno River and cross by using the Ponte Vecchio, which is the oldest bridge in Florence. The Medici's, Leonardo Da Vinci, Dante, and Machiavelli; we are walking in their footsteps. For this city is the home of legends," Matthew said with enthusiasm. His lecture continued, "Did you know that the most English of ladies, our foremost British heroine, Florence Nightingale, was also born here?"

"Indeed?" Mary said her voice reserved and clipped on purpose. She was bewildered by his ramblings, unsure of whether it was evidence of nerves or arrogance.

"Yes," he said quietly. He cleared his throat and they walked in silence for several moments.

"Our destination is on the end of the coming street," Matthew offered.

"I can't wait till we reach our hotel and see our suite," Mary said.

"Yes," Matthew said, "I just hope they have a suite."

Mary stopped walking and Matthew was now surprised by her actions.

"What?" He asked curiously.

"Do you mean they are not expecting us? How presumptuous you can be!"

"Mary," Matthew said nonplused by her arrogance, "Trust me, this is how people travel," he said defiantly. "Besides, I did send a telegram."

She bit her tongue refraining from saying something uncouth as other people stepped around them on the crowded city streets. This was certainly not how her kind of people travelled. However, Mary took a deep breath and allowed him to lead her forward. It was impossible frustrating that he provoked such overwhelming feelings; her only defense was retreating away with feigned aggression. There was silence between them until Matthew pointed at their destination.

It was a glorious stone palace complete with an ancient medieval tower. The evergreen hedges surrounding it were a beautiful green despite the traces of snow that covered them. And as they entered the gate their promenade path was illuminated with colored lanterns.

"I hope they have A Room with a View," she said optimistically, her mood having already shifted again. It was after all her dearest desire to stay in this city, and with this man.

Her husband laughed and responded confidently, "They will."

His leather gloves patted hers gently with encouragement.

An hour later they had indeed secured a lovely suite which had a stunning view over the river Arno. And their hunger had also been soothed with a rich, slightly earthy plate of little parcels of ravioli stuffed with truffles and prosciutto. And furthermore Matthew's appetite seemed to have returned as he had also chosen the same menu selection. Mary watched him as he was still eating a strange spongy desert that had different colors. He picked around the candied fruits and nuts. Suddenly she was curious about what it would taste like, her interest trumping the fact that she had declined desert already.

"What is that?" Mary asked.

Matthew looked up his spoon gently placed back onto the rim of the bowl.

"Gelato," he said as he used his napkin. "It is a cold iced cream. I think the flavors are cherry, vanilla and pistachio, to match the Italian flag's colors," Matthew paused. "Would you like to try it?"

Mary looked into his eyes and saw the dormant spark flicker before her. She knew it was very improper to share a desert. However, she was on her honeymoon and she was devilishly curious about the strange desert. She used the correct spoon, unlike her husband as she tasted the cold treat. It surprised her with its light refreshing taste. With Matthew's unspoken consent, Mary continued to finish the treat. He watched her taking great interest in her enjoyment. Florence was proving to have its own explicit powers, cascading and recreating romantic moments from the power of food. The warm wax offertory candles flickered between them, releasing only the smallest crackle of noise. Matthew sipped his Chianti and smiled at her before his eyes then wandered about the dinning room.

"Tomorrow," Matthew said, he paused as he set his empty wine glass down.

"No," Mary said impulsively. This man before her, she could read and his heart was on his sleeve. Whatever he had planned she was already excited.

"Don't tell me," she said, "Surprise me."

Matthew's jaw dropped before he resumed his composure and nodded. Mary wasn't sure if she had ever seen him look so happy. However, then the moment was broken by their waiter and they both looked away. Mary felt her courage building as she thought of the three little words in her heart and her head. Soon she hoped she could speak them from her lips. Perhaps he would even say them first, for Mary believed anything was now possible.

Mary had always been rather a light sleeper, but since the events in Paris and Crawley Cottage; she found herself awakening over any small noise. She rubbed her eyes as she wondered why she couldn't sleep this time. However, then she heard the noise again. It was a soft muttering. Mary sat up in bed and leaned forward. They had without discussion, left the door open between their separate suites.

Although it was dark, there was enough moonlight so that she could see Matthew was flailing in bed. He was lying flat on his back and his head turned on his pillow as though he was dodging blows. Mary shivered as she watched him. It was somewhat chilled in their suite her practical mind told her. The only heating source was from several small potbelly stoves as there was no fireplace lit at night, the winter weather being mild.

Mary grabbed her shawl and slippers and peaked closer to inspect her husband. She watched as he dreamt unable to decide whether she should wake him or not. Matthew gasped and coughed, before turning onto his uninjured side. Mary watched his labored breathing and the way his fingers clutched the thick, ornate bedding. And that was when she realized, he was awake. Their eyes met and Matthew was the first to speak.

"I'm sorry," he said bleakly. His voice was trembling and spiteful as he barked his next command. "You can go back to your bed, I'm fine."

Mary made a rash decision. She crossed the distance between them and perched on his bed. He was not going to tell her what to do.

"What on earth are you doing?" Matthew snapped. "I said I'm fine."

"Well," Mary said. "That maybe," there was a tone of disbelief in her voice. "But, the fact remains I'm cold."

His mouth opened to speak, but nothing happened.

"Oh," was all Matthew finally said as he struggled to sit up.

Mary's perceptive eyes trained onto his pale face. After the bout with illness he had been through, he should not risk another relapse. She couldn't bare it.

"It is only practical that we share a bed, because there is a chill in the air," Mary said.

She didn't wait for his consent while she crossed to the other side of the bed. Mary did not remove her shawl, only her slippers. She was surprised when Matthew pulled back the covers for her. Mary slipped beneath the blankets and offered a timid smile of appreciation. To distract him Mary quickly spoke about the subject she knew Matthew didn't want to dwell on.

"So," Mary said as she folded the blankets neatly around her body. "Shall we talk about this nightmare you've had. Is it the same from 'Crawley Cottage,'?" Her fingers idly played with the braid in her hair.

"What makes you think, I would want to talk about that?" Matthew asked with irritation.

"Nothing," Mary said with surprise at his agitation.

She saw a new side to her husband, the wounded animal aspect. If only she had more compassion in her personality, then she would be able to reach him. However, she was a woman in need of a great many things. She had spent so much time focused on what she had been denied, had she ever focused on anything else? When had she ever selflessly helped anyone?

"I confess I don't know anything," Mary said quietly. "And I am sorry I don't know how to help you."

"Oh Mary," he said at her rebuke. "That's not true. You've been marvelous and amazing; I'm the brute. I'm sorry, truly, I'm sorry," he repeated the words tenderly.

She felt an anchors worth of pain, drop into the ocean of her unknown emotions. He had always understood her better than anyone else. And then it happened, perhaps it was an accident for it only lasted a mere second. But it surprised her none the less when her bare cold foot touched that of her husband. Mary looked at him and saw something flicker in his gaze. It was a warm and comforting glance. She should have relished it however; it was so far from her true feelings. Matthew's intentions appeared chaste while hers were hot-blooded and passionate with love. He was too much of a gentleman, or perhaps she simply couldn't read her now guarded husband. Why didn't he simply kiss her? She was in his bed after all.

And so she took a chance.

"...though nothing is damaged, everything is changed." Mary said quoting from A Room with a View. Let the words speak for me, she thought in desperation.

"Our book," he said quietly. He put his hand through his hair as he bit his lip. "Do you really want to know?" Matthew asked with trepidation.

Mary observed his manors with starry eyes, it was unfair and impractical and yet everything he seemed to do pleased her immensely. He had the best possible countenance to calm her own frayed nerves. It took her an instant to understand he was speaking about his dream. Mary nodded feeling so many sensations inside her she could hardly process them all.

"Please tell me," she said quietly.

She felt lightheaded, although she knew that was preposterous as she had only had one glass of Chianti with their dinner.

"Okay," he said. Matthew licked his lips and then reached for the glass of water on his bedside table. After taking a sip, he muffled a yawn behind his hand. He leaned back against the headboard of the bed, his head knocking against it and began talking after a deep breath.

"Well, I've been dreaming about the operation I had in the Paris hospital. I'm awake without anesthetic as my organs are poked and prodded. It is rather graphic. Sometimes I can see there are spectators watching from the operating theater gallery," Matthew paused. He bit his lip and shifted against the pillows.

"Go, on," Mary said seeing his hesitation. "I'm listening."

Matthew's hand unconsciously went to his side. Although there were no longer any stitches or bandages, and yet he felt compelled it seemed to check.

"Well, the dénouement of the dream is that the doctor who is wearing a mask, reveals himself…" Matthew's voice was only a whisper. "And he is my father."

He reached for the glass of water again and this time opened the small tin on the bedside table. Matthew washed several aspirin down with a sip of the liquid.

"I know that feeling of a being a pawn all too well," Mary said with surprising strength in her voice. She wondered about the reference to his father. Presumably he meant Dr. Crawley, but she couldn't be sure. Maybe he had known his actual father, perhaps he was still alive and this was why Isobel would not tell her about his birth parents.

"Do you ever have nightmares?" Matthew asked breaking her train of thought.

"No," she said confessing, "I suppose this means I'm not a good enough person to let emotions affect me that way."

"I wouldn't mourn the lack of nonsensical night terrors," Matthew said kindly. "Because what I see is a strong woman, a storm braver."

"Well," Mary said feeling her dark mood start to lift. "We will have to agree to disagree."

Matthew chuckled before he yawned again. They had traveled a great distance today and not all of it was purely geography.

"You can rest now," Mary said seeing his drooping eyes and overall drowsiness. "I'll stay until you fall asleep."

"Thank you," Matthew said quietly as he moved to once again recline against the pillows.

"And to show my gratitude," he yawned before speaking again.

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep."

"The Tempest," Mary said fondly.

She was amazed at how quickly he relaxed beside her. And that play had always been her favorite of Shakespeare's non-comedy plays. The theme of a banished Duke plotting to restore his daughter Miranda to her rightful place had obvious appeal to her situation in life. But, her father would never read this play, despite her suggestion he would enjoy it. He would not fight for her using magical illusion and skillful manipulation, as the Duke did in the play. No, her father stood idly by. It was Matthew that once again impressed her. He seemed to have known, or at least presumed she would have such affection for that play. In the past when their interests had combined, she had felt a pang of vulnerability. However, now that was not the case. Mary felt as though she finally had an ally to fight her corner.

Mary settled herself in the warm bed. She adjusted the covers and watched Matthew who had already fallen asleep. It was rather pleasant a sensation. Although she had seen this sight countless times in the past several weeks, she did not tire of it. Talking of his nightmare made her feel truly helpful for the first time. It had taken little slivers of her festering worries away. Whatever questions it had raised within her were not as important as that simple truth. The lies that had separated them were like a melting snowman, soon they might all just disappear.

Furthermore, she was in Florence, la cittá bella; which meant the beautiful city. Mary released a sigh of happiness. Matthew had tomorrow planned, whatever may occur she was already enchanted. It was almost more than she could bear or understand to be granted such feelings. Mary looked away from her sleeping husband. She stared at the vaulted ceilings as the euphoria she felt translated into a surreal drowsiness. Mary could finally relax.

As she closed her eyes, her last thought floated peacefully through her mind; Is this how it truly worked? Is this the business of marriage? Since Mary didn't claim to know what she was doing, she made herself comfortable in the space next to, but not touching her husband.

Husband, it was such a beautiful word.

Thanks for reading!

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