Author's Note: First, major props to GE for helping me with this chapter. She has been helping me with some historical research on a particular topic which I cannot share because it could give things away...Although a few of you know because I really do give away minor hints when I respond to reviewers. There should also be another update tomorrow as well. Yay! And it's a little bit lighter. Somewhat. Thanks for everything, guys! ***OK, I know you're getting two updates on this chapter but I just had to add that GE and I bantering back and forth about Dr. Clarkson totally inspired this scene and the following rabbit holes. Also, if you are lucky, (and review) there might be TWO updates today...We shall see!
Chapter Twenty One
Violet purposely wore black, her best, most expensive frock.
She also purposely laid the hideous ruby and diamond encrusted, three tiered monstrosity around her neck. It was heavy, which did not surprise her. Sir Richard had always been keen on weighing Mary down.
She already knew that she would not kneel before him, figuratively or literally, and beg on Mary's behalf. She would relay the situation, as she saw it, and the consequences of any continued actions, as she saw them, without emotion or desperation. She was not emotional or desperate. She was sure. She was determined.
She would keep her chin level, eyes cold. She wasn't above using the dignity of her age, the coldness of it, the way she could hold herself as still as a statue without blinking and deliver verbal death blows without moving a muscle, if necessary. But she did not wait for Sir Richard as Mary did that day, when she implored him to secure her Pamuk secret, Violet and Isobel barged in without an appointment.
"Never underestimate the value of a surprise attack," Violet quoted on the ride through London.
The day before Violet has insisted Isobel come to her house "to talk things over." But Violet immediately pushed clothes on her, calling her ladies maid, "The dress, the silk, with the lace, I wore it the end of last summer..oh, and the shoes, the patent leather..." until a mountain of beautiful black frocks and accessories lay atop Violet's bed.
"I have my own clothes," Isobel complained.
"You must wear black," Violet insisted.
"Well I have black clothes too." Isobel couldn't help but roll her eyes. Violet was acting as if this was a play with costumes and finally Isobel said as much.
"No," Violet reasoned. "This is not a play. This is a war. The look is important. I know you have black clothes but I need you to look expensive, not middle class."
"Upper middle class," Isobel corrected automatically.
It was Violet's turn to roll her eyes. "Excuse me, upper middle class. But when we see Sir Richard we must look the part. I will wear the necklace and you will wear my late mother-in-law's ostentatious ruby earrings. They're gigantic. Sir Richard will adore them."
"But why does it matter what we wear?" Isobel asked, in that matter of fact tone of hers. "We know what we must do it. We need to know what we will say."
"No, no, no." Violet shook her hand. "You do not understand. You are considering this a direct attack and it is not. I have known men like Sir Richard. He has his money; he has his mansions; he has his newspapers. But the one thing he wants, he can never, ever have."
Violet caught Isobel's attention. She leaned forward. "Mary?"
Violet shook her head impatiently at her pupil. "No, not Mary! It was never about Mary! He wants to be an aristocrat and it is not a club that accepts new members."
She paused, running over in her mind some way for Isobel, this upper middle class woman, to understand. "Oh for heaven's sake, haven't you ever read Pride and Prejudice, when the nasty aunt visits Elizabeth, berating her, and Elizabeth says but I am a gentleman's daughter and the aunt says nastily, well who is your mother and who is your father and who were their parents?"
"I seem to...recall that, yes," Isobel murmured. Who knew that Violet read novels?
"Well that is exactly what Sir Richard hears in his own head every time he attends a party or a ball or visits an estate. He's welcomed because he's rich. But he knows everyone is thinking..."
"Who is your mother, who is your father," Isobel recited, catching on. She nodded her head, like a student who'd just done particularly well on an exam. "Or worse... that no one is thinking of him at all." She felt strangely pleased when Violet nodded. "But what does that have to do with us and the way we are dressed?"
Violet waved her hand. "You forget, Isobel. He's a man. It's the illusion that matters. That's why he wanted to marry Lady Mary. But even then, with her hand on his arm, he was still not be welcomed into the club. His own fiancé did not think he belonged there. He embarrassed her and she made that painfully clear. It's one of the many reasons he hates her."
"Yes, I see that!" Isobel stated with vexation. "I see that you are the Dowager Countess. But who am I?"
"You," Violet said quite primly. "Are the future Earl of Grantham's mother. You are the grandmother of the future Earl's children. The future Earl whom he always detested. We'll make up a title for you. The stupid man could never learn them anyway," she sniffed, as if he was there in person to insult. "Trust me when we walk in, in these fine frocks, and our fine red," she spat the word, "jewels. We already have the upper hand. We have already beaten him because he can never be us. Ever. No matter what."
"I must say," Isobel spoke after a moment of glancing at the mountain of black silk, chiffon, and lace, "you have put a lifetime of thought into this."
Violet tilted her head and quite nearly gave Isobel a friendly look. "If you knew my mother-in-law, you would have a lifetime of experience gaining the upper hand as well."
The next day, when they walked into the offices, both Isobel and Violet, never looked better. "But you don't have an appointment..." Sir Richard's secretary began to say. She stopped in the middle of her sentence, silenced by one sharp glance from Violet.
Then, abruptly Violet turned her head in the other direction and Isobel followed her lead, the two of them, calmly opening the door to Sir Richard's private sanctum, together, as a unit.
For the most part, he looked the same, sharply dressed, his hair coiffed to hide its thinness. Perhaps there were a few more lines around his face, it was hard to tell because his mouth dropped open upon seeing his visitors. Isobel observation was true; Sir Richard had always been a little more than afraid of Lady Mary's granny. Perhaps he'd expected Mary to come see him, or Matthew. But not Violet and certainly not Isobel.
"Oh Sir Richard," Violet said, both disdain and pity for him crystalizing every word. "I would say that it's nice to see you, but let's be honest from the beginning of our meeting. We never really liked each other, did we?"
"Dowager Countess, Mrs. Crawley," he replied, standing briefly, behind his desk, his lips curling up the way they always did, so one could never tell if he was smiling or smirking. "To what do I owe..."
"I believe you should refer to me as the Most Honorable Lady Crawley," Isobel interrupted as she'd been instructed with as much pomp and circumstance as she could muster. Violet had assured her that Sir Richard would take her at her word as long as she appeared believable.
"You've come up in the world then?" He steepled his hands together and sat back in his chair as if nothing else, he was prepared to be entertained. "Weren't you a nurse?"
"My son is the future Earl of Grantham, my daughter-in-law is Lady Mary, the future Countess of Grantham. I haven't come up in the world at all, you see. It's my son's right by blood," Isobel again repeated her lines, trying to imitate Violet's stillness, her coolness. She could hear Violet in her head: we must throw him off his game immediately. All the focus must be on you at first.
"Only after the current Earl fathered no sons and his heirs died on the Titanic." Sir Richard smiled, his lips curving upwards the way some men's mustaches do. He'd certainly never been afraid to speak his mind. "Rights by blood but fourth in line nonetheless."
"Your father sired a son. What are you in line to become, Sir Richard?" Violet finally spoke, her voice the same it would be over polite dinner conversation. "What relatives do you have that might bring you up in the world? Who has to die for you to be anyone worth mentioning?"
He stopped smiling. His lips uncurled. Violet had warned Isobel that after the first shot, things might (would) get nasty.
"Do you like my necklace?" Violet inquired innocently after he did not reply to her question.
Sir Richard took a moment to reply. "I like it very much. I must have liked it, since I bought it."
"That is one thing I could count on you for: honesty," Violet complimented kindly. But her voice sounded bored when she continued. "But I never could count on your taste level. This necklace is ostentatious, vulgar, and reeking of your own bitterness. Poor Cousin Isobel had to smell your desperation the whole drive here."
"Don't worry," Isobel improvised. "We opened a window."
"But we could still hear the necklace, couldn't we, Cousin?" Violet continued. "How could we ignore the way it screamed Look at me. I'm important. I'm rich. I'm powerful."
"Don't forget: I'm bitter." For a moment, Isobel began to enjoy herself, but then she remembered why they had come. "I did hear it screaming all those things. But the funny thing is" she tilted her head, as if she were about to give the punchline to a joke, "it never said: I am somebody. I was bought by somebody who matters."
"Ladies," Sir Richard stood. "If you think I have time for this, you're wrong."
"Oh sit down, Sir Richard. Let's be honest with one another. Or are you afraid of two old ladies?" Violet violet baited him. Let him think us weak before we go in for the kill, she thought gleefully while her face remained a regal mask. "Aren't you going to congratulate us on the marriage we have all been waiting for? The one we hoped and prayed would take place for so long. Even when things seemed impossible, even when she was engaged to you, we still held on to hope...I know you never quite got the hang of our types of manners but still you should offer congratulations to the family..." Her voice petered out meaningfully.
"I already sent my congratulations to Lady Mary," he smiled again, flicking his lips up. The gesture began to remind Violet of a snake's tongue, hissing out. "Aren't you going to congratulate me on my recent wedding?"
"To who? A slatern?" Violet replied sweetly. "Or is it the carpenter's daughter?"
"Her name is Marianne Carlisle and we are very happy. Thank you." He stated though he jerked his shoulders as if his suit was uncomfortable, two tight between his shoulders.
"No title there either," Violet muttered out of the corner of her mouth for Isobel's benefit and of course, loud enough for Sir Richard to hear. "Poor dear has no idea what she's gotten herself into."
"I think you would like her, truly. You can meet her for yourself. After all, we will be neighbors." His smile grew, that obnoxious, gleeful snake mouth. Isobel truly began to believe that a layer of slime had to be oozing out of his pores beneath his expensive suit. "We're reopening Haxby Park."
Stay cool, stay cold, Violet instructed herself, and willed Isobel to do the same. "Oh? I thought you sold."
"Your son wrote to me, imploring me to sell, many times over the years, for the good of the county," he recounted, grinning that sly little grin, again with his steepled fingers.
"And your reply?" Violet asked.
"I told him, Have Mary come see me and I'll consider it." He paused. "I never did hear back from him after that...I heard she fled the country."
Violet stood with her stick, she took careful steps towards his desk. Isobel felt out of her element and could only mimic the expert, Violet, and do the same.
"Stand up," Violet commanded in a voice as hard as iron. "Be a man for once in your pathetic life." He did as she asked, but he was humoring her, shrugging his shoulders, casually putting his hands in his pockets. "I know what you did. If you ever try to contact her in any way again, or Matthew, or their children, or any of us..."
"What, your Ladyship?" he asked. "Will you slap me on my wrists?" He held them out to her and was quite surprised when she did actually knock them, quite brutally aside with her stick.
"I'll do worse than that. I can close every door in London to you with a few telephone calls. I can give your competitor's such salacious gossip that your paper would be left, alone in the newspaper stands or worse, used as paper to wipe some less savory acts of hygiene ."
"And I could print the story of Mary and Pamuk," he grinned, though his wrists did ache quite a lot.
"My, my," Violet chortled. "You are an idiot. I am sure many people would believe the word of a jilted fiancé. Especially anyone who knows your sparkling personality."
He grimaced. He was tired of the conversation. His suit felt itchy. "Do not threaten me."
"Or what? You'll have your way with me?" She laughed unkindly.
She continued: "It's not a threat. I'm warning you, out of kindness, since we almost were family, what the consequences will be if you do not heed my advice." Then, she slammed her stick down on his desk.
"You think I don't know you? That you're some mystery to me? I know you perfectly well. I watched you as you watched Mary love a man who could not walk more than she loved you, the man who bought her a vulgar house. She would have thrown you over for a man who she pushed in a wheelchair. I saw you after she pushed the wedding back by months and months. You're nobody. You're nothing." She had to take a breath because the next part was terribly hard. "I saw what you did to her and I've watched her rebuild her life. You're still nothing. You're still nobody. She is still Lady Mary. And one day she will be the Countess of Grantham."
Violet grabbed the necklace around her throat and yanked it towards him, her own body following, as if she was a horse being lead by a particularly brutal master. "Did you think this would make you matter, you pathetic fool? Nothing has, nothing will, nothing ever could make you matter."
He didn't mean to say it, the words just slipped out. He didn't have her control, her finesse. And wasn't that always his problem? "I loved her. By God, I loved her. Maybe I still do. What do you know about it?"
"That," Isobel stated coldly, leaning her gloved hands onto his polished desk, "is a lie. Rape," and she let the word hang in the air, uglier, nastier, than any necklace could ever be, "is never about love."
"Clearly, you don't know what you're talking about, Mrs. Crawley." Adjusting his cufflinks, he began to walk around his desk to see them out.
"Yes, I do." Her voice rang clear as a bell. For the first time since meeting her, Violet was thrilled to hear Isobel's righteous tone. "Rape," again the word simmered in the air, "is about power and control, two things Mary never gave you. And never will."
"Goodbye," Violet said simply and the two women walked past him, opening the door themselves. At the last moment, she tore the necklace from her neck (she'd practiced the move several times the day before; it had to look effortless and well...it wasn't) and threw it at him. It hit him in the chest before he could collect himself. "Give that to your wife. You can use it as her leash. Good day," and she waved her little hand at him as if he was exactly what she'd called him...nothing.
When they reached the car, the two women could finally relax their postures. They were both breathing hard; it took quite a bit of work to remain so cool. "Well," Isobel asked. "You're the maestro. How did it go? Maybe we should have talked about Mary more, and less about him?"
"It went perfectly. You were wonderful. We were splendid. We won this battle but not the war, my friend," Violet cautioned. "Sir Richard's folly is not Mary. It's himself."
"What are you talking about? You called this the war, today! You told me this would be enough!"
Violet sighed deeply, held a hand to her temple. "That was before I had to kill my son for neglecting to mention that Sir Richard still owned Haxby Park."
For a moment her age showed, her hands trembled a bit. "No, I'm afraid that there are going to be several bloody battles before this is over."
Mary and Dr. Clarkson had agreed on one more day in bed, just to be on the safe side. Although as soon as he left, she rolled her eyes and looked at Matthew seriously. "That man is not delivering our child."
"I didn't know you had such strong feelings about him. Wasn't he your childhood physician?" Matthew replied, a little taken aback by her passion.
"Yes," she spat. "He told Mama and Papa that Edith definitely did not have the chicken pox and what do you know? The next day Sybil and I were itching away!"
He leaned over, his arms on either side of her to kiss her frowning mouth. "I think you're holding a grudge, Lady Mary."
"Oh, I'm holding a grudge all right." She crossed her arms. "But it's not about some childhood illness. It's about his misdiagnosis of you!"
Matthew sat beside her then, shaking his head. "Mary..."
"I mean, doesn't it strike you as a little ironic that the man who told you that you would never have children is counseling us on this pregnancy?" Sometimes keeping up with her made his head spin. "He told you that you would never walk again. Then, when a second doctor didn't agree with him, he lied to you. And then..."
Matthew put his head in hands, not because the topic was difficult for him. No, he'd laid down that burden a long time ago but because he knew once Mary got on her soap box there was no getting her down. It reminded him a bit of his mother but he knew he risked his life if he told her that. But he lifted his head when she stopped speaking and saw her lip was beginning to quiver.
"And then what?" he asked patiently, though to be honest, he didn't know how much more crying he could take.
But Mary bravely did not let any tears fall. "And then you all thanked him. Like he had done you some great service by not getting your hopes up. I was there. I was with you. You talked about rolling into the lake, for God's sake. Would hope have been so bad? He made you think your life as you knew it was over and meanwhile another doctor would have told you, in a few months, you'll be dancing."
"I see your point, darling," he said, patting her hand, trying to do anything to keep her from crying. "He was just doing what he thought was best."
Her eyes were instantly dry, as she went to her knees in front of him. "That's the point, don't you see? He doesn't know what in the hell he is talking about."
"Did you just say hell?"
She sat back against the pillows and more quietly finished. "I feel very passionate about this. I don't want him seeing us through this pregnancy."
"All right, if that's what you want. I suppose...I even see your point..."
She was muttering under her breath. "Just wait until tomorrow and see if you're sick, Lady Mary, just wait until tomorrow, to see if you miscarry, my foot!"
"Mary," Matthew murmured. "If we stay here, Dr. Clarkson will not be involved in the pregnancy. We'll go to London, find someone else. I don't know. And if we are back in New York, then we'll find a doctor there." He pressed his palm to her cheek. "But please, you must relax. Let me get you a glass of water."
"I'm tired of water," she said, rather petulantly.
"But this one isn't." He placed a hand on her belly and rubbed.
She sighed. Later, she would tell him about Richard. Later, tonight. Just not quite yet. Not when things finally seemed better between them."Fine."
When he returned, he had a glass in one hand and Gracie in his other arm. "Guess who is awake?"
Mary sat up, looked at the little girl who was rubbing her eyes. Her hair was a disaster, as it usually was after a nap. "She was only down for ten minutes."
"Yes," Matthew agreed, setting the water down so he could cuddle the girl in both of his arms. "But someone was giving a rather loud, rather passionate speech...and cursing." Mary's face colored. "You know what I think would be just wonderful? If we all took a nap!" His girls looked at him cynically. Naps were not wonderful. But he was exhausted and so were they. "We can all lay in this big bed together, just Mama, Papa, and Gracie."
"Baby!" Gracie murmured, pointing to Mary's stomach.
Matthew kissed her forehead. "Baby, too."
"Wawa," Gracie whispered pointing to the glass on the nightstand.
Matthew set Grace in the middle of the bed. "Do you want to try to drink it like a big girl? In a big girl glass?"
Gracie knuckled sleep from her eyes and nodded. Mary handed the glass to Matthew who held it for Gracie, who sipped delicately at it. "No mo'." She said at last and the glass was passed back to Mary.
"All right," whispered Matthew, "the door is closed. I've closed the curtains. Let's all snuggle up under this blanket together." Gracie fell asleep grinning, so pleased to be sleeping in between her mama and papa, within two minutes.
Mary ran her hand through Gracie's hair. Matthew reached out an arm that could just barely encompass the whole family. "You're so good with her," Mary whispered as quietly as possible looking at the little girl. "I don't even think you realize it." She met his eyes, heavily lidded, already drowsy. "And I'm not just saying that to make up for what I said the other night. It's true. You really are good with her, the best, really."
His eyes were almost closed. "Please don't cry."
She laughed silently. "I'm not going to cry. I'm just saying that I've known men who weren't comfortable around her and you're more than comfortable with her than anyone. You're stupendous."
Matthew's eyes popped open. He was no longer as tired as he'd thought. "What men?"
"That's what you took away from what I was saying?"
"What men? Was that man with the dog, the one in the letter, was he one of them?" he asked stubbornly. The man with the gray eyes, he thought nastily. "I'm just supposed to fall asleep after you drop such a bomb?"
"It was just one man," she reached a hand up to smooth his hair. She loved his hair. "He wasn't ever important. He couldn't ever be."
"Because of Gracie," Matthew supplied.
She looked at him, carefully leaned over their child and kissed him, slowly, quietly, the perfect nap time kiss. "Because of you too," she whispered against his lips."Didn't you read that letter last night at all?"
They fell asleep, all curled together, and for the first time, everything felt exactly right.
Her cold toes, found his calf but he allowed it anyway. Gracie's hand kept flinging Matthew in the face until he gently rolled her onto her stomach, so she could stick her bum in the air. Mary burrowed, beneath the blankets, even her pillow, her breath across his arm. They could have been in New York or Downton Abbey itself. They could have been anywhere.
Later after a quiet dinner, and putting Gracie to sleep, Matthew went into the wardrobe and took out one of Mary's nightgowns: it was silk and the color of crushed purple grapes. "Catch," he called and she laughed. "I promise my mother will never see you in it."
"We still can't..." but this time she frowned. "I miss being with you that way."
He went to her then, took her face in his hands and kissed her. He went on kissing her until she'd backed up against the wall, her arms winding around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. "Tomorrow is Sunday," he murmured as his hands rushed over her. "On Monday, we'll get mother to watch Gracie and you and I will go to London and get the final word on if..."
She sucked in a breath as he pulled her blouse away from her neck so he could press kisses to her shoulders. "Historically, doctors have said that you shouldn't, when you're with child. But Granny said that she and Grandfather did it anyway during both..." He stopped his affections to her neck for a moment.
"I know you don't want to hear that right now. It's just I haven't had your hands on me in days and my brain is so fuzzy. But all that to say, most doctors today say that it's perfectly all right throughout the pregnancy, unless it's uncomfortable for the mother."
His hands were on her breasts, gently massaging, and she could feel his smile against his cheek. "It sounds like you've done your research."
"Of course, I've done my research," she panted a little. "Nine months is a long time. But you have to stop. On Monday we'll see the doctor and we'll see..." He backed up about three inches; she grinned and pushed him farther away. "Move. I've got to go change in the bathroom."
"You've never changed in there since we've been married." He quirked his head at her.
"If you must know," she replied as haughtily as possible. "My skirt was tighter than usual this morning, just a bit. And that means it's beginning and I just think I would like to be in the habit of getting dressed and undressed without you seeing me flub about."
He grabbed her hips. "But you know that I like, thinking of you, my wife, carrying my child. It pleases me." His words against her ear made her shiver.
"Well I don't understand it," she snapped, pushed him away again, and walked to the bathroom. "And when I come out, we must have a serious conversation and you're going to be angry at me so you can just forget all those lovely images you have in your head right now."
When she came out, he was already in bed. The nightgown felt so short that she pulled on the hem. "Is this the hard thing you have to tell me?" he asked and held out his hand for her.
"Yes," she said softly.
"Well then, I think you should tell me while you're sitting on my lap, in that nightgown. It will put me in a much better mood, I promise."
Because she really was that desperate and because she really was worried about his reaction, she complied. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed herself against him, as if she could hold him to her and keep him from storming off to London to kill Sir Richard. "I know you can't promise not to be mad," she whispered into his ear sadly. "But can you promise to just...maybe...not be so mad?"
He pulled her away by the arms so he could see her face. "What's going on?"
"I don't want to cry," but her lip trembled. "But I am just so worried that you will..."
"Mary, Darling." He pressed his thumb to her lips. "I can't help you or put your mind at ease until you tell me what is going on."
"You remember Sir Richard." Looking back, it probably wasn't the best way to start the conversation. She was just so nervous that he would take it badly, that it would upset him. She remembered how much it upset her, how much it still did. She wasn't any good at sharing burdens, and kept flexing her hands.
She watched his jaw tighten, much as it had on the night he'd caught Sir Richard grabbing her arm, and then he nodded. "Well, the other day, there was this box addressed to me. So I opened it and it was from him." Make it sound simple, she advised herself.
"Where is this box?" Matthew spoke so slowly, so calmly that Mary started to shiver and this time it was not because he was whispering in her ear.
"I gave it to Granny and your mother," she admitted, looking down at her lap.
"When was this?" God, his voice was calm, devoid of emotion. She did not know what she expected but it wasn't this, the rage beneath the surface of calm. Perhaps they were more alike than they knew.
"Oh," Mary picked at a thread on his pajamas. "Sometime this week."
"Mary," he warned.
"The day I fell." she whispered.
"What was in this box?" She wished she could somehow soothe that hard line of his jaw. It looked painful. He didn't look like the man she knew him to be, who laughed naked in bed with her, shooing away her cold toes, who told Gracie bedtime stories and changed nappies.
"A note. A necklace." Finally, she met his eyes.
"What did the note say?"
"Matthew, please!" she cried. He simply lifted her by the shoulders off of his lap and set her on the other side of the bed. He began to pace, his feet hard against the floor, pounding into it. Poor Molesley probably thought they had an elephant upstairs.
"What did the note say?" he repeated. "Mary, I'm warning you..."
"What?" she pleaded. "What are you warning me of? I didn't want to tell you because you'd be upset and that's all he wanted. He wants us to be upset. And now you are so what is the point?"
Matthew ran a hand over his face. "What did the note say?"
"The note was addressed to me. It congratulated me on our marriage and our return to England."
"Is that all it said?"
"Please, Matthew. What good can this do any of us?"
"You told me you would say the hard thing. You promised me. Now you have to say it."
"It was a ruby necklace," she said brokenly. "At the bottom of the note he wrote I always loved you in red...But really Granny and your mother said that they would take care of it all, that they would protect us."
"I should be the one protecting you," he said, his voice cold. "Not Mother, not Cousin Violet." He sat in his swivel chair, put his head in his hands. He needed the whole story. In two seconds he was up, walking purposefully to the bedroom door, opening and bellowing, screaming really in his first show of emotion, "Mother! You best come here!" Isobel came out of her room at the same time Gracie started crying.
Mary rushed past him, in the short nightgown that he'd promised his mother would never see, into the nursery. She picked Gracie up and held her tight to her chest. "Everything is all right, sweet girl. Don't worry. You know tomorrow we'll see Tom and Sybil and Sybil's belly you love so much and Robbie too. I think you'll like him best of all." The baby wailed through the entire conversation so that Mary was reduced to "Shh, Shh, my darling girl. It's all right now. Shh."
Matthew stood in the nursery doorway, shirtless, completely helpless, his mother peering in over his shoulder. He looked shocked to see Gracie in Mary's arms and a little sorry too, even sorrier when the baby went on crying which wasn't like her at all. "I'll make her a bottle," Isobel offered and Mary nodded her head against the baby's hair as she continued to sway and move her body, trying to comfort.
After a few more minutes of crying, Matthew went to Mary, who couldn't look him in the eye, and held his arms up for the baby, "Do you want to rock with Papa?" he tried to be like Mary, to keep his emotion out of his voice but he couldn't. Grace looked up at him for a moment, considering, but then burrowed her face in her mother's breasts, hidden from him, continuing to cry.
Isobel brought the bottle and Mary sat in the rocking chair. "Here you are, Gracie Girl. You love your milk before bed and Granny Isobel made it just for you." But the baby would not take it, only continued to sob brokenly and Mary again brought her up to her chest.
"Sometimes, in new surroundings..." Isobel offered lamely.
"It isn't the surroundings, Mother," Matthew replied tersely which only had the baby wailing louder. He lowered his voice. Again, he tried to be like Mary, to sound cheerful when he didn't feel it. "She's upset because she just heard her father bellowing like a mad man, probably waking her from a dead sleep."
"Don't worry," Mary murmured, briefly touching his hand before she went back to swaying with the crying Gracie. "She'll tire herself out and go back to sleep."
"You mean she's going to cry herself to sleep?" he asked, clearly concerned, as if this would affect the rest of her life. "I don't want her to do that."
"Oh, Matthew," Mary whispered. "She's a baby. I'm afraid you don't get a say in the matter. It's just that...I don't think she's ever heard anyone she actually knows yell like that. But it was bound to happen sometime, right?" she tried to smile, sway and sway.
"Maybe we can bring her to bed with us. She liked that for the nap." His eyes looked so pitiful, his hair all mused from his worried hands continuing to run through it, as he made his suggestion.
"But..." Mary closed her eyes. It always broke her heart to hear Gracie cry. Sometimes when was she feeling particularly melancholy she thought that was what motherhood was–moments of her heart bursting and moments of it breaking. "Didn't you want to finish talking about..."
He shook his head. "That doesn't matter...now. We can handle it later. She's what's important now." He looked up at her. "Mary, don't cry, please. I can't take it if both of you are crying."
"It's only that you're doing exactly what I asked you to the other day." She felt exhausted from swaying but Grace had not let up. "Just that you would put her before me, or you, or us. Or anything." Before she started to sob she added, "And I'm also crying because you promised me that your mother would never see me in this nightie and now she has."
He gave a weary laugh; he had to force it out for her sake. "Let's go to bed. Mother, I will need to speak with you in the morning."
Isobel touched his shoulder. "It's been handled. Violet and I handled it." But he shook her off, put his arm around Mary and the baby and led them to their room.
It still wasn't easy when they all got into the bed. The baby wouldn't leave Mary's arms, laying against her chest, occasionally letting out a whimper, or a hiccup.
"She hates me," Matthew stated, laying back against the pillows.
Mary was now stroking the baby's hair. "She doesn't hate you. She loves you. How many times has she told you? How many times has she run to you and said it for no reason at all except that she had to tell you right then how much she loved you?"
"You're exhausted," Matthew worried. "I can see it. I've been seeing it for days. I should have..."
"What?" she asked gently, because the baby's whimpers were beginning to lessen though her eyes were wide open and trained on Matthew.
"I should have considered your feelings, my responsibilities to this family before I went off like that," he murmured. "I should have seen that something was wrong and made you tell me earlier. I should have done more to help. I'm not blind; this pregnancy is exhausting you."
"Matthew," she tried to reach for him but Grace immediately began to cry. "You didn't handle it badly. What he did was beyond wrong. Despicable. I understand that you're angry and I understand your reaction. I'm not upset with you. I love you. We've been married two months; we're still learning. I didn't know how to tell you and you didn't know how to ask."
"What was your reaction?" he asked and she thought: oh God, he hasn't put it together yet.
"I'll tell you but please, she's just calming down. You can't react. I'm not saying that you're not entitled to your reaction but please..."
"I know," he replied, reaching out a hand which Gracie warily allowed him to place on her back to rub there through her pajamas. "There's Gracie."
"I received the box," Mary whispered because she thought the baby might be near sleep. "I read the note. And then I fainted. And I know I've been a horrible wife to you these last few days but I haven't dealt with it well. I haven't dealt with it at all actually. I keep having these nightmares."
He moved closer to his wife and child, wrapped his arm around Mary with one hand, and continued to rub Gracie's back, who kept looking up at him and blinking, tears clinging to her eyelashes. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't know how to. I didn't want to think of him, of it. I don't want him anywhere near me or you or especially Gracie. Not even if it's a box in the house. Or a nightmare in the night. So I gave it to Granny and your mother and they went to see him and read him the riot act, apparently. They won't give me details and I don't want them." She paused. "Ever since that night happened, all I've wanted, all I've wished for, is for it to be over. And it never is." He squeezed her shoulders, wishing, desperately that he could do something, anything to make it over for her.
The baby reached out a hand for him and then Matthew lifted her, moving her onto his bare chest. "See?" Mary told him. "She loves her papa. You know, in some of my books, the good ones, they say it's good for parents, with newborns, to lay skin to skin, that it helps with bonding."
He closed his eyes. "Do you think it works for nineteen month olds?" He sounded so sad.
"I think," she said after a moment, "that your entire relationship with Gracie has been such a miracle that anything is possible."
He continued to rub Grace's back. He could hear her little sighs, feel her breath on his chest. "Remember how I told you I read the letter you wrote your Granny about why you gave her the middle name of Violet?"
"Yes," Mary whispered back, curling under his shoulder so she and Grace were nearly nose to nose.
"Well, I just think," he had to pause over the lump in his throat. "I just think that you were right about naming her Grace, that I didn't do anything to earn or deserve her or her love, that she really was an unmerited favor given to us."
Mary began to cry for the fortieth time that day.
Later, he woke in the middle of the night. He had to get up. He had to move. He stood by the window for a moment then glanced back at the bed where Mary and Gracie slept. The moon was strong enough outside his window that he could, if he peered closely enough, read the letter he chose next.
Dear Granny,
Today I took Gracie out for the first time since I gave birth. Don't worry, it was an unreasonably warm fall day (I didn't even wear a jacket; but she was all bundled up, don't think for a second I would slack on my duties). She seemed so excited! She looked up at me and kicked her feet and it was as if she saying, "Finally! The world!" We only went around the block. A very short journey for a very little baby, I thought. I wished you were with us.
It was all very nice and sweet. I felt very proud pushing the pram, the whole way everyone giving me endearing looks and I could just hear them sigh in their mind, "Oh! A baby!" It made me very happy, because if I had stayed at Downton, no one would look at me like that.
But then the strangest thing happened. Outside the market, on the corner, a man and a woman were arguing. She wasn't wearing a coat either, just short sleeves. I told you it was warm. I tried not to watch them, but I saw the man grab the woman's arm, just above the elbow, in a tight grip. I had to turn around and go home immediately.
I don't think of what Sir Richard did often. I try not to. It's not good for me to think of such things and it's not good for Gracie either. It must be forgotten, it must be put away. I imagine a box and I put him inside it. There is room enough in that box for that whole library scene.
But Richard (must I call him Sir? Now?) used to do that to me sometimes–if I talked to Matthew too long, after I put him off time and time again with the wedding date. He would grab me, just above my glove, so I could really feel it. It usually made a little thwack sound too. Once Matthew looked at me and I know he heard. Sometimes Richard left a bruise. Sometimes he didn't. The thing is, Granny, I usually had done something wrong. I usually had been paying too much attention to Matthew. I usually had pushed back the wedding months and months and months. So I couldn't even be angry or righteous about him putting his hands on me like that and both Richard and I knew it.
I don't like to think of these things. I don't like to think of these things at all.
I don't know anything about that couple on the corner. He might be a very nice man. She might be a horrible woman. We need not look any further for a very nice man and a horrible woman than at Mr. Bates and the late Mrs. Bates. Or maybe the man just misjudged his strength. Maybe my view was incorrect.
I don't know anything about them.
But it made me wonder, even though I hate to think of it, I really do, how many women does it happen to? How many men do what Sir Richard did to Lady Mary in her red dress in the small library? Could you fill a ship with us–the victims? Two ships? Five? How many throughout history? I think you could fill a country with us.
All my love, always,
Mary
Don't be sad. I wouldn't send this at all except, well, you're the only I can talk to about these things of course, and a photograph of Gracie is enclosed.
Gracie was laughing in the photograph. She had one tooth he could clearly see and her head was thrown back in a fit of giggles. Her feet were bare and Matthew could imagine Mary arguing with the photographer over the whole less than typical scene. He could hear her saying, "My granny likes happy babies. She's just mad for baby toes. So this is what I want and this is what I will have."
He wondered what she'd done to make Gracie laugh. Probably something ridiculous, something so completely out of character for Lady Mary. He looked at the photograph for a long time before he was able to set it aside. That's my daughter, he thought. That's my Gracie. Then he climbed back into the bed with his family, fitting his arms around both, no, all three of them.
Author's Note: First off, I do want to point out, that in Mary's letter in this chapter, there is a tone of and even a few outright sentences, where she blames herself for a part of what Sir Richard did. Just because that's what Mary was feeling at the time, as victims of abuse of any nature typically do, does not make it true. I was not trying to say Mary was at fault; I was trying to let you into Mary's process through this whole thing.
Anyway, I'm dying to know what you thought of Violet and Isobel! And Richard is married...to Marianne? And they are reopening HAXBY? What about poor Matthew with the baby at the end? And the letter he read from Mary? Let me know. I respond. You guys are the best and keep pushing me forward all the more quickly. Goodnight! Hopefully next chapter will be up earlier tomorrow night!