A/N: The truth of the matter is that this chapter really shouldn't have been posted tonight. I am still recovering and now, the best beta, Faeyero, is also sick (I swear I do not know her in "real life" and cannot be held responsible for sending germs her way. But I promised some of you guys (I do try to respond to every comment that is posted by someone who allows PMs) and I try to keep my promises. Don't know what else to say. No time gap between this chapter and the last. OH AND YOUR COMMENTS WERE INCREDIBLE. SERIOUSLY. I CANNOT EMPHASIZE THIS ENOUGH. They meant the world to us because all of the hard work and our debates over intentions and blah blah blah (and how tired I was at work this morning) paid off. It was great to hear from all of you–new comers and the golden oldies.


Chapter Twenty Nine

Even asleep, Mary knew she was in the midst of a nightmare as soon as she looked down at her hands and saw that she wore gloves, red gloves to her elbows, as if she had dipped both her arms in blood. But no, that was not quite right. These gloves felt very fine as she slid them along the banister and walked to the bottom of the stairs to meet Marianne, her miniature, the paper doll version of herself. Marianne wore diamonds, glittering around her neck, a choker tight even against her tiny frame. Her shoulders bent from the weight of the gems, or so it appeared to Mary. But then, Marianne reached over with her child-like hands and began to remove Mary's glove, finger by finger, shimmying the silk all the way off her arm, and Mary realized that the woman's bent frame was due to the punishing task she'd been given by the man who owned her. She moved to the other glove and began again. For a moment, her eyes lifted to Mary's, apologetic and full of regret.

And then Richard was there, clamping his ruddy hands on Marianne's pale shoulders and moving her out of the way, taking one of the long red gloves from his young wife without looking at her at all.

His eyes were only for Mary.

Though even asleep Mary knew this was a nightmare, she could neither control it nor force herself to wake from it.

She endured his stare as he bent slightly towards her, as if he were bestowing some type of honor upon her, or asking her to dance. He looked the same. He always looked the same. He ran her crimson glove through his fingers.

"What shall we do with this?" he asked, and his voice felt like an unwanted caress down Mary's back.

She did not reply. She could not. She wanted to scream, but her mouth would not open and her voice would not work.

Richard slid the glove around her neck, grasping the ends to draw her nearer to him. She saw that his eyes were sad, his whisper hoarse: "Once and for all, are you still in love with Matthew Crawley?"

She did not reply. She could not. She wanted to scream, but her mouth would not open and her voice would not work.

There were tears in Richard's eyes as he began to knot the long glove around her neck. There was neither a natural smile nor his usual smirk; instead, his lips were turned down in a frown. The creases on his face deepened. She realized that she only needed to deny it and he would stop.

The makeshift noose continued to tighten, until she could no longer swallow. She meant to scream it–her denial. She wanted to live. She only wanted to live.

But her own heart betrayed her. Her voice when she answered him was gentle, belying the pressure on her throat: "But of course. He's the only man I've ever loved."

The creases in Richard's face deepened. The glove tightened painfully around her throat.

Every time I die, she thought, I wear red.

"You have given me the power to destroy you," Richard whispered brokenly, nearly leaning his forehead against hers.

Though she could no longer breathe, though her neck ached, she thought: What? Who?

Then she remembered: Matthew.


Matthew didn't know what woke him–the crash, the breaking of something,or Grace's cries. He flew out of bed and rushed to his daughter's room. In his hurry, he failed to turn on the lights but unerringly reached into her crib and picked her up in the dark, soothing and shushing and patting, as carrying her from the nursery to the room where his wife slept, where the crash had come from.

It was only a lamp. He could see even in the dark, the way her arm had flung out and hit it, even in sleep, how she was not burrowed in blankets, but was, in fact, using her other hand to claw at her neck. He went to her bed, even with the crying little girl in his arms. He did not know whom to comfort first, so he could comfort no one at all. "Mary," he whispered, shaking her a bit with his free hand. It was obvious she was in the middle of a nightmare. "Mary," he said more loudly, and her eyes opened and she gasped for breath as if she had just been pulled from the sea, half-drowned. The baby was even more upset by the sight of her mother, lying prone and gasping, literally unable to bring air into her lungs.

Isobel had also heard the crash and hurried to Mary, though it took her longer because she at first looked for Mary in the master bedroom. She helped her daughter-in-law to a sitting position and patted her back, just as Matthew patted the wailing Gracie's. "Just breathe," Isobel insisted, as if it were that easy. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Matthew saw that Mary's neck was red and raw from her own hand. "Get her a glass of water, Matthew," Isobel commanded, continuing to rub Mary's back in soothing circles.

She drank every drop, and when she finished she looked Matthew in the eye. "You must get Gracie out of here. I've upset her." Her voice was hoarse, as if she had been screaming for hours with no one to hear.

Matthew hesitated for a second, as Mary continued working on catching her breath, but Gracie was sobbing, her lips trembling. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she watched her mother struggle. So he did as his wife asked, though he felt torn between his two girls. He took Gracie back to the dark nursery and sat in the rocking chair with her, but she continued to cry. He was finally able to decipher the word "Mama" from her broken sobs as she tried to wiggle down from his lap. He did not know what to do. So he took Gracie back into their bedroom and laid her on the bed, a privilege which usually comforted her. She outwitted him, however, crying for "Mama," sliding off the bed, on the side opposite of Matthew and running as fast as her little bare feet could carry her towards the room where Mary was.

Isobel had turned on the light by now, and Mary had finally caught her breath. "I had a bad dream," Mary admitted.

"I can see that," Isobel replied without judgement. "You also had a minor panic attack."

They heard the pounding of little feet and Gracie's wailing. Mary rose on unsteady feet to meet her daughter at the door. "Mama is fine," she told the little girl, who launched herself into Mary's arms. Matthew was not far behind but Gracie was not soothed because Mama did not sound like Mama, her voice was too deep, too worn, and shaking a bit at the end of her sentence.

Mary stroked the little girl's hair. "It's all right, my love. It was only a dream." She turned her back on Matthew and began to sway with Gracie, nearly dancing with her as they sometimes had at home in New York, though Gracie continued to cry pitifully against her mother's raw neck.

This continued for five painfully long minutes before Isobel spoke. "If you want to know my opinion," though she did not pause for a response, "all three of you need to get back in bed with Gracie between you two. She's very worked up, you know."

Neither of them had a better plan, so they did as she suggested. Gracie sniffled, reaching first for Papa, then clinging to Mama. They shuffled back to the silver room and the three of them lay down together, with Gracie on her stomach. She seemed only slightly mollified with both of her parent's hands rubbing her back, though she continued to hiccup and remained awake even in the dark.

Mary loved her daughter. She would do anything for her, even lie in this bed with this man. She would even rub Gracie's back along with him, in the dark, so their hands bumped and brushed one another. Mary did not want him to touch her but she would do anything for her daughter, even this.

She closed her eyes and whispered to Gracie, "Everything is all right. Mama is fine," and hated herself for lying.

Even more, she hated hearing Matthew's added whisper waft across the bed, "Gracie girl, just close you eyes. Mama is here. Papa is here. We're all tucked in." In the end, she knew, it was his comment that had the baby shuddering, then relaxing completely.

Mary fell asleep first, her hand stilling at the center of Grace's back. When he was sure she was completely asleep, her breathing even, Matthew covered her hand with his own.


Mary always woke by degrees, and never happily. On this morning, it was a whisper bearing her name that caused her to dig herself slowly out of her blanket cocoon. Matthew was kneeling in front of her, dressed for work, his eyes level with her own. "Mary," he repeated again, still in a whisper.

"I'm awake," she whispered back and tried bravely to open her bleary eyes and move the hair out of her eyes.

"I wanted to tell you that I am leaving for work," he said in a low voice. When she continued to watch him, her eyes barely open, he went on, "I put pillows on the other side of Grace. She's out cold."

"Thank you," Mary offered, sliding her cheek back against the pillow and shutting her eyes.

"Mary," he repeated for the third time. "I cannot leave things as they were last night."

She kept her eyes closed, her whisper quiet. "I am sorry for your discomfort, Matthew, but I am very tired and this cannot be fixed in whispers, with Grace asleep, and you kneeling by the bed."

He laid a hand on her back. She wanted to pick it off of her, holding it between two fingers. "Can we just say we are sorry for last night? Can we at least just say that?"

"Can we?" she whispered back and then turned her head away from him.

He stood, then leaned forward and moved her hair away from her ear. Very quietly, so as not to wake Gracie, but with a great deal of anguish, he whispered "I am very sorry. I am so sorry. I feel as if I need a new word for sorry."

She didn't move or open her eyes. It was as if she hadn't heard him, though he knew she was awake. So he stood, slowly and painfully, as he used to when he was first leaving his wheel chair, though this pain was not physical. He could do nothing else but leave for work, one of her letters to Violet already in his pocket.


He had barely settled at his desk before he opened it to read it. He wanted to hear his wife's voice, even if it was only on paper, and he could tell from the number of sheets that this was a lengthy note. From the date at the top he knew it had been written earlier than some of the others he had read recently.

Dear Granny,

Well you've been saying it and saying it: "Mary, you must slow down." "Mary, you really need to take care of yourself, too." "Mary, when do you sleep?" Apparently these are good questions, because last week, I fell asleep while standing up and cooking eggs. I woke to find my eggs burnt, the baby still asleep in the basket I lay her in when I am downstairs, and my robe on fire (just the sleeve...I was fine and yes, I cook eggs).

I look in the mirror and I don't recognize myself. There are bags upon bags underneath my eyes. Sometimes I pass another mother on the street, the both of us pushing prams, and we nod at one another because we know. We both have the same pallor. We both can't remember the last straight eight hours of sleep we've had.

Mrs. Larsen says that I need a man to help me with things. "I don't want to be married," I tell her. "I wouldn't be any good at it." Her eyebrows always raise and she flips her short black hair. "You don't have to marry him, sweets."

But we are not that kind of people are we, Granny?

Mrs. Larsen is amusing and I enjoy her; I am happy that her life works for her. I could not do it, knowing that I could just be left by a man–or, worse, that I could leave him. I know myself too well. It's too easy to walk away, I think. Our kind of people can get so angry at one another that we would like to kill our spouse, but we don'tleave. We just suffer. Which is better do you think? Our way or Mrs. Larsen's?

Grandmother says I should marry a rich man and hire a nanny. That is her answer to the bags under my eyes. "You are wasting your youth," she says. "And for what?"

For my daughter, I think. For Grace.

So I wake up and feed her five times during the night even though it is painful. Then the next day I do it all over again. I fall asleep on my feet making eggs.

For Grace.

You'll never hear me say to her, when she's grown, when I am angry, "After all I've done for you...!" I won't say it.

Sometimes I think, what if Grace had never come to be? What if the small library had happened with no result? I think I would have become a ghost, haunting Downton. Maybe I would have married but I would never have loved. And one day, I would have the servants fill the tub and I would sink into the water, my chin, my lips, my nose, my whole face, and never come up. Or rush off a cliff with my arms spread wide. My last thought would be "Finally, mercy."

What I think I'll say to Grace someday is: after all you've done for me, I will do anything for you. I was meant to be your mother and you were meant to be my daughter. And I love you more than I have ever loved myself.

Do you think Mama ever felt that way about me? And what about Papa? Did he ever love me more than the bricks and the stones of Downton? I don't know. I was never very happy, when I look back. Not that they are to blame. Happy people beget unhappy people all the time. But are loved people ever unhappy? Once I told Carson, "for the first time I understand what it is to be happy, it's just that I know that I won't be."

I was so young then. What was I thinking? If the ghost of Christmas future had told me, your happiness will be a baby in a cradle whom you will breast feed until you feel as if you would die from the pain of breast feeding...I would have laughed so hard and so long. I didn't even know how to hold a baby. What a great joker of a ghost you are, sir!

This letter is horribly long and disjointed because I am so exhausted you see. But you know, I saved the best for last. Gracie is smiling! She is learning to smile! Her gums so pink. She giggles a little too sometimes. At me the most, even at perfect strangers, even at Grandmother (Imagine that). And I think someday I will tell her: You were the happiest baby and the most loved.

I cannot think of anything a child, tiny or grown, would want to hear more than those words.

Love,

Mary


Mary's morning began dismally (even not including her unwelcome awakening by her husband). She woke to Gracie crying for Papa, searching for him on the bed. "Hello, my girl!" Mary sang out, her voice back to normal, though her throat pained her. "Good morning!" At the sight of her, Gracie began to kick her heels into the bed.

"Papa," she demanded stubbornly, her lip beginning to tremble.

"Papa's at work, darling," Mary soothed but the little girl did not understand. It was then that Mary realized that there was no getting out of this thing. Maybe that should have been obvious before she agreed to marry Matthew or perhaps when they stood in front of the judge. It wasn't as if she married him thinking, someday I might want out of this. That was not how she had been raised; as Granny often said, "That's not the type of people we are." But the whole time in New York had been a whirlwind and she'd never stopped to think, he might hurt me again, we might hurt each other again, we might say terrible things to one another that cannot be taken back. Naïvely, she thought they'd both done all the hurting two people could do to one another in the previous ten years. So, what exactly what she was supposed to do when the daughter she'd raised for eighteen months without him suddenly would not be soothed by anyone other than her papa of a few months, the very man who was making Mary's heart quiver and ache beneath her old nightgown and robe as he thought up "a new word for sorry"?

"Gracie," Mary continued cheerfully. "Are you ready to go have breakfast with Mama? And see Baby?" The little girl knuckled her tears away from her eyes and nodded. "You have to let Mama pick you up then." The little girl stood and walked nearer the edge of the of the bed, with trepidation, every step she took seeming to shout: You are not my Papa and that is who I want!

"No Papa?" Gracie's voice quavered.

"He'll be back," Mary promised in her happiest of voices. "He will be back in time for dinner."

But despite Mary's promise, the baby was cranky throughout breakfast, the dog peed on the floor, and Mary wanted to scream by nine o'clock. This was so much easier when I was by myself. She knew it was a lie even as she thought it, but at the moment it felt right. Poor Molesley cleaned up the dog's mess and Isobel, noting her daughter-in-law's pallor and the tension from the night before as well as her use of the guest room, offered to take the baby for a walk.

"Are you sure?" Mary asked hopefully. She just needed a hot shower and everything would be all right. She was sure of it. It had to be.

"I thought I would garden in the back this morning, milady," Molesley informed her. "I can take the pup with me and she can run around a bit."

"That sounds lovely. I won't be long," she murmured, forcing a smile.

She cried in the shower, her hands braced against the wall. Baby, please, she thought, rubbing the slight swell of her belly. The events of the day weren't worth crying over. But when she was pregnant, everything felt like something worth crying over. Not that she didn't have some cause, she thought-like meeting her husband's former lover the previous day. The irony was that Gretchen had ceased to matter to Matthew long before the other woman began to matter to her. They could not even work through the problem together because, to him, it was no longer a problem. And so, in typical fashion, she and Matthew had managed to hurt one another on a whole other level by creating new, much more painful conflict than they'd ever encountered before.

She wished she could go back and step into that conversation, right in the middle of the building argument, and tell them both, This pain you feel? If you both don't pipe down and go to sleep it will double in a few moments. In five minutes, it will triple and by the end of the night, it will have multiplied by ten.

She left the shower, dried her body and her tears. She dressing, struggling with her blouse and her blossoming breasts (why couldn't she escape his voice, even when he was not present?), when the doorbell rang. She thought about ignoring it, but then remembered that Isobel and the baby were walking, Molesley was in the garden, and Mrs. Byrd had the morning off. Wonderful, she thought as she ran down the stairs in her bare feet, braiding her wet hair as quickly as possibly could, and threw open the door.

"I'm sorry..." she began but had to stop and use her hand to shield her eyes; her visitor's face was totally obscured by the sun shining in her eyes.

But then he spoke, the voice from her nightmares full of surprise. "Mary?"

The clouds moved to cover the sun and she was able to drop her hand. "Sir Richard," she responded automatically. The end of her braid was dripping on the floor; she could hear it–drip, drip, drip.


A/N: Wabam. I need to know reactions. I need to know if you think M and M will ever make up NOW that this fool is back in her doorway. I need to know what you think about the fact that she is alone in the house! I need to know why you think he is here! I need to know.