A/N: I am sorry for the wait. I swear I do not do it on purpose. It just happens to be one of the more busy times of my life and Faeyero's life as well. Speaking of Faeyero, as always, I am in her debt for her time and dedication to a story that's really become a beastly long thing. I don't think she knew what she was taking on ;) (to be fair, I did not either). There is still more story to tell and I want to promise you that you won't wait long but I can only say that we will do our best as we are just as eager to finish the *birthing* process of Grace. I so badly want these last chapters to pay homage to so many parts and characters of this story so if this seems a bit like a roller coaster, there is always a method to my madness. Thank you for all the comments and the dedication and support even with the gaps in updating. I appreciate it more than I could ever say.
Chapter Fifty Six
Matthew had always promised himself that when the time came for the baby to be born, he would remain stalwart and calm, the eye of the hurricane. He would not be anxious or nervous and he would certainly not be hysterical or frightened. He would be the anchor, sound support in the face of it. That's how he'd imagined it.
He had not imagined that he–not Mary–would be the first to feel any sort of contraction, even the most mild one. And that upon rousing her (which even in the beginnings of labor would prove difficult) she would say, d'you know, Matthew, I think my water broke? and that her water would break on him as well as her. He did not imagine bundling her up and setting her in a wheelchair while he wore a wet pair of trousers. No, in none of his imaginings had he anticipated wearing wet trousers.
Of course, there was more. Even with her added girth, Mary was heartbreaking in her fragility, the bitter brutality of her face juxtaposed with the narrowness of her wrists, the welt on her slender neck. He had not imagined that either, that even as his child was anxious to be born, he was dreaming of killing a dead man for the horrors done to his family, that Carlisle could be a specter during this birth, just as he had been during Gracie's. In all of his imaginings, there were not bruises and Mary's winces came from their child's eagerness to enter the world, not the after effects of Carlisle's fists.
He wanted to pull his hair out and scream. He wanted to run around shouting for a telephone. He wanted to get Dr. Clarkson and he really wanted it to stop slowly and peacefully snowing, as if they were in a picturesque snow globe. The snow, and the way it was falling, languidly almost, made him even more anxious because it certainly did not match his mood nor his feelings on the subject of: d'you know, Matthew, I think my water broke?
Mary, on the other hand, rubbed the back of her nose with her hand, winced at a bit of pain and looked up at him fuzzily, like an owl, as she always did when she woke from sleep. He felt as if there was some inadvertent payback for all of those months ago when he'd sleepily murmured into her throat: d'you think we've made a baby? For a moment she looked up at him, and then repeated her sleepy sentiments: d'you know, I think I'm in labor, Matthew, darling.
She smiled at him, her sleepy smile, that once upon a time would have meant come back to bed. "Matthew, don't worry. It's going to be all right." Her certainty, much like the lazy snow, only addled his nerves more.
"I'm not worried," he retorted defensively. He hated the way the snow was lazily falling from the black sky.
"You are," she took his hand. "But it's all right. Have the night nurse call Doctor George and a car to take us to the Abbey."
"The Abbey?" he cried. "We are in a hospital! Why would we go to the Abbey?"
She widened her eyes, forcing the sleep out of them. She was starting to feel an ache in her back; she wondered how much the medicine for the bones in her face was dulling the labor pains. "Because we decided–remember?–a long while ago, that we were going to have the baby at the Abbey."
"But that was before," he murmured without thinking. "Before..."
"He's gone, Matthew." She gripped his hand now. "He's gone and I don't want him affecting any other part of our lives. I don't want him touching anything else. We decide where our baby will be born."
"We?" Matthew asked, looking down at the stubborn tilt of her jaw. In that moment, he felt using the word we to describe such a decision was a bit overzealous of her. "Perhaps it would be safer..."
"We've been given a new beginning," she replied. "It's not perfect and it's not a fairytale and you can't kill a memory. So I want to make one instead. I don't want to think of that house as the place where it happened. I want to think of that house as the place where our child was born."
"Mary...I just..."
"Did you hear me when I told you my water broke?" she laughed, raising her eyebrow. "Are we really going to argue about this? Now? It's not really fair since if you keep this going long enough, you'll win by default."
"We're here, in a hospital, Mary..." he began again, glancing over his shoulder, out the window at the damn snow that continued to...just...fall.
"Matthew," she repeated, with a certainty that he envied. "Someday, you and I will live at that house. It will be where our family lives. The best way I know how to combat a difficult memory is to force something beautiful in its place. I want this baby born in the house where we will grow old, Matthew. I want to be able to say that all of our children but Grace were born there. And you know, it will mean the world to Papa."
"I'm not concerned about your father at this exact moment," Matthew replied, holding her hand in both of his. "I'm concerned for you and for the baby."
"Me too," she smiled at him, leaning forward for a kiss so light it could have been a dream. "I want to have this baby in the house I was born in, the house I grew up in, the house we fell in love in. It's also the house where...well, I won't say it. But I want it to be the house where our child is born. It's one more important, beautiful memory to outweigh the bad."
"It's very important to you," Matthew realized, his brain dulled by the fact that the the moment they had been waiting upon for nine months was happening now, and that she was so clear-headed while he remained muddled. He had no experience to call upon; he had never done this before. But before he met Gracie, he had never been a father before.
"Yes," Mary stated, smiling slowly, releasing his hands. She kissed him more firmly, reading every thought in his head, so sure of the man she had chosen. "Call for the car."
As soon as she was bundled into the car, just after Matthew had threatened the driver over the necessity of driving quickly and cautiously, Mary's hand flew to his arm. "Are you in a lot of pain?" he asked, his face a picture of concern.
"No," she shook her head as if labor pains were the furthest thing from her mind. "I just realized, I have to see Gracie."
Matthew felt as if he were in a play and two minutes behind everyone else. He could not find his lines. "But you said that you couldn't see her until your face...that you wanted..." It didn't help that he felt as if he was dodging bullets with the subjects they were discussing–labor, the brutality of her face–none of it was easy to talk about. And yet, here they were. In labor, Mary's face bruised... "That isn't to say that you don't look beautiful–"
Mary laughed but turned serious quickly. "You are right. I did want that. But imagine it. The next time I see Grace, I'll be holding her sibling. Can you imagine introducing her to the baby and my bruised face in the same instant? Don't you think that may be too much for her?"
"I–" He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He wanted to do everything and nothing at the same time. He wanted to fix a situation that could not be fixed. "I...I don't know, Mary. I see your point. But...I suppose we can do that but..."
Mary caressed one of his cheeks with her cold hands. Poor Matthew, she thought. "Don't worry, darling. Everything is going to be all right." She watched his eyes, his careful eyes, watch her face and expression. After everything that had happened, it was difficult to believe the impossible. And yet, Mary knew it would be all right. And at the the same time, she saw her own certainty make her husband more edgy, as if he couldn't possibly trust that after all of this...this one thing could be perfect. But Mary knew what Matthew did not. Mary knew that in the midst of the worst, most unbelievable circumstances a doctor could lay a baby on her breasts, a baby she'd never seen face to face before, and her entire world could click into place so perfectly that nothing else, not even those outrageously unbelievable circumstances, mattered. Nothing mattered but that baby's skin on hers.
Which was why, though Matthew didn't understand it (though he soon would), Mary had to see that first baby, that first grace, who had been laid on her breast two years ago, a life changer if she ever knew one.
It felt a bit like espionage, sneaking into Gracie's room, as Matthew briefed a sleepy Tom and excited Sybil. The window let in a bit of moonlight and the snow falling reminded Mary of her first winter with Gracie in New York, just the two of them, snuggled into the brownstone with no one to talk to but her little girl and Granny on pieces of paper. Now here they were, in Crawley House...her girl was growing up so quickly and everything was changing around them, quite literally.
But some things would never change.
Even with her belly, she could lift the slender Gracie from her crib, though she needed a bit of help. "Gracie," she whispered to her firstborn, her eldest child. Her baby–no, her girl–opened her eyes, blinking slowly and with confusion and yet, noting it was her mother, lifting her arms automatically, propelling her body forward into Mary's arms.
"There's my darling girl," Mary whispered, pressing a kiss to the curly-haired child, and walking to the rocking chair.
Yes, some things would not change, could not change. No matter what happened. No matter where in the world they happened to be.
They rocked, as they had rocked in New York and then here, in this house. They rocked, as they had before Richard Carlisle had been reintroduced to their lives, before he had hurt Mary, before he had died. And Mary knew they would rock always, no matter how big Gracie grew, even if Gracie sat in the chair alone, knobby knees and elbows, talking of the boys she liked while Mary sat on the floor, listening to her daughter's voice and the creaking of the rocking chair. Always the creaking. The creaking.
Gracie woke like her mother, slowly and in no rush. She lifted a hand to trace the purple over her mother's cheek, her touch intuitively light. "Ow?" Gracie asked in a whisper. It felt like a time to whisper; even the little girl could feel the sacredness of it.
"Yes," Mary affirmed. "Mama had an accident. And it looks very bad. But it isn't. I will look like your old mama again soon."
Gracie nodded, cuddling her head against her mother's breast. She'd missed her Mama. Pointing to her own knee, she looked up at her mother. "Ow," she explained.
"Oh?" Mary asked with concern, lifting away clothes to see the unmarked skin of Gracie's knee. She was relieved but concern still laced her voice. "Oh, did you get an owie too? What happened?"
"Rob," she whispered, but she was smiling. "Boosh."
"You and Rob were playing," Mary interpreted. "Here, let Mama fix it." She pressed her lips to Gracie's knee. "All better."
Gracie stretched to brush her tiny lips to her mother's cheek. Mary winced from the sweetness and the pain of it. And wasn't that the truth when it came to mothering–all the time, bruised face or not? "Better," Gracie whispered, settling down to cuddle into her mother's arms, safe, and whole–untouched by the horror of the situation. Mary felt a lump form in her throat, as they rocked, as Gracie hummed a little in her throat, as she usually did before sleep, as Mary realized that part of her job as Gracie's mother, one of her main priorities from the moment she'd found out she was pregnant, had been accomplished. Richard's vileness had never touched Gracie. What was one to do when one realized such monumental goal had been achieved?
Mary did not know what one did. She only knew what she did.
She rocked her daughter to sleep.
She rocked.
Matthew watched from the doorway. Yes, there was a sense a sense of urgency inside of him (how could Mary not feel it...wasn't she the one supposed to be feeling it?) and yet he could not begrudge the moment in front of him. In many ways, it reminded him of the first time he'd watched Mary rock Gracie to sleep. She'd been so much tinier then, with just as much personality but so few words to express it. He had already loved her by then, when she had lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him with tear-drenched eyes as if he could save her from something as dreadful as a nap. In that moment, he'd known, he'd always known, that he had promised to love her and save her from things much more dreadful than a nap.
And that first night, hearing Mary hum, and the creaking of the rocking chair (the very same), he had felt as if he belonged, as if he knew the tune but not the steps, and he had been unable to imagine his life anywhere but in the that room, watching the two greatest loves of his life rock in an old creaking chair.
"Papa!" Gracie whispered and reached out a hand so he kneeled, holding that tiny hand that had somehow grown so much since the first time he held it, as Mary rocked and their baby, their first baby fell into the contented, enchanted sleep that all loved children know.
"I'll put her up to bed," Matthew whispered at last. He noted the tears on Mary's lashes and wiped them gently with his fingers.
"It's just...I'm so happy," she murmured. "We are..." she kissed Gracie's forehead and then Matthew's too. "We are so lucky. So blessed."
"We are," he agreed. And it didn't seem too much to tell that bit of urgency to pipe down and rest for a moment, and remain, the three of them, battered but not beaten, broken but whole, in a room across the sea from where they had begun.
It continued to snow and snow. And snow and snow. They could have been inside the snowglobe Matthew had imagined in the hospital.
"I really do not like the idea of you going out in that," Sybil complained as she helped Mary into her coat. Matthew had slipped away for a new pair of trousers.
"It's not far at all, Sybil," Mary told her, taking her sister's face in her hands. "Not a bit."
"It was raining before," Sybil continued. "And the temperature dropped..."
"Once upon a time, I was the mother hen," Mary murmured. "And now look at you, trying to button my coat for me." It wasn't far from the truth; Sybil was indeed trying to stretch the strings of the button to fit Mary's girth.
"Much as I'd like your dream of having the baby at Downton to come true," Tom began, "I don't think it's wise. Not wise at all. There's a house here. And a bed. And two people with medical training."
Mary laughed. "Just because you delivered Robbie does not mean you have medical training, and if you think I'm letting my brother-in-law deliver my baby, you're stark raving mad."
He brushed a hand over his very bleary eyed face. "I wasn't talking about me but your sister and Isobel."
"I know who you were talking about," Mary laughed again. "And I know where I am having this baby–" Mary meant to laugh. Truly, she did. Instead, she doubled over from the wave of the contraction hitting her. Even as Sybil brought her over to the couch Mary was shutting her eyes against the pain and squeezing her sister's hand. "Oh, I really did forget how much this hurt," she wheezed.
"I'm sure the drugs for your face were helping some too," Sybil sympathized.
"Now that you mention it," Mary hissed through her teeth, "that's starting to get a bit more painful as we speak."
"Call the doctor, Tom," Sybil stated simply. "Tell him there has been a change of plans."
"But I want to have the baby–"
"The baby wants to be born here," Sybil interrupted. "Now I suppose you could compromise, since you want to have him or her at the Abbey, and have him or her in the car."
"Speaking on Matthew's behalf, I can predict that he would simply love that," Tom replied dryly. "Now can I please call Doctor George and tell him to redirect his course to Crawley House?"
"What about Crawley House?" Matthew asked as he hurried down the stairs. He pressed a kiss to Mary's head. "Gracie's completely asleep. I have new trousers. I'm ready to go."
Mary looked at him, biting her lips. "Perhaps...I was a bit...I mean to say..."
"For goodness sake, Mary," Sybil squealed a bit, forcing Mary to let out the breath she was holding. "Even Lady Mary Crawley cannot predict where and when you go into labor."
"I only wanted...I wanted..." Mary tried to breathe. It seemed everyone's hands were on her, touching and patting, both soothing and pulling. Suddenly she was crying and she was not sure why. "I wanted to have the baby at the big house and now–Oh! Stop, touching my shoulders like that, Matthew!"
"It isn't your fault, Mary," Tom said soothingly from a safe place across the room. "Babies come when they want to come. Believe me I know. And Crawley babies are predictably stubborn like their mothers."
"Oh, ha ha, Tom! I'm sure I will find that joke particularly funny later," Mary replied through clenched teeth.
Sybil rolled her eyes at her husband as he shrugged. "Let's get you up upstairs, Mary. And we'll wake Isobel while Tom calls the doctor and everything will be just fine."
Stop saying that, Mary wanted to shout and in that moment, standing in the room where she'd been beaten days before, she could only focus on her rippling belly, the pain in her back, and her beautiful birthing plan falling to pieces. Sir Richard Carlisle was the farthest thing from her mind. He was not even a part of her world.
It was shocking to find that if he put a bit of his back into it, Matthew could lift her. She pressed her face into his neck, comforted by his the smell and touch of his skin. "But this isn't how I wanted it," she cried a bit pathetically. "I had plans. I was going to handle everything calmly."
Matthew tipped his forehead to touch hers as he carefully traversed his way up the stairs. "It will be better," he whispered into the skin beneath her jaw. "When you're holding our baby, Gracie's brother or sister, it will be better."
"Brother," Mary murmured back to him, before taking her fingertips and leading his lips to hers.
"Watch, I don't drop you," Matthew whispered after a breath. "And I think you meant to say, 'sister.'"
"At least when this baby comes, we won't have to argue about the sex anymore. It will be plainly obvious that I was right all along," she teased, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"Oh, even if you are right," Matthew conceded,"which we aren't sure of yet, we can argue about the next one," he added as he gently set her on their bed.
"If you say that to me while I am having a contraction, I might bite you." She raised her eyebrow at him.
He crouched beside her for a moment, took her face in his hands. "My brave girl." He paused and kissed her. "Now, mind you remember that even though we aren't at Downton Abbey, you're not alone this time. I want you to hold my hand and hold it tight."
She smiled. The steadiness of his love for her still had the ability to smooth out all the ripples of anxiety. "You might regret saying such a thing in an hour or two more."
He pushed back the wisps of hair from her brow, keeping his hand on the nape of her neck. "I don't think so, Mary. I just don't think I could regret anything right at this moment."
And when Mary leaned into him, she felt the same way.
A/N: I know, I know! Where is this baby? A boy? A girl? I know! I just wanted Carlisle completely and utterly vanquished by the time this baby comes, literally and figuratively hence the break in the story here. But get ready! As always, Faeyero and I appreciate all the feedback, especially as we our so very close to the finish line.
