And Peace Attend Thee
December 1921

Mary fiddled with the black thread she had plucked off of her sleeve, rolling it between her fingers idly as Edith went on and on about something. What was it? Her latest trip to London? A new column she had written? Who knew? She watched with annoyance as she chattered on, Mama nodding enthusiastically. Papa reading his paper. Typical.

"And of course the most amusing time was trying to find our way out. You'd never guess what Michael thought to do."

Mary rolled her eyes and sighed deeply. She was sick of hearing about Michael. Everything Edith seemed to say involved him in some way. Michael did this, and Michael did that. Michael, Michael, Michael. "Oh, do get on with it!" She shouted with a groan. The others looked at her, seemingly surprised. Mama opened her mouth slightly, but instead took a deep breath in. Papa looked over his paper.

Mary turned from their gaze, averting her attention to the windows across the library. Truthfully she felt embarrassed. Of course Edith annoyed her endlessly, but she didn't mean to be so harsh. She didn't mean to explode as she did. She never quite regretted what she said, but she all too often felt ashamed of the way she said it. Especially now. It was worse now than ever.

The door to the library clicked open. Mary didn't turn to see, but watched her mother's expression light up as the intruder advanced.

"Good morning, my lady!"

She groaned again, but this time inwardly. She casually glanced up at Nanny West.

"I hope I'm not interrupting, but Miss Sybbie is out with her father and I thought perhaps I'd bring Master George to see his mama!" She could feel her mother smiling clear across the room. Of course.

She stood and stared at her son. Nothing. She felt nothing. She knew she loved the child, it was a fact, like in the way that the sum of two and two is four. She loved him, but felt nothing. And it scared her.

She forced a smile. No, smile is too generous a word. "I was just going up to rest." It was a lie.

Nanny West nodded, and moved the squirming child in her arms. He looked uncomfortable.

"Let him see his grandmama!" Her mother approached Nanny West and pulled George from her grasp. She brought him close to her and swayed a bit; the squirming stopped in an instant. "I haven't seen him since yesterday," she cooed into his face. "Thank you."

Nanny West bowed out and left the library. The door closed after her. The sound of it closing made Mary feel suddenly claustrophobic. She wanted to leave. She yearned to be upstairs alone now, but she felt a strange obligation to stay. She had to try. She was his mother, after all.

She sat again on the couch and stared at her mother holding George. Her mother loved him, it was plainly obvious. Of course, most of her mother's emotions were plainly obvious. She watched as her mother spoke to him and he held her finger in his tiny hand. Her mother laughed. "Oh, Robert, that expression he's making. It's so like you." Papa looked away from his paper and peered at them, smiling slightly, then returned to his paper. He continued to glance at the baby, though, occasionally chuckling at the child.

Mary remembered this scene. It was as if they hadn't changed at all in the nearly 30 years between her childhood and now. She remembered being ushered in by her nanny. Mama would hold open her arms to her and her sisters, smiling brightly. Sybil would always run for their mother, burying her head in the fabric of her dress. Edith would follow closely behind, grabbing Mama's hand and begin that perpetual chatter she never quite grew out of. When it was Mary's turn to be greeted, Mama would brush back Mary's dark hair and smile down into her face. "My beautiful darling," she'd always say. Mary didn't need her mother to hug or caress her the way her younger siblings did. Truth be told, she preferred her father's company, they were so similar. However, Mama did make her feel loved. She had that gentle sort of joy at seeing them that made her feel comfort and care.

She looked again at Mama holding her son. She bounced him on her knee and then brought him close to her, pressing her lips against his head. "My beautiful darling," she heard her whisper.

Mary felt a lump rise up in her throat. She couldn't do this. She couldn't cuddle and soothe him the way her mother did. She lacked that gentleness. She lacked the warmth that completely exuded from her mother as she held the child close to her. Mary suddenly felt cold at the thought. She saw her papa smile into her son's face again, then share a loving glance with her mother. Their glance lingered on. They smiled happily together. Mary recognized that look, that smile. It was the same smile they would share when she was a child. Sybil clinging to her mother's knee and Edith chattering on. Her mother's cheeks would blush pink, her father's smile would broaden and Mary would feel safe because she knew what that look meant. It meant trust and contentment. It meant pride in the children that played around their feet. She never imagined having babies as a child. She never played house with her sisters, never pretended a doll was her own. She didn't long for that. What she did long for was that look she always spotted. That smile her parents shared in the nursery and sitting room when they'd come in. She would imagine herself as her mother, her cheeks the color of a rose, beautiful and lovely, looking up into someone's eyes as he smiled at her gratefully. Grateful for being happy with him. Grateful for giving him happiness.

Mary looked again. George's tiny fists, bobbing around, reached out for Papa. Another laugh shared. But she didn't hear the laugh. She heard a ringing in her ears. It should be she and Matthew on that couch. It should be she and Matthew sharing that laugh. Images of the day George was born flashed before her eyes. Matthew said it, but she didn't believe it. She wouldn't make a wonderful mother. She would never be. Not now.

She could hear Edith again, this time about George. "Who do you think he looks like, Mama? I see Mary's eyes, but surely that's Matthew's chin. I wonder if he'll be tall like his father. Papa, what do you think?" On and on and on and on.

She felt sick. "Oh, stop it!" She snapped violently. She looked into their three faces, each staring back at her with that melange of pity and alarm. Even Edith.

She rose from the couch to make her escape. Her mama pushed George into her father's arms, crumbling his paper, and started after her.

"Oh, Mary. Darling, wait!"

But she didn't. She ran from her. She ran from her mother's pink cheeks, her shared smiles, her loving embraces. She would never be the mother Matthew thought she would be. She couldn't be. Not without him.