A/N: Thank you all so much for your kind reviews! Sorry this is such a monster chapter, I just keep finding I have so many ideas for this story and I want to explore it with the depth I feel it deserves while also getting you closer and closer to the part where things really start getting good! We're getting close, I promise!
The Lady in Black
Chapter Fourteen
Mary's fight with Edith was blessedly ignored during dinner. She felt twinges of guilt ease away as the meal progressed and the dispute remained unremarked upon, though she could not forget the violent jolt of regret upon noting Edith's empty place set at the table along with Mama murmuring to Carson that Edith would be eating in her room after all.
What will Branson make of it? She wondered, remembering his advice from that afternoon... only to chastise herself. What did it matter? He could offer advice if he wanted to, it was up to her whether or not she decided to take it. Besides, he didn't understand how Edith and her were. Not really.
"Mary," Isobel said after the women went through following dinner, leaving Papa an open opportunity to have a moment alone with Atticus, "might I have a word with you?"
"Certainly," Mary replied, wondering what her mother-in-law might have to say. She liked Isobel, of course, but she wouldn't exactly say they had ever been close. Matthew's passing had affected them both profoundly and she knew they would be forever linked by it and by George. Still, Mary appreciated the fact she had stuck up for her that evening.
After some pleasant small talk along with another compliment to Mary's hairstyle, Isobel came to the heart of the matter. "I don't blame you for losing your head earlier," she said. "I was upset by the way Edith was speaking as well. I know you loved Matthew very much."
Despite how much time had passed, talking about it didn't make things any easier. A large lump had formed in her throat. "I hope you do realize that I love him still." It was hard to keep her voice steady.
Isobel gave her a warm smile. "I know you do. I will confess, once upon a time, I was uncertain of your intentions, but I see now how very wrong I was. You were perfect for him."
Perfect. All her life, Mary had striven to be just that. A perfect lady, a perfect daughter, a perfect Countess... but over time Mary had come to see it just wasn't possible, even for someone as stubborn as herself. Still, knowing that she had achieved it in at least one way was something.
"I meant what I said. I truly don't believe Matthew would have wanted you to be alone and unhappy," Isobel said quietly. "You remember when he was injured?"
"Yes," whispered Mary, lost in memories of pushing him across the estate in his wheelchair and how he had said he never wanted to stand in the way of her happiness. He had even set Lavinia Swire free, convinced no one would want to Mary him. Even then, Mary couldn't help but think she would prefer Matthew above anyone else— especially above everyone else. Despite knowing children were expected of her, despite having already dreamed of having Matthew's children, Mary had never seen herself as particularly maternal. She was willing to give that up for Matthew. Nevertheless, she was ever so glad that fate hadn't come to be. It was hard now to imagine an existence without George.
"He would want you to be happy. And I do, too," Isobel assured her. It surprised Mary to realize how much that meant. "And... I'd like to think he would want me to be happy as well."
It took Mary a moment to comprehend what she was saying. Granny mentioned (with some disdain) the romance brewing between Isobel and Dickie Merton for some time now, and she had always made it seem as though it was purely one-sided on Dickie's end... though when Mary glanced at the cautious look on Isobel's face, she could see how eager she was for approval.
"Of course he would! And so do I! Oh, I'm so pleased for the both of you!" Matthew had mentioned a handful of times to Mary how anxious he had been to leave his mother at Crawley House alone, concerned she would be lonely without him. He had never said it in as many words but she had been under the impression he was hoping Isobel would find someone to spend her remaining years with... and if it was Dickie, then she would be pleased indeed. Dickie was her godfather and a dear man. His marriage to Lady Merton had never been a happy one and he deserved some happiness.
Isobel grinned from ear-to-ear. "Thank you, my dear." She reached out and took Mary's hands in her own. "I'd like to keep it quiet for a little while yet—"
"Oh, of course!"
"But I'm so glad to know you are on board. And that you think Matthew would be, as well." She hesitated. "Which brings me to my main point. As I said, I know Matthew wouldn't begrudge you for trying to move on. But I don't think he would approve of your arguing with your sister."
Mary felt surprisingly chastened. She thought things had been going well with Isobel— she thought the other woman understood. "Maybe not, but I shan't apologize for sticking up for him."
"And I wouldn't ask you to," Isobel said gently. "Like I said, some of her words upset me as well. But I don't believe belittling her was the way to make her see the error of her ways... especially when you and I know something of her pain."
"I fail to see how a mere dalliance with her editor is comparable to us losing our husbands," Mary replied stiffly, ignoring the voice in her head that said Matthew would certainly be telling her the exact same thing if he were here now.
"Don't you?" Isobel gave her a pointed look. "In fact, I think Edith might empathize with you more than I ever could. I may have lost Reginald too soon for my liking but Matthew was all grown up by then. You and Matthew had really only just married and Edith lost Mr. Gregson before they even had the chance." Mary stewed silently in a strange combination of guilt and fury. "Maybe she doesn't understand your unique struggle of raising a child on her own, but she does understand something that I can't. I gather he left her his magazine, just as Matthew left you his portion of the estate."
Mary bit her lip. She didn't wish to be short with Isobel, especially when she meant well, but it was hard to remain calm. She couldn't forget Edith's carelessness so easily, nor her cruel words.
"I don't blame you for being upset with her," Isobel said, as if reading Mary's mind. "Truly, I don't. But I know what Matthew would want, and it wouldn't be a life of strife against your sister... and wouldn't kindness be the best revenge?"
"What?"
Isobel smiled. "Edith is suffering. She is upset. The two of you have always been at odds. From what it sounded like tonight, she resents that you are further along in your process of grieving than she is. Instead of arguing with her, if you showed her some kindness and compassion, she would likely realize how wrong she has been."
Mary mulled over her words. Truthfully, Mary figured some of the things Isobel was saying about Edith was true for her as well. Mary was happier now; Edith was not. When it was the other way around (which was a rarity), it was Mary trying to bring Edith down. It was a vicious cycle... one that Mary would begrudgingly admit they were too old to be engaging in.
"I think you were too hard on her tonight. She might not have been married to him but it is clear she loved Mr. Gregson. I know you would have been just as hurt and inconsolable as her had we lost Matthew during the war."
Of course she would have. There had been so many close calls during the war, too many times where Mary thought she had lost him... Well, lost him more than she already had. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that her grief then would have equaled the grief she felt now, no matter when she lost him. She had always loved Matthew deeply.
Furthermore, Isobel's words were almost similar to what Branson had said earlier that very day. Why hadn't she just listened to him? He hadn't led her down the wrong path once with his advice. With a sigh, she said, "I'll apologize to her. I don't think she will want me to comfort her or anything like that, but I will say that I am sorry."
Isobel gave her a warm smile. "I think that would be a very good start."
They talked for a few more minutes, mostly about George, until Papa and Mr. Aldridge reentered the room and Mary remembered something else that Branson had said to her earlier that afternoon. She might as well take all his advice...
"Excuse me, Isobel, but I need to speak to Mr. Aldridge for a moment. Congratulations again on your engagement," she said quietly with a smile.
"Thank you, my dear," Isobel said, returning the smile before Mary approached Atticus.
Like most evenings, Tom ate his dinner with the rest of the servants. As he said to Mary earlier that day, he didn't like eating alone. Mrs. Patmore has prepared a wonderful meal— nothing as scrumptious as what Mary had eaten for dinner, he was willing to bet, but good enough. He smiled to himself, realizing how every thought he had was so easily connected to Mary. Once upon a time, he might have scolded himself for it, letting himself be so wrapped up with her... but he couldn't help it. He was happy.
Anna had noticed, commenting that he was smiling more this evening and then made it grow even wider when she added that Mary had enjoyed the picnic. "Well, good. That was always the intention."
Anna was quiet for a moment. "She said you've been friends for some time now." Though it wasn't phrased as such, he heard her question.
"We have, yes," he said lowly, careful to not let anyone else overhear.
Anna smiled. "Well, I'm glad. It seems to have done you both some good."
Tom nodded. "It has. She's a wonderful person."
Anna's mouth fell open. Tom wondered if he had been too frank... but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. It was the truth; she was. But Anna rearranged her features into a pleasant smile. "Of course she is," and they carried on with dinner.
"Wonder what was wrong with Lady Edith," he heard Jimmy say a few seats away.
Tom frowned. Lady Edith had eaten in her bedroom again, same as she had every night since Mr. Gregson's demise was confirmed. Surely Jimmy would have picked up on the fact she was still in mourning.
Thomas echoed his sentiments. "She's still upset about Gregson, I expect."
"Yes, but she was supposed to be at dinner. What was that about?"
"She has a fight with Lady Mary. Something about her hair cut and Mr. Gregson."
A fight? Tom bit back a sigh. Even though it wasn't really any of his business (yet), he had been hoping she wouldn't battle it out with Lady Edith. He knew their relationship was a rocky one but he hoped Mary would stop seeing her own sister as the enemy and instead realize how much they had in common. He doubted they would ever be the best of friends, but he felt they would both be happier if their relationship resembled something like his and Kieran's: a bit distant, a handful of common interests, but a recognition of the love there.
"What do you think about her hair, then?" Jimmy asked Thomas.
"Can't say as I really mind either way what Lady Mary does with her hair."
"I like the shorter styles, me," Jimmy said, the remark causing a surge of jealousy to shoot through Tom— that is, before he reminded himself that she had probably scarcely spoken five words to Jimmy whereas she was in love with him... even if she hadn't admitted to it yet.
"Do you?" queried Thomas, arching an eyebrow. He was surprised the other man wasn't jealous as well, considering their complicated history... but perhaps Thomas was over Jimmy. "How short are we talking?"
Jimmy didn't answer, turning back to his dinner, though grinning ear to ear. Tom wasn't sure what to make of it... but it really wasn't his business either way. He turned back to his dinner.
"Good morning, milady," Anna said, surprised to find Lady Mary out of bed already. It was an early hour and she usually was waiting in bed for her breakfast. "I'm sorry, but Mrs. Patmore is still preparing breakfast, so—"
"I know," answered Mary with a smile. "I am going be dining with my family this morning. I'd like you to dress me and let Carson know to set out an additional place."
Anna was baffled. Lady Mary had eaten breakfast in her bedroom every morning since she married Mr. Crawley. She wondered why things were different now... "Of course, milady," she said hastily, walking over to Lady Mary, who was smiling. It seemed her mistress wasn't finished with shocking them yet.
Shortly after Papa recovered from his surprise at finding her in the dining room for breakfast, Edith decided to come down and join them. Mary had wondered if her sister was taking a tray in her room for that as well or if it was all part of her efforts to pretend she was mourning a husband instead of some inconsequential dalliance.
But perhaps Mary's speech had made a difference. Edith was dressed in a blue blouse and a dark skirt— no black dresses to be found. She blinked upon seeing Mary. "What are you doing here?"
"Good morning to you, too," she replied dryly... not that she had expected a warm reception.
"Mary will be joining us for breakfast from now on," Papa told Edith, wearing a smile. She certainly didn't blame him for being pleased; if she had to enjoy breakfast with only Edith for company for over a year...
"Oh." Edith was stiff, reaching for her plate, avoiding looking at Mary.
Now was the time to apologize... but Mary didn't want Papa present for it, nor Barrow or Jimmy. "I'm pleased you're feeling better," was all Mary could manage as she sipped at a cup of tea.
Edith froze by the buffet. "Why do you say that?"
Mary nodded to her clothes. "You seem to have recovered. I'm pleased." She spoke genially enough, trying not to gloat. She knew all along it was an act, Edith so distraught over this man who she must have barely known.
Edith stood there. She didn't even seem angry... just sad. Defeated. Without another word, she turned around, sat her plate kn the buffet, and went to the door, blinking furiously.
Mary stared after her. What had she done? She was genuinely trying to be friendly...
"Did you really have to do that?" Papa asked, letting irritation deep into his tone.
"I wasn't doing anything," insisted Mary. "I'm pleased if she has given up pretending to be a widow."
"She isn't pretending anything. She might not be a widow, but she does miss him." Papa held his gaze. "I'm sure that once she starts feeling more herself again, she'll apologize for what she said last night. In the meantime, you can't goad her."
"I wasn't," Mary insisted, buttering her toast... though to be honest, Mary wasn't sure how truthful she was being.
If Papa didn't believe her, he didn't call her out in it. He simply continued eating his breakfast and asked Mary about Pip's Corner again.
"I heard you and Lady Edith had a fight last night," Tom asked, gently easing into the topic as Mary regaled him on the surprised expressions her family wore when she burst into the drawing room. Tom half wished he could have been there. It had briefly occurred to him that he could wait by the window, peering in to watch the Crawleys as she presented her new hair to them, like he had when Lady Sybil bought her harem pants... but at the same time, he had known he wouldn't be watching for their reactions, too focused on her to see anyone else.
Mary sighed. "Don't you start."
Tom couldn't help but be taken aback. "I'm not starting anything."
"Everyone seems to think I was hard on her."
"Were you?"
"No. Not really." She hesitated before acquiescing, "Maybe a little. But she deserved it."
Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He adored her beyond measure, yes, but it didn't mean he would search for excuses to justify her poor behavior. "Did she really?"
"You didn't hear what she said about Mr. Crawley," Mary replied tersely. "She— she seemed to be accusing me of moving on. That somehow she loved Mr. Gregson more than I loved Mr. Crawley because she's too blue to imagine being with another man yet."
Tom blinked. "Well, that was wrong of her." He paused. "What did you say in response?"
Mary didn't say anything for a moment... before sheepishly saying, "Well... I may have accused her of playacting at being a widow and told her she didn't understand what it was like, raising a child on her own."
Tom mulled it over. It was... harsh. Exactly all the things he hadn't wanted her to say to her sister, knowing it would make only make things worse, and it would hurt Lady Edith. No doubt it was all the things she was mourning in addition to the man, all those possibilities that had seemed within her grasp this time around
"Are you angry with me?"
Instead of answering, Tom asked a question of his own. "Would it bother you if I was?"
"Of course it would. You gave me some good advice yesterday and I promptly chucked it in the bin. I expected you'd be disappointed if nothing else."
Tom bit the inside of his lip. "No. I'm not angry with you. And I think disappointed is too strong a word. I wish you hadn't done it, but only for your sake." As much as he pitied Lady Edith and didn't think she deserved her lot of bad luck, Mary was the only Crawley who he truly cared about.
Mary sighed. "I plan to apologize."
"I think that would be a good idea."
"I figured you would." Maybe it was daft, but he grinned, pleased. He liked knowing that she not only thought about him when they were apart but also knew him well enough to predict how he would react. "And don't worry," Mary added, "I decided to listen to the other piece of advice you gave me. I'll be racing today... but it's another surprise for my family."
"I look forward to seeing it," said Tom. Noting her expression of surprise, he reminded her, "I'll be driving you all down this afternoon?"
"Oh. Of course." She smiled. "Well, I'll be the one in black. I'll be hard to miss."
"I think I'd be able to find you in a crowd easily," Tom said without really thinking... but Mary didn't react apart from another smile. Tom let the tension from his shoulders ease. It was harder and harder to keep his feelings inside, especially when he loved her so very much, and he was delighted she was accepting all his compliments and offhanded remarks alluding to his feelings in stride. Perhaps she was slowly coming to accept the way he knew she truly felt.
When Mary appeared, dressed in her riding gear, she expected to surprise... but not to be surprised herself.
"What's this? Where have you been?" Papa exclaimed upon setting sight on her.
"Mr Aldridge and I fixed it last night," explained Mary, very grateful for the man and his understanding to maintain her state of mourning. Nevertheless, most of her attention was consumed by the three people she saw gathered near Mama, only two of them familiar ones. "His nice parents let me change at the house."
"I do wish you'd call me Atticus," the younger man said with a smile. Despite her poor behavior before dinner last night, he seemed to be quite taken with her... though perhaps it was to endear himself to Rose. Mary didn't think he needed much help with that."
"I must say, I admire you," Papa told him honestly.
"It'd be a poor show not to ride at our own event," insisted Atticus.
"Quite right. I shall cheer you on," Rose said with a smile.
"What about you? When did you decide to ride?" Papa asked Mary.
"Yesterday, when I was having my hair done in York," replied Mary. It was technically true... though she hadn't decided until Branson advised her to. But she couldn't very well tell Papa that.
"What about a horse?"
"Stephen rode Trumpeter over earlier. They're down by the starting post." She finally let her gaze fall to the assembled group comprised of Charles, Tony Gillingham, and a woman who Mary presumed must be Mabel. "What are they doing here?" She asked quietly.
"They're all racing, too," answered Papa. "Just so you know, your Mama has invited them to stay. They had been staying with the Lawsons but they've gone out. It was that or letting them stay in some local inn."
Mary repressed a scream. Why would Mama do such a thing? Couldn't she comprehend that Mary didn't exactly fancy the idea of entertaining two of her former suitors and the wife of one of them? It was going to be bad enough managing through with things between her and Edith, why invite others in to observe the animosity themselves?
Charles greeted her warmly, as if nothing had changed between them, pulling her in for a kiss on the cheek and polite inquiries about the estate. It was disarming, that he could be so at ease after everything, but Mary reminded herself that of course it would be easy for him. Tony was equally warm... and staring at her in a way a married man shouldn't. It made her highly uncomfortable, especially when he complimented her hair.
But Mabel... Well, she wasn't anything Mary had expected. "And this is my lovely viscountess, Mabel," Tony said, introducing them.
Mabel was a few years younger than Mary, wearing a pair of trousers and bright red lipstick. "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Mary," she said, all poise and grace, though her eyes flickered over Mary as if sizing up competition. Mary had no idea why; she certainly didn't want Tony. Besides... even if it was a fight, Mabel had already won, hadn't she? After all, she had safely secured the title of Lady Gillingham. "I've heard so much about you."
"Good things, I hope?"
"I wouldn't hear anything else from Tony," Mabel said, rolling her eyes yet glancing affectionately at her husband, who was still leering at Mary even though he was engrossed in conversation with Charles. "I'm glad we'll have a chance to talk properly. I feel as though I know you already."
"Really?" asked Mary, glancing at Tony, "I didn't think Tony knew me well enough for that."
"He seems to think so," said Mabel dryly.
"Are you racing in the point-to-point?" Charles had decided to inject himself in the conversation now.
"I am, as a matter of fact."
"So are we," Mabel said, gesturing to the men.
Mary chatted with them a few minutes, internally wondering if perhaps Edith had the right idea staying home... that is, until the actual race itself. As she sat atop Trumpeter near Mabel at the starting line, she glanced into the crowd. Papa was holding George in one arm, offering him the binoculars to see her better. She waved to him with one hand, hoping he spotted her. As she turned to face forward, she noticed their car and a figure dressed in a green uniform leaned against it. She couldn't help but smile as she readied herself, knowing there were two people watching that she didn't wish to disappoint.
It was evident something was wrong when, upon returning to the house, Mrs. Hughes was waiting for them with a letter. "Milord— the maids were dusting in the library and found this—"
"What is it?"
She presented Papa with a piece of paper. It wasn't folded in an envelope or anything like that, simply folded in half, with Papa etched across it in black ink. "I think you had best read it yourself... though I recommend you have a seat before you do."
"What is it? What's happened?" Mama demanded.
"That's what I'd like to find out," Papa said, glancing from the letter to housekeeper with contrition before stalking into library, followed by their houseguests. The perfect hostess as ever, Mama beckoned them all into the library as well, instructing them to make themselves at home before shuffling into the ante library where she joined Papa, Mary, Rose, and Granny.
"Good God," breathed Papa. "Edith's run away."
"What?" Mama snatched the letter from his hands, scanning it over herself.
"Does she say why?" Granny asked, pale.
"No. But she does say she isn't sure if or when or if she'll come back," Papa said blankly, staring off into space. He shook his head. "We never should have gone along today. Not when she was in such a fragile state over losing Mr. Gregson."
"She can't have been gone long. We saw her just before we left," Mama whispered. "Robert, we must find her!"
It occurred to Mary that no one was pointing out that Edith was a grown woman and capable of making her own choices. If she wanted to run away like a thief in the night, she had every right to do so... She was probably just being dramatic and blowing things out of proportion. She would be home in a few days...
But what if she didn't? What if Edith never came home again? What if the last time Mary saw her sister was at breakfast after stirring up even more hurt and resentment? She'd never even had a chance to apologize...
And then the weight of it all hit Mary like a ton of bricks. Edith was gone. God knows where, God knows why... But Mary had an inkling of what may have caused it: her.
Suddenly she couldn't take it anymore. Charles, Mabel, Tony, Edith, any of it. No doubt her family would be furious as well, once they managed to work past the shock. Without saying anything to anyone, Mary's slipped out of the library as the rest of her family dealt with their guests, moving undetected to the front door.
Mary had no idea where she was going when she walked out the front doors. All she knew was that being around everyone else was suffocating her at the moment. She roamed the grounds of the estate with little direction. She was heading towards the folly in the back, thinking she might find solace underneath the columns until she saw three figures walking towards it, two men and a woman.
Damn. It was Charles, Tony, and Mabel. Considering they were three people she had been most hoping to avoid, she turned around immediately, determined to go somewhere else.
It wasn't until she heard the crunch of gravel beneath her feet that Mary realized she was approaching the garage. She frowned up at it, wondering how it seemed she was so often here.
Nevertheless, it was somewhere no one would think to look for her. A place where she could simply be herself for a while without worrying about what anyone else would think. Somewhere safe. Mary hastened her gait towards the building.
Mary was surprised by the large, empty space and the absence of Branson when it occurred to her. Of course. He had to pick Edith's car up from the station, didn't he? She sighed. How long would it be before he came back?
Resigned to the fact it might very well be awhile, she continued inside, out of sight from anyone he might be looking for her. Nobody, save for Anna and Granny, would ever guess she would come here, and the latter was too embroiled in the situation with Edith to worry about where Mary had gone.
It felt strange, coming into an empty garage. Branson was always going something in here. Without him, it seemed completely lifeless. With a sigh, she walked into the space fully, heels echoing against the floor.
There was utilitarian workbench off to the side, where several tools sat. Mary moved them off to the side, lowering herself to worn leather of the seat. She felt out of sorts; this wasn't her domain. She didn't feel that sense of calm she normally did when here, nor nearly as safe, even though she doubted anyone would think to look for her here.
Mary wasn't sure how much time had passed— the clock on the wall seemed to be broken; she would have to remember to ask Barrow to take a look at it— when Branson finally pulled into the garage again. She rose to her feet immediately, talking a few steps towards the vehicle. His eyebrows shot up upon seeing her and he automatically braked and parked the car. "What are you doing down here?" He shouted over the engines before turning it off.
"I needed an escape from everything at the house. I didn't know where else to turn to."
Belatedly, she realized she could have walked down to the village. After all, Matthew would always lend her an ear, and perhaps she might have seen Branson sooner.
"I'm sorry," he said apologetically, as if it had been his fault entirely. "I had to pick up Lady Edith's car from the station and by the time I returned, your grandmother wanted me to take her home. And stop by the Drewe's farm," he added, evidently perplexed by it yet.
"The Drewe's?" Mary frowned. "What ever for?"
"She didn't say, and I didn't feel comfortable asking. I know I'm on hot water with her as it is. I didn't want to add another black mark to her book."
Mary cursed herself. Of course he wouldn't know. Granny certainly didn't advertise her business to the servants. Mary knew she shouldn't technically be, either...
"Is there anything you need?"
You.
Mary was startled by the thought. Of course there had been that... that strange feeling yesterday, during their picnic, when his voice grew low and tone teasing, but Mary didn't think of Branson like that... at least, not until yesterday. When they were trapped together in that tiny pantry, it had been harder, especially given those odd stirrings he had unintentionally inspired off in that field, but by the time she was cocooned under her covers that night, Mary rationalized it was her own loneliness speaking, not any genuine urges.
She was starting to wonder now just how true that was. She felt it again, just from an imploring look in his eyes and her admiration over his willingness to help her. She had come looking for a distraction... and that would certainly take her mind off of things, more than talking ever possibly could. She was sorely tempted to just lean down and capture his lips with her own. Maybe even that alone could extinguish those flames and stop her from fixating on everything up at the house...
But she couldn't do that— and not because it was something her grandmother (and whole family) would disapprove of. She respected Branson too much to toy with him like that, especially since she had made her stance clear. It would be a clear abuse of her power as well, using him in such a manner, given the crush he had admitted to. Even though she was fairly confident he no longer felt that way, she wasn't about to throw away one of the best parts of her life for something so trivial... despite how badly she realized she wanted some kind of relief, both mentally and physically.
"Mary?"
Mary remembered he was waiting for some sort of reply, some way he could help her. She needed to forget about everything for a few hours, and her preferred method was off the table. So she needed to accomplish the same thing.
"I need to get away from here. Just for a while."
Branson nodded slowly. "Alright. Anywhere in particular?"
Mary shook her head. "Just away from Downton."
"Right," he said, more to himself then to her. He then met her eyes. "I'm going to run up to the house and let someone know you've gone out, but as soon as I'm back, we'll leave, alright?"
Mary simply nodded in response. It was harder to speak today— whether it was because of this strange attraction she felt to him that was clouding her mind or the overwhelmingness of everything going on that made it hard to put things into words. Nevertheless, Branson accepted her response and hurried in direction of the house.
Mary stood awkwardly in the middle of the garage before climbing into the vehicle, the same one from the day before. She cursed herself for it, telling herself she had relinquished an opportunity to hold Branson's hand, if only for a fleeting moment... which was indication enough that there may very well be a problem, if such small, innocent touches were fueling this mad urge.
Branson returned a few minutes later, looking somewhat surprised to find Mary already in the car, but he didn't comment on it. He merely started up the engine and pulled out of the garage again, heading towards the road.
Once they set off, it was easy to be distracted... from both pressing concerns. Mary stared blankly at the green countryside, taking note of pedestrians and bicyclists that they met that were on the side of the road. She noted different farms, the herds of cattle reminding her of business matters. Belatedly, she wondered if perhaps it might have been wiser to pay a visit to the office rather than go somewhere with the chauffeur, especially when she was slowly becoming aware of a very pressing issue.
Mary was surprised when Branson began slowing down and pulling the car off to the side of the road. She was about to ask what he was doing until she saw that they were at the same field from yesterday. When the door opened, Mary saw Branson, the same blanket from yesterday draped over his arm and one hand stretched out to help her from the vehicle. It wasn't in the normal, formal manner that he always did at Downton; it was a significantly more relaxed gesture, more that of a friend.
As they laid the blanket out on the grass, it occurred to Mary that it could be another place to fulfill her sordid thoughts from earlier. If, instead of pouring out her feelings, she leaned over and kissed him, would he reciprocate? Would he let her unbutton that jacket, baring his shirt and vest? Mary contemplated the thought of his undoing the buttons of his sleeves, revealing his arms just as he did when he was mending the cars in the garage... but then recognized she wanted to see even more than that.
It wasn't until Branson lowered himself down to sit next to her that Mary returned to herself. The concerned expression on his face was enough to tamper her lust— well, somewhat. It was still there, lurking beneath the surface, urging her to wipe that look of his face with a kiss, but she remained steadfast. It was a fantasy, nothing more. It never could be...
And it was probably just a sign it had been far too long since she had been touched like that. During her brief relationship with Charles, he had stoked the flames of her desire with some of his more passionate kisses, but it was nothing compared to the roaring fire which she felt now when she gazed upon Branson. That part of her that had long remained dormant was ignited once again. It made sense; when Matthew was alive, scarcely a day had gone by where they did not indulge in one another, embracing the opportunity to show their love in decidedly physical ways. They had been denied it for so long and once it was allowed thanks to those complementing gold bands on their fingers, the floodgates had opened. When he died, the depression which clouded over her effectively killed her concupiscence. It seems it had returned now in full force.
Mary wondered if she ought to feel guilty. She loved Matthew; she'd loved him then and she still loved him now. How would he feel, to know her first vivid imaginings of carnality involved the chauffeur? Shouldn't she be picturing him instead, creating a world in her head in which he had never left? It seemed to Mary that perhaps she ought to consider finding another suitor... if for nothing else, than to distract from this troubling preoccupation with Branson.
"You don't need to say anything. Not if you don't want to." His voice was soft, gentle, and yet Mary was almost startled by it. She's been so absorbed in those libidinous thoughts she hadn't realized he had been sitting patiently by her side, waiting for some explanation. "We can just sit here, if you like."
Mary shook her head. What would he think, if he knew she had been just imagining him taking her here? He was a man, after all, and a man who up until recently had expressed attraction towards her. Had he ever thought of something similar? Had he craved her just as she did him now?
Stop it, Mary urged herself, knowing these quandaries wouldn't be of use... to her or to him.
"No. I... I'd like to talk. It would do me good."
"Alright." There was a pause. "About... Lady Edith?"
"No," Mary said immediately, barely letting him finish. "I don't want to think about all that now. Not until I have to." So what would they discuss, then? "I need a distraction."
"I can help with that,"
You certainly could. She eyed his large hand, which was resting on his own thigh, wondering what it would feel like on the inside of hers. She imagined those dexterous fingers, which were so nimble when working on the inside of the cars, pulling aside her knickers.
No. Stop it. She couldn't say it, she should even be thinking it. She was dismayed at how easy it was, to distract herself in this manner. She needed to reassert him as the kindly, patient friend, something purely platonic. "Tell me about yourself. Your life. Anything." She focused her gaze ahead, at the rustling tall grasses further out in the field, the wildflowers which swayed with warm breeze. Nothing lustful about that.
She saw him nod out of the corner of her eye. "Have I ever told you about the dog we had when I was a child?"
"No," Mary said, bemused but pleased with direction he was deciding to take. This seemed innocent enough, to starve off any illicit thoughts. "I never knew you had a dog."
Branson smiled. "He was a mangy old thing... at least he was when we took him in. Once he started being fed well and had a few baths, he was a giant ball of fur. We never quite knew where he came from but he was all skin and bones when he showed up at our house. My Da loved animals so he persuaded Mam to let us take care of him—"
And soon Mary could picture it. She knew bits about his childhood, like the trips to Galway to stay at his grandfather's farm in the summers as well as the rivalry between himself and Kieran, but she now had a wider vision. He was so descriptive; if she closed her eyes, she could see their modest dwelling in her mind, along with a large dog curled up under a dinner table or by the front door, tail thumping upon seeing two little boys walking home from school.
It led to Mary sharing stories about the family dogs that came before Isis; Sphinx was the first dog she remembered, who had been quite old when Mary was born, and whose name had been too hard for her to pronounce as a small child. After that came Cleo, who Mary picked out from the litter herself with Papa when to choose from the puppies. She had loved Mary, almost more than she loved Papa. Branson remembered Pharaoh and knew Isis as well, confessing the latter sometimes came to visit him the garage, usually appreciating a scratch on the head or a tummy rub before bounding back off to the house.
And then it just turned into a regular conversation— a free one, without any reservations or social niceties being observed. At one point, Branson flopped down onto his back, looking up at the clouds as he enthusiastically regaled her on what it was like at his old place of employment and the friends he made when he was there. Mary listened eagerly, finding she had so many questions for him. If she found the urge to speak and impart some story of her own about childhood days at Downton, he stared up at her, intent and just as enthralled by what she shared as she was when he spoke. When they were like this, it was hard to remember the societal barriers that were in place; he was just a man and she a woman, both of whom enjoyed the other's company very much.
When the sun began setting and the air began to cool by minute degrees, Mary knew it was time to go. They needed to pick up this blanket and climb back in the car, drive back to Downton and to their normal lives, encumbered once again by the roles they had to play. Branson knew it, too; she could tell by the look in his eyes and the hesitance he had whilst speaking, as if one wrong word would remind her that they needed to leave.
But she didn't want to go. She wanted to say to hell with it all: to hell with convention, to hell with her family, to hell with the judgement. She wanted to join Branson and lay down beside him, looking up at the twilight sky until it turned night, then stare up at the stars.
But that wasn't possible. She was Lady Mary Crawley and her family was expecting her. He was the chauffeur. The only connection they had was in the confines of that relationship; it was the only way things could ever be.
"It's getting late," she forced herself to say. "If we don't head home soon, I'll miss the gong."
"Right." Branson pushed himself up into a seated position. He didn't look at her as he rose to his feet, not even when her offered her his hand. Mary stared at his bare palm, realizing her had foregone the gloves sometime ago. She accepted it gladly, his calloused hand a welcome contrast. This would be closest she would ever come to her fantasy that afternoon of making love to him, she realized, and resolved to hold onto the moment, promising to treasure it... if only for herself.
"Thank you," she blurted out. He finally looked up at her, their eyes locking. "For talking to me. I needed that very much."
"I was happy to be a help to you." He hadn't let go of her hand. She didn't want him to. "All you have to do is ask and I'll take you wherever it is you need to go."
Of course he would. He was the chauffeur. It was quite literally his job description: to take her wherever she needed to go. But Mary knew he wasn't saying it as a chauffeur; he was saying it as a friend.
"Thank you." Now was the time to let go of his hand— actually, it was long overdue... and yet she couldn't bear to pull away from him just yet.
Branson was still staring at her, barely blinking. Her eyes went to his mouth briefly as his lips pressed together into a line. "Perhaps we could come back here sometime. If you need to get away."
She ought to say no.
But instead she nodded. "I'd like that."
Most of the chaos seemed to have died down before Mary returned but her appearance clearly stoked it up again. Mama and Papa didn't dare to make a scene in front of their guests but she could tell that their worry had dissipated and given way to disappointment with her.
As if it wasn't torturous enough, knowing she would be in for a tongue lashing later, Charles walked over to her. "So where did you disappear to, then?"
"I went for a drive, if you must know," Mary replied tersely, "though I don't see how it's any of your business."
"No need to be spiky," Charles retorted, unbothered by her brusqueness. "I thought we agreed to be friends."
Mary sighed. "So we did."
"I suppose I'm not exactly surprised, either," said Charles with a smile.
"What makes you say that?" Mary asked him, browns furrowed.
Charles glanced over at her, eyes all over her face as if assessing her for something. "No reason. I only know that you seem calmer after a drive."
Mary wasn't sure how true that was— she would put it down more to Branson than the drive itself but she supposed he wouldn't know that. All the same, she nodded.
Mabel, Mary soon discovered, was rather a godsend. Perhaps she was just a jealous wife but Mary was exceptionally pleased at how she was able to monopolize Tony's attention, either by dragging him off into a corner or distracting him with a game of cards. It meant Tony had little time with Mary— something she was glad of. Furthermore, the other woman had a sort of dry wit about her. Mary suspected that, perhaps in another life, they might have made good friends. At any rate, she certainly wasn't the meek thing she had once envisioned her to be.
As a result, Mabel made sure to announce early that she and Tony were going to bed early. Maybe it was a bit gauche to do such a thing but Mary could tell Tony hasn't been expecting it based on his face alone. Nevertheless, he followed his wife out of the library. Charles, meanwhile, seemed to be more interested in telling Mama and Papa about some art dealer he knew rather than with her. As awkward as it was to be around him now, Mary felt dismayed when he promptly bid them a goodnight, for it meant she was now left to the mercy of her parents.
"God, what an evening," sighed Papa, pouring himself a glass of scotch.
"Do we know where she is, then?" Mary asked, deciding to cut to the chase. The sooner they gave her a slap on the wrist, the better. Then she could stop torturing herself at least.
"No," sighed Mama. "But she isn't with Rosamund. She called when you were out and said she'll be here tomorrow."
"Speaking of that," Papa began, and Mary braved herself. "Why did you pull a disappearing act on us?"
"Do you really think I wanted to spend time with two of my former suitors and one's wife?" Mary asked with a raised eyebrow. Papa merely nodded in response, taking a generous sip of his drink.
"All the same, once we do find her, I think you do owe Edith an apology," Mama said. She wasn't stern nor dictatorial, but she sounded solemn and disappointed. "I know she said some hurtful things to you—"
"I was already planning on it, you know. I'm not a child." Her tone was defensive and clipped.
"Maybe, but you weren't considerate to her feelings. Losing Mr. Gregson has been very hard for her," Papa said firmly. It seemed, now that her sister was absent, all the blame for their argument was falling squarely on her, the hammer coming down unrelentingly.
"She hasn't exactly been considerate of mine, either," Mary said with the roll of her eyes. "At any rate, I'm willing to be the bigger person. I know I took it too far."
"Please do," sighed Mama. "I've never understood why you girls fight so much."
"You got Jo and Amy instead of Meg and Beth," Mary said wryly, thinking of Mama's favorite book from childhood. Not wanting to linger around much longer, she rose to her feet. "I think I'll turn in now, too. Goodnight."
Her parents echoed her final word, thankfully not insisting she remain behind. It was quite a relief to Mary.
The next few days were full of excitement. Downton welcomed Aunt Rosamund, Mrs. Drewe abruptly came by to speak to Mama, and the Sinderbys were coming for dinner.
The one moment in the morning when she visited Matthew was brief respite from all the commotion. "I am sorry, of course... but I'm not sure if she would forgive me. I'm not sure I've forgiven her, come to think of it, though I am willing to at least pretend for the sake of the family." She couldn't take the remarks from her parents for much longer. "But I am willing to admit the part I played in it."
Escaping for another ride with Branson seemed a risky maneuver at this point, so Mary declined him when he offered it. "It isn't that I don't want to," she told him hastily after he proposed the idea on the ride home, not wanting him to think it was any lack of desire on her part. "But we must remain careful. The last thing I want is for my grandmother to grow suspicious. If she thought I was making a habit of sneaking off with you, she would have a stroke."
"I understand," Branson said with a sad smile. "Though I don't like it. I'd much rather be spending time with you."
Alarm bells went off in Mary's mind. What he was saying was almost dangerous... But she reminded herself that she had made her position clear and he had accepted it. It was probably a purely platonic sentiment. "Believe me, I wish the same. You're much better company than anyone in there... especially since we're due to have the Greys coming for dinner soon." She wasn't sure when but once the engagement was announced, she was certain a dinner of some sort would be hosted.
"The Greys? Who are they?"
"My godfather's family. He is engaged to Mrs. Crawley... but it's not common knowledge yet. The only reason I know is because Isobel told me in confidence, so don't spread it around."
"I wouldn't dream of it," replied Branson. "Is he a bad man, then?"
"Oh, no!" Mary said hastily, realizing she had misrepresented Dickie greviously. "Dickie Merton is a dear. It's his sons I'm worried about."
"Oh?"
"Larry fancies himself something of a prankster," Mary said with the roll of her eyes. "I'm sure you remember him from when Mr. Crawley and I had a dinner party before our wedding. He drugged Matthew's best man as some sort of horrid joke and the poor man was so ill afterward he couldn't come to the wedding."
"Oh, that fellow?" Branson said with surprise.
"Yes. It was most embarrassing for Dickie. I felt rather sorry for him."
"What on Earth did he slip him, to make him that ill? I don't remember hearing."
Mary shook her head. "It was something to make him appear drunk. The poor man was still recovering from some bout of illness already and it didn't make matters any better."
"You think he'll make trouble?"
"I know it." Larry had always been close to his mother— Tim, too, really. They wouldn't take too kindly to Isobel taking her place, especially since Larry was such a horrid snob. He made her younger self look tame by comparison— or so Matthew said, refusing to share the man's choicest remarks from that unfortunate dinner. She had never managed to get the truth out of him, only knowing he made some nasty remark about Matthew aspiring beyond his station marry the likes of Mary. Matthew had been shocked when he learned the Crawley sister Larry had been sweet on was actually Sybil and not herself.
"Well, I hope you're wrong," Branson said, a touch glumly. "I like Mrs. Crawley."
She didn't find that surprising. In fact, if she were given the chance, Mary was quite confident Isobel would gladly invite him up to dinner to engage them in some spirited, political conversation... and Mary realized that if it were only up to her, maybe such a thing would happen.
It was a shame, however, that their world didn't work like that.
Dinner with the Sinderbys wasn't pleasant, what with the awkward conversations about divorce. It was no secret to the Crawleys that Shrimpie and Susan's marriage was on the rocks and ending soon, but it was clear the Sinderby patriarch disapproved of the practice vehemently... as well as Rose not being Jewish. Mama was there to speak about the merits of growing up in an interfaith marriages and Lady Sinderby seemed quite taken with Rose, but Mary suspected her cousin would be fighting an uphill battle to be with Mr. Aldridge— or Atticus, she supposed he could call him, since he had insisted on doing away with formalities and seemed to have clear intentions with Rose.
In fact, the young man was something of a godsend when it came to their Edith crisis. He pointed out that her magazine would likely know her whereabouts, which meant Mama and Aunt Rosamund were hurrying to London the next day to find her. When she returned, she announced her intentions to take in the little Drewe girl. "It seems they can no longer take care of her... and it will give me some sense of purpose," were her reasonings.
Mary thought it was a foolish idea. After all, she had already been unlucky in love— who knew if she would ever find a husband if she saddled herself with a child? But then again, Edith had stated that she was just as ready as Mary was to find a husband and it was her own life she was ruining. So instead of voicing her true thoughts, Mary said, "Well, that will be nice. I'm sure George would love to have a playmate in the nursery."
Edith seemed surprised by Mary's support but turned to Papa. "What do you think? I still have Grandpapa's money?"
"Are you certain?" He seemed concerned. "I don't wish to be rude, my dear, but some men wouldn't welcome the idea of raising someone else's child... especially if it wasn't even yours."
"Then he wouldn't be the right man for me," answered Edith, determined yet clearly hurt.
"You seem quite determined; I see I can't talk you out of it. You may, of course, use your own money as you see fit."
"But you don't object to living here? With us?"
"No, of course not."
Edith smiled. "Thank you, Papa. You'll just love her. She's the most darling little girl."
The most darling little girl came to Downton permanently only a few days after Edith's return, the same night as the dinner with the Greys. Mary had been meaning to find a moment alone with Edith to make her apologies but it had been hard. Edith was actively avoiding her and Mama was excited about some art consultant coming to inspect the della Francesca and Papa kept fighting her and Milton on Pip's Corner. It wasn't until Edith was helping the girl settle into the nursery with Nanny and George that Mary finally had the opportunity to make things right.
The door was slightly ajar and so Mary pushed it open completely so she could step inside. Another bed was being set up beside George's, who was eagerly babbling away to the little girl, who sat cross legged on the floor. His attentions were diverted upon seeing her. "Mummy!"
Mary welcomed the hug from her son, delighted as ever to see him, though her eyes never strayed far from Edith, who was staring at Mary emotionlessly. Mary listened to her son for a few minutes before saying, "I must speak to Aunt Edith about something, darling. Why don't you tell Miss Marigold about what she should expect here, hm?"
George took to the task immediately as Mary walked over to stand beside Edith. Mary found herself grateful to be here, at this point. With the children present, Edith wouldn't dare to make a scene.
"How is she adjusting?"
"I don't know. She hasn't been here long enough. I suspect in time she will," Edith replied tersely, looking everywhere away from Mary.
She sighed. "You know I'm sorry."
"Do I?"
"I'm not a complete monster."
"Has someone put you up to this? Papa? Sybil?"
Those were the usual suspects, weren't they? Mary felt a niggling sense of disquiet when she realized Edith wasn't far off from the truth. Would she even be here, if not for Isobel and Branson nudging her? Mary wasn't sure she would be. She was a proud woman, willing to swallow up her mistakes and gladly pretend they never happened.
"What I said was uncalled for. I apologize. Obviously you miss Mr. Gregson."
Edith didn't say anything, merely nodding and gulping. "I'm sorry, too. For what I said about Matthew." She paused. "I miss him, too, you know. He was the only one around here who supported me when I started writing."
"I supported you," protested Mary.
Edith turned to her, rolling her eyes. "Would you have done, if it weren't for Matthew?"
The awful truth is she probably wouldn't have. She would have sided with Papa— anything for be on opposing sides with Edith. Hashing that out wouldn't be helpful, though, not now. "Are we going to carry on like this? Squabbling all the time? We're grown women, Edith. I am a mother now, and you are as good as, now that you've taken in Miss Marigold. Do we want to model this sort of behavior, especially when they'll be the closest thing they'll ever have to siblings?"
Edith hesitated. "No. No, of course not." She sighed. "I haven't forgiven you, you know."
"I haven't forgiven you, either. For plenty of things," she added, thinking of some of Edith's crueler moments. She would never forget her shock and horror, the twisting sense of betrayal after Edith wrote that letter to the Turkish embassy. The ramifications of that had come close to destroying her numerous times. "But we don't have to be best friends. We just have to try to be civil to one another. For their sakes." At that she nodded to George, who was babbling away excitedly to a shy Marigold.
Edith hesitated, studying Mary carefully as if she didn't believe her. Mary stood with her shoulders back, determined. "Very well. A truce, then."
Mary nodded in agreement before turning back to her son and the little girl who would be raised alongside him.
"Do you really mean it, then? You don't plan on marrying again?" Edith's voice took her by surprise. She glanced back to her sister, who was studying her carefully. "I thought that was all this was about. Mr. Blake, Tony Gillingham..."
Mary shook her head. "Tony never really stood a chance," she admitted. "And Charles... he was always a distraction more than anything. My heart has always belonged to Matthew."
Edith contemplated what she was saying, nodding. "Do you think you ever will?"
Mary paused. She didn't like talking about her feelings, much less with Edith, but she suspected this is what agreeing to be civil with Edith entailed: subjecting herself to things she would sooner avoid. "I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe. Someday. But not now."
It was even harder to envision a future like that when she glanced down at George, who was handing one of his toys over to Marigold... but then Mary allowed herself to picture it. Herself and George, up in this very nursery, her son a little older and sharing toys with a younger sibling... but any time she pictured a hypothetical sibling, it always was one that looked as if it could have been Matthew's, with blond hair and blue eyes.
She knew she wasn't ready for marriage. Not yet. But perhaps, in time, she might give George a sibling... but until then, at least he would have Miss Marigold.