A/N: Thank you for the kind reviews! You don't know how much I appreciate them!
The Lady in Black
Chapter Fifteen
Dinner with Greys was terse affair for everyone involved. At first, there seemed to be some promise; neither Larry or Tim were verbally antagonistic, though the grimaces they wore when Dickie walked over to Isobel and gave her a kiss on the cheek spoke volumes of their true feelings.
"Sybil is still in New York, then?" Larry asked Mary and Edith (who had been practically forced together by the family, thanks to Rose being monopolized by Atticus), sipping on some of Papa's scotch before they went in for dinner. His intentions for asking were unsubtle; his adoration of Sybil was well known by both families.
"Yes," answered Edith, managing a polite smile. "She seems to be enjoying it there.",
Larry raised his eyebrows, taking a long drink before saying, "I can't believe your father wastes all that money, paying for her education."
"You don't think it admirable that she wants to save lives?" asked Mary cooly, not liking the way he tried to diminish her accomplishments. Despite him being a gentleman, Mary never thought Larry was good enough for Sybil. Sometimes she wondered if she could ever deem any man worthy.
Larry huffed out a laugh and rolled his eyes. "I'm not faulting her— no one can doubt she always has the best of intentions. She's a sweet girl—" Mary was marveling at his ability to sound and act like a decent human being when discussing her darling sister when he decided to transform back into the same old Larry, "— but it is a bit naïve, isn't it? I mean, no man wants a wife who works!"
"Oh, I don't know. Americans tend to be freethinkers," Mary said with a smile, sipping her own drink.
It was gratifying to watch the oily, smug smile fall from his face. "Pardon?"
"Well, I doubt Sybil will be back to England any time soon," replied Mary pleasantly. "I know she's busy now with her courses and training, but I know it isn't a situation of 'all work and no play'. I wouldn't be surprised if the next time she comes home, it's with a fiancé."
Larry was now gripping his glass so tightly that his fingers were turning white. It was a miracle the damn thing hadn't shattered. His jaw was tense as well. "Sybil's no idiot," he said with a sneer. "She wouldn't be content as the wife of some nobody American. She'll be back some day, and she'll need a real man to be her husband."
"It's such a shame it won't be you, given your preoccupation with her," Mary said, going in for the kill fixing him with a smug smile of her own.
Larry glared at her, loathing unmistakeable before stalking off and joining his brother by Mama and Papa.
"You're quite horrible when you want to be," Edith said once he was out of earshot.
"You can't honestly tell me he didn't deserve it," Mary said with the roll of her eyes and another sip of her drink.
Edith turned so she was facing Mary, grinning. "I was only going to say it's much more amusing when I'm not on the receiving end of it." The sisters shared a rare smile with one another. "Do you really think Sybil will marry an American?"
Mary shrugged. "I don't know. We don't really talk about those sorts of things, her and I." Sybil was significantly more concerned with the happenings of her favorite nephew than she was with any of Mary's suitors and Mary didn't like to pry.
"She never says anything to me about it, either. Which is so strange," observed Edith. "She always used to be such a romantic."
"We've all grown up," was all Mary said.
It was nice— actually engaging in pleasant conversations with her sister. Mary wasn't under any illusions they would ever be closer than this... but it was nice not be constantly bickering. A few minutes later, Edith migrated over to speak to Rose and Atticus, so Mary joined Granny on the sofa.
Mary should have known that those remarks from Larry about Sybil were only the beginning of his tirade, but even she was surprised by how low he could go— and Tim, for that matter. Edith was apparently an enemy as well when they both made remarks about Edith's decision to take in Marigold. Though it echoed Mary's private sentiments, it seemed incredibly poor taste to dine at their table and cast judgement so brazenly. Granny tried to distract everyone by asking, "Rose, have you written to your mother about Mr Aldridge?"
"I have now," Rose replied, though it seemed a little strained.
"And will she approve?"
"Don't be disappointing, Aunt Violet, please," Rose replied, irritated.
"I promise you we know difference in religion is a big thing," Atticus jumped in, eager to diffuse tension with his sunny smile.
"Quite right," Larry spoke up, evaluating Atticus carefully before asking, "How would you bring up any children, for example?"
"Children? When did this happen?" Papa asked jovially, which made nearly everyone at the table laugh.
But Larry wasn't done. "Talking hypothetically. The fact is, most marriages that fail, founder for precisely this kind of reason. An irreconcilable difference."
"Or maybe they just don't get on," Mary said, brushing it aside. She was certain the topic of divorce was a sensitive one for Rose, so it seemed best not to linger on it. Besides, dwelling on the subject of divorce at an engagement dinner was rather awkward... though she strongly suspected that was Larry's intent.
"No, I'd agree with Larry," Tim jumped in. "It's usually more than that."
"It might be different beliefs, or different nationalities or a huge age gap," continued Larry. "It the end, they cannot see eye-to-eye."
"I don't see what you're getting at," Dickie said stiffly. That was a bald faced lie; everyone present could see what the boys were insinuating.
"You mean to marry Mrs. Crawley," Larry said, nodding to Isobel. "She seems very nice and I wish you both every happiness." It was a kind sentiment but Mary was waiting for the other shoe to drop... especially since he wore one of his typical, smug smiles.
"Thank you," Isobel said, genuinely touched.
As predicted, Larry wasn't finished. Mary's blood boiled as he continued, "But that doesn't prevent me from seeing the wide disparity in class and background may prove your undoing."
Mary shifted in her seat. That seemed a rather small issue, at least to her. There were plenty of ways a couple could be incompatible... but class wasn't one of them. After all, she and Matthew had got on marvelously; perhaps not at first, but by the end, they saw how well and evenly matched they were in one another.
"What did you say?" Papa asked, stunned, as if he had never expected Larry to behave so poorly.
"Only that Mrs. Crawley, a decent middle class woman with neither birth nor fortune is expecting to fill another's shoes as one of the leaders of the county," Larry said, unrelenting and rigid. "Is she capable of it? Or will her inevitable failure prove a source of misery to them both?"
"Do you know Mrs Crawley's late son was my heir?" demanded Papa and Mary's heart soared, relieved she wasn't the only one thinking of Matthew.
"What does that prove?" Larry said dismissively, rolling his eyes. "Everyone has distant cousins who are odd."
Her hands tensed into tight fists on her lap, anger burning within her. How dare he? How dare he say such things about Matthew? And how dare he pick apart Isobel like this, when Dickie finally seemed so happy? Mary turned to give him a scorching glare but she doubted he saw it. He was too distracted by Dickie exclaiming, "How dare you? Will you go, Larry? I had to make excuses for your rudeness the last time you sat at this table. It is tiring to think I should be called upon to do so again."
"I know the choice of in-laws is unorthodox," continued Larry. "In this family, you've already had a middle-class nobody and soon you can claim a Jew—"
His remaining words were cut off as red wine was splashed on his face. There were gasps from across the dining room. It took Mary a moment before she realized it had been her. Her hand was still holding the glass, thrust out before her. Arm shaking, she pushed herself to her full height on trembling legs. "Get out of my house." Her voice was deathly quiet yet heard by everyone as she glared at him, unmitigated wrath powering her.
Larry was staring up at her, blinking in shock. He tore his eyes away from her only to wipe his face off with a napkin and glanced at everyone else gathered at the table. "Well, if that is how you feel?"
"I do not endorse Mary's behavior, but I can assure you that all of us here echo her sentiments wholeheartedly," Papa said darkly.
Larry gulped, clearly chastened and dismayed by how poorly he had played his hand. "Then, Lady Grantham, goodbye. And thank you for a delightful evening." With that he rose to his feet, droplets of wine still dripping down his face before he wiped it off with a napkin, and then left the dining room.
"Where's Mr. Hubbards?" Jimmy asked as he entered the servant's hall. Almost every servant not involved with serving the meals was gathered there— even Tom, who was just using it as an excuse for some companionship.
"He's gone to the lavatory," replied Tom, glancing up from the book he'd been reading. "Why?"
"They've kicked Lord Merton's eldest son out of the dining room." He wore a look of unmistakable amusement. "Lady Mary threw a glass of wine all over him."
"What did she do that for?" Mr. Bates asked, perplexed. Tom couldn't help but feel surprised as well. Mary didn't often allow her emotions get the best of her. He remembered what she said about Mr. Grey starting trouble. He was only astonished she had seen to it to put a stop to it.
"He was being nasty to Mrs. Crawley and made some cracks about Mr. Crawley, too," Jimmy told them, at which point everyone seemed to accept Mary's uncharacteristic behavior.
"What a bastard," Tom said without thinking. His only thought was for Mary, how she must have felt to hear him disparaged in such a way.
"Mr. Branson!" Mr. Carson's voice boomed throughout the servant's hall, which made chairs skid and Tom drop his book to the table. Damn— he'd surely lost his page now. "When have I ever been known to tolerate such vulgar language down here?"
"Never, Mr. Carson," he replied automatically. He felt neither guilty nor chastened; he was certain he would utter those same words again in regards to that man, especially once Mary told him what had precisely been said.
"Then why did I hear you saying such things?"
"Because I was shocked he would be so unkind to the late Mr. Crawley and his mother," Tom said... which was true. He had always liked Mr. Crawley; he always seemed so astonished whenever Tom would drive to Crawley house to pick up him and his mother. He was personable as well, asking Tom genuine, well-meaning questions about his life. He had also been kind enough to tell Tom how Lady Sybil was after the incident at the Count, assuring him she would make a full recovery and that Lady Sybil would fight in his corner and keep Tom from being sacked.
He left Mary out of his statement, knowing how precarious it would be for them both should he have included her. She wanted to keep whatever was brewing between them a secret: for now, at least. He understood that by being so obvious about his feelings, he was jeopardizing his own job and chances of finding a new one, but truthfully, he didn't care about that. There would always be a place at Kieran's garage for him but his main motivation was to respect her wishes.
It didn't bother him, that Mary was still so fiercely protective of her late husband. She had loved him a great deal— no, she still loved him. Her love for him was as fervent as it was that day Tom drove her down to hospital when he had been injured. He didn't know her then as he knew her now, but her remembered watching her wring her gloves hands and sit upright with ramrod posture, jaw tensed but eyes full of worry and concern. When he picked her up at the hospital late in the evening, she had stared out the window on the way back, blinking rapidly and eyes shining with tears she tried to contain. Eventually, the strain of the day must have gotten to her, for he recalled her dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and sniffling. He didn't say anything, fairly certain any attempts on his part to comfort her would be rebuffed. Even back then, he had known Mary was a proud woman. The most comforting thing he could do for her was feign ignorance... though it had made his heart soften towards her, seeing how much she cared for Mr. Crawley. He had only ever seen her this concerned about Lady Sybil after the incident at the Count. She proved her devotion again early in the morning, when the sky was still dark and the servants hadn't even been served breakfast yet, to visit him again.
It was similar to her visits now, though she was nowhere near as urgent to pay a call to Mr. Crawley now. Sometimes she still cried when she visited him, wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief that she always seemed to have on hand. He never knew what she spoke to him about, only aware that visiting him day after day was cathartic for her. He did his best to give her privacy, which wasn't hard considering how far back Mr. Crawley's grave was from the road. Tom would occupy himself with a book or his paper normally, peering up every once in a while to see how she was faring.
It was an astonishing thing, to experience a great love like that. It was the sort of thing he had dreamed about... and he had found it, at last, with none other than Mary herself. Mr. Crawley remained an important part of her life and Tom had no desire to pretend he wasn't. If it weren't for Mr. Crawley and her unyielding devotion to him, Tom doubted he would have come to know Mary quite as well as he had. Furthermore, Tom knew that love came in many forms and in many places, and that just because Mary had loved once, it didn't mean she couldn't love again with that same intensity.
But Mr. Carson knew none of that. He seemed to accept Tom's answer, sighing instead of chastising. "Mr. Hubbards isn't here, then?" He glanced about the servant's hall for the Greys' chauffeur.
"He's in the lavatory, Mr. Carson," Anna offered him.
"Very well. Mr. Grey is waiting out front but I would prefer it very much if I knew he was in a vehicle and not on the loose around Downton. You'll have to fetch their car and bring it up front, Mr. Branson."
"Me?" Tom asked, baffled.
"Since you are the only one here who is a chauffeur, yes. I want someone with their eyes on that man as long as he is here," Mr. Carson said sternly. He addressed those assembled with, "When Mr. Hubbards returns, one of you will tell him what's transpired so he can relieve Mr. Branson of his duty. And I request that you," Mr. Carson said, direction this last bit at Tom, "keep your opinions on Mr. Grey to yourself... regardless of true they may be."
"Yes, Mr. Carson," Tom said reflexively, hiding his smile until the man left.
"Don't worry about that, Mr. Branson," Mr. Bates said, looking up from his task. "I've been known to say that word a time or two down here. I'll talk to Mr. Carson about easing up on you."
"I'm not worried... but thank you," said Tom. He was well aware that his response had been an acceptable. Besides, after ten years here, Tom felt he had earned the right to use some colorful language at least once. It sounded as if no one in the family would object, either. "I'd best bring the car around."
Larry Grey was shrouded by shadow as Tom pulled up to the house. When Tom stepped out to open the door, he looked baffled. "Who are you?"
"Branson, sir. I'm the chauffeur here." He couldn't resist smiling once he finally had a clearer view of the man and was able to see Mary's damage to him. His white tie and button down were stained with red wine. Tom felt rather proud of her... and, if he were being wholly honest with himself, he found the idea of Mary throwing what appeared to be a full glass of red wine at someone (especially someone as repugnant as Mr. Grey seemed to be) strangely attractive. It reminded him very much of that scheme with the general he had cooked up during the war.
Mr. Grey's brow was furrowed, giving Tom a disdainful look. "Where the bloody hell is Hubbards?"
"He is indisposed at the moment. Mr. Carson sent me to bring you your car."
The man rolled his eyes. "I don't really care what you've been instructed to do," he said before climbing into the vehicle. Tom closed the door behind him, letting it slam shut. Tom climbed into the front of the car, where he was once again interrogated by Mr. Grey, who demanded to know what he was doing before once again claiming he didn't care what Tom had been ordered to do. He was certainly a tiresome fellow.
Thankfully, it wasn't long before Hubbards approached. "That's Mr. Hubbards, then," he said, more to himself than to Mr. Grey, though felt it prudent to at least let the man know his chauffeur was arriving.
"Yes. I can bloody well see that, you stupid fool," spat Mr. Grey from the backseat, arms crossed over his chest. It reminded Tom of behavior more typical of someone Master George's age— though he doubted Master George would ever be so impolite.
Tom said nothing, angry but not unsurprised. Truthfully, he was used to it. Nevertheless, Tom was pleased to hop out of the car. "I'll warn you, he's in a foul mood," he muttered to Mr. Hubbards as he passed him.
It was possibly a risky move, especially if Hubbards was fond of the family, but thankfully Hubbards chortled and replied back, "When is he not?" and gave Tom a commiserating look before they parted ways.
"I trust you heard about my outburst last night," was one of the first things Mary said to him when they started their drive the following morning. Her gaze was diverted to her lap.
"I did. It was a popular topic of conversation in the servant's hall," said Tom with a grin.
Mary sighed. "I loathe to think what everyone must be saying."
"You shouldn't," Tom promised. "Everyone understood why. And I have to say, I'm proud of you."
"Whatever for? I know I behaved badly."
"Possibly... but people like Larry Grey so rarely get what they deserve," Tom told her, determined she wouldn't feel poorly about this. "You were defending Mr. Crawley. It seems a perfectly noble reason to me, even if it wasn't exactly good form... and after dealing with the man myself, I don't blame you one bit. I might've done something similar in your shoes."
"What do you mean? Why were you dealing with Larry?"
"Mr. Carson sent me last night to ensure he wouldn't be left alone. I think he was worried Mr. Grey would take his frustrations out on the Abbey without a watchful eye."
"Did he say anything?" demanded Mary.
"He called me a stupid fool," Tom replied nonchalantly.
Perhaps, given that he knew the scope of Mary's feelings, Tom should have been prepared for her reaction, but he doubted anything could have anticipated him for her exclamation of, "Did he really? I'll bloody well wring his neck."
Tom couldn't stop himself from laughing aloud, not because Mary's threat was funny, but more due to surprise than anything else. "Careful— I don't want to have to testify against you in a court of law if you murder Mr. Grey."
Mary ignored him. "I simply won't tolerate that. He had no right to say such things. You know it isn't true."
"I know," Tom reassured her. "But there's no sense being angry over it."
"Well, I can't abide the thought of him saying such horrid things to you!" Mary replied hotly.
Tom couldn't deny it; he was touched. "Don't worry about me," he said softly, not wanting her to be worked up over all this. "He didn't hurt my feelings or anything like that. I'll be glad never to see him again but you don't need to worry about me... especially when I'm more concerned about you."
"Me?"
"Well, they said was being rude about Mr. Crawley and Mrs. Crawley."
Mary sighed. "He was wretched to her. Saying all these things about how their difference in class would make them unsuitable for one another."
Tom hesitated. "But you don't agree with him?"
"Of course not," she said, with more passion than he had expected... though perhaps the subject had been weighing on her mind more heavily of late. Tom tried to restrain himself but her response gladdened him greatly. "Not as long as long they make one another happy. And I can see that they would be... but I rather fear Isobel will give him up now, now that she sees his sons oppose it."
"Do you really?" Tom couldn't help but be surprised. Perhaps it was different, since it would be a second marriage for them both, but Tom was astonished she would give up on love so easily. "Does Lord Merton mind? That his sons disapprove?"
"Not in the slightest," replied Mary, sounding wistful. "He was furious with Larry and I don't think he's pleased with Tim, either. I hope she'll reconsider but I think her mind is made up."
He glanced into the mirror, eyeing her. She was turned towards the window, the sunlight casting its yellowed glow on her. Something tugged at his heart, that love which he was reminded of every day. "Well, I hope so, too. I wouldn't give up. Not on love." He felt he had to say it, just so she would know he wouldn't go anywhere... and he felt rewarded by the small smile on her face.
Mary was disheartened to learn that her suspicions were proven correct and that Isobel and Dickie's engagement had fallen apart over Larry and Tim's poor behavior. However, that cloudiness was cleared by Rose and Atticus announcing their intentions to marry. It was all done very quickly, with arrangements being made in London and Susan and Shrimpie returning from India to celebrate the occasion... even as they were in the midst of a divorce.
Seeing at the strife that came with their relationship as well as Susan's contempt of the Sinderbys for their Jewish heritage, Mary found herself more disgusted by their cousin than ever. What did she think of Mama, then, given her own background? How could Shrimpie have stood it for so long? It only made her all the more grateful that she and Matthew had been madly in love as well as accepted wholeheartedly by the family. What must it be like, starting out the happiest period of your life, surrounded by strife?
Still, Mary couldn't help but wonder what would have happened, if she had left well enough alone with Rose and Mr. Ross. It was something that had played on her mind since Larry's nasty tirade at dinner that evening, that speech on incompatibilities, though it hadn't occurred to her just then. Surely if Susan disapproved of Atticus, who was in line for a barony, simply for being Jewish, then what would she have reacted to Mr. Ross as a potential son-in-law? It would have been a million times worse. Given how distraught Rose was now thanks to her mother's behavior, Mary was more confident now than ever that she wouldn't have been able to bear it back then.
It didn't stop her from feeling strangely guilty, though. Mary found herself tossing and turning in bed at night, replaying her argument with Branson over that entire proceeding, even though it happened so long ago. What right had she, to step in like that? After witnessing the near blistering rows between Susan and Shrimpie, she realized now more than ever how important a role love played in a marriage. As a young girl, she had never expected herself to marry for love, even though her entire life had witnessed the great love between her own parents. It seemed unrealistic to aspire for such a thing.
But, she realized, it was why she and Matthew worked. It was why Isobel and Dickie would work, if her mother-in-law would just give them a chance. It was why Mama and Papa, despite the hardships they faced together, worked. It was why Rose and Atticus would stick together as well, through thick and thin.
Perhaps it was cruel to bring it up, but Mary longed to be absolved of that guilt. Rose was older now, much less impulsive, and madly in love with Atticus. Surely now she could look back at the whole proceeding and recognize her foolhardiness, recognizing that had she eloped with Jack Ross as she had once threatened to, she wouldn't be here with Atticus now.
A few days before the wedding, Mary went out to lunch with Rose and Edith. While Mary couldn't exactly say things between her and Edith were fully mended, they were making an effort to not be so harsh on one another. It was somewhat trying at times; thanks to the difficulties surrounding Shrimpie and Susan, Mama has almost forced them to share a room, which led to Mary declaring she would gladly sleep in the attics with the servants or even the roof rather than sleep in the same room as Edith. They had made their apologies and that was that, but there was no excessive fondness between them. After lamenting how sad it was that Sybil couldn't join them for the wedding, Edith briefly left to make a phone call to her office. "You seem happy with him. Atticus, that is," Mary said, broaching the topic gently as she browsed through the menu.
"Oh, I do," Rose said with a wide smile. "I know it's been so fast but I feel like it can't come soon enough."
Mary hummed. "So you don't resent my interference with Mr. Ross?"
The smile faded and Rose's expression darkened. Mary knew then instantly she shouldn't have said anything; what with her feelings of guilt in all this. "You can't ask me that," Rose said tightly.
Mary said nothing to her until Edith returned, at which point they returned to the joviality from earlier. Nevertheless, Mary noticed a strained quality to Rose's smiles, the way her laughs seemed more forced.
Thankfully, it had no impact on the wedding. Despite Susan's best attempts to ruin her daughter's wedding day, Rose married Atticus. Mary couldn't remember seeing her cousin happier, though the memory of her brief affair with Mr. Ross chafed at her. She kept wondering what might have happened, had she not intervened.
Once the dust from the big day settled, Mary was surprised to be summoned down to Milton's house. She usually met up with him once a week, discussing different matters with him or occasionally meeting him at some farm. They were friendly but she didn't truly know much about the man. It was rarer yet to be invited into his home.
Milton was the one to greet her at the door, congenial and beckoning her to following him to their sitting room. He was a tall man, taller than Matthew, with a strong jaw, pale skin, and a full head of curly brown hair. His wife was almost comically petite when she stood next to him, with bright red locks and Grecian nose. She greeted Mary with a lovely smile and served her a cup of tea, adding a little too much milk for Mary's liking, but she thanked Mrs. Milton regardless. She left shortly thereafter at her husband's request, leaving himself and Mary alone in the sitting room.
"So," began Mary, crossing her legs, "what have you brought me here to discuss?"
Milton pursed his lips. "We've had some bad news," he said with a sigh. "Jill's mother isn't well."
Mary blinked, realizing he was referring to his wife. "Oh. Well, I'm very sorry to hear that."
Milton nodded. "It's very sad. She's a good woman. She raised Jill and her sister's singlehandedly after the death of her husband." Mary wondered why he was bothering to tell her this. "The doctor thinks she has about a year left but probably not much more than that. She's fine now but she'll need proper care."
Mary nodded. "You'll need time off," she surmised.
She was stunned when Milton shook his head. "No... actually, we have decided we'll be leaving Downton permanently. Jill is already set to inherit her house and we figure that we might as well move in now and care for her while she is still with us. We want to leave in December."
Mary blinked. "I see. Has my father been informed?"
"Not yet. You see, I wanted a word with you first. Because I already have a candidate in mind for a replacement."
"Of course," Mary said, nodding, though she couldn't help but think her father should be here... but perhaps Milton had an unconventional choice in mind. He and Mary had been allies, facing off against Papa many times— most notably over the battle of Pip's Corner, which they had lost. "Who is he, then?"
"Not a he," Milton said with a smile. "You, Lady Mary."
It took her a moment to process it. "Me?"
Milton nodded again. "I've been very impressed by how seriously you have taken your role as the co-owner of this estate. I was surprised by your willingness to learn and your drive to uphold this estate for your son. You aren't afraid to make tough decisions when you know it will only serve to benefit Downton. I know how much you love this place and I am wholly confident nobody else could be better suited to succeed me."
She was speechless: not only because of his kind words or his unwavering belief in her, but because he truly felt she should be the be the next agent, to hold a career. It was something she had never once imagined for herself as a little girl, but it was, she realized now, something she wanted desperately.
"What do you say?"
Mary blinked. "I— I would like to. Very much. But I think my father should play a part in making this decision. It's his estate, too, after all."
"Of course, of course. I intend to have a word with him myself over all this. I only wanted to know if you would be amendable that I put you forward as a candidate. I wouldn't want to spring it on you."
"Well, I can't deny I'm still a little taken aback, but I am glad you think me equal to the task. I'd be happy to do it."
Milton smiled. "I had a feeling you might."
Mary was halfway back to the house, resolving to not breathe a word to anyone, when the temptation became too great and she found herself walking over to the garage, where Branson was busying himself underneath one of the cars.
"Everything alright?" she asked him, walking over to the place where his legs stuck out from under the car.
Branson shimmied himself out. "Seems to be. I heard a strange noise the other day while driving this one. Thought I ought to look at it." He smiled up at her before pushing himself to his feet. Mary watched him closely, ignoring the little flutterings in her stomach and those desires which had become increasingly prevalent as she stared at his bared arms. "Is everything alright with you?"
"Yes," Mary said, making a purposeful effort to force her eyes away from his arms and look at his face instead... which wasn't better, really, for then she was able to gaze at his bright blue eyes and his lips. "I've some good news, as a matter, of fact."
"Oh? What sort of good news?"
"Well, it starts off with some bad news," began Mary, lacing her fingers together in front of her body. "Milton is going to be resigning soon. His mother-in-law is dying and he and his wife are set to inherit her house."
Branson frowned. "How is this good news?"
"Because he wants me to be his replacement."
Branson stared at her for a moment before a wide, brilliant grin found its way on his face. "Do you want to be?"
"I do," she admitted, glancing down. It was a little overwhelming, seeing how one good thing in her life made him light up like this. "Downton is my home and I want to preserve it."
"You'd be marvelous at it," Branson told her, effusive. "You care for this place and the people in it. I can't think of anyone who would do better a job than you."
It was strange; while it had been odd to hear Milton so complimentary, it didn't feel anything like hearing Branson uttering the same sentiments. It was that strange feeling, similar to those little bolts of desire she sometimes felt, but sometimes even more potent. She was shocked by how good it made her feel, to know Milton wasn't the only one who thought this was a good idea.
She dismissed herself a short while later. As glad as she was to have shared her news with him, she recognized what she was doing was dangerous. It was as if she couldn't bring herself to stay away from him. Like a magnet, Mary was inexplicably drawn to Branson. No matter how many times she told herself that she shouldn't be so familiar, something came up and she was making a secret trip to garage or scheduling an 'appointment' to the field or bursting with excitement when she met him in the mornings.
Shortly after Rose returned from honeymoon, the Crawleys were invited to join the Sinderbys at Brancaster Castle. Lord Hexham, who actually owned the place, was away on holiday, so he was planning to let them hunt there.
"I suppose you don't approve," she said to Branson when mentioning their upcoming plans one on of their visits to the field. Edith had been driving her mad of late, fussing over Marigold as if she were her own child, and Mary needed an escape to keep from letting her temper boil over.
"Who says I don't?" Branson asked, arching an eyebrow. "As it happens, I used to hunt sparrows on my grandfather's farm. I was a pretty good shot. I know it isn't grouse but it's something."
"It is," Mary said, not wanting him to brush it off. "They're quite difficult, sparrows." Without thinking, she said, "It's a shame you can't join us on the hunts. My father would approve wholeheartedly."
Mary wasn't sure why she said it. It made no sense. Why would Papa ever need to approve of Branson? He certainly approved of him as a chauffeur, for he had never once complained about his driving or mechanical skills; in fact, Papa was rather pleased Branson was able to take care of the latter. Though he still occasionally made comments on the books Branson borrowed, she knew Papa thought it eccentric that they had a revolutionary chauffeur— even what it was obvious to Mary that Branson wasn't a revolutionary. He simply held a differing set of ideals. She actually rather liked hearing him explain himself, thinking idly to herself that he could very well be a politician if he wanted to be.
Even more perplexing than her strange statement was Branson's response. "I'll have to keep that in mind." Before any further examination could be done on Mary's part, he changed the subject to asking about the mysterious Lord Hexham.
There were plenty of moments like these, Mary realized, where Branson said odd things like this and managed to change the subject before she could interrogate him on it. She wasn't sure if he switched topics on purpose or if she waited for him to do so just so she wouldn't have to ask about it.
Speaking of her father, he made life increasingly difficult. A few days before their anticipated leave for Brancaster, Mary casually announced at breakfast that she was planning on taking a trip to York when he announced he would accompany her. "I have an appointment that day myself. We can go together."
Mary cursed herself. There was no appointment: not for her, at least. She had been intending on spending the day with Branson, knowing such opportunities would be impossible when she was away at Brancaster. But with Papa coming along...
Mary didn't mention it to anyone, not even Branson, until the day of Papa's appointment. "Branson, why don't you drop Lady Mary off first?" Papa said midway through their drive.
Mary tensed up. That wasn't going to work... and would defeat the whole purpose of her even going along if she never had a moment alone with Branson. "What time is your appointment?" She asked Papa.
"At noon. Why?"
"Mine isn't until 12:30. We might as well drop you off first. I certainly don't want to be too early."
Papa frowned. "What sort of appointment is it, anyway? You never said."
"Just one of my charities," she said offhandedly. Before he could inquire which one, she said, "You haven't exactly been forthcoming about your business, either."
Papa sighed. "Because I didn't want you to know." He paused. "You mustn't breathe a word of this to your mother or sisters."
"That sounds rather serious," said Mary, taken aback by his tone yet trying to remain glib.
"That's because it may be serious." That made her face fall. Papa seemed to deliberate on whether or not he wanted to continue before saying, "I'm going to the hospital. To see some specialist. I've been having pains in my tummy and Clarkson seems to think it is out of his realm of expertise."
Mary didn't know how to feel. In fact, she didn't really feel much of anything. Just... numb. He was speaking yet nothing he said made any sense.
"It's probably nothing," he said, a quick turn around from what he had revealed previously. "But all the same, I don't want your mother or sisters worrying about me— or you, for that matter. You have more than enough to deal with, especially what with this business of Milton's departure."
"About that," began Mary, glancing cautiously at her father. "Has he told you what he was thinking? As far as a replacement?"
"No, not yet," her father said, distracted. Considering there was the business of his going to the hospital, perhaps it wasn't the best time to bring this up. "I'll have to see him before we leave for Brancaster."
Mary bit the inside of her lip, wondering how that would go. She felt uncomfortable keeping such secrets from her father. She loved him dearly and she feared the longer he was kept in the dark, the longer it would take him to forgive her once he knew she was fully aware and said nothing.
Thankfully, it wasn't long before they pulled up to the hospital. "I'm not sure how long this will take exactly, Branson, but once I am finished, please pick me up at the pub down the street."
"Yes, milord," Branson said. Mary nearly started at his formal tone. It was so strange to hear it now. He rarely observed it with her, save in the presence of others.
"How long will you be?" Papa asked Mary.
She shrugged. "I don't know. You know how these things can be."
Papa didn't, but he nodded anyway. "I'll see you later... and do try not to worry."
Mary nodded in assent before he climbed out. She watched him through the window until faded from view, leaving her alone with Branson.
"So... where is your appointment?"
"There is no appointment, Branson," Mary answered with a sigh. "There never was one."
"Then why did you come along?"
She sighed. "Because I wanted to spend the day with you."
There was a silence. Then, "Oh."
"I had intended for us to go to the field but knowing us, we would be gone too long... but I don't know many places here where we could walk in together without receiving some stares," Mary explained, feeling her face grow warm. Knowing now what she did about Papa, she couldn't bring herself to be angry with him; in fact, she was tremendously worried.
Branson paused. "You mean... you still want to spend the day with me?"
Mary felt horribly embarrassed once he pointed it out. After all, it was awfully presumptive of her... especially since they would be so near his brother's business. "You don't have to," Mary said hastily, surprisingly insecure for once. "If you'd rather... visit your brother, you're perfectly at liberty to do so."
Branson shook his head. "That's alright. I'll have plenty of chances to see Kieran once the family is away. Now what were you thinking?"
Mary squirmed a little under his intent gaze. "I don't know yet. We'll have to come up with something... But are you certain you don't wish to visit your brother? I can find something else to occupy my time with."
"Of course not. I'd much rather spend time with you."
Mary blinked, taken aback by the bald honesty. "That's quite a compliment," she said, somewhat baffled that he would prefer to be with her when he was able to see her everyday... but then realized she felt the same.
Eventually, they decided to simply drive around the city. It was the most conspicuous way to spend time together; if he weren't in uniform, they could stroll anywhere without receiving stares. Nevertheless, despite the fact they were aimlessly driving down the streets of York with no destination in mind, Mary enjoyed herself. She supposed this was exactly what she had wanted all along, though she couldn't help but prefer their trips to the field. They felt much more like equals when seated side by side on a blanket on the side of the road; when she was in the back of the car, it was easy to remember the man who was making her laugh and sharing interesting anecdotes was the chauffeur.
At one point, he asked how she felt about her father's news. It startled Mary, realizing not for the first time how well their servants knew them and the details of their lives. Had Mary not come along and asked why he was going to the hospital, only Branson would have known Papa had gone there today.
"I don't want to think about it," she admitted. "Not if I don't have to." And that was that. Branson moved quickly to telling her about Mr. Carson's quest to find a new footman.
They eventually did make one stop at a bookstore. Mary noticed it and asked him to pull over. It wasn't terribly busy by the looks of it and she doubted anyone she knew would ever see them together. "Don't you want to come in?" She asked when he moved to return to the vehicle after helping her out.
Branson paused. "Do you want me to?"
"Certainly." Mary didn't need nor want any books, really... but she knew Branson would, especially when he grinned and followed her inside without a second glance.
They split ways briefly, Mary browsing the fiction section for anything interesting. When she found nothing (for herself, anyway; there was some book that might interest Sybil), she decided to search for Branson. Mary found him flipping through pages of a book, blue eyes flickering intently. She wondered if he was actually reading it or merely scanning it. His fingers curved around the spine, almost as if he were cradling the book. She had seen him reading, of course— it was rare that he didn't bring along something to cemetery for when she was busy speaking with Matthew— but she had never allowed herself to observe him like this.
But Mary soon found herself distracted as his tongue peeked out to lick his lips. She was unprepared by the reaction it had on her, that most pleasant twist in her stomach that had become more and more commonplace.
That was it. She most definitely had a problem. She needed a distraction from this— this madness. Clearly she had been alone for far too long and being completely single was making her entertain these highly improper thoughts.
Determined to put a stop to her current imaginings, Mary broke his own concentration by asking, "What's that?" She was irritated her voice came out several pitches higher than what she normally spoke in.
Branson seemed surprised by her voice but smiled upon seeing her, one of those warm, endearing smiles which prompted different, yet equally pleasant feelings in her stomach. He held the book up, showing her the title. Foundations of Leninism, it read. "Not something you'd find in the Downton library," she joked, approaching him.
"No," he agreed with a laugh before closing it and placing it back on the shelf.
Mary's eyes flickered back and forth from him and the book. "You should buy it if you'd like it."
But Branson shook his head. "I can't afford to waste my money on frivolous things."
"It's not a waste if it's something you'd enjoy," protested Mary.
"Not all of us can buy whatever we want on a whim," he snapped back, unusually terse.
Mary blinked, taken aback. He had never taken that tone with her, not even in their more contentious moments. As if she were... some sort of enemy.
But she found she couldn't blame him. How frustrating must it be, having her prattle on, encouraging him to spend money he could put aside? Material luxuries had never been of consequence to her. She forgot not everyone had lived a life like hers.
"I'm sorry." The soft words, along with the fact he was now coming close to her, forced her to look up at him. The irritation in his eyes from moments before had vanished, replaced by regret. Any hurt was wiped away.
"No. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you."
"It's no excuse. You didn't deserve that." He was practically pleading with her now. He hadn't even asked her to forgive him yet Mary knew he wanted her to.
So she did. "Branson, there's nothing to forgive." In an encouraging gesture, she rested out, resting a hand on his arm. She allowed her hand to linger there, noting the muscle beneath her fingers before drawing away. "I can handle being chastened for my bad behavior." Before he could protest otherwise, Mary's eyes glanced to the clock. "It's about time for you to pick up my father."
Tom nodded. "We should go, then."
An idea occurred to Mary. "No, you go ahead. I'll meet you down the street." Realizing she needed to give him some sort of explanation, "I saw a book Sybil would like. I can tick her off my Christmas list."
"Are you sure?" Branson still seemed hesitant. "I don't mind waiting behind for you."
"Don't worry about me one bit, Branson. It will be better that way. He won't expect us to have been out together all day that way."
Branson seemed reluctant to leave her but eventually he did as she went down the aisle, hunting for Sybil's book. She pretended to search for it, even though it was straight in front of her. She waited until she was confident he had left before grabbing it and hurrying back to the aisle where they had been, picking up Foundations of Leninism and carrying it to the cashier, instructing it to be wrapped and placed in a bag.
When her father asked what she had, she repeated the lie she told Branson, hoping the latter would be suitably surprised come Christmas.
Anna stared at the book on Lady Mary's boudoir with confusion. This didn't seem like the sort of thing she would read... though perhaps being friends with Mr. Branson had broadened her horizons. It seemed much more like something he would enjoy than her.
When Lady Mary emerged from the bathroom, towel drying her hair, Anna asked her about it. "Oh. I didn't realize I had left that lying about." Were her cheeks still pink from the warm water from her bath or was Lady Mary blushing? She pushed past Anna to grab the book and hide it away one of her drawers.
"I didn't realize you were so political," Anna commented, allowing herself to smile. "You'll be replacing Lady Sybil."
"Hardly," Lady Mary scoffed, rolling her eyes. "It's a gift for Mr. Branson."
Anna's eyes widened. "Oh."
"For Christmas," Mary said defensively. "We went shopping today and I could tell he wanted it. I put my foot in my mouth trying to get him to buy it... so I decided to buy it for him." She was still flushed. "He doesn't know, so don't tell him."
"Of course not," Anna said hastily, disarmed. She hesitated before asking, "I thought you had an appointment in York."
"There was no appointment," Lady Mary said casually, making no bones about it. "There rarely are."
Anna couldn't believe what she was hearing. "So these... appointments are excuses to spend more time with Mr. Branson?"
Lady Mary sighed. "Yes. And please don't chastise me for it."
"It's not my place to do so."
"Are you so sure?" Lady Mary turned around, giving her maid a smile. "You've been known to offer me some unsolicited words of wisdom from time to time, most of which is incredibly helpful to me. Sometimes it seems you're more an older sister than a maid."
Anna was stunned... and surprisingly touched that Lady Mary thought of her under such terms. The familiar prickle of tears behind her eyes was evidence enough of that. "Well, I do care for you, milady," she tried to explain. "You've always been so kind to me... and I don't like the thought of you getting hurt. That's why I try to help you."
"I know. And I thank you for it. Truly. But I promise you that I know what I am doing when it comes to Mr. Branson."
Anna contemplated what she said. What exactly was going on between Lady Mary and Mr. Branson? The gift itself was no cause for alarm to Anna, for she remembered the lovely locket Lady Mary had given her for Christmas when Mr. Bates was awaiting his trial, but Lady Mary's secrecy was most irregular... and concerning. "Very well. Though, may I just say one thing?"
"Certainly," Lady Mary answered, eyes meeting Anna's in the mirror.
"Be careful, milady." This could be a precarious situation if not handled properly.
"I always am," Lady Mary said with a smile before reaching for her hairbrush.
Mary was no fool; Anna was growing concerned... and for good reason. She had been spending a lot of time with Branson recently, much more than she ought to.
Most concerning was the fact that, upon arriving to Brancaster, Mary realized how acutely she missed his company. She wanted to be able to complain about Edith fussing over the children's picnic and vent about Papa's less than satisfactory reaction to her becoming the new agent. He wasn't displeased, per say, but he wasn't overly enthusiastic. He had, however, agreed to give her a trial run.
She could tell Anna, of course, and not receive any judgement, but Anna was also too sensible for her own good. She would be able to remind Mary exactly why seeking out Branson so frequently was unwise... for both of them.
Vainly, Mary had hoped distance would help her fight this, but she saw that wasn't the case. It seemed the heart truly did grow fonder with absence.
To be honest, it was those chaste moments that frightened her more than those occasional bouts of lust. The latter was easily explained by simple biology, the former... Well, there was no explanation for that, not a reasonable one, at any rate.
This was becoming a problem. Mary was well aware of it. Even though she hadn't done anything more incriminating than allow herself a few touches and lingering gazes, Mary knew that she was comporting herself in a manner that was completely unbecoming for a lady of her station. She was doing exactly what Granny had advised against.
What she needed was a distraction. She didn't have such vivid thoughts about him when she was with Charles, did she? She strained her memory back, remembering a handful of admiring glances that sparked some interest but that was it. It hadn't been this... powerful.
When she went down to join everyone, she was pleased when she laid her eyes on a handsome man who she felt could very well be her next distraction:
Henry Talbot.