A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you so much for the lovely reviews last chapter! I really do appreciate it!
That being said, advanced apologies for this chapter! We've had several chapters that are on the fluffier side, so now we're entering the angsty territory! This is definitely a rough part of the story— as in, I cried while writing and editing these parts. Nevertheless, we're getting very close to some revelations from Mary and I promise this story will end on a very happy note!
Also, for those curious, I had originally envisioned this story ending somewhere around the thirty chapter mark, but it's looking as if it will be closer to forty chapters now!
The Lady in Black
Chapter Nineteen
Mary never realized how excited she could be to see the chauffeur waiting for her at the station but she couldn't help but smile when she found him already on the platform as her train rolled in. "How was London?" He asked, beaming once she met him.
"Marvelous. I have so much to tell you." I think I may have found the one— the one who will make me happy again.
He collected her luggage for her, hauling and strapping it to the car before helping her in, just like he always did. After paying a brief visit to Matthew, Branson asked, "I take it you had a good time at your dinner?"
"An excellent time," gushed Mary.
"Will you tell me now which friend you were planning on surprising?" Branson asked after they started out on the road, finally out of the village. "Or is it still a secret?"
"Not a secret, no," Mary said, finding herself still hesitant to tell to him. When he glanced in the mirror with an imploring expression, she bit back a sigh. "Promise you won't be angry with me?"
"That sounds rather ominous," Branson said, tone light though Mary could hear some slight apprehension... which seemed a touch over dramatic. If he suspected it was Mr. Talbot (as he probably did; Branson was many things and he certainly was not an imbecile), surely he might be disappointed, but did he want her to be happy? She certainly wanted him to be. "Go on, then."
"Very well. It was Henry Talbot."
There was a beat of silence before he echoed, "Henry Talbot?" in a disbelieving tone. It was as though all levity had been sucked from the atmosphere, leaving them with nothing but thick tension that could be cut with a knife.
"Yes." Her excitement began fading slightly when she realized she wasn't going to get her desired reaction— she thought he might tease her, might be glad, might be a little sore yet respect her decision— but he wasn't doing any such thing.
"I thought— I thought you weren't keen on him, not with car racing."
I'm keen on you, she thought, but didn't say it aloud. Instead, she replied, "I wish he would do something less risky, but his career doesn't matter to me. Not really." She wished he hadn't brought it up, for she wasn't certain how truthful she was being, even with herself— now all she could picture was cars zooming past her at lightening speeds, a roaring engine, a sickening crunch...
"But why? It's not like you're serious about him."
Mary's eyes widened. "Pardon?"
"Why bother going up to London to see him? Why lead him on like that, when you have no intentions of having it go anywhere?" He asked, that tightness in his voice that only crept up when he was trying suppress his irritation.
"On the contrary: it is serious... or at least becoming serious," she insisted, wondering what had put a bee in his bonnet or how he had come to such a conclusion. She certainly didn't recall ever voicing such intentions to him. Her eyes fell to his hands, which were clenching the steering wheel with more intensity than necessary...
So. He was upset.
"I thought you might be happy for me," she said, disappointed and the tiniest bit annoyed. "Clearly I was wrong." She hadn't expected him to jump for joy or anything like that, but she would have thought he might at least try to pretend for her sake. She would have done for him, had he ever proposed to Miss Bunting... even though the mere thought of such a thing ever occurring made her stomach turn.
His eyes met hers in the rear view mirror. "What is there to be happy about?" She couldn't see the rest of his face, just those eyes, which were alight with a curious fire so different from what she was used to.
Mary almost didn't tell him. A part of her wanted to brush it off and act as if nothing happened in London, so that they might have a hope at moving past this ridiculous bump in their metaphorical road. But that wasn't the sort of person Mary was— this was reality and he would just have to accept that, whether he liked it or not. "He loves me," she told him. "He told me so last night. We went for a walk in the rain and we kissed."
Without warning, Mary slammed against the glass partition separating them. The sting lingered against her cheek, shoulder, and palm of her hand before she pried herself off, trembling. She looked out at the road, trying to look for the object or animal that had caused Branson to brake so swiftly but finding nothing.
When she finally glanced at him, she found him watching her. His eyes were wide, lips parted. His hand was poised in the air, as if he was going to reach through the open gap in the glass to touch her. "Are you alright?" Hesitantly, she nodded. She wasn't sure if that was the truth: her heart was pounding a million miles a minute, mind still trying to catch up with what had transpired, adrenaline racing through her veins and causing her to shake, but she was all in one piece. His eyes closed. "Good. I'm sorry. So sorry. I didn't mean..." he trailed off, voice wavering.
He turned back ahead, his own hands shaking as she moved back into her seat. She was about to ask him if he should continue driving when he pulled the car to side of the road and parked it. Mary watched wordlessly as he jumped out of the car, stalking across the ditch, before disappearing out of her line of sight.
It was this that propelled her into motion. Her hands itched for the handle of the door and she yanked it wide open. Branson has his hat in his hands, still marching down the road. "Branson!" She called out, leaving the door wide open as she chased after him. "Branson!"
"Get back in the car, Mary!"
"Not until you tell me what's going!" He stopped moving, still as she ran behind him. She was only inches away from him when she stopped moving. Head bowed, Branson stood still. "What's happened?"
"Do you really even need to ask?" His voice cracked.
Mary felt as if she'd been knocked over. "I don't understand," she breathed. She tried to think about they were talking about before he braked— Henry Talbot, his confession, the kiss...
He turned around. He wasn't crying, thank the Lord, but Mary could see the pain written all over his face. "You know how I feel."
"What?"
"I told you. Ages ago." He blinked rapidly. "Do you not remember?"
The moment in the garage blasted to the forefront of her mind, that memory of him telling her that the thought of leaving her broke his heart, that he was fond of her... "Of course not. But that was so long ago..." she trailed off. This... this wasn't happening. He wasn't saying what she thought he was saying. "I thought you must be over it by now."
Branson let out a humorless laugh. "Will you ever stop caring about Matthew Crawley?"
Hearing her husband's name felt like icy water being dumped over her. Henry Talbot and his kisses in the rain were long forgotten. "Why would you say that?"
"Because I know you know what it feels like to love someone with your whole heart." Mary couldn't stop herself from letting out a soft gasp at his words... or, rather, one word in particular: love.
Love.
He loved her.
"It never goes away. Ever."
Mary blinked, a cool breeze blowing through, unusual for June. Her eyes couldn't leave his face. It wasn't true, it couldn't be true...
But the way Branson was looking at her now, there was no way to deny it. His eyes were shining, so alive, and she could read everything so clearly. Each strange expression that she had never been able to categorize suddenly had its name. Love. How had she not realized? Mary staggered back a couple of steps, blindsided. She'd never imagined... she'd never thought...
But what else could explain it? Mary felt a fool, standing there, mouth hanging open as the puzzle pieces fitted themselves together.
Branson let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head and looking down. "Get back into the car, milady. I need to be on my own for a while." Mary nodded. What was she supposed to say? "I'll drive you back. I promise. I just— I'm not in any fit state to be driving at the moment."
Mary nodded again, this time watching him. Branson bent down, sitting and facing the ditch, which had a small stream running through it made up of the rainwater, elbows resting on his legs. There was another breeze, this time ruffling up his hair. No pomade, she noted, and felt sick. She couldn't bear to watch this anymore. She walked, as fast as she could on the uneven earth in heels, and climbed back into the car.
Branson... was in love with her. The chauffeur had just said he was in love with her. How can this be? she thought, though when she really thought about it, it wasn't so extraordinary. After all, hadn't she disclosed almost every facet of her life to him, every single day? Mary buried her face in her hands. What was she going to do? The chauffeur was in love with her.
In a way, it made perfect sense and it didn't. She'd been to enough of his political rallies and spoken at length on various issues to gather a feel of his views, and from what she could tell, he disapproved of the way her and her family lived their lives. It wasn't just a simple yes-or-no opinion on whether or not women should be allowed the vote but rather her whole way of life. The clothes she wore were expensive, they hosted far too many parties, and everyone nearly everyone in their acquaintance had a title. That should have been enough, she would have thought, to disqualify her. But that wasn't even all: she was devoting her entire life to preserving Downton for her son. She liked her way of life, the titles, the clothes, the parties, the estate. And what's more— Branson was the one who drove her around. Why would he bother with someone like her? It baffled her the longer she dwelt on it... though there was little else to do but sit here with her thoughts.
Now that she'd had some time to digest such a shocking revelation, she was ridden with guilt. She knew she had allowed him past invisible lines that she really ought to have remarked upon, ought to have dissuaded him, but she had enjoyed his company and attention so much that she opted to ignore it. This was the consequence and now they were both stuck with it... though Mary felt most of the blame lay squarely with her. She should have said something, done something to discourage him...
Still worried, Mary checked the rearview mirror for a glimpse of her broken-hearted chauffeur— hers as in he worked for her, not anything else. Nothing else. Mary then lowered the window, cranking as slowly and quietly as she could. Branson was right where she left him, this time with his face in his hands.
Mary cranked the window up again before facing forward. Her heart raced in her chest, as if she had just done something wrong.
About twenty or so minutes later, Branson returned to the car. Mary couldn't tell if he had been crying or not, and truthfully, she didn't want to know. She already felt ill enough as it was. He started up the car, driving back to the house.
Mary sat silently in the backseat, daring not to say a thing, as if any word she spoke would cause him to fall even more in love with her... which was a terribly vain thought, even for her, but mostly she didn't want to shatter the peace and reopen the wounds she'd created that afternoon. The best thing she could do was remain quiet. He said nothing as well, merely focussing on driving back to the house. It felt as if they had lapsed back into those mornings long ago when they hadn't spoke to one another, where they were glorified strangers, when he hadn't loved her and she hadn't known him. Right now, she felt as alone as she had in those days.
When the car pulled up to the house, Mama was already there waiting, and she practically wrenched the backdoor off its hinges. "Oh my goodness, we were so worried!" She gasped, all but pulling Mary out of the backseat. Mary found herself hugging her mother, who exclaimed, "We were about to send out a search party, you were gone for so long! Branson, what happened?"
Mary looked over at him. His lips were parted, but no words came out. He looked so defeated, so sad... "There's no need to get all worked up," Mary said, swooping in to save him. "The car ran into a small spot of trouble and Branson had to mend it." Rattled as she was, she could always think of a plausible lie on the spot. Even at the best of times, Branson could never be anything other than honest... and right now she was willing to bet he could never have concocted a convincing enough lie, especially in the state he was in— the state he was in thanks to her.
"Is everything alright now, then?" asked Mama, turning to Branson. Mary didn't dare glance his way.
"Yes, your Ladyship."
"Good." She wrapped an arm around Mary's shoulders. "Now tell me everything about London! Did you have a good time?"
All the elation from before was gone, romantic kisses in the rain all forgotten, replaced by this sick feeling in her stomach at the realization that she had hurt someone who she cared for very much. But Mama could never know that. All Mary could do was weakly nod and say, "It was nice enough."
Mary debated on whether or not to tell Anna before she changed for dinner. She was the only person she could tell about this— if she told anyone in her family, Branson would surely be fired. She knew he had probably been fearing that when they arrived back at the house this afternoon, but she wasn't going to let that happen. Even now, even though she found herself confused and out of sorts, she still hated the thought of him leaving Downton.
"You seem awfully downcast this evening, milady," Anna observed when Mary was silent, brooding as she watched herself in the mirror. "I thought London might cheer you up."
Mary turned to Anna. "It did. For a while... but I seem to have made a mess of things."
"Oh?" Her lady's maid frowned and Mary turned to face her, uncertain of how to say it.
"I had a wonderful evening with Mr. Talbot. It was— well, I hadn't been that excited in so long— and then we went for a walk together after dinner but then it started to rain and we took shelter in a tunnel—" It all felt like a blur now, so inconsequential. Even as she said it now it all felt so... trivial. At the time it had felt like something from a romance novel, but his words and their kiss paled in comparison to the sheer shock she had felt with Branson this afternoon. Mary shook her head before telling Anna, "He told me he was falling for me and we kissed."
"Oh!" Anna's eyes widened. "Are you pleased, then?"
"I thought I was." Mary didn't know what to think anymore. Everything was upside down. She hadn't had any real answers last night, apart from feeling generally happy with a sense of hope, but all that was gone now. How could she think about Mr. Talbot when she had practically destroyed Branson this afternoon? Anna gave her a questioning look, prompting her to go on. "You see, the thing is... I told all of this to Branson... and he told me he loves me."
There was no shock from her maid. Mary wondered if he had already told Anna how he felt or if Mary was terribly dense and everyone had been able to see it except her. "Oh my," Anna finally said, sounding as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders.
"Did you know? That he felt that way?"
"He never said it in so many words, but I've suspected it for some time." Anna was staring at the floor. "I— I tried to warn him. About Mr. Talbot. I told him that you liked him very much, but he seemed to think it wasn't serious. Not when... you know."
Mary blinked. "What do you mean?"
Anna gave Mary a pained expression. "The gifts, the picnics, the political rallies..." It slowly dawned on Mary before Anna said, "Mr. Branson was trying to court you, milady."
Her jaw dropped before she buried her face in her hands. "So I've been leading him on this whole time?" Her voice was muffled.
"I wouldn't say so, milady, not when you didn't know what his intentions were—"
God, no wonder he had slammed on the brakes so suddenly! For weeks he'd been under the impression that they had an agreement, that they were of equal mind... she thought of how she always coyly referred to Mr. Talbot as her friend and talking about humoring him must have been interpreted by Branson... only for everything to come crumbling down in that car ride home. She felt more stupid than ever, and incredibly insensitive. "Oh, God... what am I going to do?"
"I don't think you need to do anything. I'm sure Mr. Branson will work something out. I think he has been meaning to do something different with his life for some time."
Mary let out a choked laugh. That was right; he had. She'd held him back from pursuing a different career, a new life... he could have met someone else by now and forgotten all about her. Yet she had kept him here, her actions promising him of some future...
"So maybe he'll take care of it himself. He might hand in his notice—"
"No!" The cry escaped Mary unbidden. Anna looked stunned as Mary looked up, truthfully taken aback by her own exclamation. "No... I don't think he would do that. I can't see him leaving. Not like this." No matter how slighted he must feel, he wouldn't do that to her. He wouldn't leave so abruptly. He wouldn't leave her.
Anna was hesitant. "Lady Mary, do you... do you feel the same way? About Mr. Branson?"
Mary shook her head, startled by the ardency of her exclamation and unpredictability of emotions. "I'm not a young girl whose read too many novels, Anna. I can't marry the chauffeur."
"I know. But that isn't what I asked." Mary looked back at her maid, who was looking at her with determination. "Do you love him?"
Mary's lips parted ever so slightly. She enjoyed his company, more than she really ought to, and liked hearing his views on all things, even when they contradicted her own. She admired his fire, the way he didn't seem to care what anyone thought of him. He knew her almost as well as Anna— she trusted him, more than a lady should trust a man under her employ. And the thought of him leaving her felt like a dagger lodged in her heart...
But she couldn't allow herself to go there. There was no happy ending. Even if she did... Well, with her duties and her family, it could never happen. What was the point of examining it further, when there was nothing to be done? "It doesn't matter how I feel. I can't."
"I think it does," said Anna, not bothering with the rules of what a maid should say to her lady. "I think if you do love him, it matters a great deal."
"Well, I don't," Mary said curtly, turning back to her mirror, ignoring those pinpricks of guilt that welled up within her for saying it... even if she had only been addressing the second half of Anna's statement. How she felt didn't matter. "Can we talk about something else now? Anything else?"
Anna nodded behind her, helping her pin her hair just right. She looked significantly less rattled than Mary thought she might. "What about Mr. Talbot? How do you feel about him?"
Mary closed her eyes. "I don't know." She swallowed. "The thing is, last night I felt so happy. I thought— maybe I could come out of this mist and move on with my life. But now— now I don't know what to think."
Mary feigned a headache after dinner, dismissing herself early. She wanted a lie down, she wanted to pretend as if the day had never happened... if she was lucky enough, she would wake up in London and this would have all been a horrible dream.
But when Mary reached the hall she found herself alone. She glanced once at the stairs before heading to the front door.
The air was cooler that she thought it might be, no humidity. Several stars twinkled above her in the dark purple sky. Mary let out a sigh before looking over to the garage. The light was on and she knew she would find him there.
You shouldn't be doing this, she told herself with each crunch of the gravel beneath her feet, You need to leave him alone. You need to go to bed.
Branson noticed her immediately, stopping what he was doing once she stepped into view. Mary watched his face, almost entranced by the way his emotions played out. It was almost as if she could read every single one of his thoughts. First came the look of adoration, the look so many men had given her before. Then there was a moment of stunned silence and surprise, before he turned away from her, hiding his face as though he didn't want her reading him so easily, even though she could see the hurt written all over: another language to her heart. "What are you doing here?"
An excellent question. What was she doing here? This was mad. "I came to see you," she told him as she turned back to the car. "Anna— Anna told me this afternoon that I may have given you the wrong impression."
He let out a scoff. "And what sort of impression was that?"
She took in a deep breath. "Look, I wasn't to know what you meant by taking me all those places and giving me those things. I only thought it was a gesture of our— of our friendship and nothing more." She'd hesitated on that label, knowing it was an awfully familiar term to use for a servant, but for heaven's sake, he was in love with her, it wouldn't hurt to acknowledge that she saw him as a friend.
Branson let whatever tool was in his hands drop as he turned to face her. "Let me ask you this," he said, marching towards her. She didn't move, not for a second, not even when they were mere inches apart. He was so standing so close that all it would take was for him to lean in and they would be kissing. She wondered if he would... but he didn't. Instead, he demanded to know, "If I were a Duke or some sort of Lord, would you have thought of my actions that of a friend?" When Mary was silent, he nodded and said, "That's what I thought."
Mary was speechless until he went back to the car. "I'm sorry," she said honestly, the words so hard to say. "I've been incredibly stupid. I don't know why I didn't realize what it was that you were doing, but I didn't. And now I've upset you and that isn't what I wanted to do, not at all!" His hands stilled. Without much thought, she advanced inside the garage until she stood on the opposite side of him, next to the driver's door. "But I— I do like spending time with you. I appreciate all the things you've given me. But we could never work, don't you see? It just wouldn't be possible for us."
Branson didn't move. Then, turning towards her, meeting her eyes, he asked, "Do you love me?"
Mary felt as though she couldn't breathe, even as her chest rose and fell. Her eyes were locked with his, bright blue and intense. Her lips parted but she couldn't speak— she physically couldn't. It was though all the air had been robbed from her lungs and her vocal cords couldn't function. She didn't know the answer, she didn't want to know the answer, and even if she did, there was no way she could ever answer it. What good would it do? Either way, his heart would be shattered, no matter what she did or said... and even if she did nothing but stare at him silently, a lump forming in her throat and tears stinging behind her eyes, she was still breaking his heart. There was no winning.
It seemed as if days passed before he nodded slowly, dismay flooding his features and sadness in his eyes. Mary closed her own; even though she knew she deserved to see the damage she had wrought, the mere sight was too much for her to bear. He let out a sigh that filled the garage, saying, "No. I suppose we weren't, were we?"
He understood; she ought to be pleased. Instead, she felt as though she'd swallowed glass. She wasn't pleased. Not at all. "I'm glad we're in agreement," she said anyway, trying to remain as composed as possible when she felt as if she might topple over under the excruciating pressure of it all. "I hope... I hope things can return back to normal soon?"
"What normal?" asked Branson bleakly.
"Well— our regular rides in the morning. Our talks."
He swallowed. "With all due respect, I don't think I can." He turned to look at her, eyes full of pain. "I think it would be too hard for me right now."
That was what did it. The lump in her throat began to triple in size as her panic increased. "You aren't going to leave, are you?"
Branson shook his head. He still wasn't looking at her. "No. I don't break my promises. It wouldn't do me any good to leave, anyhow. I'll never be free of you, no matter how far I go from here."
Her lips trembled. "I've ruined everything." She said it more to herself that him, the severity of her errors more pronounced now than ever. She hurt him so much that he couldn't even stand to be around her anymore.
"You've ruined nothing. You've made my life better." Mary closed her eyes again. She wasn't going to let herself cry. Why was he saying these things to her? It only made her feel worse. "I thought I might be able to prove myself to you. It was my mistake. I'm too much of a dreamer. It's time I returned back to reality."
"Please," she whispered, trying not to make it sound as if she were close to tears. "Please try and find someone else. Someone more deserving of you. Someone better than me."
"No one could be better than you."
A single tear slipped out, despite her very best intentions. Mary was about to let out a sob when suddenly Carson's voice called out, "Mr. Branson?" from outside the garage and it died in her throat.
Mary opened her eyes, frozen still, but hastily jostled as Branson's hands moved to the curves of her shoulders, hastily moving her so she was hidden behind the car. She was too shocked by his touch to even gasp. Those electric shocks were as intense as ever, if not more so. Her heart beat fast as his eyes widened once he realized what he had done, casting her an apologetic look before mumbling, "Sorry." He looked as though he wanted to say more but instead turned away as the heavy footsteps grew louder, heading back to the hood of the car. "Yes, Mr. Carson?"
"The Dowager Countess is ready to depart."
"Very good, sir. I'll clean up, then I'll see to her."
"Very well. Remember to put your jacket back on." His footsteps moved to the door before pausing once again. "Were you speaking to someone?"
"No, Mr. Carson," he lied, not looking at Mary as he lowered the hood of the car. "Just to myself."
Carson made a grumbling sort of noise before the door shut. Mary let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. Branson was already over at his work bench, wiping off his hands. "Wait here a while before going back up to the house," he told her without looking at her, before shrugging on his jacket. He maneuvered the buttons with practiced ease. "I don't want you getting in trouble."
"Thank you," Mary whispered, heart racing.
"And I'm sorry. About your dress. I'll tell Anna how to clean it in the morning."
Her dress? Mary glanced down before remembering how he had grabbed her. Of course, nothing showed up— it was a black dress, after all, and it hid whatever stain he left quite nicely. She wondered if the same would be said of her in time or if it would be apparent to all that she would be struggling when she navigated a life without someone so important to her.
She watched Branson place his cap on his head before climbing into a different car. Mary wandered over to his bench, out of sight from the gaping entrance to the garage, watching the wheels move as he drove forward.
A minute or so passed. Then ten. It wasn't until she was convinced that she had successfully reined back her tears that she made her way back to the house.
Mama and Papa were still in the library with Edith when Mary slipped back inside. Carson was nowhere to be found, nor any of the other servants as she stole up the stairs.
Anna was already in her room when she returned. "I was starting to worry," her maid professed as Mary closed the door behind her. "Mr. Carson said you'd gone up but when I got here—" she noticed Mary's demeanor and asked asking, "Did you— Were you with Mr. Branson?"
"I was." There was no sense lying to Anna, not when she already knew everything. Mary pulled the headband off her head, dropping it onto her vanity while removing the beaded necklace.
"How did it go?"
"He wants nothing to do with me now," Mary told her. The tears, which had so valiantly suppressed, were back. She blinked furiously. "I've broken his heart."
Anna crossed the room, standing just behind her. "He'll come around, milady. You'll see."
"No. He won't." She sniffled. "I don't understand it. Why would he even want me?"
"You're a lovely person, milady. I think it's only natural Mr. Branson would be drawn to you."
Mary looked at her own reflection. She knew she was attractive but that wasn't enough to equate to love, not for a man like Branson. He was scholarly, some ways, an intellectual. He admired brains and character— Mary wouldn't pretend she wasn't clever, but the things she valued were the very antithesis of the way he felt society should operate. Why her, of all people? "He won't leave," she murmured, removing some of the pins herself, "which something to give thanks for, I suppose."
"You're right. It is." Anna sounded far too optimistic for Mary's liking, but she said nothing of it.
It was a bright, sunny day. Lady Mary was still asleep when Anna entered her bedroom, breakfast on her tray. "It's been a while since you've slept in this late," Anna said, hoping a little joke might lift her lady's spirits.
"Yes," murmured Lady Mary, propping herself up on her pillows. "I suppose it has." She wasn't smiling.
Anna had been worried about her since yesterday. Lady Mary had seemed so distraught when she returned home and Anna couldn't blame her when she discovered why. She'd worried Mr. Branson's plan would backfire and it seemed it had, leaving them both in a sorry state.
"I'll draw you a bath," Anna said, only for Mary to say:
"No, don't bother. I'd rather take it later, if you don't mind."
"Of course, milady." Anna watched as Mary spread a thin layer of orange marmalade on her toast before leaving.
When she returned after being summoned, the tray of food wasn't even half gone. Lady Mary was out of her bed, in her nightgown, at her vanity brushing her hair. "No jewelry today," she told Anna listlessly.
"Very well, milady." At her request, Anna found a hat with a large brim, as well as a sensible, comfortable pair of shoes. She waited and waited for the request she was given each day, but it never came, even before, "Thank you, Anna. You may go now."
Anna hesitated. She waited for Lady Mary to give her usual command... but they never came. "Don't you want me to ask Mr. Branson to bring the car round?"
"No, I thought I'd walk today and take advantage of the good weather," Mary said, not making eye contact before leaving the room. Anna stood alone, taken aback.
She walked down the stairs in a daze, balancing the tray. Lady Mary's surprise yesterday was quite understandable but she had thought that by today, she would have a clearer head. If anything, she seemed worse off.
When Mr. Branson caught sight of her over his newspaper, he folded it up. "That's my cue, then," he said wearily, rising.
"Lady Mary has decided to walk today. So you won't be needed," Anna said quickly as she took her seat next to her husband. She hoped the words didn't sound too harsh.
The man gaped for a moment, as if Anna has yanked the rug out from underneath him before turning back to his paper... though Anna wasn't convinced he was reading it at all as much as he was using it as a shield from the world. Knowing how crushed he must feel, she wouldn't hold it against him if it was.
The walk took ages. It was strange, how it always felt too short in the car, yet on foot it was almost unbearably long. There was too much time for Branson's words to echo in her head, far too much time to relive how horribly defeated he'd looked. Mary thought she had replayed it all as many times as she possibly could last night before falling asleep but it seemed that wasn't the case. If anything, by walking down that same stretch of road, their ill fated drive lived fresh in her memory.
By the time she reached the cemetery, she collapsed to her knees by the grave. She let her fingers trace over each letter of Matthew's name— a cold substitute for being able to hold his hand for comfort. She closed her eyes, feeling more alone and empty than she had in a long time.
"Remember all those years ago, when we were here for Lavinia's funeral?" She cracked open her eyes, turning her head to look in the direction of said woman's grave. It occurred to Mary, just then, that when she died, her and Lavinia would share eternity in the same space. She had already been waiting for Matthew on the other side of the veil, in that one place Mary could not follow him. She felt more lonely than ever before. "You told me that we were cursed." She swallowed. Her fingers trembled. "I think it was just me, my darling. I think it was just me."
Tom hadn't slept easily. Learning that all his assumptions were unfounded wasn't humiliating, it was debilitating. It had taken hours after he had gone to bed before the numbness wore off, replaced by raw pain as he went over the facts again and again.
Mary cared for Mr. Talbot. He was in love with her and she had kissed him. She likely saw a future with him.
Though it no doubt would have been a massive blow, something that he would have a hard time accepting yet determined to fight, Tom might have retained a sense of hope if not for that moment in the garage.
The tense silence that filled the air after he demanded to know if she loved him had been loud. He couldn't erase that stunned expression on her face from his mind. It was if he was living forever in that moment, waiting for an answer that would never come. He was only thankful to realize she cared enough not to say, "No," outright and double his pain.
And that was the damning moment, in his mind. All those looks she cast his way, all the secrets they had, every touch he had catalogued... it meant nothing. At least, not in the way he envisioned. That she still saw him as a friend was a comfort, he supposed, but it would take him a while to kick his wounds.
Clearly he had been mistaken. Tom wondered if, in all of human history, there had every been anyone else who had miscalculated so poorly. All his confidence felt like arrogance now, insisting to Anna that these feelings he had were reciprocated.
And then this morning, hearing that he wasn't needed... Those words were a knife in the heart, even though he knew they weren't intended as such. Anna was simply relaying a message; it didn't mean that he wasn't hurt, though.
The worst part was that Tom still clung to hope that one day, she would come down to the garage, announcing she had changed her mind. It was partially why he wasn't handing in his resignation now... though his main purpose was, of course, to keep his promise and still see her, even if he would eventually need to face facts. Moving away would be futile. If he joined Kieran in York, he would only sit there in half dread, half anticipation of his and Mary's next meeting. Someday she would walk through that door or he would spot her on the street, as dazed and distracted by her as he was now. Ireland was out of the question as well; even if he had aspirations of bettering himself and returning to Dublin, Mam would be sure to play matchmaker. She would set him up with her friends' daughters and nieces, and Tom would compare them all to Mary. He knew implicitly that traveling to Boston would be of no use to him, either, for the misery of missing her would ensure she would be a constant companion, if only in his heart.
The state of his life, until further notice, was at a standstill. He had wasted away years, all in pursuit of a woman who solely viewed him as a friend and he would stay in a profession he still felt overqualified for to remain her presence. It was masochistic, perhaps, but Tom felt the pain would be worth it, if only to see her and hold her hand... but with her seeming resolve to walk to the cemetery, it appeared that wouldn't happen for some time.
As if things couldn't get any worse for him, he spotted her at the end of the driveway when driving Lord Grantham to York for a doctor's appointment. "I say, is that Lady Mary?" Lord Grantham asked from the backseat. Before Tom could confirm it, he said, "Pull up beside her, Branson."
Branson obliged. Her head, which had ducked down once she noticed the car, tilted back upwards. "Mary, what are you doing?" His Lordship asked, rolling down his window.
Mary was beside him. If he reached out, he could touch her. He knew he shouldn't look at her, he knew seeing her would only hurt, but he couldn't resist. There were dark circles under eyes and she seemed paler than normal, but Tom couldn't help but think she was still the most beautiful woman to walk the Earth, the sight of her making him forget the agony of yesterday for a brief moment before it came rushing back with an exacting vengeance. "I went to see Matthew," she replied to her father, not looking at Tom at all. "I decided to walk down. It's such a lovely day, it seemed a shame not to take advantage."
"That it is. I'm heading to York, hopefully to be given a clear bill of health from my specialist," Lord Grantham said. Tom wasn't alarmed until he said, "Why don't we give you a lift back to the house? I'm sure we've enough time for that."
"Oh, no. I don't wish to be a burden. I can walk back up to the house on my own. Please, carry on." Without so much as a goodbye to her father, she walked on, ducking her head back down to the earth again.
Lord Grantham frowned, watching after her before signing and saying, "Drive on, Branson."
Tom shifted the car into gear, accelerating gently down the driveway. Just as they met the road, Lord Grantham said, "Lady Mary was acting rather strange. I wonder if it has something to do with her trip to London. She hasn't seemed quite right since. She didn't happen to mention anything to you about it when you picked her up yesterday, did she?"
Tom shook his head. He doubted London was the reason for her melancholy, not when she had been so eager to tell him about it. He suppose he must have ruined things for her... which managed to dishearten him. He didn't want her being unhappy. What good would it serve either of them to be miserable? Nevertheless, he didn't think it was really his place to tell her father about Mr. Talbot and his love confession. "No, milord, I'm afraid she didn't."
Lord Grantham sighed. "I wonder if it's all about this Mr. Talbot fellow," he said, not noticing how Tom's hands tightened the steering wheel at the mere mention of the man's name. "He seems a nice chap and all, but he's not exactly the sort of man I want for her."
The way he phrased it rubbed Tom the wrong way. "No? Not when he makes her happy?" He couldn't believe the words had tumbled out of his mouth (both for his boldness in speaking to his employer in such a manner or as a defense of Mr. Talbot), but it was too late to take them back.
Thankfully, Lord Grantham didn't think him impertinent. "That's the thing. I don't think he can make her happy. Not really." Tom's grip loosened. "His whole life is cars, which seems unsuitable when she lost her husband in a car accident, and then there's the whole issue of his lack of prospects. She wouldn't be happy, not with a man who couldn't provide for her."
Lord Grantham didn't know it, but with each word he spoke, it felt as if he was driving a dagger into Tom's heart. His first point was true enough but it was the second that made him take pause. He wondered if she ever could have truly been happy with him, even if she loved him, if her family didn't even approve of Henry Talbot? We could never work, she had said, and he supposed she was right.
Mary ought to have slept easily the following night, exerted from all the walking she had been doing. She had never realized just how often she invented reasons for Branson to drive her around, but the muscles in her legs were starting to tell her just how much.
But she couldn't sleep. She kept replaying their final conversations in her mind, remembering how hurt he had been and how stupid she was, for not seeing his intentions sooner. Did she really think it would go away just like that, especially when she encouraged him so?
It was her fault. Perhaps it was presumptuous of him to assume she would be so agreeable, but Mary had crossed over the lines of the traditional relationship between a lady and her servant. She ought to have known better... He was right when he said things could never return to what they had once been.
The thought made tears rise to her eyes. She liked spending time with Branson; she liked learning more about him and his life, his views, his habits, and observations. She liked hearing his laugh and listening to him speak and eating the food he'd taken such consideration to prepare... God, how has she thought he only had friendly intentions? He was the chauffeur, they weren't even supposed to be friends in the first place!
She walked again the next day to see Matthew, saying nothing this time. She simply existed, not knowing what to say or how to feel anymore.
The third day, Isobel stumbled upon Mary at the cemetery, sobbing. "Oh, my dear," she said as she approached the grave, hands falling to Mary's shoulders as her daughter-in-law wiped her eyes. Isobel had never seen her this distressed, not since... "You poor thing— why don't you come to my house, for some tea?"
Mary nodded. Isobel helped her to her feet, knowing Matthew would forgive her for not stopping to see him if she paid some care to his poor wife instead and walked her to the gates.
"Where's Branson?" She asked, scanning the street for one of Lord Grantham's vehicles, unaware of the pain she was inflicting.
"He's— I walked," Mary managed to choke out.
"Oh, I see." Privately, Isobel wondered if it was wise, when she was so upset... but perhaps that had been precisely why. Mary did not wear her heart on her sleeve and she likely wouldn't want the chauffeur seeing her in such distress. She steered Mary in the direction of her house, hastening her gait so they would soon be out of sight of prying eyes.
Fifteen minutes later, once Mary's tears had subsided, a cup of tea was placed before her, along with a scone. "Thank you," Mary said, most recovered. The scone looked delicious, but Mary had no appetite, just as she hadn't for the past couple of days. Nevertheless, she nibbled on an edge. "I apologize for the scene I was making. I must have given you quite the shock."
Isobel graced her with a warm smile. "Don't apologize. It takes quite a bit to shock me... though I must admit I was concerned." She sat her own cup down. "How are you, Mary? Really?"
"I'm not quite sure." The words were falling out of her mouth without thinking. "I thought everything was as it should be, but now I've started questioning everything. I wonder if I was really happy or if I've only been pretending. And... and there's only one person I want to talk to about all of this, but I can't."
Isobel nodded. "Matthew," she guessed, phrasing it more as a statement.
Mary's lips parted, wearing an expression of shock. "Yes... Matthew," she replied, not convincingly... but it was enough for Isobel.
"I know what you mean. I read things in the newspaper all the time and I remind myself to show it to him, and then I remember I can't." Mary's head ducked down. "I know what it's like— losing your best friend and husband all at once. There's nothing so painful as that."
"No," agreed Mary, growing more and more desolate with each passing second. "There's not."
"Are you questioning things with Mr. Talbot? Because I hope you know that if it is time to move on, Matthew wouldn't begrudge you, not if you were truly happy."
Henry Talbot... God, she'd barely spared Henry Talbot a single thought these past couple of days. All she could think about was the anguished look on Branson's face, how he'd helped her stay out of trouble, all his kind words, even after she had just dealt him a horrid blow.
"I know he wouldn't," Mary admitted, responding to Isobel's statement. "But it's not that."
"Oh? What is it?" Isobel queried. She leaned forward, ever so slightly in her chair.
Mary shook her head. "It's nothing. Just silly stuff. I'm sure I'll get over it soon." She rose to her feet, setting the uneaten scone down and took a final sip of tea. "Thank you, Isobel. Really. I truly appreciate it."
Isobel watched her leave the room, wondering if she ought to stop her before deciding against it.