A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading along, especially those who have been kind enough to share their thoughts! I really appreciate every single one of you!
The Lady in Black
Chapter Twenty Two
He missed her. It sounded stupid to admit such a thing, considering he saw her everyday, but Tom missed her.
Since that day, Mary had honored his request and not spoken to him. She barely looked at him anymore— at least, not she realized he was looking at her. It was deliberate; not, Tom sensed, in that cool way aristocrats typically avoided looking at their servants, but in a practiced way to somehow go one step further to cause him as little harm as possible. It was almost touching, in its own, strange way.
But it wasn't the same. Tom couldn't tell what was worse: the crushing loneliness that threatened to stifle him daily or the sharp, piecing pain that came with her talking to him, letting him into her life as if he were a monumental part of it, allowing him that hope that felt more and more false with each passing day.
Tom suspected it was the former. He missed hearing the sound of her voice, hearing her melodic laugh... even that posh accent of hers. He knew he was more surly of late, short-tempered and sullen. Anna had seemed to have given up all hope of trying to talk to him about it, instead focusing on neutral topics— like his politics.
Even Jimmy had noticed. He'd never taken the man to be particularly observant but undoubtedly picked up on something. "Going through that rough spell with that bird of yours?" asked the footman when Mr. Carson was out of earshot.
"She's not my anything," was Tom's muttered response as he idly flipped through pages of the newspaper, waiting for her beck and call to drive him to cemetery to visit Mr. Crawley. He didn't tell the other man about how, before he had recklessly forgone her title, he would sometimes think of more as a "my lady" than a "milady". His lady, his Mary...
"Ah, don't be like that. It's not like you to give up," said Jimmy, with the cheer and confidence of a man in love and secure about the status of his relationship... not that he'd ever admit to it. "I'm sure whatever it is, you'll patch it up just fine."
"I'm glad you are."
"You'll never get anywhere with her if you sulk around like this... unless she's into the brooding types," Jimmy said, much too jovially for Tom's liking. He knew he was only trying to be encouraging... but it wasn't helpful.
It was as if something snapped inside him. "I know you're only trying to help, but spare me the lecture," he sneered. "It's never going to happen. And I don't know if you're in any position to be giving relationship advice."
Tom knew the moment they left his lips that he made a grievous error, daring to mention the unspoken. He had crossed a line. The look on Jimmy's face was mutinous. Tom was ready to apologize when Jimmy rose to his feet. "Keep your bloody mouth shut," he hissed, jabbing a finger near Tom's face. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about." Then, rather nastily, he added, "No wonder she wants nothing to do with you."
The guilt Tom felt before melted away, replaced by anger yet again. "Tell Mr. Barrow that he and Andy need to be more discreet in future."
Jimmy looked at him, stunned silent. He looked as though he had been slapped. "What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing."
"What. Do. You. Mean?" Jimmy ground out, looking angry.
Tom hesitated. Should he say? He shouldn't have said anything at all... "I overheard something. About... making sure Carson didn't catch them going into one another's rooms."
The expression on Jimmy's face was thunderous. Tom regretted opening his mouth. "I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry." He knew this had probably just cost himself another friendship...
But Jimmy shook his head. "No. Thank you for telling me, Mr. Branson. I appreciate it." He didn't sound or seem appreciative as he stood up, stalking away with an expression akin to that of axe murderer.
Tom was relieved when Anna finally came downstairs. He ignored the pitying look she gave him, knowing she meant well but not wanting to deal with it. He knew she thought he was mad... but Mary didn't want him to go.
The ride down to the cemetery was another torturously quiet one. Every so often, his gaze would flicker to the mirror so he could catch glimpses of her— she seemed even paler than normal lately, dark circles underneath her eyes as if she weren't sleeping. He worried about her, wondering if she had yet recovered from that day with the storm. Words couldn't begin to describe his palpable relief upon holding her in his arms and knowing she was safe.
Tom waited in the car, pretending to read his newspaper as she spoke to Mr. Crawley. He could never hear what she said to him, but he didn't really want to know, either. It was private, something for his ears only... even though Mr. Crawley wasn't physically there to hear her. Nevertheless, it was cathartic for her.
The ride back somehow was worse. A part of Tom longed to just give in and tell her about everything going on downstairs, from his brief fight with Jimmy to Daisy's upcoming examinations... but stopped himself. It wasn't fair of him to demand she stop speaking to him and then turn around and break the own boundaries he set up.
But soon he found he couldn't help it, as they approached the house again. It didn't feel right, not uttering a single word to her when he knew it would be at least a couple of days before he saw her again. So he broke his own rule as he helped her of the car, saying, "I hope you have a good time in London, my Lady." He meant it, even though the idea of her fawning over Mr. Talbot sickened him. In spite of everything, what he truly wanted was her happiness.
Mary froze in place. "Thank you." Those two words were more beautiful than any symphony to his ears, after days of silence.
But soon it became a discordant cacophony, even though the sole instrument was the most pleasing sound to his ear. "Branson... don't worry about that promise you made to me all those years ago. You aren't beholden to it any longer." He felt like his stomach bottomed out. "You need to go wherever you will be happy... even if it isn't here." She spoke in a measured voice, eyes fixed on her family home instead of her, looking as if she were in agony, yet she pushed forward.
And just like that, a part of him still clinging onto hope, a part of him that he didn't even know still existed, snapped.
Mary hadn't been able to look at him when she uttered those words. Who knew what she would see? Rage? Hurt? Relief? A mixture of the three? It would have been too painful to bear. So she had simply walked into the house.
Nobody was hovering nearby, waiting for her arrival, and for that she was glad. It meant that when she stole up to her room, she could let her tears fall freely as she leaned against her bedroom door, sinking to her floor.
She wished she hadn't done it. She wanted to run to the garage and tell him she didn't mean it... but she couldn't be selfish any longer, much as she wanted to. Mary couldn't bear knowing he was hurting because of her, day after day, forcing himself to remain at Downton for her sake... and for what? She couldn't give him what he wanted. She couldn't even allow herself to consider it.
So she would put it in his hands. If he wished to remain, he could. She hoped he did. She wasn't about to leave anytime soon.
But if he did go, she hoped he would be happy. So far, he hadn't been, staying here. They would be trapped in a limbo forever, dancing around one another, knowing how powerful a bond they had yet unable to acknowledge it because doing so would only hurt him.
And it hurt her, too. Being near him, when he was close enough to touch and smell, yet unable to open up her mouth and unload a burden off her shoulders killed her. But it would kill him if she were to do such a thing. It was an impossible situation. So what else was there to do but set him free?
Well. There was one thing. But Mary couldn't. She didn't even know if she felt that way about him... even though there was little else it could be. And even if she did... it wasn't as if she could have done anything about it. She had obligations to her family and Downton that she simply couldn't put aside for her own sake. It wouldn't be right.
Mary wondered what she would have said, had her mother not interrupted them that afternoon out front. Truth be told, Mary wasn't certain. Mary wasn't even positive she would have said anything at all. Uttering words at all would have required a great deal of courage, courage she didn't feel she possessed. Sybil was the brave one, after all, chasing after her dreams in America. No: Mary had responsibilities. She had a son. She was fully in charge of Downton.
Had she a chance now, to speak to him without artifice, with guarantees of no intrusions, Mary realized she would have asked for more time. For what, Mary could not say. It seemed like she'd had nothing but time, each hour consumed by dissecting her emotions... and it all led to the one thing that could never possibly happen.
And she supposed, even if she did (which she still wasn't convinced of), then letting him go was only evidence of that.
Tom wasn't a man to hide his emotions. He learned to mask them as a servant but when he wasn't on duty, he wasn't ashamed to allow himself to feel them.
Through all this, he hadn't cried. Not once. He had felt blue plenty of times, numb and restless, but he hadn't shed any tears over her.
He couldn't say that anymore.
Before the car was properly parked in the garage, Tom was already wiping at his eyes. When he climbed out of the motor, he sank to the concrete floor. He didn't even have enough mental strength to think about what might happen if someone were to happen upon him here, crying his eyes out. All he knew is that his heart was well and thoroughly shattered.
Anna was the one who found her. "Milady, what's the matter?"
Mary shook her head, drying her tears with a handkerchief. She had managed to pick herself up and go to her boudoir, trying and failing to cease her crying. "It's nothing. Really." When Anna gave her a doubtful look, Mary choked out, "I can't talk about it."
Her maid helped her pack for London, which helped Mary take her mind off her sorrows, if only for a little while. Mary inspected each black dress with scrutiny before deciding which ones to wear. There was a new black satin dress she had been looking for an excuse to wear, with a matching coat and sunglasses. She wasn't looking forward to her trip to London in the slightest, but at least she would be fashionably dressed.
A few hours later, she had to climb into the motor with her parents and Edith. Branson was standing by the car, stoic and emoting nothing, but Mary noticed the pink tinge lingering on his nose. She felt even more wretched than before, knowing implicitly that she had hurt him even more. It seemed like that was all she ever did these days, injure his feelings more and more, even when she was trying to put him first. She wondered why he punished himself, letting himself harbor such feelings for her... but then again, she supposed if love was really a choice, he would have had enough sense not to choose her. No: he hadn't wanted to love her anymore than she had wanted to loved Matthew. In fact, she had been steadfast in her resolve, determined to dislike him. Considering how perfectly horrible she had once been, Branson likely had, too...
To make matters entirely worse, her family kept asking her about Mr. Talbot the entire way to the station. She did what she could to answer their questions, even though her mind was screaming at them to consider Branson's feelings... which, naturally, they were oblivious to. Finally, when a glance to the mirror revealed he was wearing an expression of consternation, Mary irately asked, "Can we talk about something else now?" She glanced over Edith. "Isn't your estate agent coming?"
Edith flushed. "He has a name, you know." They traded several clipped barbs, which naturally dismayed their parents, but Branson was no longer looking so downcast, so she had achieved her goal.
The stewards carried away all their luggage to the train, giving Branson very little part to play in it all. He hung back, long enough to ask Papa if there was anything more he could do, before weaving through the crowd and back to the car. Mary's eyes were drawn to him like a magnet, watching him until he disappeared from view.
It occurred to her, after they boarded, that it could very well be the last time she saw him. She'd given him permission to go; who was to say he would remain there? He could serve out his notice long enough for them to find a replacement, but he could always say something urgent had come up and depart before she even returned. The shock of it hit her like the steam engine they were on.
What have I done? What have I done? The phrase rattled through her head, an ever present mantra, drowning out the insistences which tried to remind her she had done the right thing. If he needed to leave, then he should. Remaining at Downton was only causing him pain. Why continue to torture him by forcing him to remain true to a promise he made so long ago, especially when she was certain she could never give him what he wanted?
He might stay, she acknowledged, but why should he want to, when he felt there was no future for him? Tears prickled behind her eyes. What if she came home and he was gone? The thought was too horrible to imagine. She hadn't even given him a proper goodbye...
A hand to her arm startled her. "Are you alright?" It was Mama, eyes filled with sympathy and voice soft.
"Perfectly alright."
Mama saw right through her lie. "Perhaps we shouldn't be going. Do you think it would be rude of us to cancel?"
"It most certainly would," Edith interjected, looking up from the paper she was sitting through.
Mary shook her head. "Don't worry about me, Mama. I need to get over it, anyway."
She wasn't talking about the race.
"Mr. Branson! Mr. Branson!"
The shrill, excitable exclamation made Tom turn around. George was running towards him, grinning from ear to ear. As blue as Tom was, he felt a smile tugging at his lips.
"Hello, Master George."
"Mr. Branson, did you get the lemon drops? Like you said last time?"
Tom nodded, reaching into his pocket, ignoring the lump in his throat. "I did, yes." He procured the small bag, brandishing it for him. George's face lit up with amazement. "Here you go. Make sure you share these with Miss Marigold. I don't want you getting any cavities."
"I will! Thank you, Mr. Branson!" He gave Tom a toothy grin before bounding out. Tom smiled sadly after him, mind consumed of a life that would never be, before placing his hands in his pockets and walking off.
It was a restless night before the race. Anna commented on her tired appearance again, expressing worry. "Don't trouble yourself, Anna," Mary said quietly. "I'll manage. I always do."
"Are you worried about the race? Or is it... about Mr. Branson?"
The truth was that it was a bit of both. Mary had replayed that final conversation with Branson the entire night, sorely wishing she hadn't done it. She dreaded the thought of returning home and finding him gone but she knew, deep down, if she truly cared for him, she must set him free... no matter how much it grieved her to do so.
But she couldn't say that. Not to Anna.
"I'd rather not talk about it." She glanced down at the boudoir, reaching in for the earrings she had packed, trying to ignore Anna's sigh behind her.
"Very well, milady."
Mary's gaze flickered up to her mirror. She wished she could summon up something about how she truly wished leave this conversation behind, but it was impossible to work it past the lump in her throat. Thinking about Branson, the fact he may be gone already, was a painful one.
Mary knew this wasn't a normal reaction to have— even for a friend. She tried to imagine if it were Anna potentially leaving Downton; there had been talk of it in the past, with Anna mentioning future plans to open a hotel with Bates. Mary knew it would hurt, losing such a good friend, but she knew she could keep into contact. Her family certainly would allow her to write letters without questioning her for it, knowing Anna had been a big part of her life for some time. They could arrange to meet, perhaps Mary even booking a night there. She would be sad... but not distraught. Not like this.
She kept making insistences that the circumstances were different— that hers and Branson's friendship was in a rocky place and that it was unlikely they would reconcile before he left, whenever that was. Her family would certainly be curious to know why Mary would maintain a correspondence with the chauffeur. She had no idea where he was planning to go, even; she supposed if he went into York, she could easily see him there, but suppose he went back to Ireland? That had been a dream of his, had it not? What excuse could she concoct for visiting Ireland? Or America, even, if it came to it.
It only reminded Mary of all the barriers she had allowed to erode. There was no logical reason, besides purely emotional ones, that could have led to their close friendship. Mary even recognized it was too close a friendship.
But she wouldn't admit to anything more. Couldn't. Even as the distinct possibility lurked in the back of her mind, Mary forced herself to ignore it, not even naming it. What good would it serve anyone?
And what was it anyway but a powerful urge destined to fade?
"I need to get ready for the race," was all she was able to say, hoarse.
Her all black ensemble was a sight to behold, something she had paid great attention to when she had herself fitted for it weeks ago, itching for an event to wear it to, but as Mary stared at herself in the mirror now, she felt utterly joyless. She pushed the pair of dark sunglasses up the bridge of her nose, pleased she could hide the lifelessness in her eyes.
Somehow, Henry Talbot was oblivious to her lack of cheer when they met again at Brooklands. He attempted to greet her with a kiss to the cheek, but she managed to side-step him, introducing him to Edith's editor instead, of whom she had just met herself. The mere thought of allowing Henry near her was simply unbearable at the moment. It seemed hard to believe she had once gladly accepted kisses from him in the rain.
Eventually, however, he picked up on her restraint. When she went to make a plate for lunch, he followed her over. "Have I done something to offend you?"
"No. Not at all." Nothing had changed with him— yet everything had changed for her. There was a voice inside her urging her to keep a distance. "I only find that I'm feeling under the weather today."
Henry nodded slowly. "The race?"
"That must be it." It had to be one of the reasons— it was the only possible explanation for the anxiety ratcheting up within her. The rest, she feared, was due more to the mess she had left back home, the home she desperately wished to be right now.
"There's no need to fret. I promise not to take too many risks." Henry shot her a gleaming smile. Mary wondered if he was attempting to be charming. If he was, it wasn't working. She wondered if she was merely disillusioned now or if he was simply just that tactless.
"You'd better not take any," Mary replied, tone more amiable than her thoughts. "And you won't, if you care about my nerves at all."
Henry flashed her another smile. "Please do know that I care about you and your nerves a great deal," he said smoothly, "but I do want to win, and that can't be achieved by playing it safe. Racing is like life, in that way. You won't find yourself rewarded if you don't take any chances."
Mary wasn't sure why he felt like being philosophical all of a sudden, but she didn't care for it. In fact, it was rather grating. Still, she said nothing, going out of her way to be polite as possible to the man... even, when just before the race, he requested a kiss. "For luck," he explained.
"But we're in public."
"What does that have to do with anything?" Henry asked, leaning against the car door.
"Nothing, I suppose," Mary said, though she balked at the idea of it. Her family was only a few feet away; she couldn't even remember kissing Matthew in their presence, apart from their wedding day. If she hadn't allowed that sort of behavior with him, she certainly wasn't about to allow Henry Talbot such liberties. "But I don't know how lucky you'll be if it turns out I am really ill. I shouldn't want to give you a bug of some sort."
Knowing the sort of man Henry was, it was a weak excuse. Mary knew he would push the envelope even further if he felt she was being sincere, but he wasn't stupid. He saw right through her. She saw the comprehension in his eyes, a look of understanding. "Next time, then." He smiled after her again, less sure this time, before climbing into his car. Mary drifted away, back to her family, queasiness returning to her stomach. Next time. She couldn't bear the thought of a next time. This would be hell... but she could manage it, just the once. She knew she could. She wasn't weak.
And she might have, if it were only cars driving in circles along the course. But they flew past at breakneck speeds, engines roaring loud enough to nearly drown out the cheers of the spectators, cutting one another off. Her whole family (as well as the servants in attendance) made up a portion the supporters, Papa eagerly cheering Henry on.
Mary was the only one, it felt, who wasn't yelling out support. She simply gripped the gate in front of them, breathing in and out as slowly as she could manage, trying to focus on calming thoughts. She closed her eyes. Inhale. Downton. Exhale. Sitting in nursery with George. Inhale. Paving through books on livestock. Exhale. Sitting in the backseat of the car, watching the Yorkshire countryside pass her by as they made their way down the road. Inhale. Branson offering her one gloved hand. Exhale.
She shouldn't be thinking about this. She knew she shouldn't. But it did serve to calm her nerves. Once she opened her eyes, she felt immediately more at ease. Whenever she felt her heart stutter again in her chest, repressed memories threatening to unearth themselves, all she had to do was close her eyes for a moment a return to those thoughts... though, in the end, it was easier to simply think of Branson. The conversations they had. The lunches they shared. The laughter.
She was in no state to question what it meant, him being her haven of safety when she was currently at her wits end, but it turned out she didn't need to... for the answer became apparent.
At some point, she managed to engage in the race. The car in first place had to pull off to the side— some sort of mechanical issue— which meant Charlie Rogers took the lead, Henry hot on his heels before he managed to pull ahead. It was short lived, for Charlie was overtaking him once more, both of them closing in as they drove side by side past where Mary and her family stood.
Why did they do this? What did they get out of it? She didn't understand what thrill they could possibly derive from such danger. She thought about Henry's words about taking risks and chances. She understood it, she did, but only when there was a possibility such risks could lead to a fulfilling future. Perhaps you might end up miserable if you misjudged a situation, but at least there had been a chance. When it came to this... either you won, you didn't, or you lost your life. What sort of a game was that? Playing with your mortality? She turned away, unable to stomach this.
"Mary, are you sure you're alright?" Mama asked, noting how her daughter had paled and was faltering. When Mary couldn't find a response, she reached out, taking her hand. "I don't think it will be long now. We're getting close to the end."
"Are we? It feels like we're trapped in some witch's curse for all eternity," Mary lamented. This had been a mistake, coming here. She wished Papa had never accepted. Henry Talbot would just need to understand that she couldn't do this again.
She hadn't even finished her sentence when she heard a screech in the distance, a signal to all in attendance that something horrible had just happened. Gasps and cries alerted Mary to the plums of black smoke in the distance. A crash. "Oh my God," she heard Papa mutter. Then, "Bertie, can you go see who it is?"
All her nightmares hit her again with full force. She could see the things she had only ever been told of: the overturned car on the side of the road, shattered glass, Matthew lying there open eyed and emotionless.
But a new image filled her head now. The Renault, all mangled up, a chauffeur's cap lying abandoned in the road...
A cry escaped her subconsciously and the next thing Mary knew, she was running, shaking Mama's hand off, weakened, wobbly legs carrying her as fast as she could manage. "Mary!" she heard someone call out behind her, but she ran towards it. Why, she couldn't begin to describe, but she couldn't stand there wondering. It was at some point during all of this that she realized she hadn't spared a thought for Mr. Talbot at all.
Halfway there, she heard Edith cry out, "Mary, wait up!" It took her back to childhood for just a second, her and Edith running across the open fields of Downton, hiding behind a tree to escape their nasty governess...
She slowed enough for Edith to catch up. "We don't know it's him," she said once she met Mary, taking her hand, squeezing tightly.
No... Mary knew it wasn't him. It couldn't be him... He wasn't even here. But she still had to see it for herself. She had to prove to her own mind that it wasn't him. Nevertheless, the feel of another hand in hers was a comforting weight, one Mary was immensely grateful for. She squeezed Edith's hand back in a nearly constructing grasp before carrying on.
It was worse than she could have possibly imagined. The car was in flames, overturned, just as Matthew's had been, or so she had been told... Men were shouting, trying to put it out... and then there was Henry Talbot, on his stomach trying to reach into the flames to rescue the unfortunate victim. The blood was rushing to her ears as she tried to process everything, but at long last she heard him screaming the name "Charlie!" and she knew. Relief washed over her. Not him.
Mary wished she hadn't gone and seen it. She wished she could have left well enough alone, especially when she had logically known he couldn't possibly be here. She closed her eyes and was not granted release from the hell before her; she kept imagining the scene she had only heard secondhand about, as well as the horrific one her mind created.
But why had she thought of Branson? Why had he entered her mind before Mr. Talbot?
You know why. It was the same reason her thoughts had been occupied with him for months, why she had used memories of him to soothe her nerves. It was why the idea of him leaving was so unbearable. It was the very thing she hadn't been ready to accept, the thing that until now she had been too fearful to admit, even if only to herself.
She loved Tom Branson. And there was no denying it to herself any longer.
"Milady?" Anna was here now, standing in front of Mary, using her body to block her from the carnage.
And Mary burst into tears, overwhelmed by the onslaught of emotions coursing through her. A pair of arms wrapped around her, another hand rested on her shoulder, and she broke down.
Tom stared down at his mostly uneaten meal, stomach churning. He hadn't ate much in the past few days. He doubted it would change anytime soon. At some point, his appetite would return, but for now he would simply have to ride it out. The sound of the telephone ringing in Mr. Carson's office interrupted their dinner, forcing him to rise to his feet as the butler hurried off to answer it.
A few minutes later, he returned. "That was Lord Grantham," Mr. Carson said, looking shaken. For the briefest of moments, Tom's thoughts focused solely on her, worried if she was alright. Whatever his Lordship had called about, it was clear it was distressing. No doubt the race would have been emotionally taxing to her. "There was an crash at Brooklands. One of Mr. Talbot's friends has died."
A low murmur of sympathy swept across the servant's hall. Tom's first thought was: Thank God— not her. He then reminded himself that a man had lost his life and immediately felt a stab of guilt. "Which friend?" He found himself asking. When Mr. Carson arched an eyebrow, Tom quickly clarified, "Only I met one of them once. When they were testing our cars in York." Skimming through his memories, he asked, "It wasn't a Mr. Rogers, was it?"
"I'm afraid it was," Mr. Carson said, looking saddened even though he had never met the man himself. Tom felt even worse for briefly feeling relieved at his death... but that ended when Mr. Carson continued, "Lady Mary is understandably distraught and I ask that everyone here conduct themselves accordingly when she returns. She's in a very delicate state."
Of course. She would be. Tom tried not to feel bitter. No doubt she was reliving Mr. Crawley's own death... and perhaps she was even worried it was Mr. Talbot. He truly felt for her, even though it hurt him to realize how wrong he had been. She really did care about him; Tom saw that now. It probably would be best to leave here...
But he would wait to start all that later.
Nobody seemed to have an appetite after Mr. Carson's news, so Tom dismissed himself to return to his cottage. The prospect of going back to that empty place was a lonely one, but what else was he to do? Maybe he could start his search for a new job now, browsing the papers for any openings... though he knew he would probably just end up in York, staying at Kieran's, mending cars for a living again.
"Mr. Branson!"
Tom was shocked to hear Jimmy's voice calling out after him. He turned around slowly, watching as the footman jogged towards him from the servant's yard. "Jimmy," he acknowledged.
He slowed down, taking smaller steps towards Tom. "I spoke to Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said quietly, "about... what you said."
"Oh." Tom didn't know what to say, although he felt badly about even bringing it up.
"It turns out he's been teaching Andy to read. They've been meeting up in each other's rooms to hold the lessons because the beanpole is too embarrassed admit he's illiterate."
"Oh," repeated Tom. "Well, I'm sorry I brought it up. I was angry and I clearly misinterpreted—"
"No, it's fine." Jimmy shoved his hands into his pockets. "I goaded you... and if something like that was happenin', I'd want to know. So he wouldn't get caught," he added quickly. Tom simply nodded. "I just wanted to tell you... and warn you, 'cause he's furious now."
"Thomas?"
Jimmy nodded. "He's livid. Says you were trying to paint him in a bad light to me and ruin our friendship." Tom couldn't help but wonder why Jimmy bothered with all the euphemisms, especially when they were all alone, but he wasn't going to rock the boat. "Look, he usually listens to me, but even I can't stop him once he gets something in his head, so he might be out for revenge—"
"I know what he's like," Tom said, thinking back to when Thomas was only a footman and the schemes he would hatch up to get back at Mr. Bates. "Thank you for warning me." He hesitated before adding, "But I doubt I'll be here much longer."
"It's her, isn't it?" Before Tom could ask what he meant, Jimmy clarified, "Lady Mary. She's that bird you've been hung up on."
Tom didn't want to respond but he didn't know what else to do. He might as well admit it. "Yes. Yes, she is." He looked down at the gravel, which seemed an even darker shade of grey as the sun set.
Jimmy let out a sigh. "How long then?"
Tom shrugged. "I don't know. A long time. Maybe since the night of the fire." That was the night he had known, without a shadow of a doubt, how deeply his feelings for her ran. That it wasn't a mere observation of her beauty or even the bonds of an unlikely friendship— it was the night that he realized he would be lost if something horrible were to befall her.
"That long?" Jimmy sounded both shocked and impressed. Tom wondered why until Jimmy exclaimed, "So you and Lady Mary have been carrying on since then? When she was seeing Mr. Blake?"
"It's not like that!" insisted Tom, suddenly realizing Jimmy's conjecture had some unsavory undertones. "She— she doesn't feel the same way. She never has. For a time, I thought she must but... turns out I was wrong."
Jimmy was silent for a moment, letting Tom's pronouncement hang uncomfortably in the air. Tom was half tempted to leave for his cottage before Jimmy clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Look, I can't offer you much advice, but in my experience, those upper class ladies aren't worth it."
Any other time, he may have felt angry. Mary wasn't just anybody, she was the woman he loved. But at present, Tom couldn't muster up enough indignation to risk ruining his friendship with Jimmy again. So he managed a weak, "I know you're trying to help, but please don't speak ill of her."
Jimmy seemed stunned, but nodded. They stood out in the yard, soaking up the silence. Then, "Where will you go?"
"I don't know," admitted Tom. He could always stay with Kieran for a few days, then either go back home to Ireland or to Boston... but truthfully, he would likely end up with Kieran longer than he wanted to admit. Nevertheless, he couldn't stay at Downton any longer. He had lived here longer than he had ever wanted to, watching as his ambitions became hopeless dreams.
But God, what must it be like for Mary? He remembered those early days, when she had eyed the car as if it were a fierce lion ready to attack, how even driving over a pothole made her jolt in the backseat. Today had likely brought it all back for her.
Tom sighed. He couldn't stay here forever... as much as he wanted to. He would make up his mind once he saw Mary again. She was strong but if she was as rattled as she had been when Mr. Crawley died, he would stay on. But if it seemed she didn't need him... Well, then that would be the end of it.
"Well," began Jimmy. "I'm not much one for writing letters... but I'll try. If you want to keep in touch."
Tom managed a grin. "I'd like that. You've been a good friend to me, Jimmy."
"I don't know about that," the other man said with a chuckle, "but I'm glad you think so." He offered Tom a hand to shake, and Tom accepted it warmly.
But when he entered the chauffeur's cottage, all that warmth was gone. He leaned against his front door, eyes closed and feeling lost and helpless.
Upon arriving to Aunt Rosamund's, Mary had promptly gone upstairs, tended to by Anna until dismissed. She appreciated her maid's care and concern, knowing she was worried, but she needed to be alone in order to fully process the revelation from this afternoon. What with the fire and Henry's grief, she felt she had scarcely had a moment to unpack her thoughts.
She loved Tom Branson.
This wasn't a new development. Even upon having the weight of it fully impressed upon her, Mary knew that this was no sudden thing. For how many years had she been telling herself to ignore how attractive she found their chauffeur, those smiles that seemed to light up her gloomy existence, the way she clung to every word he spoke? How long had her heart been racing because of a long held gaze, her entire body reacting thanks to a mere squeeze of her hand, and her breath caught in her throat because of his scent? How many illicit thoughts had she entertained? It had been years...
She had contemplated it, in only the most abstract of ways. Not ever thinking the words together but wondering if the sentiment applied, before brushing it off and not lingering on it, telling herself that even if she did that it could never happen, never work.
But even if it couldn't, it didn't stop her from loving him.
Like the realization she was in love with Matthew, it took her by complete surprise. She remembered his proposal, the way hearing the words "marry me" coming out of his mouth had sounded so beautiful to her ear. Telling her mother had filled her with so much excitement and made it all real, proving it wasn't a figment of her imagination... and it wasn't until her mother asked that she realized.
Her love with Matthew, while powerful, was what everyone wanted. Their path, though a treacherous one full of toil at various points, was marked by a series of perfectly romantic moments. Nobody was displeased by their union; he was adored so much by her entire family and Papa even welcomed him as the son he never had. Even though that bond earlier on had made Mary resentful of him, it also made her terribly glad when she realized the happiness it brought Matthew, to have found a family and to feel as he truly belonged... and he felt he belonged to her as well, and she to him. Her love for him had only grown from that very first proposal, never ebbing away or growing less passionate when she was engaged to Richard or he to Lavinia. Their marriage wasn't an ending of anything, simply the start to what had been the happiest period of her life. Nobody knew or understood her as well as he; nobody had ever bothered to. He would chastise her at times for her occasional harshness (which had nearly worn away thanks to her state of blissful happiness) but also accepted it was part of who she was... and he loved her for it. By the end of their too short marriage, Mary had come to feel she was only half herself without him. She wasn't sure if it was because she had felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable with him that she had gifted him a piece of her heart or if destiny really existed and some power out there had always intended them to be together.
Their love was unlike any other, cruel and kind, a blessing and a curse. Mary let go of her fears and insecurities, placing her trust in Matthew. He knew her dark secret involving Kemal Pamuk, was patient with her whenever memories of that horrible night haunted her, and absolved her clean of all the guilt she felt by not only insisting she needed no forgiveness for any lapses in judgement but telling her that none of it had been her doing. He never made her feel weak when she chose to lean on him for support, merely being her stick during the hardest times in life. He wasn't what she had always envisioned the perfect husband for her to be, but then she could not imagine anyone else fulfilling that role so perfectly.
But then she lost him— she lost her love, the same way Charlie Rogers had lost his life that very afternoon. The grief that settled in had been a potent one, one she vowed early on to never let go.
It would never leave her. For as long as she was alive, that pain she felt when she thought of how little time she really had with Matthew would remain with her. When she looked at his son, the very product of that love, she would sadly think of what a wonderful father he would have made to their little prince. Just today, that horrid accident only served to remind her that she would never be allowed to forget him... but in an odd way, it was a comfort.
She had been afraid, for so long, of truly losing him by forgetting him. There were obvious reminders scattered about, in Downton, and George, and his very grave that would ensure he could never be totally forgotten, but giving her heart to someone else had suggested (in her mind, at least) that their love could be replaced... and that a new love could also be easily lost. For so long, Mary had been operating under the assumption that if she never acknowledge something she had never experienced fully, then she could never feel that same pain. She'd thought she could be distracted, that another man might measure up even though the one who now possessed her heart stood by, always able to step in and show her the other man could always pale in comparison. She had long told herself it was merely a friendship, conveniently forgetting her and Matthew began as friends before it blossomed into something more for her.
But there it was, out in the open. She had found another love; one that was so different from her first love yet no less ardent. There was no comparing the two when they were equally beautiful in their own rights. It was something more dramatic, yes, something her people saw as forbidden and a great shame upon a family like hers, but it did nothing to temper her love for him. Mary knew she had always been a bit of a rebel but she never dared to step so far away from her duty in order to bring herself happiness... largely because the two things had never been mutually exclusive. Her haircut had created a stir, yes, but it wasn't the same thing by any means.
And yet Mary was sitting here, contemplating what would happen if she decided she wanted to be truly happy again.
The accident today reminded her of an unwelcome reality, one that hinged upon Tom's career being involved with the very thing that ended her first husband's life. While she would admit Tom was a more skilled and cautious driver than Matthew, human error would always be a possibility when someone was behind the wheel of a motor car. Of course, there was a possibility of a sudden heart attack, or a bolt of lightening from the sky, or another war or some other horrible accident. Either way, it was inevitable that one day Tom Branson would die and she would lose him completely if she had not already passed on herself. Did she want to spend another day without knowing what it was like to kiss him? Could she go on her whole life never having been his wife? Would she ever forgive herself if she never made love to him, even just once? And furthermore... could she ever bear knowing that she had the power to make them both very happy with three simple words and never utter them aloud to him?
Of course, it wasn't simple. It wasn't a matter of deciding her own happiness; it was a matter of ensuring Downton's security and weighing the costs. Truthfully, Mary knew she could never be happy if she ruined Downton or the Crawley family because one area of her life was complete once more. In order to ever be as happy as she possibly could be, she would need both. Until today, she hadn't even entertained the possibility. She wasn't even certain she could have both... But could she? Was there a way? And if there wasn't... which would make her happier.
A life with him would be a difficult one; she was under no illusions of that. She was hardly some blushing debutante who had read too many novels; she had loved and lost and seen plenty of the cruel world she lived in, even sheltered by her wealth and privilege. She was realist above all else, and she understood a life as the wife of a man with very little money or prospects would not be anything like she was used to. For one thing, her family would almost certainly be opposed to such a union. A job wouldn't be optional; she wouldn't have anyone there to make her food or scrub her floors or dust things at the end of a day should they decide to cast her out. It would be hard.
But living without him would be harder.
Mary wondered how she could have been foolish enough to think setting him free was an adequate solution to their problems when her own feelings lurked so close to the surface. The mere thought of losing him today had provoked a pain just as potent as the one left by Matthew's death. She doubted there would be any second chances in finding anyone so wonderful suited for her... and truth be told, even if there were, she preferred the thought of Tom above anything else.
It was a ridiculous, romantic notion, one she hadn't allowed herself to entertain and likely never would have had that car not crashed. But now she couldn't stop thinking about it. She hadn't even thought of Henry... she had thought of him. Tom.
There was a soft knock on the door. Before Mary could say or do anything, Anna had entered the room. "Dinner is ready, milady, if you are up to. If you don't feel like going down, I'll bring you up a tray... but it might do you some good. To surround yourself with those you love."
Mary nodded slowly. "I think I might. Thank you, Anna."
So Mary went down for dinner. No one spoke of the crash, of course, but it was obviously the one thing on everyone's mind.
Everyone's... except hers.
She marveled at the portraits hanging on the wall, the vintage claret she was drinking with her dinner, and the brush of her fingertips against the expensive clothing she wore. She studied her family— Mama as she spoke about the hospital, Papa as he picked at his dinner with little enthusiasm, even Edith when she glanced longingly at Bertie Pelham.
Could I give it all up?
Mary had never known any other life than one as an Earl's daughter. Matthew, early on in their marriage, had fantasies of a more middle class existence for the two of them before they reigned over the county but that had never happened. She probably wouldn't be any good at it; she wasn't exactly domestic and the most she could do was scramble eggs. Would she be doing Tom any favors to change her mind, when there was a possibility they could both end up miserable?
I need time to think this over.
Yes... Time. That was what she needed. She could approach this pragmatically, weighing her options before committing to a decision. It would be foolish to charge in headfirst without considering every possible outcome and how things could go wrong.
So lost was Mary in her thoughts that she hardly noticed everyone dismissing themselves from the table. "Mary?" It was Aunt Rosamund who managed to get her attention.
"What? Oh, I'm sorry," she said, disoriented as she saw the empty places near her and heard the door open and shut. The telephone rang in the hall.
Aunt Rosamund gave her a sympathetic smile. "You look done in. Go to bed. I don't think any of us are in the mood for socializing."
"I think I will," agreed Mary... though she didn't know how much sleep she would get. Mary suspected her mind would be consumed with endless possibilities of what she might do...
She was ready to do as Aunt Rosamund instructed when she entered the hall, only to be stopped by Papa, who had answered the telephone. "It's for you," he said, giving her a pitying look.
Mary's brow furrowed. "Who is it?"
"Mr. Talbot." Mary nodded slowly. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised. He'd been a wreck at the track before she had left. She'd made some halfhearted invitation to dinner, just so he wouldn't feel alone during such a horrible time, but he'd declined, going to the hospital with Charlie's family instead. "I'll go to upstairs and give you some privacy."
"Thank you, Papa," she said emotionlessly, stomach churning. Oh, why did Henry have to call her now?
Mary waited until Papa was halfway up the stairs before finally speaking into the receiver, "You should try to sleep."
"I found that I had to hear your voice first," Henry said on the other end. He sounded weary and tired... and his words were far too romantic. She stomach clenched. "The truth is... I won't sleep until I know where we're headed."
Mary froze. She didn't want to do this tonight. She needed time so she could phrase this the right way... "Henry, please let's not do this now. Think of Charlie, not us."
"Hear me out. Charlie would have." Mary closed her eyes, breathing in through her nostrils. Why now, why tonight? Why couldn't he grieve like she had when Matthew died and shut the world out for awhile? Why must he call her like this, hellbent on deciding a future that would never be? "Because his death has made me realize we don't have a minute to waste, you and I. This is my carpe diem moment. I... I must seize the day."
Mary hadn't intended on making her choice. Not that night. But as Henry spoke, it became so clear to her. She knew what he meant to ask... and she knew the answer to all the questions she had been asking herself tonight.
"No."
Henry clearly hadn't been expecting that. "What do you mean?"
"I'm sorry, I wouldn't have said this now, but today has made me realize something, too," said Mary. "We're not meant to be together, Henry. We're not right."
"I can..."
"Don't start saying you'll give up racing, because it's not that at all. I don't want you to give anything up, except for me," Mary told him earnestly.
"Then what is it? What is wrong? Because I can't give you up."
"You must," insisted Mary. "Please. I wish you nothing but good. I want you to have a long and happy life. Just not with me."
"Please tell me what it is, then. Because I can't bear not knowing. It will— It will torture me, trying to think of what I did wrong or what I could have done differently to change your mind."
"Henry, it's nothing you've done," insisted Mary. She didn't want to tell him the truth... it seemed too cruel, considering she was already breaking with him the day he lost his only friend... but at the same time she couldn't bear the thought of his lying awake at night, trying to puzzle out her words and examining his own behavior when he had done nothing wrong. "There's somebody else," she finally admitted to him. "And I didn't realize until just today how much that person meant to me."
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Then, "You're joking."
"I wouldn't joke. Not at a time like this."
"You can't mean that," insisted Henry. "Tell me who he is, then. Is it Evelyn Napier?"
"You don't know him," lied Mary... though she supposed he didn't. Not truly. Not the way she did. How could he glean who Tom Branson was over a few drinks at a pub when Mary had spent the last couple of years falling in love with him without realizing it?
"He doesn't exist, does he? You're— you're trying to spare my feelings. Mary, you must tell me, if there's anything you're hiding, we can work through it—"
"The fact that you don't trust me when I tell you this tells me I've made the right choice," said Mary, though without any trace of bitterness. If anything, it was a relief, having it confirmed. Henry was a nice man, but one completely ill-suited for her. "I know that it's hard for you to believe this right now, Henry, but someday you'll meet someone and she'll be just perfect for you. But it's just not me."
"Mary, please don't do this," Henry pleaded helplessly.
"I must. And you'll thank me for it one day." With a shuddery yet relieved sigh, Mary said, "Good night, Henry," and hung up the phone.
She had done it. She had made her choice... and it had been easier than she thought.
There had been two options in the end: carry on with life as it was or move forward to something that promised happiness. Neither of them involved Henry. Only one of them involved Tom.
And she chose him.