The rain stops and the roads clear in a few days, although Matthew has missed two sessions of professional therapy. He would say that his impromptu sessions with Mary were perhaps even more helpful, but she cannot make any sort of claim toward that. However, she is thrilled to finally be invited to attend one of his actual therapy sessions.
Mary takes a seat against the wall in the large therapy room after making sure that Matthew is ready. He sits on a table, wearing a short sleeved shirt and shorts that reveal much of his legs. Mary notes, with a sly grin, that if she had been at Downton that sort of clothing would have been absolutely unacceptable. She loves it here, she loves the freedom that she has to simply be. How she will handle being back at Downton she doesn't know. It seems unimaginable, to go back to how things were before. As much as she loves Downton, Scotland has been the escape she so desperately needed, and Mary isn't ready to leave that. But if Matthew is ready, then she must be too.
The door from the office opens, and out comes Grace, wearing her usual cheery grin. Mary instinctively recoils at her cheerfulness, as it seems so out of place, and perhaps damaging to Matthew, but Matthew does not seemed too disturbed. He returns her smile, though hesitantly.
"I've got some good news for you, Matthew, or I hope it's good news. Dr. Robinson has allowed me to work with you on your exercises before he comes out to examine you!" Her eyes are wide as she approaches Matthew. "You're the first patient I've been allowed to do this with, but don't worry, I've been well trained."
Matthew raises his eyebrows, both bemused and unsure. "Well... I'm glad you've gotten promoted," he says. "Grace, is it alright if my cousin joins us in that case? Dr. Robinson said she would be allowed in at this session." He gestures to Mary sheepishly.
Grace turns around to flash a smile at Mary. "Of course! I wouldn't want to renege on his promise. Especially for you. Lady Mary, correct?" she says, screwing up her face in an attempt to remember Mary's name.
Mary is surprised at the use of her title, and even more confounded at her own surprise. Here in Scotland, with just Isobel and Matthew, title and rank do not matter, and Mary almost finds herself uncomfortable at being addressed in such a way, as if the formality has forced its way into quiet Scotland. She expects it from the doctors and such, but for some reason, in that moment, she hates it. Perhaps because it is a reminder of what she has to go back to. "Yes, but feel free to simply call me Mary."
Matthew raises an amused eyebrow at this unusual behavior.
"If you say so," says Grace, a little reluctantly. Clearly, she's cowed by the nature of Mary's title and station. "Say, I think that I've read of you somewhere, sometime in the paper."
Mary's face immediately pales. Images of Richard, his cold rejection of her plea, her despair that night as terrible news after terrible news flood her, flit across her mind. I deserve this, she tells herself, again. It is the only way she can handle it.
Matthew seems to recognize Mary's embarrassment and fear at Grace's question, and quickly speaks up to try to defuse the situation. "Do you read the Court Circular? Because occasionally you may see Mary's name in there. I can't imagine why you would have heard it otherwise."
Grace presses her lips together. Mary isn't expecting her to buy the excuse, but she murmurs, "Perhaps that is it. I must have flipped through a copy in the waiting room at some point, and the name stuck with me." Mary breathes a sigh of relief. Perhaps her scandal has reached Scotland, but few will connect her to the scandal. Aristocratic dealings are likely not of interest to most of the people here, and Mary is grateful for that.
However, her heart still beats rapidly, and her breath comes out harder than she intends it too. How can she go back? How can she be back in a place where everyone knows her identity and her failings? As remote and quiet as Scotland is, something she never thought she would enjoy, she would much rather be here then back in the world she grew up in. She can hardly fathom facing up to everyone back home, to know that they know of her shame.
Yet Matthew says she has nothing to be ashamed of. She's grateful to him for it, but that is not how the world works, or at least not her world. Whether the subject feels the guilt or not scarcely matters; it is the shame that everyone else believes they should possess that determines ruin. And by that standard, Mary is certainly ruined. It matters not that Pamuk coerced her; Richard spun her story to make her appear unmistakably at fault. She is damaged goods, whether she deserves it or not.
But she deserves it, doesn't she?
It takes all of Mary's strength not to leave the room, because she knows that Grace has read the story, and at some point will make the connection. But she will stay, for Matthew's sake. Matthew asked for her to be here, to see his progress, and while Mary does not consider herself a particularly selfless person, for Matthew, she will be.
She tries to focus on watching him, on seeing how he is coming along, especially compared to what they had worked on those rainy days. And she's happy to see the results. Grace first works with him on some exercises while he is sitting down, and Mary notes that his leg bends more readily than it did before. He doesn't protest at any of the exercises, although he keeps looking to Mary for assurance, and participates much more eagerly at her slight nod and smile.
Mary also notices how Grace acts around him; even more than her bubbly personality, she almost seems to be flirting with Matthew-attempting to get him to laugh with her, touching him in more places than would seem strictly clinical. Her light giggles, well-intentioned though they might be, set Mary on edge. And Matthew plays along. He smiles back at her, laughs at her jokes, closes his eyes at her touch and never frowns at the contact.
"You've improved quite a bit since I last saw you," she said, even such a simple phrase sounding syrupy sweet. "Soon you won't be needing to come here anymore. Which is an excellent development for you but will be quite disappointing for me."
Matthew presses his lips together in a soft smile. "Well if it's so awful, perhaps I might stick around a little longer."
"Dr. Robinson may not be so fond of that plan but as I've hardly had another patient like you, I wouldn't be of a mind to argue," she replies, as she lifts his leg to straighten it one more time.
"I'm likely leaving for Yorkshire in the new year," Matthew warns, as Grace instructs him to stand up, still leaning against the table where he had been sitting.
Grace helps him into another stretching position before giving him an exaggerated frown. "That's a shame, I do so hate to see my favorite patients go. And you and I've, we've so many things we've yet to talk about, so many things we've yet to do."
He responds to her with an indulgent grin, and Mary can't help but bite her lip. Does he not notice what she is really saying, how obvious she is about her feelings? Is he really so oblivious? Matthew is so clever, he cannot possibly miss the signs of Grace's affections.
Mary tries to shake of the pangs of jealousy she feels. Is this all it takes to make her desperate for his exclusive affection? It's certainly harmless, a professional relationship, she attempts to convince herself. How stupid, how immature of her it is to feel this way. And yet, every vaguely flirtatious words sets her teeth on edge.
Of course, it doesn't help that her scandal has been burned afresh in her mind. Even up here, in this quiet, isolated Scottish village, she is not free of it. She will never be free of it. And if she continues anything with Matthew, he will never be free of it either.
So perhaps it is better that she does not tie him down.
Of course, all of her thinking is extremely premature, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she acknowledges that. But her own self-loathing allows her to believe that perhaps Matthew is not so in love with her as she thought. After all, with her scandal lurking, how could he want to take her on.
It always comes back to Pamuk.
I deserve this, she thinks, closing her eyes so she doesn't have to witness another flirtatious gesture. I deserve this.
Mary is uncharacteristically quiet on the way back from the hospital, Matthew notices, her lips pressed together in a firm line and her eyes staring at nothing in particular. It was a rather successful session, as once Dr. Robinson came in to work with him, he managed to walk all the way across the room with nothing but the support of a stick. Mary had given him an encouraging, if distracted smile, but she had not been particularly engaged. It must have been boring for her, he reasons; it can be tedious enough for him, so watching his exercises cannot be all that thrilling.
And yet, usually when she comes with the chauffeur to pick him up from physio, she is cheerful and talkative; maybe it's a facade to help him become more cheerful and talkative, but nevertheless, her current attitude is unsettling.
"You know, in just a few weeks it will be Christmas, and I've hardly even thought about buying gifts. Perhaps we need to go out to the village and find something for Mother," Matthew says, trying to inspire conversation. "Although I suppose we'll have to separate if I'm to find any sort of surprise for you."
"Hmm," is Mary's only response. She stares out the window, not having heard him.
Matthew frowns and looks away, waiting a few minutes before trying again. "You know, I think we have a storm coming. Ever since I got hurt, I seem to be able to tell when the weather's about to change."
Mary still gives no meaningful response.
He doesn't try to speak again for the rest of the drive back to the house.
Dinner is awkward; Mary is abnormally quiet still, and Matthew finds himself anxious to keep up a conversation that he hardly cares about. His mind is more focused on Mary, and what could have happened to upset her.
He thinks about the session, but frankly, he hardly remembers what Mary might have said, or what he might have said to upset her. In truth, his sessions of physio all seem to blend together, with little separating them. The only unique thought of this one he can manage to remember is Grace's help with his exercises at the beginning, and even then, he had been so intently concentrated on his movement that he cannot now pinpoint anything in particular. The hours of sweat and hard work and pain that came after were enough to make anything earlier in the day feel like a fantasy. Perhaps he is only imagining Mary's frustration at him; after all, he seems to have hallucinated plenty of other fantasies in the past.
Isobel notices the odd tension at dinner, but she does not say anything. She's enough used to Matthew's sullen days that the quiet at the table does not seem unfamiliar. If it does not resolve itself, of course she will interfere, but she fears interference will do little good.
Everything in the house is stilted and quiet, and all three go to bed early, perhaps in the hopes that the awkwardness will dissipate.
It takes Matthew only minutes to realize how much he needs Mary by his side.
She has not come in, and he already misses her. He lays back and tries to sleep, but five minutes in, he realizes it will be futile. It is silent, too silent, without Mary's breathing next to him, and the silence only makes him fear any sound that might come from the night. He has grown accustomed to not being alone, and now he almost is afraid of loneliness.
It is probably only ten minutes he spends in the dark, but it is more than enough for him to throw off the covers in frustration and sit up. He needs Mary, and he can't think what might be keeping her. He reaches for his cane, propped against his bedside table, and slowly, carefully walks toward the door connecting the two rooms.
Mary has a book open on her lap, but she can not bring herself to really read it. The afternoon keeps playing over and over again in her head; the mention of her scandal stinging every time, and the idea of Matthew in love with another hurting her heart, although the existence of such a heart may be debatable.
It is awfully harsh, Mary thinks, to have her scandal dragged up when the very thought of Pamuk causes her heart to beat with anxiety. Her own private fear has also made her the laughingstock or horror of English society. And yet, how can she complain? She deserves this, doesn't she? Or at least she tries to tell herself that.
She picks up a book that is sitting next to her bed, but she hardly can read it. All she can think about is Pamuk, his dark eyes and intense, unforgiving state, as he entered her room all those years ago. She should have screamed, and yet the scream that she never managed to let out does not leave her head now. Would it have been better? Would it have prevented her heartache?
Maybe... maybe if she could have sent Pamuk away, she would be less broken.
There is little help in dwelling on the past, and yet Mary cannot help but wonder. And now with her scandal out there again, the past will not leave her alone. There is nothing she can do but watch as the past defines her in the eyes of society. She has nothing anymore; she is nothing. And all because she was stupid enough to let a man into her bed.
The door to her room opens and suddenly, she is transported back to that night, where he came in without any regard for her modesty. Mary takes in a quick breath and closes her eyes, trying not to allow her anxiety to overtake her. Naturally, she pulls her covers around her, in some sort of attempt to protect her modesty, what little remains of it. She closes her eyes, so afraid that when she opens them, he will be there, with his awful grin and seductive voice and dark, deep eyes that sometimes make their way into her nightmares.
A hand on her arm attempts to draw her out of her fright, but Mary curls up further into a ball instinctively, unable to find any other way to protect herself.
"Mary," a voice says, but it is not Pamuk's.
Only now does Mary realize she is on the ground, huddled against her bed, her covers around her. She opens her eyes, and sees a clear blue staring back at her, and she is overwhelmed with relief, although she still labors to breathe, the intensity of her fear taking some time to dissipate.
Matthew is crouching down next to her, clearly in pain from the position, but determined to confirm that she is alright. "Mary, get up. The floor won't do you any good." It hits him that despite how many times he's been coaxed out of similar states, he has no idea how to do the same for Mary. He will try everything, though; he owes that to Mary.
She blinks and looks up at him, so grateful that his light features are nothing like Pamuk's. It's a strange point of relief, but his ocean blue eyes convince her that Matthew is unmistakably himself, not some echo of the man who came to her room years before.
"I'm... I'm sorry," she murmurs, pushing herself up from the floor and attempting to regain some composure. Really, she would rather stay curled up in a ball for eternity, as standing makes her feels rather exposed and her heart still has refused to stop racing, but she has always prided herself on keeping control of her emotions, and she will not let anything stop that. Besides, she cannot bear the sight of Matthew crouching beside her, clearly uncomfortable, so she holds out a hand for him to get up from the ground.
He stumbles over to hold onto the bedpost, stopping to gaze at her. "Mary, are you sure you're..."
"Go," Mary whispers. "You shouldn't have come in here." Because really, that was what made her so afraid. A man coming into her bedroom. That was what had started everything, that was her eternal shame. How could Matthew even think to...
He looks at her with nothing but understanding. "I'm sorry," he says softly, reaching toward her. She pulls away from him.
"I think I need to be alone," she says. In truth, his presence would be rather comforting, had his actions not just set her into a panic. She wants him here, so desperately, but she cannot abide his entrance into her bedroom. For her, there is something so fundamentally wrong about it; after Pamuk, she cannot see such an uninvited entrance from a man as anything but wrong.
Matthew nods, but he is slow to make a move to leave. He keeps looking at her, wistfully, mournfully. He begins to walk toward the door, but he hardly takes two steps before almost stumbling and stopping, making a pained face. "Mary, will you hand me my stick?" he asks, motioning to the floor where he had been crouched beside her.
Mary wordlessly picks up the stick and hands it to him, her arm brushing his. She pulls away again, taking in a sharp breath. It is nothing but wrong to her.
He limps through the door to the other room, taking one last look back at her. "Mary, if you need me... I will be here for you."
She hates feeling so weak, so needy, and she can hardly bear to look at him in response. She deserves this, she deserves the hell she has brought upon herself, and she certainly does not deserve Matthew's kindness.
The door closes softly behind him, and she sits on the end of her bed and sobs until she has no tears left to cry.
Lots of angst! But I promise things will get better, they just have a lot to work through. Thanks so much for reading this story and sticking with it! Hopefully I'll get the next chapter out fairly soon because I really love it so far. Reviews are the most fulfilling thing you could give a writer, so please drop a review if you can. Thanks again!