Mary stared at her reflection as Anna worked silently pinning her hair. The black of her lace collar made her colorless face paler and she thought to ask Anna to put on a bit of rouge to soften the contrast. Pity it wouldn't help with Mary's second observation: she looked old. Perhaps it was because of Granny, and grief, like an artist, had etched the lines marring her alabaster skin. Or it was worry, the nagging feeling that had sat like indigestible food in her belly since Papa told her about Mama's illness. It had been on the rebound of Granny's death, Mary still in shock that her beloved grandmother was cold and still in an upstairs guest room, when he'd pulled her aside and told her, making certain that she would take up the exhaustive duty of laying the Dowager Countess to rest and relieve her ailing Mama of the responsibility.
Or maybe Time was just stealing minutes away from all of them.
Whatever the cause, it was that night in particular that Mary realized she was no longer a girl, not even a young woman, but approaching middle age. Her grandmother was gone. Her parents were no longer spry. The protective layer of her family was fraying.
Anna, who always seemed to know what she needed without being told, opened the tin of Rigaud's powder and dabbed the pinkish color onto the apex of her cheek bones. Mary blinked, not convinced she looked any better, and then stood.
"Thank you, Anna."
"Ofcourse, milady." Anna's tone was subdued and somber and though Mary knew it was out of deference to her, she wished it didn't remind her of loss.
Everywhere, the void Granny left threatened to swallow her up. The loss of her was significant, but so was the pressure to carry on as she would. Mary knew they all thought she was a modern day version of Violet and though she had paid close attention to her Granny throughout her life, Mary felt unequal to the task. A small part of her, the part that had been loved by Matthew, feared losing herself in the shadow of her grandmother's persona. If she could never truly be Violet, would being Mary be good enough to see Downton through?
"Did Tom bring his Lordship to Murray's office this morning?" Mary asked as she and Anna crossed the room towards the door.
"Yes, just after breakfast." Anna answered before passing into the hallway.
"I don't envy him the paperwork this will require." Mary replied. "My day is quite full as well. After going down and speaking with Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore about the funeral luncheon, I'm off to meet with Travis about the mass. I don't expect to be back by tea."
"Very good milady. I can tell Her Ladyship."
"That's quite alright. I'd like to peek in on her anyway before I leave." Mary turned in the direction of her mother's room but paused when Anna made a strange noise.
"Oh, she isn't there," Anna said carefully.
"What?" Mary asked. "Where is she?"
Anna bit her lip. "I passed her on the back stairs when I was coming up. It seemed as though she were heading down to Mrs Hughes too."
Mary sighed and thanked Anna before walking quickly in the direction of the servants staircase. She stepped quickly, but lightly, on the wooden tread, mindful of how her steps would echo down the hall and precede her entrance. She felt much like she did when catching George in the act of being mischievous. And quite like her son, Mama's twin blue eyes rounded big and innocently when Mary appeared around the corner, saw her with the housekeeper and the cook and a large ledger of notes and whispered Mama, the second syllable emphasized and louder than the first.
"Yes darling?" Cora answered sweetly. Unlike her son, her mother's face was drawn and shadowed, despite her easy tone.
Mindful of Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore, Mary chose her words carefully.
"May I speak with you? It's quite urgent."
"Oh," Cora replied, though her smile and slow movements told Mary she knew it was an act. "If you'll both excuse me."
Mary took her mother by the elbow and led her through the door and back up the stairs impatiently.
"I thought we had an agreement," Mary started.
"There was an arrangement, not an agreement. Those are two different things. And they were between you and Papa. No one asked me."
"Oh Mama!" Mary exclaimed, noticing the way her mother held onto the banister with each step taken, leaning into it.
"I don't feel right-".
"Why?" Mary demanded, stopping them both on the stairs with an iron grip. "What's wrong?"
Cora rolled her eyes, while maintaining her hold of the banister. "You're as bad as your father. Nothing is wrong. I don't feel right saddling you with all of the work."
"Oh, is that all?" Mary shrugged and began taking the stairs once again. "Well, you'll have to get used to it because it isn't up for negotiation. I'm not using this experience as a dress rehearsal."
"Mary…" her mother's voice softened, the tone like a caress and Mary took in a breath around the sudden tightness in her throat. She tugged her mother's arm harder than she intended and they both climbed the remaining stairs in silence.
Once in the hall, Mary felt the need to walk her mother to her room. As though directing one of her children, she led Cora to the chaise and watched as her mother exhaled before lowering herself. Despite her protestations outside of the kitchen, she lifted her feet and sank into the cushions. Mary took a wool shawl she found folded at the end of the bed and spread it out over Cora's curled form.
"Would you like me to have Baxter light a fire?" Mary asked softly.
Cora shook her head and hummed. "No."
"Rest, please," Mary said. "I'll let you do a flower arrangement or something later."
Cora's responding chuckle brought a faint smile to Mary's lips. "Oh, you'll let me, will you? That's very gracious of you. Granny will not be pleased that you've veered off script."
"Well, I hate to be predictable," Mary replied, closing the shades and walking across the room to let herself out.
She held tight to the knob, the glass cool against her palm, and looked over her shoulder. She could make out the faint outline of her mother, her left hand resting on the hollow of her middle, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that mimicked slumber. She wasn't dying, not as had been feared only days before, the terror of the possibility revealed to her only when they were sure of the opposite. She still felt the aftershock of it all. Mary was thankful for their deceit. Watching her grandmother slowly die while thinking her mother was headed for the same fate was not an exercise Mary wished to engage in. Speaking with Edith helped to fill in some of the holes left in her father's explanation of events and so Mary knew Cora had been ill for some time before any of them had found out.
No, she wasn't dying, but she wasn't well, and it was odd for Mary to see Cora this way: fragile and dependent and quiet. Odd and unnerving.
"I'm frightened, Mama," Mary's voice barely gave life to her words, and so she startled when Cora answered her.
"Of what, darling?"
Mary looked down at the carpet, poking at a stain with her toe. "Of letting everyone down. Of letting…myself down. I can't, I'm not her."
Mary heard the rustle as Cora moved on the chaise. She sat up and leaned forward and despite the low light in the room, Mary could see the intensity of her blue eyes as they held hers.
"You have enough of your grandmother's intelligence and your father's stubbornness to succeed. Not to mention qualities that are uniquely yours. Tenacity and Ingenuity come to mind!"
"I think," Mary started faintly, "I think perhaps I get that from you. If you've passed along an ounce of your bravery too, I may be set."