CHAPTER 2
Downton Abbey, April 1912
Mary took full advantage of Doctor Clarkson's recommendation of rest and stayed in her room for the next few days. She spent most of her time frantically trying to remember everything she could about 1912, which she soon realised was more difficult than she expected. Oh, she remembered the big things well enough – the Titanic's sinking, the ghastly memorials for Patrick and James in London and Downton, the whole debacle about breaking of the entail and finally Matthew's arrival and her violent opposition to him. She could even recall, in vivid detail, most of their conversations – or more accurately her attacks on him and his calm defense of himself – but it quickly turned out that it were the little details which tripped her.
It started with dressing in the morning. She did not realise how comfortable her clothes in 1922 were until she had to go back to her wardrobe from 1912. From Anna's surprised looks it seemed she was not used to Lady Mary grumbling so much about the tightness of her corset. Mary ruefully suspected her current attitude could rival Sybil's, who never got used to the idea of them and gladly gave them up when more liberated fashions came around after the war.
Then it was the fact that she didn't remember the names of some of the servants. The redhead maid left Downton employment in 1914, eight years ago from Mary's perspective, and they never had a close relationship she shared with Anna, but she thankfully overheard Sybil addressing her as Gwen. There were many others though. Downton Abbey employed significantly bigger staff before the war and Mary, always taking pride in addressing all of them by name, struggled recalling who exactly some of the hall boys, housemaids or undergardeners were. She was determined to learn it all back though, as discretely as possible.
Servants were easy though – it's not like they would complain to anybody who mattered that Lady Mary failed to address them by name – in comparison to pitfalls and traps awaiting her in conversations with the family. Like the present one with Mama.
"You will have to write your regrets to everybody whose invitations for the season you have accepted," said Cora with a sigh, reviewing her own diary and making the list of letters to send.
Mary started.
"It's just mid-April. Surely we didn't commit ourselves to too many events," she said, trying desperately to remember who could have invited her so early in the year to attend their 1912 London Season party. Turned out remembering which parties she hadn't attended ten years in the past was not something she could boast of.
Cora looked at her incredulously.
"We have already agreed to attend the Wenthworths', the Damseys' and the Howards' balls, in addition to Lady Agatha Spencer coming out ball. There was also an invitation from the Crowboroughs', but I didn't answer it yet. I will write to them all myself, of course, since those were the invitations for the whole family, but I am sure you accepted some on your own behalf and you need to notify them promptly. I know you have a lot on your mind right now, Mary, but you simply cannot neglect it."
Mary suppressed a groan and nodded. She went back to her bedroom and took the most recent correspondence and her diary from her vanity's drawer, dearly hoping she was diligent enough to note down any accepted invitations. To her extreme relief, it seemed she did.
Writing her letters presented another difficulty she did not foresee.
She was halfway through a nice chatty letter to Lady Abigail Wellington, asking her about her baby, when she suddenly remembered that the baby was born in 1913 and was probably not even conceived yet. Frowning in frustration, she threw the letter into the fireplace and started anew.
The next letter, to Lady Laura, had her stuck as well. Was she already engaged to her Irish husband or had it only happened later? They did marry before the war; they had multiple children by the time Tom Branson helped to burn down their house, but their engagement date remained a mystery to Mary. She and Laura were not close enough friends for it to matter much to her in general, but it did matter when she was trying to compose a letter which should possibly contain her congratulations, as well as her regrets for cancelling their outing to the National Gallery. Or possibly not, if the engagement hadn't taken place yet.
With another groan of frustration, Mary decided to err on the side of caution and kept her letter short and to the point. She was in mourning for her cousins. She could write chatty letters when she oriented herself a bit better in the time she again lived in.
She finally finished all the letters she thought she owed and sat on the window seat with a sigh. Her sight fell on her empty left hand and soon after at the empty nightstand, where Matthew's photograph, the very same photograph which she had prayed over for the whole four years of the war, should stand on.
She missed him as desperately as ever. The abstract knowledge that somewhere in Manchester a decade younger version of her late husband lived and thrived, completely unaware of her existence, did not help much. The fact that she lost nearly all reminders of him and the life they shared together made everything even more difficult to bear. There was one token still in her possession though and she got up to take it out from the nightstand drawer. Her slender fingers closed around the soft body of a toy plush dog.
Her lucky charm.
She felt her eyes prickle and her throat hurt with suppressed sobs and shook her head to stop herself from bursting into tears.
She was lucky, wasn't she? She got an incredible, impossible second chance to make things right. To see and love Matthew again. So what if she had to wait a bit longer until she saw her and even longer until he loved her again? It would happen soon enough. It would be alright. They would have many long years of happiness together. This time she would not waste a second or let him die in any stupid car crash. She would be better, more supportive, less selfish wife to him. They would be so terribly happy.
She clutched the little dog and willed herself not to cry.
Walk from the church to Downton Abbey, July 1912
The memorial was as ghastly as Mary remembered. This time around the one at Downton was even worse than the first one in London. All she could think about when surrounded by mourners gathered in the old Downton church to bury the heirs to the Earl of Grantham was Matthew's funeral, just nine months ago for her – and she felt nowhere equal to reliving it. It took all her considerable strength of will to keep her composure and avoid becoming a weeping mess. She clutched the handle of her black purse desperately, her lucky charm hidden inside, and wished for the blasted service to finally end.
She breathed a little easier on the long walk back to the house, but Edith's sniffling was getting on her last nerve.
"Really. Do you have to put on such an exhibition?" she snapped finally.
"She's not," Sybil immediately jumped to Edith's defense, casting Mary a disapproving look. Mary knew she should let it go; that Edith was grieving and she herself should be more understanding, but she felt empathy entirely beyond her at the moment.
"I was engaged to him for heaven's sake, not you, and I can control myself," she hissed pointedly. Honestly, she had showed more composure on her husband's funeral than Edith did at her crush's memorial.
Edith sent her a poisonous look.
"Then you should be ashamed," she snapped back and walked inside without waiting for her sisters.
Mary did not find it inside her to care.
Library, Downton Abbey, July 1912
Robert was sitting alone by the fire, staring into the flames. He barely noticed Edith coming in.
"Are you alright, Papa?" she asked, noting his pensive expression with concern.
Robert sighed and straightened.
"I suppose so. If being alright is compatible with feeling terribly, terribly sad."
"Me too," said Edith in a choked voice. Robert opened his arms and hugged her.
"We loved Patrick, didn't we?" he said sadly and Edith could remain composed no longer.
"Oh, Papa," she said only and burst into tears. He patted her back awkwardly.
"Well, well. Life goes on."
He genuinely wanted to comfort his daughter in her grief, but he was never easy or natural when confronted with crying women. He wished Cora was here. She would know what to do to make Edith feel better. She would know what to do to make him better.
Sensing her father's discomfort, Edith pulled herself together and wiped away her tears.
"What did Mr Murray have to say?" she asked.
Robert sighed again.
"Only that I have some very difficult decisions ahead."
"You must do what you think is right."
"I may not have an option."
"No, I only mean... you should do what you feel is your duty. Not just what's best for Mary."
Robert's frowning look made her realise how bald her statement was.
"Or Sybil. Or me. We'll manage," she hastened to add.
"Of course you will," said Robert, but his frown remained in place.
Lady Mary's bedroom, July 1912
Sybil stood in her sister's doorway, looking at her. Mary was still sitting at her dressing table, staring at herself in the mirror, but in a manner which suggested to Sybil that she was looking at her own thoughts rather than her image.
"I'm going down. Coming?"
"In a moment. You go," answered Mary quietly, in a way so different from her usual confident tone, that Sybil walked over to the table, worried.
"How are you, really? I cannot imagine how sad you are over Patrick. We all are, but today must have been so much more difficult for you."
Mary stared at the mirror blankly before grasping Sybil's hand briefly and kissing it.
"You're a darling," she said only, then added after long moment. "I just miss him so terribly much I feel I can't breathe sometimes."
Gallery, Downton Abbey, July 1912
Sybil came out of Mary's room with heavy heart and walked slowly down the gallery to the staircase. She was so preoccupied with the thoughts of one sister's suffering that she nearly missed the other standing there.
"What's the matter?" asked Sybil, startling Edith briefly.
"Nothing," she muttered quickly, but Sybil noticed what her sister was looking at. Among a group of silver-framed photographs on a chest there was one of a smiling, young man, not handsome but pleasant-looking. Sybil's heart contracted.
"Poor Patrick."
"Yes. Poor darling Patrick," said Edith with genuine warmth, as the tears started to course down her cheeks. Sybil hugged her.
"You're the poor darling. I know how you'll miss him."
"More than he'd miss me," sniffled Edith sadly.
"Nonsense. He was devoted to you," Sybil's answer was immediate and definite. Patrick's friendship with her sister had always been obvious to everybody.
"Do you think so?" asked Edith in a strange tone.
"Of course," answered Sybil, puzzled. "He loved us all, and we loved him."
Edith scowled.
"Not Mary. She never cared for him. Not really."
"That isn't true," stated Sybil with a frown. Edith's assessment, straight after her own witnessing of the depth of Mary's grief, just couldn't be right.
"She never had a good word for him until he died and now she is styling herself a grieving fiancée. I just hope..."
"What?"
"I hope one day she learns what it feels like to be unlucky."
"Oh dearest, you don't mean that," said Sybil, but looking at Edith drying her tears she had an uncomfortable feeling that her sister meant every word she said.
Lady Mary's bedroom, August 1912
Mary looked questioningly at her mother, uncharacteristically hovering about after sending her sister and Anna away.
"Well, what is it?" she asked.
"You really are beautiful, darling," said Cora appreciatively, admiring her daughter's dark lustrous hair, milk white complexion and expressive dark eyes, her poise and grace. Oh, she was fitted to be a duchess! The black clothes were making her look rather pale though.
"But?" asked Mary suspiciously, feeling a trap coming. Cora had a look of a woman on a mission about her.
"It is admirable the way you decided to mourn Patrick as your fiancé, even though it was not officially announced yet, but don't you think it's time for some colours? Half-mourning at least?"
Mary looked at her incredulously.
"It hasn't even been six months!"
"And he wasn't your husband," answered Cora firmly. "It would be perfectly acceptable for you to be out of deep mourning by now. And with the duke coming to visit..."
Mary's eyes widened in comprehension. How could she have forgotten about that sad little episode?
"You want me to snatch him," she said flatly, determinedly not thinking how eager she had been to do exactly that ten years ago. What a naïve goose she had been then! Well, she knew better now.
"I wouldn't put it quite like that," hedged Cora. "But he is coming for a visit and you two did seem to get along really well at the Northbrooks' ball, didn't you?"
Mary clenched her teeth. She didn't like reminding how she had behaved then one bit.
"You do realise he probably thinks the entail is going to be broken and I am the heiress?" she asked acerbically.
"As it should be," said Cora firmly. "Your father will have to do it now. Anything else is preposterous."
"Has Papa said so?" asked Mary, raising her eyebrows in disbelief. Her mother's shifty expression told her the truth – nothing changed from her timeline in that respect.
"Even if he has hopes regarding your inheritance, you may still charm him enough to make him offer for you. Your settlement is generous enough – my father made at least sure of that, even when he agreed to incorporate mine into the estate – and I cannot think of anybody more fit to be a duchess than you, my darling."
Mary sighed with irritation.
"Be it as it may, I have no intention of giving up my mourning clothes quite yet," she said firmly. "And to be honest, I am no longer so convinced that Duke of Crowborough is a good prospect for me – or a good man at all. I heard some rumours which made me quite rethink any former opinions I had about him."
"What rumours?" asked Cora shrewdly. She knew her daughter to be pragmatic and cold when it came to her marital prospects. Whatever put her off the duke, must have been significant. Mary was not the kind of girl who would have been bothered by a trifle.
Mary thought quickly. The truth was she had not learnt anything sinister about the duke until her engagement to Richard, who took particular delight in sharing more scandalous pieces of information regarding the aristocracy with her, even though he had been most careful about which of it he had published. And had he had a lot to say about Duke of Crowborough!
But what could she reasonably share with her mother in 1912?
"I heard he is a gambler and his estate near bankruptcy," she said finally. "And that he is... quite free with his affections."
"He wouldn't have been the first in need of a bride with huge dowry to buy him out," said Cora dismissively. "You know your own Papa's situation when he married me and we couldn't be happier. And as for the second... young men need some excitement. I'm sure he wouldn't behave like that after you married."
You don't know, you just wish it to be true, thought Mary darkly, thinking of poor Duchess of Crowborough. Thank God it had not been her!
"Anyway, I want you to be nice to the duke and we'll see what comes out of it, if anything. There is no point in quarreling now," said Cora and although her words were conciliatory, her tone was not. Mary got her marching orders.
Gallery, Downton Abbey, August 1912
Mary saw the Duke of Crowborough leaving his bedroom and started to walk towards him with a sigh. She had no intention to flirt with him, but she knew well enough that her mother would make her life very uncomfortable if she didn't at least pretend to make an effort. He would be gone in a day; she could endure his company for so long.
She was wearing a black dress though. There was only so much she would concede to Mama's scheming.
"What shall we do? What would you like to do?" she asked brightly, putting her social mask firmly on.
The duke seemed to ponder it for a moment.
"I'd rather like to go exploring," he said finally, with a playful glint in his eyes. Mary barely restrained herself from rolling hers.
"Certainly. Gardens or house?"
"Oh, the house I think. Gardens are all the same to me."
"Very well. We can begin in the hall which is one of the oldest..." she started walking towards the staircase, but he stopped her.
"No. Not all those drawing rooms and libraries..."
"I'm not certain I understand."
"What about the parts of the house which no one sees?" he asked suggestively.
"The kitchens, you mean?" asked Mary, raising her eyebrows.
"Even the kitchens must be full of people at this time of day."
"Well, what then?" asked Mary with growing impatience. He noticed it and seemed to flounder a little.
"I don't know... the secret passages and the attics..."
"I hardly think the servants would appreciate us poking in their rooms," said Mary firmly. "It would be completely inappropriate."
"Well," stammered the duke, clearly wrong-footed. "I just hoped for a bit of privacy with you. Or have you forgotten when I pulled you into the conservatory at the Northbrooks? How sad."
"No, I haven't. But it's not quite the same with twenty chaperones hiding behind every fern. If you desire privacy, I think the Monks' Garden would suffice."
"Uh... You know, Lady Mary, I think I am rather a bit tired after my journey. I think I will retire for now. How about you will give me a tour of the public rooms after tea?"
"I would be glad to. Have a good rest then," she said briskly, turning her back on him with relief. What a slimy toad he was. How could she ever have put herself forward in a humiliating and fruitless attempt to snare him?
Well, never mind, it was not going to happen now. If there was one thing Mary knew how to do, it was how to give a cold shoulder to a man. The only thing which she had to do now was to hide from her mother until tea.
Drawing room, Downton Abbey, August 1912
"So he slipped the hook," noted Edith smugly after the duke announced that he was retiring early and leaving in the morning.
Mary rolled her eyes.
"I wasn't exactly fishing for him, you know," she said curtly. To her extreme annoyance, Edith chuckled disbelievingly.
"Sure you weren't. Not tempted at all by the prospect of becoming a duchess."
"Not in the slightest," answered Mary honestly. Well, at least not anymore. "I have a bigger fish to hook."
"Bigger than a duke?" asked Edith with genuine astonishment. "Whoever do you mean?"
"Not any of your business," said Mary dismissively. "And anyway, whoever I want to hook, at least I'm not fishing with no bait."
She left Edith without another word and went to bed.
September was just few short weeks away.