Disclaimer: I do not own Upstairs Downstairs, I just like writing and hope you enjoy.
As Lady Marjorie Bellamy sat in her carriage on the way to the park that fine day, consumed with the conflicting thoughts that raged within her. And how it all began was sudden and quite strange.
It happened during breakfast. Lady Marjorie was chatting with Richard, her husband, about the conversation they had the previous evening with Lady Prudence Fairfax. And as Richard was speaking, she noticed the two empty spaces where her children would usually be. Her daughter Elizabeth was visiting her grandmother, Lady Southwold, and James was with his regiment. Their absence never bothered her before. "My children don't need me. Never did," flitted in her thoughts. "Where did that come from," she wondered. "Of course they need me, I'm their mother." She smiled gently to herself knowing that whatever that thought was or where it came from, had no substance. But there was a tiny, unsettled fiber in her being.
Richard paused from his meal to gaze at his wife. He could tell that Marjorie was preoccupied. His mind once again congratulated himself on his marriage. A beautiful titled lady of the gentry. Her pompadour styled hair was still the brilliant fire red as when he first met her. The gentle smile that played on her lips was still gentle. No, it wasn't filled with the sweetness of innocence, but it was still gentle with the warmth of maturity. Moments like these made Richard feel like the luckiest man on earth.
Lady Marjorie felt Richard's gaze and lifted her eyes to meet his love filled gray eyes. She gave a broader smile and returned to her meal. Richard took his cue and did the same. Her green eyes glanced up at her husband with fondness. Their marriage was calm and content. "But it was never to set the world on fire, was it? There's no passion. Your marriage was for his convenience, after all. He used you to become MP. What does it feel like, being used," flitted more thoughts. The sudden harshness shocked her. "Where is all this coming from," she wondered again. "I must be unwell. Perhaps after breakfast I should telephone Dr. Foley." But as strange as it seemed, there was truth in the statement. Richard, although he loved her, needed her father's support to go into Parliament. And that support would be further cemented if he married her. She knew this and she didn't mind. Being loved wasn't as important as being needed. Besides, she did care for Richard and she rather marry someone who needed support than someone who wanted to marry to mix gentry bloodlines. But something ate at that same bothered fiber and this time it wouldn't rest.
"You're lonely."
Lady Marjorie raised her head and turned her head, concern etched on her delicate features. This time it sounded like whatever was bothering her thoughts was speaking right in the room. And an overwhelming sense of being alone filled her being. "This is absurd," she thought angrily. "I am not lonely! I have Richard and the servants in here with me. And even if they were not here, I have friends everywhere in London, including the Kind of England! I have no reason to feel lonely. Absolutely none!"
Her internal thoughts must have shown on her face because Richard had asked if she was unwell. "A slight headache is all," she heard herself reply. "Maybe a stroll in the park will do me some good. I'll ring for Pearce after I'm finished with my morning appointments." She made an effort to smooth out her features and finish her meal.
Richard's eyes were filled with concern. Yet, whatever it was that bothered her, wasn't there anymore. Richard asked Hudson, the butler, to clear his space from the table. As Hudson did his duty, Richard went to his wife and placed a soft kiss on cheek. Then he walked briskly out of the dining room calling out, "Have a good day, my dear, and I'll be home this evening for dinner."
"Will you be requiring anything further, my lady," asked soft spoken Hudson.
"No, thank you, Hudson. I'll be in the morning room and I will be in for lunch." Lady Marjorie rose and walked out of the room, hoping the servants didn't notice what went on during breakfast.