This is a short chapter and there is not much in terms of the Crawley girls involved, but I wanted to give someone a little bit of acknowledgement before other events make that impossible :)
Thank you for your reviews and suggestions regarding the continuation of this story. I think I will have one more chapter of this one and then I will start the series-based chapters as a new story. You may have to give me a bit of time for that though as I haven't watched the show in years and will need to go back and refresh my memory!
Enjoy :)
21.
It is a warm, stuffy evening that finds him loitering outside the house with a half-forgotten glass of scotch in his hand. The top button of his shirt digs uncomfortably into his throat and he find himself tugging the offending article away from his skin every few minutes. He had not been conscious of the action himself until he had found himself on the end of his father's disapproving glare.
He came outside to get some fresh air, but the muggy climate is just as stifling outdoors as it is in the saloon, where a multitude of people have gathered to celebrate with the Crawley family. Patrick had spent the first two thirds of the evening grinning like a Cheshire cat as he shook hands with people he could scarce recall the names of, and as he had listened to speeches dedicated to the happiness and future of the finally officially engaged couple.
Patrick had never felt so exhilarated in all of his life, and yet the source of his indescribable happiness was also the cause of his prevailing despair. Mary had smiled and laughed throughout the night as well, but Patrick was not a complete fool – despite what some might think – and he knew she was putting on an act; a show that her adoring audience were suckered into believing.
Mary had accepted his proposal at long last just five months ago, although she had asked that they delay the official announcement until after Sybil's sixteenth birthday. Patrick had acquiesced eagerly, sure to agree to any terms she set out so long as he had her word that she would become his wife. He had hoped they would have spent the proceeding months enjoying their engagement and, sometimes, renewing the intimate relationship they had once shared; Patrick's mind often wandered back to those days when stolen kisses and lingering touches were not uncommon between the pair.
Now he stands outside, alone and uncomfortable, feeling more estranged from his future bride than ever before. He throws the last of the scotch down his throat, wincing at the burning sensation it leaves behind – he has never understood the love his father and cousin professed for the stuff. He knows he should head back inside to his guests, try to secure in his memory the names and faces he will be expected to deal with for the rest of his life, but the night feels dirty and cheap for him now. The party a farce. His future happiness uncertain.
The creaking of the door and a sudden increase in voices and music disturbs his solitude for a moment before the noise is once more muffled. A quiet presence lingers just behind him, but he does not need to turn to know who has joined him; he can feel her nervous energy, her watchful eyes. They were close, once, but he has little energy for her now.
He wonders, fleetingly, if his annoyance at the girl – woman – is similar to how Mary surely feels about him.
"It's a warm night," he finally says – anything to break the uncomfortable silence she has thrust upon him.
"Yes," she breathes out, barely audible over the muted noises from within. His comment, as banal and inoffensive as it is, seems to instil some confidence in her and she steps to his side. He can feel the heat of her bare shoulder against him, even though they are not quite touching. He wants to move away from her although he cannot fully reason why, but his natural chivalry keeps him rooted to the spot.
"Are you enjoying the party?" he mentally kicks himself as he asks the question and he does not need to look at her to know her cheeks are enflamed with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.
"It is tolerable," her voice in clipped and stilted, leaving him in no doubt that she does not find it tolerable in the least. "Should you not be inside with your bride? Or has her abhorrence of this whole debacle finally driven you away?"
He has become ever weary of these exchanges, always the same even if the words are slightly varied to match the setting. First, she will be shy and hesitant, and he will be clumsy or evasive, then she will get snappy and insulting, and he will eventually argue back until they are both angry and upset. Edith is always the first to apologise, usually pleading for his forgiveness in such a cloying way that leaves him feeling in equal parts ashamed and also further irritated.
Tonight, he will not engage in her little game; this is supposed to be his night – his and Mary's – and he will be damned if he spends it arguing with her sister.
"Go back inside, Edith." Patrick does not give her chance to speak further before he walks off in the other direction, away from the house, away from his would-be-suitor, away from the life he has been begging for, for years, dropping his empty glass on the grass as he goes.
He thinks he hears her call out to him, but his footsteps do not falter, and he does not turn back. He half expects her to come chasing after him, crying and pleading with him as she had done once when they were much younger; alas, she does not follow him and he soon finds himself in the woods, alone and uncomfortable once more.
The cool darkness of the trees provides some welcome relief from the warm night air and Patrick finally feels able to breathe freely. He undoes his top button, removes his jacket, and spreads it out over the ground before settling himself down against a tree trunk. His father will berate him mercilessly if he is discovered, or even just for running out on the party, but he finds himself unable to care. The one person whose opinion matters to him the most will barely give him the time of day to bestow it upon him and, when she does, she is often unnecessarily cruel with her remarks.
Patrick has always been a dutiful son, cousin, heir – he has kowtowed to his father's whims and instructions, he has willingly been at Mary's beck and call, and he has studiously tried to learn everything he could about the estate and the people he would come to manage.
He finds himself tired of the whole thing now. Tired of being a puppet for his father. Tired of being a toy that Mary can use and discard as she sees fit. Tired of the responsibility and endless chore of this life that he has never asked for. Never wanted.
All he wants is to marry the woman he loves, the woman he has loved since they were mere babes running around these grounds together. He would be happy, he knows, living in a tiny, little cottage, with a few sheep milling about, maybe a dog or two. Mary. Children.
He feels ill-suited to the endless charade that is life at Downton, or even life in London. He knows his father despairs often at his lack of grace and sophistication in society, but Patrick is a simple man, with simple tastes, and he knows a simple life would suit him best.
His attention is momentarily roused as a shout reaches him – the voice sounds clipped and angry, most certainly his father. He is hidden from view by the treeline and he is sorely tempted to remain that way. To just slip quietly away from them all and set out for pastures new.
He imagines, briefly, setting up in a little cottage, maybe near the coast, and sending a clandestine letter to his betrothed to follow him there, where they can live in peace. In love. But Mary will never follow him – he is a fool for even harbouring such a thought. Mary does not love him, he knows deep down, although he is sure she did once. His love for her, however, has never abated, has only grown stronger with each passing day.
So, he will not run away, not this night. He will endure her coldness, endure Edith's nervous ploys to get his attention, and endure his father's bullying tactics.
A second shout brings him to his feet and, as he brushes the clinging remnants of the forest floor from his jacket, he vows to do everything in his power to make Mary love him. To make her happy. She can run Downton herself to her heart's content, she can have as many or as few babies as she desires, she can ridicule him in public if it makes her feel good.
To make her happy.
That will be his only goal, his only ambition, for the rest of his life.
