Chapter Thirty Four

A Kind Of Sanctuary

When Mary had so hurriedly and so unexpectedly left the other three to their own devices in the dining room, then swept across the magnificent entrance hall, and stormed out through the heavy imposing front doors of the Shelbourne Hotel, hastily opened for her by the liveried doorman, she really had no idea where she was going; what she was going to do.

However, having peremptorily ignored the offer of a cab being hailed for her by the same doorman, once outside on the pavement, in front of the hotel, she paused. What on earth was she going to do now? Of course, along with their parents, she and her sisters, all three of them, had visited Ireland several times before this singularly ill-starred occasion; initially as children, then later when they were older, most recently when their Majesties, King George V and Queen Mary, had made a visit here to Dublin. That had been … Good Lord! Back in 1911; before the war. A lifetime ago!

Why, even now, all these years later, if she thought about it, and she hadn't, not in years, not until now, Mary could picture the ecstatic crowds lining the route of the royal procession, could still hear the cheers and shouts of acclamation as the royal party had made its way here to Dublin from Kingstown. Oddly enough, Mary also now recalled something Papa had said at the time to one of his friends that, given the enthusiastic welcome accorded to the king and queen, "Home Rule was a dead duck". Not that Mary had really understood what her father had meant of course.

However, if what Sybil had been saying to them at tea was true, Home Rule, whatever exactly that had been, was clearly now no longer the issue. Of course, if Matthew had been here, doubtless he would have been able to explain to her what it was all about, and no doubt he could too.

Then there had been that awful business in 1916, during the war, when the Irish had tried to proclaim a republic.

At the time, Mary had never seen her father so angry, remembered his scathing, almost vitriolic comments at the breakfast table, the acerbic tone of which had been such as to make poor Carson blanch. Indeed, later the very same morning that Papa had read out to both Mary and Edith from the Times what had been taking place here in Dublin during the Easter Rising, he had intended to have Branson drive him into Ripon. Mary smiled to herself; recalled she had asked Papa to seriously consider, if in all the circumstances, that was a very good idea. Papa had agreed, said he didn't want to be responsible for killing his own chauffeur, and promised to defer his planned trip into Ripon until later in the week, by when his temper would hopefully have cooled. Once again, thought Mary, just as I did after the incident at the count, I prevented Papa from venting his anger on Branson.

In fact, come to think of it, the only time Mary had seen her father as angry as he had been on both those occasions had been but a couple of months ago, in the immediate aftermath of Sybil having announced her engagement to Branson. And even then, ironically enough, in saying that she had tried to make Sybil see sense, Mary had done her very best to deflect her father's anger. Mary permitted herself a wry laugh. It was almost as if she was, in some strange kind of way, Branson's guardian angel.

And now, the Irish wanted their independence, they would seemingly settle for nothing less, and this time, again from what Sybil had said at tea, it appeared they would have what they wanted; just as Sybil and Branson intended to have what they wanted too, and get married. Dear Lord, how had it all come down to this?

While Mary's parents had brought her and her sisters over here to Ireland to visit friends, that of course had been to country estates – to the Tremaynes down at Curraghmore – only that particular visit could never now be repeated, not after Branson's fellow pyromaniacs had burnt the place down; to the Russells of Castle Mullen over in County Galway, and to the Careys at Langford House, near Tralee in the far south west.

She didn't know Dublin, had never properly visited the ghastly place until now and that only after agreeing to this visit, made against her better judgement, and which, if she had anything to do with it, would never, ever be repeated. So, quo vadis? To the park across the road, certainly, but beyond that Mary had given the matter no thought whatsoever. All she had wanted to do, almost at any cost, was to get away from ... them.

Having threaded her purposeful way, stumbling between the passing motors, coughing at the choking fumes, ignoring the furiously ringing bell of a rapidly approaching tram, moments later, Mary found herself on the opposite side of the road from the Shelbourne Hotel. Thereafter, she entered St. Stephen's Green by way of an imposing stone arch named, had she but known it, for those of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers who had been killed in the Second Boer War. But dead infantrymen were the last thing on Mary's mind as she strode just as purposefully on in to the park, intent on seeking both sanity and sanctuary.

St. Stephen's Green was much larger than she had first thought and was thronged with all kinds of people. Here and there children were playing in the warm sunshine, while along the numerous paths, men and women chatted and strolled at their leisure, or else sat peacefully and unconcerned, taking their ease on the many benches which dotted the park. One thing was common to them all, irrespective of their social status. And that was that they all seemed intent on enjoying the peaceful stillness of the summer's afternoon. But, as Mary marched on like an avenging Fury, attracting many unfavourable comments and drawing in equal measure and to her mind, impertinent stares, she gave no thought to any of them; not even to the heat of the summer afternoon, as she walked briskly ever onwards, intent on putting as much distance as she could between herself and ... them.

With absolutely no thought given as to where she was heading, after a while Mary found herself crossing a low stone bridge over the lake which she had glimpsed briefly through the trees from the one of the windows of the hotel dining room. It was certainly much cooler down here by the lake, where the trees and bushes grew thicker and in greater profusion. In her desire to be alone and away from prying eyes, Mary turned quickly off the main path, almost tripping over a tree root in the process. She stumbled, recovered her balance, and after a short while found herself in the centre of a small sunlit glade, thankfully shaded from the summer heat by the dense foliage of the surrounding greenery. There were a couple of wooden benches, both of them thankfully empty, and wearily, Mary sank down on the one furthest away from the direction from which she had just come.

With no-one about to see the impropriety, Mary tugged off her hat and gloves, and tossed them carelessly onto the bench beside her. Then, sitting with her chin resting on her clasped hands, staring vacantly ahead of her, slowly, she began to try and attempt to collect the swirling miasma of her thoughts about ... them..

This business with Sybil and Branson was the absolute limit, but was that what was really troubling her? Her earlier thoughts came back to haunt her. If only she and Matthew had managed to sort things out between themselves, then they would have been just like ... them.

That was it.

The green eyed little monster had reared its ugly head and refused to go away.

Admit it, why don't you, Mary, to yourself, if to no-one else. You're jealous. Jealous of Sybil's good fortune, in marrying the one man she truly loves to absolute distraction. Has done for ... Now that was something Mary had never really even considered until now, but if she thought about it, she could pinpoint when it was that she had first noticed Branson displaying more than just a passing interest in her youngest sister. And that had been ... after that same, ridiculous incident at the count in Ripon. Good God, surely not? Why, that had been years ago, even before the war. But, on reflection, it was then too, that Sybil herself had spoken out against Papa; had made it clear that if Branson was dismissed, that she would run away from Downton. No-one had taken her seriously of course, and no-one, not even Mary herself, had really given the matter that much thought at the time; certainly not Papa or Mama. But now, looking back ... Hindsight was a wonderful thing, but of no use to man or beast.

And, thought Mary, you're also envious. You are envious of the dogged determination and the steely resolve that your youngest sister has displayed in sticking to her purpose and standing by ... him. Had Richard been deemed ... unsuitable ... would I have done the same? No, of course not because ... Well, say it, you silly girl. Say it. "Because, I don't love him" she said out loud. "I never have. I never will. God help me, I love Matthew Crawley. I always have". And of course, had it not been for his title and his wealth - new money as granny had so contemptuously called it - Sir Richard Carlisle would have been considered just as an unsuitable a suitor for her - as Branson was for Sybil.

And so to see Sybil and ... Branson...

No, thought Mary angrily.

For God's sake use it! For once, just use it. Use his Christian name. After all he has one. And, hadn't Sybil taken her to task that very afternoon for not doing so? Very well then, Sybil and ... Tom. To see Sybil and ... Tom. Oddly enough, it really wasn't that difficult to say, just that the combination was so unfamiliar. To see the both of them so deliriously happy, so free in their feelings for one another, so easy in their relationship - the way Sybil had dabbed Tom's mouth and fingers clean after his encounter with the slice of chocolate cake bore witness to that. And, so obviously in ... Use the word, Mary, she said angrily to herself. It's nothing of which to be either afraid of or ashamed. Very well then, to see Sybil and Tom so obviously in ... love, it pained her. No, be honest, it hurt. No, that wasn't right either. Wrong tense. It hurts. It hurts like ... hell.

That Sybil and Tom, despite - or perhaps, knowing Sybil as I do - even because of their social differences, had managed to find something so singularly rare and precious, and in so an unlikely setting, as the garage at Downton Abbey, was something truly remarkable, at which to wonder.

And what was it that the two of them had found? Something which, thought Mary, she might once have shared with Matthew. Something which many couples aspired to and might even think they had attained, but which few really ever did: and yet it formed the basis of every successful marriage. And Sybil and Tom would have that, of that she was absolutely certain.

What was it that gave her that utter certainty? The simple fact that Sybil and Tom were so completely each others; that they never held anything back; that they were so open and passionate with their feelings for one another, caring nothing for the censure of family or society. Nothing else mattered to them, but the well being of each other.

Why, one only had to see them together to see the truth in that. They absolutely adored each another. When Tom had turned up at the Shelbourne Hotel, Mary didn't fail to notice, and neither, she thought had Edith, that Sybil couldn't take her eyes off him. Nor could Tom take his eyes off Sybil. It was almost as if they felt the other would somehow vanish into vapour if they did. Their open demonstration of their mutual affection for each other, when they had kissed, had piqued Mary. Not for the kiss itself, embarrassing as it was, but because she could never imagine being that way with Richard. In fact, the least thought about ... that side of things ... with him, the better. But if she married Richard, it was something she would have to think about, to come to terms with. And yet in acknowledging what constituted the basis for a successful marriage, Mary knew full well that if she then married Sir Richard Carlisle, their relationship was doomed before it had even begun.

Had, she wondered, Sybil and Tom already been intimate? Of course she could never ask Sybil about that, at least not now, perhaps not ever, after all it was not the stuff of polite chitchat. But, when they had met her earlier that afternoon, there had definitely been something that was different about Sybil. There was a new radiance about her, something which, thought Mary, had it not been for her own unexpected nocturnal encounter with Mr. Pamuk, she would never ever even have noticed. That Edith had failed to notice the change in Sybil was perhaps hardly surprising, given what Mary assumed to be Edith's lack of knowledge of such matters.

Still deep in thought, it was a t this precise moment, that Mary's train of thought was momentarily interrupted by what sounded like gunfire, coming from somewhere in the park. It definitely sounded like shooting. But surely not? After all, it wasn't the season and besides, this was a municipal park, not a country estate. Well, whatever it was, honestly, thought Mary, since the war all manner of things seemed to be permitted, and for the moment gave the matter no more thought.

Well, she would have to try her very best and make serious amends, make her own peace with Sybil and with Tom. It would not be easy of course, but not for nothing was she the eldest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham. And, the sooner she tried to do so, the better.

Her mind once made up, setting her hat back firmly on her head, Mary resolutely pulled on her gloves, rose from the bench and prepared herself for the fray, feeling much, she thought, as Daniel must have done when he had been about to enter the lions' den. The analogy was not entirely inappropriate, for, whenever Tom either laughed or smiled, which with Sybil by his side he did a very great deal, Mary had not failed to notice his perfect set of white teeth. She could only hope that Tom's bark was worse than his bite. If not it might be that she had to...

At that very moment, the bomb placed in the culvert below the front entrance of the Shelbourne Hotel, exploded.

The resultant explosion and the eddying shock waves threw Mary forcibly to the ground, showering her with a mass of leaves and dirt. For a moment, she just lay there, temporarily stunned, simply unable to comprehend what it was that might have happened. There was a persistent ringing in her ears and she found herself spitting out a mouthful of dirt. Good God, what on earth would granny think of her?

It was just then that Mary remembered something Matthew had once told her. It had been on a sunny afternoon, much like today in fact, which was probably what had brought it to her mind, while she had been pushing him slowly about the grounds at Downton in his wheelchair, before he had recovered the use of his legs. Matthew had been telling her about the sometimes curious, inexplicable effect of shell bursts out in France, how the blast spread outwards from the point of the explosion, like the ripples caused by dropping a large stone into a pool.

But what Matthew had been telling her about that day had, after all, taken place in the midst of a battle. Such things did not happen in the centre of a city. And whilst this was Dublin, and those living here might very well have different ways of doing things to how they were done in London, it was after all still, nonetheless, a city; the second city in fact of the British Empire. Of course, Sybil had said that both she and Edith didn't realise what was happening over here in Ireland. So, could it possibly be that in this too, she had been wrong all along? If so...

Mary spat out yet more dirt from her mouth, and then, ignoring as best she could the continual, near constant ringing in her ears, she slowly picked herself up from off the ground. She began forcefully brushing away the numerous leaves and twigs with which her coat and dress were now liberally splattered. It was at that moment that she happened to glance up and through the gossamer veil of the green canopy of the over arching trees, that she witnessed the aftermath of the explosion; a billowing plume of dirty black smoke which was now pillaring, soaring upwards into the hitherto all but cloudless sky from the vicinity of the Shelbourne Hotel.

Unconsciously, Mary almost echoed the words of Sybil's terrified scream, made at more or less the same split second. Oh, my God! thought Mary. No. Please God. No!

Away across St. Stephen's Green, on the north side of the park, on the other side of the road, within the shattered remnants and wreckage of what, until but a few moments ago, had been the elegant dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel, those who had been lucky enough to survive the tremendous force of the explosion, and had not been injured in the resultant lethal shower of shards of glass and timber, were likewise slowly beginning to pick themselves up from off the debris and dirt strewn floor.

Some, of course, in fact many, had not been that fortunate...