Regrets II
They said he would be here today. She looked for him from the corner of her eyes, trying to appear engaged with a conversation here, a piece of gossip there, appearing cheerful at news of success, conscious of the weight of loss.
In the early days after the dreadful garden party, she had thought she had made up the whole thing, that her confusion over the preceding events—Matthew's proposal, her apprehension about disclosing her past, her mother's surprising pregnancy, her aunt's reprimands, even Evelyn Napier's embarrassing acknowledgement—had deluded her into thinking more of Matthew, more of him than he deserved. Which made his rejection even more hurtful, as if she had built her expectations so high only to have them crumble and shatter in front of the fortress that brought him to her in the first place. For without the question of the entail, she wouldn't have met him. She may have even been married to Patrick.
"I am a lost cause to you!" She had burst out to her mother, unable to listen any longer to her father's favorable appraisal of Matthew, his unwitting way of diminishing her, as if he somehow knew her cracks. As if she was already dead to him.
She would have gone on hating Matthew, as she did at the very beginning of their acquaintance. She had every reason to. He intruded into their lives when he had never stepped foot into Downton, he was worlds apart and could never understand their rules, he took her place in her father's priorities, maybe even his affections, as the "son" he's always wanted, he led a comfortable, useful life in Crawley House while she wasted her days at home with no profession and no exceptional talents. It seemed like the more others liked him, the more they left her behind.
"Women like us don't have a life…we are in a waiting room until we marry," she had confided to Matthew at the night of the fair. She had come to the fair, curious about what it would be like that year, eager to leave the home and be alone for a few hours. The air was hot and heavy with the presence of all sorts of people—grubby children, elderly gentlemen, flower girls, farmers, the yells of victory as games were won, the thrills of the children on daring rides, the claps of people awed by the circus players, the whirl of sand from all the commotion, the moisture of dew and perspiration. Submerged in the crowds, watching other people frolicking, laughing, sharing, while she walked unaccompanied and apprehensive, she couldn't help but admit how distant she was from everyone else. She wondered how long she would have to walk thus, fearful of discovery, yet yearning to resolve.
And then Matthew had sprung upon her, bringing with him news of the world outside—his job in Ripon, his stake in "the great matter." When he spoke to her, it was as if she wasn't Lady Mary of Downton Abbey. When he smiled, he didn't appear threatening or facetious or even clever. He was merely her equal, a friend. When his blue eyes, now brighter in the warm firelight of the fair, met her own, she didn't feel the scruples she labored under at home. It was as if his gaze invited her to be open.
It was a funny thing, she thought afterwards, how she felt she could tell him what she really thought, even if it was silly or pretentious. It was as if she looked to him to challenge her, agree with her, even to mock her. As long as she knew he was engaged with the conversation, that he was sincere.
And he was. In fact, she couldn't think of when he didn't act in earnest, unlike the other men she had known. Even Kamal, whose lust had burned her, left her broken. No, Matthew was safe. He couldn't willingly hurt anyone, even her. Or so she had been led to believe.
"You mean a great deal, a very great deal," he had said one night, when they were alone in the library, discussing the entail. She had seen him hesitate—he, who was so sure and forthright. She had felt the blue of his eyes pierce into her own. She may have imagined that his hands, when he shook hers, trembled a little, but she wasn't sure. Perhaps it was her own reaction to something anew. When he said that the "matter" troubled him a great deal, she believed him, because she saw it in the slump of his shoulders, the tentative walk, the worried lines near his eyes, even the way his hair, a wavy auburn style she had made fun of in earlier days but which had endeared him to her, stood on edge as if pulled by the electricity around them.
She wasn't naïve enough to not notice that he was different around her, that he would try to seek her out, draw her out, not with danger and licentiousness like other men had done, but with genuine regard and curiosity.
She hadn't realized the full effects of his regard for her, or her need for that regard, until the day of the protest, until she had seen Sybil, flushed with admiration for him for rescuing her. Was it the threat posed by her younger, passionate sister that led her to say what she did, start on a path of no return? Or was it seeing Matthew safe, unharmed with no evidence of having put up a fight, but for the faint, coin-shaped smear of blood on his lapel. Whether it was gratitude, relief, or possession that drew her to him that night, all paled in comparison to what she felt afterwards, when Matthew kissed her.
She still remembered how heady she was, with the heat of his touch, the taste of brandy and Mrs. Hughes' late night cucumber sandwiches, the woody scent of aftershave and exertion. She remembered the feel of her fingers interlaced with his hair, the warmth of his scalp, the throb of his temples. He was insistent but assured, near yet far and she had found herself clinging to him amidst the contradictions—or in spite of them—pulling him deeper but just enough to push away, yet not far enough to lose this shared stream, the midnight dance. She felt the seat cushion pulsate with her movements, heard the pitter-patter of feet upstairs, felt the cufflink, caught in the gauze of her sleeve, graze her skin. Waves of panic flooded her as she found herself caught between desire and defeat, yearning for more, yet frightened of what was to come.
She hadn't expected him to propose then and there, his hands holding both of hers, his eyes searching her own. She knew he meant it, that he cared for her deeply—that he loved her— oh, he was honorable.
She had looked away, slowly taking her hands from his hold. She almost wanted to tell him about Kamal and that fateful night, that dangerous move. And her mouth opened slightly, unsure of how to start. She knew he must be told, he must know to whom he's proposing.
But then he had told her to take her time. And he was in earnest, his face full of concern for her, so she had agreed, told him it was best she should have time to think it over.
"Do you love me enough to spend your life with me?" he had asked months later, impatient and accusing. She had dragged it on, postponed giving him an answer. To distract herself from the news of her mother's surprising announcement, her father's raised hopes, she had sought refuge with her aunt in London, who had asked her if she could be happy being the wife of a country solicitor.
The truth was, she didn't know. Not then. Starting an entirely new life on her own terms in new surroundings, disconnected from Downton, had never occurred to her before. Accustomed to others waiting on her, being dressed in rich gowns and chaperoned to lavish parties, entertaining important people and going on grand tours abroad, she couldn't envision a life more different. She saw now that it was cowardice that held her back, prevented her from taking a step towards freedom, a life unburdened by her family, her history, the past.
And yet, the past would never let go. Like a restless ghost, it remained as a shadow over her present joys and prospects. Would Matthew have accepted her after realizing her folly? Would he have retained his esteem and regard for her? And if he didn't, how could she bear losing his love and the other thing, the life she knew at Downton? What else would she have to live for, to call her own?
He hadn't given her a chance to know, to explain. Instead, he had told her was leaving, that he had so far been living in a dream, and that he must return to reality. His words struck her. She had felt her body shake with the sensation of falling, as she had done many years ago when Diamond had overlooked a hidden tree stump and had toppled mid air, sending her to earth so she was hit with the full force of hard ground, harsher rocks, the weight of nature at a moment of imbalance, a rupture in an otherwise perfect law.
But physical wounds heal, bones mend. It had taken her months to recover and she had only mustered the strength to ride Diamond when she turned twenty. It's the heartache, the invisible wounds that last, those which, like a spark that sets ablaze, need only a mere hint, a word, a look to set the flames of unrest and despair, the years of longing and regret.
"Don't quarrel with Matthew…one day you may need him." She hadn't imagined how her mother's prophetic words would come to haunt her, stealing her sleep on many a night, and pleasure from any number of daytime diversions. Even when she knew that the world had changed overnight with the start of the war, when she had managed to see Matthew off, when she must bide her time at home as a creature of duty, serving and yet served, she knew she needed him. She had concealed this visit from her family, managed to keep tonight's engagement from Sir Richard Carlisle. She had even made excuses to Anna. No one must know.
