Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey. I am neither the creator of the show's wonderful characters or magnificent storylines. This is a story set in the Alternate Universe with a (M) rating for the story's mature content.
ASTONIHSMENT
"What have I done?" Mary questions herself as she enters her bedroom in the wee hours of the morning. She leans against her bedroom door in astonishment. A hand flies to glossy, swollen lips. She aches for the caresses, the kisses of a reddish-golden haired gamine. In fact, she sits at her vanity stunned at her own behavior. How utterly sated, rested, and wonderful she feels. How amazing the experience, because a woman is her lover. To create further astonishment, that woman is Lavinia Catherine Swire!
Mary remembers the tears, the broken engagement, a bare shoulder whispering provocative displays of want and desire. Mary remembers Lavinia's trembling, delicate hand deftly gliding over silken skin, softly gliding over an alabaster orb, encouraging a bud to firm, ripen and peak to perfection. Mary remembers the desire to press her lips to the lips of a woman ardently flesh and blood and not the perception of a prized porcelain figurine. Mary remembers tongues answering questions words fail to form. Oh, how she remembers Lavinia dozing upon a mossy mound of chocolate curls. Oh, how she remembers the momentary panic when she fails to rouse Lavinia. Oh, how she remembers the relief when greenish-gray eyes open to glistening brown.
"You are the nectar poured from Ganymede's goblet." Mary purrs. Copious, free, Mary imbibes in luscious lust, lovingly taking her fill. Mary repeatedly takes while Lavinia moans her approval. The scents, sighs, tastes drive both women to mutual satisfaction.
Nude, Mary slides between the sheets of her bed. She is different now. A forbidden essence glosses her lips. Sensuality permeates her skin. The sheen of sumptuous satisfaction gleams upon alabaster opulence. She is spent, beautifully undone.
Mary remembers the first time she made love to Lavinia Swire. She remembers that broken engagement. She remembers Matthew's resentment over his paralysis. Mary remembers the Spanish Flu and how close that wretched flu nearly claimed not only her mother but a cherished friend and love. Mary remembers nursing Lavinia back to health. She remembers lending her support when Lavinia bravely and permanently breaks her engagement to allow the two people she loves to finally marry. She remembers holding her friend, confident, and lover in her arms the night before Lavinia leaves to return to London. She remembers standing up to Sir Richard Carlisle willing to endure scandal and heartbreak over her secret and shame, Kemal Pamuk. She remembers her confession and the proposal of marriage. She remembers her marriage to the love of her life, her bout with infertility, the devastating death of her beloved sister, Sybil and the miracle of birth of her niece, Sybil. She remembers the joy and excitement of her pregnancy. She remembers the birth of her adored George and the heart crushing death of her husband on the same day. She remembers losing herself to herself. Mary remembers building her own self appointed tomb and the inability to bond with her baby because he is like Matthew.
Then, letters from New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Ceylon, and India float across the waters and wires asking, worrying, Granny or rather, Violet, the Dowager Countess of Grantham (yes, the very woman who with her daughter tried to orchestrate the ruin of a sweet and kind young woman), Isobel Crawley, Matthew's mother, a woman who heals by responding to repeated queries of, "How is my Mary?" Battle axes both, often at loggerheads now out of desperation and determination for they both know each young woman is lonely. Violet and Isabel both know that remarriage muddies the waters for Mary. Battle axes detesting their girl tethered to another entailed estate expected to do her duty and provide another heir. George is present and that's all there is to it. So, Violet, Isabel, and Cora call upon Mary one afternoon to broker a Boston Marriage for herself and her secret love. Mary confesses her love and the three women make way for the permanent return of Lavinia Swire.
Mary remembers the excitement seeing her love with reddish-gold curls cut short. She remembers the trousers, the sleek, new, sports car, the exotic clothes and scents. Mary remembers Lavinia's display of sophistication, the worldliness of a woman well travelled and in complete control of herself. She remembers her sense of inadequacy, her dowdy white night gown and pallor. Mary remembers the seven negligees Matthew never lived to see. She remembers sheets of chocolate silk cascading down her back. She remembers wearing her best and most seductive perfume. She remembers through the haze of incense, Lavining smiling, holding, kissing Mary while breathlessly asking, "Your bed or mine?"
Mary lies next to the woman who is now Countess in all but name. Bodies entwined. Bodies enraptured. Still, she revels in astonishment and stunning humility for this second chance to live and love again.
THE END