Chapter's warning: discussions of Pamuk. Nothing graphic, but with clear understanding that what he did to Mary was not consensual.
Mary spends the night mostly by pacing and avoiding that damn bed.
Every time she approaches it, she sees the ghost of Kemal standing by the door in his robe and grinning at her like a madman. She knows, she is absolutely sure, that as soon as falls asleep she will dream of him again and this is the last thing she wants to do. He takes too much space in her mind as it is.
She looks again at the telegram in her hand, creased by now, and barely stops herself from groaning aloud. Of all the people Vera Bates could choose to sell her story to she had to pick Carlisle! Maybe she did it on purpose, learning through gossip that he used to be a suitor of hers and got rejected before she went to the front, who knows. Mary wouldn't put it past her to do it deliberately. That vile woman seems truly devious to her.
She is deeply annoyed with herself for getting so rattled. She thought she had prepared herself to face it all with equanimity. Ever since Anna warned her of the odious Mrs Bates' threats when Mary came home from France, she resigned herself to the inevitability of having her deepest shame publicised. Her only contact in the scandal sheets' world is Sir Richard Carlisle and he could hardly be expected to do her a favour after she strung him along only to abandon him for the war and get engaged to Matthew in a short order. And yet, the telegram from him, gleefully summoning her to London to discuss her scandal, offers her a glimmer of hope which makes resignation and calmness impossible. He hasn't published it without warning. He is willing to talk, maybe to bargain. She has no idea how she could bargain with him – he definitely doesn't need her money – and his only purpose in summoning her to him is most likely to taunt her in person and make her beg, but it is more of a chance than she has had before.
Her first impulse was to deal with him alone and only tell Matthew about it if the scandal is sure to be published, so he could prepare for the fallout, but she reconsiders. She really has no idea how to deal with Carlisle. Maybe there is some way of stopping him from publishing now that she has a bit of time to prepare.
Well, she has a lawyer for a husband, even if a secret one, and as much as she doesn't want to worry him, it would probably do him a world of good to focus on something else for a moment rather than trying to find more reasons he would prefer to be dead.
xxx
She goes down to breakfast in a truly beastly mood after the mostly sleepless night spent in terrified fretting. It's only when she sees Edith there, all smiles and contentment while Mary faces a hopeless fight to salvage any chance at showing her face in public, that it strikes her.
None of this would have happened if not for Edith's charming little letter.
Mary takes her place at the breakfast table as if in a daze, with barely a word to anybody, but thankfully nobody is paying her much attention at the moment. Papa is occupied with his newspaper, Sybil is tired after a night shift at the hospital and Edith is talking with Mama, who is uncharacteristically eating with them, since she and Edith are going to some kind of meeting for the Red Cross in York.
"You really grew into such a huge help to me, darling," Cora is saying, while Mary butters her toast, hampered and annoyed by being able to use only one hand, and valiantly stops herself from throwing the butter dish at her sister's head. "I have no idea how I would have managed without you in the last year."
Edith preens under her mother's attention, of course, and Mary gives herself points for not scoffing loudly. Her hands start to shake minutely so she puts down the butter knife before she brings attention to her state by clanging it against the plate.
"I'm just glad to finally feel like I'm doing something useful," says Edith.
"You are useful," affirms Cora staunchly. "As much as it pains me to say, Cousin Isobel was doing her fair share of work here. If you haven't stepped in to help me with it all, I would surely have to stop sleeping! You've made us both so proud, hasn't she, Robert?"
"What?" asks Robert, pulled away from whatever article has been holding his attention, but catching up quickly at his wife's significant look. "Ah, yes, of course. We are proud of all of you, girls, and everything you've done. And your part, Edith, has been no less important than Mary and Sybil's actions at the front. You've all brought fame to the Grantham name in your own way."
Edith beams at his words, Sybil thanks him sleepily from over her tea cup, her thoughts clearly in her bed already, and Mary just has had enough.
"Yes," she says, venom dripping from every clearly enunciated word as she glares at her sister. "Edith cares so much about the Grantham name. She would never have done anything to bring scandal to it or to the family."
Edith recoils as if slapped, staring at Mary with round, shocked eyes after that unexpected attack which must have appeared to her completely out of the blue. Cora and Robert stare as well, no less shocked, and so is Carson from the sideboard, but Sybil's head shoots up from her cup of tea, her eyes zeroing on Mary's clenched, shaking hands, and she is out of her seat before anybody else has a chance to say anything.
"Mary," she says firmly. "Come with me now if you want me to check your dressings. I'm afraid I will just fall asleep on the table if we postpone it much longer, I am so knackered."
Her stare has such power that Mary abandons her barely touched breakfast and, with one last parting glare at pale Edith, follows Sybil out of the dining room.
"What the hell was that?" demands Sybil as soon as they are alone in the family wing. "I thought you were getting along better now!"
"We are," answers Mary tiredly, her earlier fury gone as suddenly as it appeared, leaving her feeling empty and exhausted and so very terrified of what is to come now. "I don't know what came over me."
Sybil takes one of her hands which is not shaking anymore, but so very cold.
"I seriously doubt it," she says fiercely. "Something did set you off."
"Oh very well, something did," snaps Mary, a tremble coming back to her hands, even if much weaker than before. She sees Sybil taking note of it and frowning. "But I can't talk of it now. I'm going to see Matthew and you really should get some sleep."
Sybil's frown deepens, but she acquiesces.
"I could use some sleep before dragging it out of you. I can see it's not going to be an easy task," she says dryly, but squeezes Mary's hand in concern before letting go of it. "Just be gentle with Matthew today. He's had a rough night."
"He wasn't the only one," mutters Mary as she goes to fetch her hat, her hands still trembling.
xxx
Isobel intercepts Mary in the hospital corridor before she can enter the ward Matthew's in.
"A nurse is with him now, for his morning toilette," she says.
"Why not you?" asks Mary with surprise. She knows that ever since she came from France, Isobel has been insisting to be the one to change Matthew's dressing and inspect his wounds.
"He doesn't want me for this kind of care," answers Isobel matter-of-factly, but Mary can see the pain in her eyes. "Just as he would be mortified to have you anywhere near him right now. He prefers to have a stranger do it. Come, we may sit in the nurses' room and have a cup of tea until he's ready for your visit. They are all busy right now, so it should be empty."
Preoccupied as she is with the threat of ruin and with her emotions all over the place, tea with Isobel is one of the last things Mary wants to do right now, but there is no polite way to refuse. So in no time, they are sitting in a small, plainly outfitted room, sharing tea over a wooden table.
"How is Matthew?" asks Mary, realising suddenly that Isobel may have some insight into what is going on in her son's head and what on Earth to do with it. "I can see that he is getting better physically, but…"
She trails off, unsure how to put it into words. She doesn't think blurting out I think your only son would prefer to be dead is a tactful thing to do.
Thankfully Isobel is much better with such matters than her.
"You're concerned about his mental state."
Mary nods.
"I know I can barely comprehend how bad it all is for him," she says quietly. "But he seems to take it even harder than I expected. And I don't know if I am helping him or making it worse by insisting that it doesn't matter to me."
She trails off again, frowning with frustration.
"Oh, I'm saying it all wrong! Of course it all matters, it matters very much! But it doesn't mean that I… that I don't want to…"
"That you don't want to be with him anyway," Isobel finishes for her again, with a new light in her eyes. "That you don't love him just as you did before."
"Exactly!" says Mary gratefully. "I just want to be with him, on any terms. And of course those terms are very cruel, to both of us, but especially him – but whenever I try to tell him that he pushes me away. So I wonder whether I should leave him in peace right now and not talk about the future until he feels better equipped to deal with it."
"Absolutely not," answers Isobel firmly. "This is the very last thing you should do. What you're doing now, Mary, is exactly what he needs. He needs to be reassured and reminded that his life is not over, that he is still loved and valued, whatever his new physical limitations. If you back off now, he will just take it as the confirmation that his fears are justified."
Mary listens with rapt attention. If anyone knows how Matthew's mind works, it's Isobel. If she says what Mary has been doing is right…
"But he doesn't believe me," she says. "He doesn't believe that I still want to be with him, or that we may ever be happy. It doesn't matter what I say."
"It does matter," insists Isobel in the same firm tone. "He may not believe you yet, he may be too afraid to do that, but every time you repeat it stays in his head. He will come around eventually. He just needs time to come to terms with it."
She reaches for a handkerchief and Mary notes that her hand trembles as she dabs the corners of her eyes.
"We all do."
Mary's hand moves over the table and grasps Isobel's free hand as of its own volition.
"We all do," she confirms. "But we all will."
xxx
Matthew reads the telegram quickly and looks up at Mary with concern and astonishment.
"How did he get it after all this time?"
Mary sighs, looking around quickly to ascertain that nobody is within earshot. It is rather pointless, she thinks gloomily, since everyone here will probably learn all the lurid details within a week, but she has no desire to spread the tale herself.
"Vera Bates, Bates' estranged wife, sold it to him to get back at her husband for trying to divorce her to marry Anna," she explains wearily. "She learnt of it through servants' gossip which has been making rounds for years. The gossip itself died out mostly by now, it's old news, but with the flurry of publicity regarding my medal and the romantic spin the press is putting on our relationship, if he publishes, it will make front pages for sure."
She swallows painfully and locks her eyes with his.
"Is there any way we can stop him?" she whispers with trepidation. She can't think of any.
"Yes," answers Matthew firmly. "Yes, I believe we can. Thank God he's given you a warning. He wants your comment on the story. Well, we're going to give him one."
"Which is going to be?"
Matthew smiles predatorily.
"Why, that the story is completely untrue and that we are going to sue him if he publishes a word of it."
Mary startles.
"But the story is true."
Matthew takes her hand and starts caressing her knuckles soothingly with his thumb.
"Legally, it doesn't matter whether a story is true or not. What matters is the kind of proof a newspaper has to support their article and here we come to the crux of the matter – what kind of proof can Carlisle have? Pamuk was found in his own bed; I know, your father sent me a note that very morning. There are multiple witnesses to attest to that. You said there has been gossip for years when you confessed everything to me. What you never told me is whether you know how the story was spread in the first place?"
Mary averts her eyes.
"I do know," she admits after a while. "But it's not a detail you want to hear."
"Why not?" asks Matthew, his tone gentle, but his eyes sharp.
Mary exhales rapidly.
"Because you like the person who did it," she snaps.
Matthew ponders it for a moment.
"Was it done on purpose?" he asks finally. "Or was someone just careless and spoke of it to the wrong person?"
"Oh, on purpose," answers Mary darkly, but then shakes herself out of it. "And I really don't think you want to hear the whole story. It's an ugly one."
"Is there a chance Carlisle knows this part?"
Mary considers it and comes to the conclusion that he well might. After all, Evelyn was able to find out, why not Sir Richard?
"It's possible," she admits. "But is it really so important who? Whoever this was, sent the letter to the Turkish Embassy, telling the whole sorry tale. The Ambassador's wife spread it all over the Ton in late 1913 and I've been a semi-pariah ever since."
Matthew's gentle grip on her hand tightens.
"It is important, Mary," he repeats. "It truly is. It won't work if I don't know the details Carlisle knows. You must tell me if our defence is going to have any chance to be successful."
It's the way he says "our" which makes her cave in and finally tell him what she has kept secret from everybody else for four long years.
"It was Edith. She got the story out of Daisy, the kitchen maid who witnessed us moving Pamuk's body from my bedroom, and wrote the letter. That's why so many people believed the story – because it was my sister who told it first."
Matthew's eyes first widen in shock, then become ice cold in rage.
"You own sister?!" he asks in a choked voice. "Edith?"
Mary nearly shrugs when she remembers her injured arm and stops herself at the last moment.
"She was angry with me over something or other," she looks at Matthew's white, furious face. "It was long ago."
"But how could she –"
"Matthew," she interrupts him. "Do you see now why I haven't wanted to tell you? Yes, she did it. I paid her back. This morning I was reminded of it and nearly had her head for breakfast, but in all truth, what's the point in rehashing it all now? It might be news for you, but it's been five years ago for us."
She sees Matthew struggling with it, with containing his rage on her behalf, but finally accepting her words and going back to the current situation.
"But Vera Bates couldn't see the letter itself, could she? So all she has is gossip."
Mary nods.
"Then Carlisle has no proof whatsoever. The only physical evidence giving any credence to the story is Edith's letter and with the Turkish Embassy closed since the beginning of the war I cannot believe he could have acquired it. And even with the letter we could try to deny it – after all, Edith didn't personally witness anything."
"But what use would be denying it if it was plastered over half of British scandal sheets?"
Matthew's smile looks sharklike and not at all nice.
"Let me explain how the Slander of Women Act works..."
xxx
Mama and Edith are still in York during lunch, so it is a peaceful and uneventful affair. Papa throws a strange look or two at Mary, but he has long decided not to get involved in her and Edith's squabbles and he is not going to start now, so he doesn't say anything. Sybil eats with them, looking more alert, but also holding off any serious discussion until they can be alone.
In fact, they wordlessly decide that nowhere in the house is private enough, so they set out for a longish walk to the Temple of Diana. It's far enough that most convalescing officers or nurses never go there, and if they did, Sybil and Mary would be able to spot them from afar.
"Will you tell me now what it all was about?" asks Sybil as they sit on the steps and look at the house and the downs behind it. It is another warm, languid summer afternoon, looking peaceful and idyllic and as incongruous with Mary's mood as humanly possible.
"Do you find yourself very changed by the war?" she asks abruptly in lieu of an answer to Sybil's question. It's not like she has an easy one ready.
Sybil ponders it seriously for a while.
"Not very," she says finally. "It changed the way I think of many things, that's for sure, but I don't think it changed who I am."
"I envy you being so unaffected by it all," says Mary tiredly. "I am angry all the time."
"You have plenty of reasons to be," points out Sybil, but Mary shakes her head.
"Not like this," she bites her lip, trying to find the words to describe the maelstrom inside her head. "I really am angry all the time. It's like I am just waiting for a target to lash out at, not actually reacting to things which happen. The anger is already there, coiled to strike."
"Maybe because you can't really lash out at the true things which make you angry?" suggests Sybil thoughtfully. "Matthew's injury? All the things you've gone through? The Germans for starting it all? God for allowing it all to happen?"
Mary considers it.
"Maybe," she says finally. "I don't know. I just know that I can barely function like that, and that pretending to be normal so the family won't have me committed for acting like a complete lunatic is the most taxing thing I've ever done."
"You need rest," counters Sybil seriously. "Plenty of rest and peace."
Mary laughs hysterically.
"I would try to get some," she says when she's able to form words again. "If things didn't keep happening."
Sybil frowns.
"What happened now?" she asks in an insistent tone. "The way you were at breakfast… Does Edith have anything to do with it?"
Mary is silent for a long moment. She's never intended to confess any of it to Sybil, for multiple reasons.
In the end, it's the prospect that if she doesn't manage to stop Carlisle with Matthew's strategy, Sybil will end up learning of it from some twisted version in the newspaper which prompts her to break her years-long silence.
"Do you remember Mr Pamuk, the Turkish diplomat who came for a hunt with Evelyn in March 1913?"
Sybil's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
"Of course," she says, puzzled. "He died during the night. But what does it have to do with your mood this morning?"
Mary swallows hard.
"I will get to it in a moment," she says, her voice losing volume until it turns into a whisper. "You see, the thing is, he died in my bed."
Sybil's eyes first widen in shock, then flash with sudden anger.
"My God, Mary, what did he do to you?!"
Mary's breath hitches.
"He mistook my flirting for wanting more," she continues in a whisper, closing her eyes against the sight of Sybil staring at her. "He came to my bedroom that night and didn't want to leave, whatever I said. I told him I will call for help, but he laughed and pointed out that a man would be found in my bedroom and what a story it would make. So, in the end… I just let him. I was ruined anyway and thought at least this way nobody would know. But then he died, still lying on top of me."
She opens her eyes at the sound of Sybil's horrified gasp.
"Oh my God, Mary," she says, her voice choked with emotion. "It sounds so inadequate, but I am so sorry it happened to you. I could have strangled that bastard with my own hands for what he did to you."
"I let him," repeats Mary in a trembling voice. "In the end, I let him."
"He hardly gave you any other choice!" exclaims Sybil indignantly. "He made you think you had no other option!"
"You would have screamed," counters Mary with deep conviction. "You wouldn't let him use fear of what people would think of you to manipulate you into agreeing."
"Yes, I would have bloody screamed," curses Sybil viciously. "And it would have served him right! But it doesn't make it your fault that you're not me. It doesn't make what he did right!"
"Doesn't it?" asks Mary cynically. "He didn't have to force me in the end. I was an idiot enough to just let him do what he wanted."
"You didn't want any of it!" shouts Sybil, loud enough that Mary is extremely glad they are having this conversation so far away from everybody else. She has a suspicion that Sybil would shout the same if they were talking at Downton, surrounded by people, she looks so mad. "And he knew it! It doesn't matter if he needed to hold you down by force or not, he knew you didn't want him to do those things to you and did them anyway! Would you tell me it was all my fault if he did it to me instead?"
Mary's head snaps back in shock.
"No!" she cries instantly, falling for Sybil's obvious trap and rolling her eyes as soon as she sees her sister's smirk. "But we already established that you would have been too smart to fall for it."
Sybil throws her hands in exasperation.
"Caring for the opinion of others and being scared out of your mind and not knowing what to do is not stupid," she says firmly. "Besides, how old were you? Twenty-one? If it happened today, would you react the same way?"
Mary snorts.
"Hardly," she admits with some return of her usual composure. "I like to think I have grown a bit smarter since then."
"Then stop blaming yourself for what happened then!" cries Sybil, then looks at Mary hesitantly. "You said he died… during?"
Mary nods, unable to elaborate on this part, the one starring chiefly in her nightmares for years until she went to the front and got so many new ones to dread.
Sybil shudders.
"My God," she repeats. "I can't even imagine… But how did you get him back to his room? He must have weighed a ton."
"He did!" says Mary with a nervous laugh, the memory of his cooling, heavy limbs ghosting over her. "Mama and Anna helped me to carry him."
"Mama?" asks Sybil incredulously.
Mary nods.
"She's never forgiven me for it," she says in a detached voice. "Never. But she did help me then and did her best to help me deal with the scandal since, even if I didn't always appreciate her methods."
"The scandal…" repeats Sybil slowly, then looks up at Mary sharply. "This is why it is relevant now, isn't it? Somehow the whole story came to light again?"
Mary nods again, her shoulders slumping in defeat.
"I've just learnt of it yesterday before dinner. Bates' wife sold the story to Sir Richard Carlisle. He's going to publish it unless I manage to talk him out of it somehow."
"How did she learn of it in the first place?" asks Sybil shrewdly, leaving the matter of how to deal with Carlisle aside for a moment.
Mary takes a deep breath. Somehow it is harder to tell Sybil than it was to tell Matthew and she has never told anyone else. But Sybil loves Edith and for all her anger with her middle sister Mary hesitates before revealing something so potentially destructive.
"I'm not sure it matters anymore," she says in the end. "It was five years ago. Vera Bates just learnt the gossip which has been passing around for all that time."
But Sybil is smart and she puts it all together.
"You can't mean it was Edith," she whispers, horrified anew when Mary doesn't deny it. "What did she do? She told someone she shouldn't have?"
"Something like that, yes," Mary answers evasively. "And when I learnt of it, I did my best to pay her back. I really don't think you want to know the details. You will only find us both horrid."
Sybil opens her mouth to quarrel, but then thinks better of it.
"Does Matthew know?" she asks and relaxes when Mary immediately nods.
"I had to tell him before I accepted him," she explains. "I could not let him marry me on a lie… I only wish I found the courage to do so before the war. It would have saved us both so much heartbreak and wasted time… Not to mention Lavinia."
"That was the reason you waited so long, wasn't it?" asks Sybil, with the air of somebody finally enlightened on an extremely irritating puzzle. "I told Matthew it wasn't about the baby!"
"Well, the baby sure didn't help," admits Mary wryly. "But I've been putting him off for months before I learnt Mama was pregnant and yes, that's why."
"I assume from the fact that you two married that he did not make a problem out of it?" asks Sybil with a look clearly implying that Matthew had better not made a problem out of it or she is going to strangle him herself.
"He was wonderful," says Mary quietly. "When he learnt more, he saw the whole thing as you do, but he already forgave me before that. He said he could never despise me."
"You did nothing to be despised for!"
"I know you think so," says Mary wryly. "And calm down, Matthew thinks the same. But it meant the world to me that he said this before learning any details which make the whole thing look a bit better."
They sit in companionable silence for a while, processing the whole loaded conversation.
"You know, it actually ties into the beginning of our discussion," said Sybil thoughtfully. "I am not as unaffected by it all as I pretend to be. But it's different than for you."
"How so?" asks Mary, with rising concern.
"You said it yourself that I've never cared about what people think of me as much as you do," Sybil starts thoughtfully, as Mary cautiously nods in confirmation. "Well, it's gotten to a whole new level. I can't bring myself to care for most of those stupid rules. Dressing up for dinner, the gong, all this social hierarchy which makes no sense… Why can't I love Tom openly, why is it such a big deal that he is the one I want to marry? But it's not just about him or because of him, it's all of it. When I was helping the wounded soldiers back in France, it didn't matter what rank they were or what class or what background – they were human beings in pain. And yet when they are sent here, they are divided and receiving treatment based on such criteria. We only treat officers in our hospital and at the convalescent home. No exceptions are allowed, even for people like William, who lived and worked here. Even though he saved Matthew's life. But even with the officers; I am coming back from my shift at the hospital, when there is so much pain and suffering, and Mama wants me to dress for dinner and talk about my suitors – as if I had any! – and she nearly faints at the mention of lice, and Granny thinks my haircut is the worst atrocity the war has brought, and Papa wants me to pretend I do not have any political opinions whatsoever… And it all used to annoy me before the war, but now, now I just want to scream. I am not angry, not like you described, but I know, I just know, that as soon as the war is over, I am going to drop all those pretences, Tom or no Tom, because the war has changed me too and Lady Sybil is just not who I am anymore. I'm going to get a different life for myself, one in which I am useful, and some way to fight to make the world a better place. Because whatever care for the opinion of others, or respect for tradition I used to possess, it doesn't exist anymore. It's gone."
"I have not realised you're feeling quite so strong on those points," says Mary evenly. "But it doesn't surprise me that you do."
Sybil laughs.
"Well, I tried to temper it a bit for company. Except for Tom. I don't need to temper myself for him."
Mary rolls her eyes.
"Of course not," she says drily. "He's even more radical than you."
"It's not just that!" protests Sybil vehemently. "He supports me even on matters we disagree on. He never tells me to hold my tongue or to tone down my convictions. He wants to know what I think and why I think it. And whatever I do think or say, even if he finds it all wrong, he loves me anyway and he respects me as a person, which is even more important."
"You truly think so?" asks Mary, raising her eyebrows. "That respect is more important than love?"
"Yes," answers Sybil firmly. "Because love is easier, but not enough. Look at Papa. He loves us. He loves Mama. Nobody can doubt it. But he does not respect us as rational adults. We are little women to be protected by him and when we try to fight it, he sees it only as childish rebellion."
Mary bites her lip in thought.
"You may be right about it," she says. "It was the first thing which made me look at Matthew differently, you know. That he looked at my admittedly awful behaviour towards him and saw my position, if not necessarily my actions, as a reasonable reaction against an injustice. That I had a right to feel angry about it."
"Because you do! It is an absurd system. As much as I love Matthew, why should everything go to him just because he was born a man? Why was it all supposed to go to Patrick before him? Why am I not allowed to be a doctor or you a lawyer, if we wanted to? It makes even less sense than class and you know what I think about that. But women are going to get the right to vote now and you'll see, entails won't be far behind."
"I'm not so optimistic about that," says Mary wryly. "But it would be a nice thing if they got rid of them. It's not like Matthew and I are likely to have an heir, after all."
But even as she is saying it, her hand trails slowly from her lap to rest on her belly. She still hasn't had her monthly, after all. She ruthlessly stops herself from getting her hopes up. It's been only a few weeks, hardly enough to be sure.
Sybil's eyes are shrewd as they land on the placement of Mary's hand.
"Are you sure about it?" she asks, her gaze remaining fixed on Mary's belly even as she moves her traitorous hand away.
"Very sure," answers Mary firmly and stands up. "Let's return home. I promised Matthew I will make a call."
xxx
Mary stares at the phone for a long while as if it is going to bite her.
Matthew's voice rings in her head. It's imperative that we postpone it all until after the decoration, darling. We should be able to stop him from publishing – I'm nearly certain that we will – but if he decides to throw caution to the wind and publish even with the knowledge we will sue him immediately afterwards – and we will if it comes to that – we need you out of the public eye for a moment. So as much as it pains me to say, can you call him and arrange a meeting with him after the ceremony? If only I could go with you… Or better yet, instead of you!
She rolled her eyes then and assured him that she is perfectly able to handle a phone call, just as she is going to handle the eventual meeting, hoping to lessen his unnecessary guilt and believing fully that she was telling the truth. Now however she feels the hated tremble come back to her hands and it is the annoyance with this sign of weakness more than anything else which finally prompts her to pick up the receiver and order a call to Sir Richard's office.
"Lady Mary," he says when she is put through to him and she can tell that he is smiling smugly just from the sound of his voice. "I assume you got my telegram."
"I did, but I can't come to London before next week," she says calmly. "We may meet on Thursday."
He laughs.
"Ah, so you have time to meet the king the day before?"
"Yes," answers Mary plainly.
"You would prefer the story of the Turk not to be on everyone's mind when you receive your medal?" he asks suggestively and Mary shudders in revulsion, but keeps her voice calm and collected by sheer force of will.
"Obviously. But that's not the main reason. I am tied up here at present and simply won't be able to come to London before."
"Due to your own injuries? Or your dear Captain Crawley's?"
"Both. Travel would be extremely uncomfortable for me at present and I don't want to leave him quite yet. You seem to be informed on our condition well enough to know I'm speaking the truth."
He sighs.
"I am, unfortunately. Then let's have it your way, Lady Mary. Enjoy your day in the spotlight and all the good press you can get. It will make the public all the more interested in my own headlines when they follow in due course."
xxx
She goes to see Matthew again before dinner, rightly assuming that he is eagerly awaiting news regarding the results of her call.
"Have you managed to convince him to wait?" asks Matthew anxiously as soon as she takes her place by his bed and sighs with relief, when Mary nods.
"He agreed to meet with me the day after the ceremony," her mouth twitches. "He said the story will sell much better after the headlines of my medal pave the way for it first."
"Bastard," curses Matthew, then sends her an apologetic look for his language.
Mary shrugs and immediately winces in pain. When is she going to learn?
"He's right, of course," she says nonchalantly. "I can just imagine his headlines after that."
Matthew grasps her hand and looks at her intently.
"There won't be any headlines regarding that," he stresses. "We will make sure of that."
Her eyes lock with his and she allows him to see some of the trepidation lurking inside them.
"Do you promise?" she asks. "Because I don't dare to hope for it."
"I promise," says Matthew firmly, with all the confidence he can muster. He can't stand seeing her afraid. "He is too cunning to risk a libel suit, not when he knows that we are determined to bring it against him. We will fight him off, Mary."
She nods, allowing him to convince her for now. It is marvellous to feel that she is not facing it all alone.
"You ensured that we have a week to prepare," Matthew says, looking more animated and focused than anything she has witnessed since his injury. "I will think it all through and prepare a proper list of arguments for you to use during your meeting, as well as a formal warning letter for him, stating our intention to sue. Let him convince his lawyers that we don't mean business then. I am going to ask Mother to bring me some of my legal books and my stationery in the morning."
Mary looks at him in alarm.
"Won't she ask why?"
Matthew's thumb caresses her fingers again.
"She will, of course. It's Mother," he answers with a wry smile. "But it doesn't mean that I'm going to tell her the truth. She's going to be frustrated, but too happy to see me doing something, for a change, to refuse me."
She can't help but smile back at his easy confidence.
"We will do it, Mary," he says earnestly again and this time she does believe him.
They will tackle it together.