A/N: Here is the next chapter. Thank you to Faeyero for her advice on writing in the fandom and to Chickwriter for her thoughts in and help in making sure that I portrayed Lavinia exactly as I meant too. I wanted to make sure the characterization was what I felt it needed to be.

Chapter Four

Lavinia believes a woman knows when a man is thinking of something else as they kiss–papers left at the office, a loose button on a shirt, the unfound cufflink. These are small insults. Or worse yet, there is always the possibility that as they kiss–Lavinia and Matthew–and she feels his mind wander, as if it is separate from his body, separate from his hands and his lips, he thinks of another woman. His lips leave hers. Lavinia realizes she is thinking of that other woman herself.

Mary.

Later, they make love, his face in the curve of Lavinia's shoulder when he finishes, sweaty from the effort. On their honeymoon, Lavinia discovered she liked lovemaking. Her favorite part, however, comes just after. When inevitably Matthew rolls over and pulls her near for a cuddle, all of their skin touching. One night, they left the lights on and it amazed her to discover the differences in their skin colors. How could it be, since they were both pale, that one could tell the difference in the tangle of pale legs–two more golden than the other two blushing limbs, like the inside of a seashell?

Tonight, when he finishes, he sighs and rolls over on to his back quickly. He covers his eyes with the back of his hand. He drank too much again tonight. Or not too much, she corrects. Just more than she ever witnessed him drink before. He is not out of control, by any stretch of the imagination. Yet, he prefers a drink when he arrives home now, and at dinner of course, and then after as well. He appears tired, not from the lovemaking, but a kind of exhaustion that lives inside his bones.

"Darling?" she asks in the dark. Their legs remain a distance apart, the smallest bit, but it might as well be the world between them. At least that is how she feels. But now, that isn't right either. Not every movement and flicker of an eyelid means something.

"Yes, darling?" he asks, his voice is gruff and slurred. She chooses to believe it is not from the drink but from sleepiness.

She wants to ask: is everything all right? What has changed? Or worst of all: do you miss her? But she is not even certain that something is wrong or that something has changed. Instead, she says, "I love you," leaning over to kiss his forehead. He is already asleep.

But Lavinia is not tired.

A woman knows when a man is thinking of something else as they kiss. Lavinia tells herself, as she rises from bed and quietly exits their room, that even in her limited experience, a woman knows. It is a sweeping statement so she alters it as she steps lightly down the hall in her bare feet after shrugging on her nightgown, heaved into a ball on the floor. Lavinia knows when Matthew is thinking of something else as they kiss.

How does she know, the mouse of the girl, with the pert nose and the pretty hair she brushes a hundred strokes a night, who loves her father, and was willing to sacrifice everything for an ailing Matthew, who speaks so softly one must lean in a bit closer to hear, who is so gentle? She shakes her head at her own description of herself, knowing some of it, most of it is true, but that so very few people ever bother to discover more about her.

In a very strange way, Lavinia misses Mary–the Mary who asked her about the Marconi scandal and did not tell Matthew, who listened to her when she cried. Mary tried to know the real Lavinia as know one else in that family had. Now they are Lavinia's family, too. Mary is gone. It is both better and worse this way. It is strange to lose an ally and a foe all at once.

She counts Matthew in the group of people who know her, who went out of his way to know her from the very first. When they met in London, he in his uniform, so dazzling, and he asked to call on her again, she laughed nervously, agreeing. He shook her father's hand when they met and he ate with them, the weekend of his leave. In the library, they spoke to one another on divans separated by a table. At first, they conversed so politely. But then he asked of her mother. She asked of the war. Before she knew it, the weekend was over. He asked if he could write. Then, he promised to write.

He did. He told her things: I think of you all the time–the shine of your hair and smile. I try to remember something beautiful in all this ugliness so that I can remain whole. Some of the men ask if I have a girl back home, I hope you do not mind that I say yes. Even if I am only kidding myself that someone as pure and gentle-hearted as yourself would want to be "my girl."

She told him things: I've never been special to anyone, I think, excepting my father. And if I am special to you, when you are cold or wet, then I am glad. I pray for your safety, not only because I want you to live, but because selfishly, I want to see you again. And again. Perhaps I want to see you all the time.

When he returned to London, again so dashing, he asked her father for her hand. When he asked Lavinia to marry him and share his life, the yes burst from her lips. They leaned forward toward one another hesitantly and kissed, his roughened hands gentle on her cheeks, his lips seeking, tenderly. She opened her eyes slightly seeing his squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. His fingertips touched the back of her neck. She leaned in closer. The intensity of it–of the kiss, of the war, of the fragility of their entire way of life–left her feeling weak. Most of all, the way Matthew seemed to make that kiss his whole world for the length it went on, left her staggered.

That is how a woman knows...how Lavinia knows when Matthew is thinking of something else when they kiss, because of the first kiss, when he could think of nothing else but her–not the war, not his birthright, not Mary. Only Lavinia. She supposes, as she enters Matthew's small den, like a ghost in her white nightgown, that is how any woman knows a man is thinking of something else. Because of the first kiss. Every subsequent kiss can be measured against it.

She sighs as she sits in Matthew's chair and smooths her hands over his blotter. She likes this room because it smells of books and something male she cannot name. It reminds her of Matthew. It makes her ache for her father because it reminds her of him most of all and he is gone. There is no one here to kiss her forehead and tell her: My dear, don't worry so. Everything will be all right in time.

But is anything really wrong?

Lavinia thinks of Mary, strong Mary, who probably, in her entire life, never needed anyone to kiss her forehead and murmur such sentiments. To leave and go to America, to end her engagement with Sir Richard (the vile man) and suffer the repercussions...Lavinia imagines that bravery. Without meaning to, she remembers how the previous winter and fall, Mary could be called the bravest woman Lavinia knew. It had been as plain as day (eventually, at least) to see that Mary still loved Matthew but she bravely and genuinely befriended Lavinia; she bravely and genuinely offered the happy couple congratulations; most of all, she bravely and genuinely kept her love locked inside of her, silent, completely releasing Matthew into his own life, leaving him free and unfettered to marry Lavinia. She could not imagine what Mary suffered in remaining so stalwart. Really, Lavinia never doubted Mary's intentions.

And at the time...Lavinia never doubted Matthew's intentions either. Until the night...She felt so ill she went up to the bedrooms for a spell. She did not want to bother anyone so she walked down the hallway after a brief lie down and from her perch, she watched Matthew ask Mary to dance. Even then, Lavinia did not worry. She saw brave Mary try to put him off, square her shoulders and keep their bodies a cousinly distance apart. Without meaning to, Lavinia crept down the hallway and down the stairs.

You are my stick.

As he pulled her closer and closer and closer...

Oh, God, Mary, I'm so, so sorry.

And closer...

You know Cousin Violet came to me...

I couldn't give her the brush off...

Lavinia held her breath.

However much I might want to.

The kiss.

Lavinia did not want to remember but she did. She interrupted them because she knew Matthew. She knew he was a man of honor. She had letters upon letters to prove it (did Mary have letters?). He would hate himself. He'd confessed to Lavinia once that his relationship with Mary had been like that–loving her and hating himself, constantly, over and over again.

Of course, Lavinia was so sick she didn't think clearly. Not for several days. He tended to her so well. He would not leave her. When she recovered slightly, on the day they moved her from the Abbey, to Crawley House, she asked him, "Do you love me? Do you want to marry me? Still?"

"It may sound strange," he replied, "And thank God, you are better. But this episode has convinced me..." He drew in a breath. "...that I must marry you more than ever. I could never lose you. I cannot imagine losing you and going on without you...a hole would open up inside of me...I don't know what kind of man I would be if I lost you."

So they married.

Mary remained more brave than ever and avoided Matthew at all costs and Lavinia took Matthew on his word.

They honeymooned and laughed over her fumbled Italian in Rome, sharing a whole bottle of wine each night, holding hands across the table without care. One night, she drank more than usual. Back in the hotel room, she pressed against him. "I finally managed to learn some Italian," she purred against his neck.

"Oh?" he laughed. "Finalmente, cara?"

"Sì," she kissed his neck and shivered against him. "Ho fame."

"We've just eaten–"

She unbuckled his belt and he quieted. She looked him in the eye. She could not remember ever being so brazen before.

"Ho fame," she repeated. I'm hungry. More literally, I have hunger.

Afterwards, he held her, their limbs tangled. He kissed her hair. She kept her hand low on his belly.

It is different now.

Like the kisses, it is different.

Lavinia tells herself, as she pushes the chair back and inadvertently knocks over Matthew's briefcase, which spills, that not every kiss can be like the first, not every night can be like that night in Italy. His papers are everywhere and she stoops in her nightgown to pick them up. She does not have someone to talk to. She cannot explain...even to herself.

She opens the crumpled telegram, without thinking, only wanting to smooth it.

You ought to be ashamed of yourself STOP Do not write again STOP Just STOP

From Mary. Of course. Brave Mary so forcibly telling Lavinia's husband to leave her alone and that he should be ashamed of himself. What had he done?

She looks through the rest of the papers without hesitation or guilt. When she finds an unaddressed envelope, she opens it and reads her husbands unsent, unwanted letter to Mary. Later, she addresses it herself and licks a stamp. She will put it in the post in the morning.

A/N: So there are some answers here but also more questions. I would love to know your thoughts! xo, LDI