A/N: So here is the next chapter (obviously ha). Thanks for your patience as the updates slow down to something more manageable again. Also, feel free to check out my tumblr ladonnaingenua dot tumblr dot com if you are ever curious about updates or other nuts and bolts. I'm a bit sick so I think that's all I've got. It's Matthew this time.
Chapter Fifteen
She is a vision.
She is a vision, slightly obscured by Robert and the doorway, her hair wild and free, curly and long down her back beneath the ghost of a veil, wearing trousers Matthew knows must be an homage to the absent Sybil.
"I don't know," Mary says, leaning forward as she gazes into the mirror to look more closely at something he cannot see. "Mama. Granny. Are these earrings too much?"
She is a vision–all in abstract, the trousers and blouse, the loose hair, and the misplaced veil that does not match all the rest. She is made of pieces and the whole knocks the breath out of Matthew's lungs.
He's never seen her with her hair down before.
"Matthew," Robert breaks the spell and shakes Matthew's hand. "Thanks for coming. I didn't know this room would be commandeered by the women."
"I'm the bride," Mary teases. "I can commandeer anything I'd like." She turns then, half laughing at her papa and Matthew sees her face for the first time.
"The earrings aren't too much," he says dryly before Robert pulls him away to discuss the urgent, serious, information that brought Matthew to Robert and Cora's room in the first place. He only sees a brief flash of Mary's hesitant smile, as if she is not sure bestowing him one of those once rare treats (now common occurrences, so everyone says) is allowed, before Robert hustles him away.
"It's urgent that we speak," Robert whispers tightly, barely moving his lips, but Matthew is still thinking of Mary, sober enough (thanks to American prohibition) to know she isn't an angel or Andromeda bathed in midst but a very real woman, in trousers and a veil, with curling hair and a shy smile. He knows the warmth of that body, of her body, drawn close to him, the fission of electricity all down his back, the smoothness of her skin, how she let him lead the dance (an unexpected generosity knowing her), that she will acquiesce, soften, warm, let herself be pulled closer, how the yearning will thicken between them until it snaps too tight and he kisses her.
Such a short kiss in the scheme of kisses. Barely enough time to taste her. Just enough time to want her.
He is sober enough to remember every bit of it.
He doesn't understand how he is here, in America, at Mary's wedding. When did it all stop making sense? At the Garden Party? When she wished him such good luck? When in the trenches, her little dog meant more to him than any letter? When he could not use his legs? When the show that flopped danced its final dance?
That's the thing, though: it cannot be pinpointed, that exact moment, when everything came undone, when the ball of yarn fell and unrolled completely. It's the knowledge of that, which keeps him reaching for the bottles.
"You won't believe what I'm about to tell you," Robert conspires in the hallway.
And Matthew nearly responds: you won't believe what I'm thinking.
And yet Robert knows, knows Matthew wants Mary, and knew Mary once wanted him. Yet Robert never did anything about it, just like when it came to the entail, the inevitable failure or some high brow sense of honor (or who knows what, really?) kept him from acting on what he knew, what could have been saved.
God, what could have been saved.
Everything feels too real–the sweat between his fingers, the chapped skin on his lips, his pants against his the skin of his leg. He wants a drink.
He wants a drink so badly.
I love your daughter and I always have. I always have. I always...
He will make friends with one of the staff. Matthew already knows that Mack's grandfather bought cases and cases of champagne for wedding (illegally, from Canada) but that won't be enough. He needs something less celebratory and more debilitating.
"I've had Murray do some digging," Robert goes on, his eyes looking left then right. "And I don't like what he's found."
"About what?" Matthew asks. A headache plagues him. He wants a drink. He wonders if he just asked for one, if he'd get it. Mack's family clearly doesn't know what role he once played in Mary's life; they treat him with asmuch hospitably as they would treat any of her cousins. Cousin Matthew.
"About him," Robert corrects.
"You can't be serious," Matthew retorts. "It's much too late for skeletons."
"She's my girl," Robert shrugs helplessly. "It's never too late."
Yes, it is! Matthew would like to shout at the top of his lungs because it is too late. No information Robert thinks he found can make Mary love Matthew again. They can never be together. He is married. They can never be together. Ever. Hope cannot be bred here. There is no fertile ground for it. The earth is torched.
"Robert," Matthew cautions. "It has to be truly ghastly for you to even consider–"
"I only know for sure that there were many women before Mary. Many, many, many women. A complete playboy–"
"That's not a crime," Matthew objects. "She had to know his character before she accepted him. And furthermore, Mary...There were many women until Mary."
Robert grabs Matthew's arm. "And I know there was a baby with one of them," he continues. "And then there was no baby, no wedding, only ugly rumors. The ugliest."
"What do you mean?" Matthew cannot help but ask.
"The kind no one says in polite company, illegal, horrible surgeries–"
"Robert."
"That is not the man I want for my daughter," Robert explodes.
In the silence that follows, words almost form in the air between them: I wanted you for her.
Finally, Matthew asks wearily, "How sure are you?"
"I'm not," Robert wilts. "That's why I've come to you."
"Me?" Matthew exclaims.
"I need your advice," Robert huffs. "Once you knew her best of all."
"And she was engaged to another man then, too," Matthew snaps, speaking of Sir Richard.
"Over time, you convinced her of his character, didn't you?" Robert dabs at his forehead. "You could do it again."
He could do it again.
Only this time, Mack doesn't raise his voice and hold her in bruising grips. This time she is not fading away into herself but coming alive. This time she is happy.
This time he would not be freeing her. This time he would be breaking something.
In bed, his wife is turns away from him and he turns away from her. This is their way, in the bed far from home, in the bed at home, in beds in general, when he is sober, or just sober enough. They are in Mack's house. This bed belongs to Mack and Matthew hates this bed, though the butler (obviously not as fastidious as Carson) offered Matthew a few pulls of whiskey earlier, it is far from enough.
His mind is whirling, not numb how he likes it. He is thinking. He is thinking of the man he considers a kind of fatherly figure asking him to do something, asking him to talk to Mary, to tell her...what?
This time he would not be freeing her. This time he would be breaking something.
His motives are all confused. If he did it, would it be for Robert? Would it be for Mary? Or would it be for Matthew? Would Mary's face stiffen, would she ask her maid to pack her things, would she sail back to England with them? Would he be freeing her or breaking her?
"Lavinia." He speaks his wife's name aloud without meaning to. They are not friends. They do not whisper secrets in the dark. They do not giggle beneath the sheets. When they touch, it is with thought. He does not lift a hand automatically to push her hair away from her face. It is not easy. It's work. And it hurts sometimes.
He wants another drink.
"Yes?" she replies in the dark.
He wets his lips. "If there was a secret about me...would you have wanted to know before the wedding?"
Again, he is hardly thinking of his words or the potential they have to bring up the wounds they've gone over and over again. If you knew I loved Mary, would you have wanted to know before the wedding?
There is a great silence between them.
"I'm not sure," she says at last.
He rolls his eyes. For God's sake, at least have an opinion! But then she surprises him. She never used to be able to surprise him.
"I saw you, you know," she whispers. "I heard you tell Mary you wished you could marry her and I saw you kiss her the night I was so sick. So I did know your secret." She pauses only for a moment. "I tried so many different ways for you to tell me. That's why I asked so many times if you still wanted to marry me. And so I took you at your word. I believed you."
"Lavinia," Matthew hears himself gasp.
"Perhaps it is is unworthy comparison," she sighs. "You speak of secrets and hearing myself say the words aloud, it's as if we both lied. And secrets and lies are different, aren't they?"
Matthew could kill for a drink. Secrets and lies are different, aren't they? "Are they?"
Lavinia shifts and turns to face him. She speaks to his back. "Don't ruin this for her, Matthew. We've made our bed. She has a chance...She is happy. Please don't embarrass her." Or me, goes without saying. "If you...if you ever loved her...let her be happy."
Matthew throws back the covers and leaves their room as quickly as he can.
He is unfamiliar with the house and it is gigantic (though nowhere near the size of Downton Abbey). Still, he manages to find his way to the library, where he spots a comfy enough chair he thinks he might be able to doze on for a few brief hours before the staff wakes and he returns to the bed he shares with Lavinia.
How could she know? How could she marry him after hearing? After seeing? The show that flopped. Truly. Honestly. It could not get anymore pathetic than Mary and–
"Matthew," Mary hisses from another corner of the library. "What are you doing down here?"
Matthew closes his eyes. He could kill for a drink. It is too much. The knowledge that Lavinia knew, the weight of telling Mary...what?, and now Mary herself. These few days may be the worst of his life, besides the trenches. Or perhaps they are just a different type of trench, champagne instead of mud, but booby traps and death nonetheless. Letting Mary go, watching her love Mack, feels like a sort of death.
Hope cannot be bred here. There is no fertile ground for it. The earth is torched.
"What are you doing down here?" he replies softly. "Shouldn't you be getting your rest for tomorrow?"
"I couldn't sleep," she admits.
He could tell her now. It is perfect. They are alone. The words can just come out of his mouth. He could do it right now.
"Why?" he asks instead.
She exhales loudly. "I suppose...I suppose it's just that I'm nervous for the day to finally be here. I made him wait a long time," she admits. "If he had his way, we would have been married a year ago. But...I wanted to be certain. I had to be certain."
He swallows the lump in his throat. He is not used to such candor from her. "And...are you? Certain, that is."
He watches the smile bloom across her face. "I am," she admits. "I never expected to be certain about something like this ever. How could one be, really? But I am. He knows the worst parts of me. And he loves me."
"And, you...do you know the worst parts of him?" He cannot ask if she loves him because the thought alone pierces him (however true it is). God only knows what the words would do now in the darkened library. Forget bullets. Forget the awful gas. Forget explosions. Forget aching invisible legs.
"Yes," she replies and she must be kinder, softer in America because she does not say and I love him as he loves me, as if she knows that Matthew dreads that very declaration. "And I'm certain."
"Well." He does not know if she knows the worst of Mack. She thinks she does but Robert wants him to contribute to a more fuller knowledge of her bridegroom. He opens his mouth and then closes it, remembering her in the trousers and veil. God, she is beautiful. He should tell her now. "Well."
He stops.
This time he would not be freeing her. This time he would be breaking something.
"Well," he repeats for the third time. "I'll only repeat the advice your Granny gave me once: marriage is a long business. So it is good that you are certain."
He leaves as quickly as he can, more quickly than he even left his wife.
Hope cannot be bred here. There is no fertile ground for it. The earth is torched.
A/N: Really interested to hear what you guys think about this one. From my sickbed. lol. xx, LDI