A/N: Hello there. I wanted to thank you so very much for the Highclere Nominations for both this story, Grace, and a drabble from tumblr. You are just lovely. I love the Highclere awards because it's such a great list to read from, with so many great writers. I will say that voting closes just after my birthday and it would be a great birthday present to win. Haha :) But truly, it's nice to be nominated with writers I look up to. My goal is to actually finish this story by the end of this month, before the awards end. It will take a great push but I think I am up to it. Now, we only need Mary and Matthew to be willing as well...XX, LDI
Chapter Thirty Eight
"I think you two ought to follow me, don't you?" Robert grumbles, though there is no doubt that this is a statement rather than a question, as he turns on his heel and marches towards Downton.
Mary doesn't know whether to square her shoulders, as if going into battle, or to smirk behind her hand. She isn't a little girl anymore and Papa didn't just catch her asking for an extra biscuit before bed. She's been married; she's lost a husband. And yet kissing a man in public...
The man in question stands and dusts off his trousers before offering Mary his hand. He smiles, though his eyes search hers. She isn't sure what he wants from her. She's never been completely sure. But after their interrupted conversation she thinks perhaps all Matthew has ever wanted is the truth, however haltingly she exposes is it. He will wait for her, no matter how many gaps in an awkward conversation, no matter how she struggles to express what is so easy for others.
"It appears we've been caught with our hands in the cookie jar," Mary tells him drolly, her lips tilting up, as she tries to fix her mussed hair. "We'd better follow him."
Matthew smiles a bit more confidently now. He winks at her. "Or face a firing squad."
"Matthew, you do know what he is going to ask, don't you?" They begin their walk, a slow meander towards the house.
He looks ahead. She smiles noticing his hair is a mess from her wandering hands. Her fingers itch to touch it even now. "Yes."
"I–," she begins and falters. His hand swings forward, their fingers wrap around one another loosely but meaningfully all the same. Touching is a privilege now. Perhaps is always was but they only understand it as such now. "I suppose...I don't know what I'll say."
He stops, caresses the side of the her face briefly. "That's better than the hard and fast no I received in Ireland."
"But you never asked me," she replies as the begin walking again, letting go of his hand as they walk into the house. "Not really."
"We don't require tea, Carson. Thank you," Mary hears her father say as they enter and Carson nods, giving Mary the fish eye before closing the doors of the parlor.
"Would someone like to explain to me what I just saw?" Robert asks after they've all sat. Mary and Matthew take the two chairs while Robert commands the divan.
Mary rolls her eyes, but only in her imagination. Look, she is learning tact. "We were kissing, Papa." She sounds bored since she refuses to sound sorry or scared, as if she should be in trouble.
"Robert–" Matthew begins. He always did have more tact than Mary.
Robert leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "I want to know your intentions towards my daughter. I think it important after what I just witnessed."
"And what did you witness?" Mary hisses sarcastically beneath her breath.
"You've every right to ask me that, Robert," Matthew continues, only briefly glancing at Mary. "I have every intention of marrying your daughter."
Mary sits up sharply, as does Robert who looks like a dog smelling a meaty bone he knows is his treat. "Well why didn't you two say so?" he guffaws. His smile is so large Mary is afraid his face will break from joy.
"Papa." Mary feels it is important to speak. "Matthew spoke of his intentions. No one has asked anyone to marry them. At least that I am aware of."
"Well, what are you two waiting for?" Robert demands. "You aren't getting any younger and we have a house full of people coming this weekend, hoping some woman will catch your eye. And meanwhile, right under my nose–"
"Papa," Mary interrupts.
"Matthew, I insist on knowing why you have't made Mary an offer–"
"Papa!" Mary repeats. "Please."
Robert sits back and assesses the pair of them. "While I admire chivalry, I wonder why Matthew is protecting you." His eyes zero in on Mary.
"Papa–"
"Mary, you can't spend the rest of your life alone. You're young yet," Robert continues on. Mary feels Matthew's eyes on her and pressure builds in her chest.
"I thought I wasn't getting any younger," she snaps before standing.
"Mary, I insist you sit down. We haven't finished talking." Robert raises his voice.
"Oh, Papa," she complains, shrugging her shoulders. "What's the point when even now you never let me speak?" Matthew stands too as she walks towards the exit of the room. At the last minute she turns to him: "See? I told you it would be a disaster if I returned. The only voice anyone hears is a father's or a husband's and I'm tired of it."
The click of the door punctuates her statement.
"Milady," Anna asks as she readies Mary for bed. "Are you sure you are all right?"
"If you really want to know, I wasn't ill," Mary admits. "I skipped dinner because I am so tired of playacting."
"Playacting, milady?"
"It's as if my time in America, my marriage, never happened. I'm the eldest daughter again, and I have to look to Papa before I speak," she complains.
"I'm not sure you ever looked to anyone before you spoke," Anna teases.
Mary laughs then sobers. "You know what I mean though. I've had this whole life. I've grown up. I feel like–" She pauses. "I feel old. Like a lifetime happened in a few years but no on can see except for me and..."
"And?" Anna asks.
"Never mind." Mary smiles. "You shouldn't have to listen to me complain."
"I don't mind, Milady," Anna curtsies. "Not that you were complaining, mind you. It must be hard to be back here...to start over again"
Mary looks around the room, at the vibrant pulsing red wallpaper. "Oh, Anna," she murmurs. "I think it's too late for me to start over."
That night, Mary barely sleeps. This room has seen Pamuk's unwanted entrance, countless fights with her sisters, languid love with her husband, and a failed attempt to seduce Matthew ending with her screaming at him. She sighs and aches for him. She wants to be held by him but knows, even if he were here, she would never be brave enough to ask for his embrace. She wants a new life but she has no idea what that life looks like or if new is even possible. She only knows she doesn't want this one.
When the tears drip down her cheek, she clutches her pillow and remains silent.
Tomorrow, Matthew's possible wives arrive. She doesn't know how, or even if she should, throw her hat in the ring.
"It won't exactly be what one would hope," Granny murmurs under her breath, "After all he is divorced. But then again, there aren't many eligible men left in this country."
The first car arrives, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
Granny leans into Mary again. From the side of her mouth, she whispers, "Let the games begin." She sounds positively giddy.
It's wrong, Mary knows, to think of them as things instead of girls on the verge of becoming women ,with stories of their very own. It's wrong but she cannot help it. She feels as stiff as a board, like the girl who stood in front of Papa when he explained that Patrick was dead. Her smile is a second too late–much like it was when once upon a time Mary watched Matthew walk into a room with Lavinia on his arm. She does not want to go backward. Aren't all of us stuck with the choices we make? But she is not sure how to move forward either. Live happily ever with Matthew? What does that even mean? Does she even believe in such fancies? She might as well be Andromeda, waiting to be saved.
"Lady Mary, you've spent a great amount of time in America," Lady Carissa Strom asks at dinner. "How did you find it?"
Mary takes a small sip of wine before turning towards the blonde woman. "Yes, my late husband was American."
"Oh, I am so sorry to hear...Miss Harking told me I should ask you–"
"Yes, well you'd do best not to listen to what Lucy Harking says. She's one of the most competitive girls I've ever met," Mary tells Lady Carissa, taking pity on her. She seems to be such a nice girl. Matthew could use a nice girl.
"You know Miss Harking?" Lady Carissa asks, speaking through her teeth. "Do you think she told me to ask you...on purpose?"
"If I had to guess," Mary sighs then smiles. "She tried to trip my sister at her coming out ball."
Lady Carissa lets out a little gasp. "That's–"
"Lucy Harking," Mary finishes with a grin and lifts her wine towards Carissa. "Beware."
"Some people..." Lady Carissa murmurs. "I just don't understand why she should would want me to look badly in front of you."
Mary feels a bit light headed, though she hasn't even finished a single glass of wine. "I suppose she thinks I have some...influence over the situation."
Lady Carissa's eyes laugh. "And do you?"
It's hard not to like this girl. Matthew would do well to take her.
All alone, with plenty of money, and a house in Eaton Square? I can't imagine anything better.
"I promise to put in a good word for you," Mary gently tells Lady Carissa as she leans forward, touching the girl's hand briefly.
Mary begs off after dinner. She even finds she doesn't have to lie; she does have a dreadful headache. She tells the group she will see them tomorrow and gives Carissa–who sits next to Matthew–an extra, bolstering smile.
She is quiet as Anna helps her to undress. "Is there anything you need, milady?" Anna asks.
Mary shakes her head, murmuring her thanks. Not anything you can give me, Anna.
She's barely asleep when she hears her door open, though she cannot guess how long she lay awake in the dark. She feels woozy when she hears his whisper across her room. "It's only me."
"Matthew," she cries softly. "What are you doing here? There is a house full of women here for you."
"I needed to see you. You didn't look well," he admitted, coming to sit along the side of her bed. "I worried."
"You shouldn't worry," she warns him even as she takes his hand in both of hers, leaning over them. "You can't worry."
"But I do." He ghosts a kiss across her hair.
She closes her eyes. Her chest aches. "Lady Carissa is very nice."
Matthew doesn't move. Mary doesn't lift her head. "She is," he admits. "Very kind."
"And blonde," Mary continues. "Blonde and kind. Two things that could never be said about me."
Matthew lifts his other hand, dragging his fingers through her plait. He leans down, pressing a kiss to her nose. "No."
She will not cry. Why does this feel like a goodbye?
Her hands spasm around his. "If–" she gasps, as if she needs to gulp in air. "If we were to marry–" This time his hand does the spasming. "What if I couldn't have children?"
"Mary." His voice begs her to look him in the eye but she refuses. After a pause, he goes on. "There's no reason for you to believe that you cannot–"
"Matthew." She squeezes her eyes shut. "Please answer my question."
"If we were to marry," he whispers hoarsely into her hair. "Then we would be a family, however that might look."
She strokes the back of his hand. "And if we were to marry," she pauses. "Where would we live because I–I'm tired of being my father's daughter. And you have duties to the estate–"
His hand cups her cheek, forcing her to meet his eye. "Is this really what you are worried about?"
"Don't make fun of me," she whispers, closing her eyes against his. Why is this conversation so hard? Why is it so difficult to be on the brink of something she's wanted for so long?
"There are plenty of places we could live," he tells her gently. "But it wouldn't have to be in this house until...In fact, I would prefer it not be. And you wouldn't be your father's daughter, not first or only. You would be my wife and I would be your husband."
"Maybe I'll be a bad wife," she suggests, turning her cheek into his shoulder, her skin against his dinner jacket.
"I've only ever been a bad a husband," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her. "You'd be taking a great chance on me."
"I'm afraid," she whispers.
"Oh, Mary. Me too," he admits.
"Yes, only the difference is–" She lifts her head and blinks back tears. "I'm afraid to say yes and you're afraid I'll say no."
His thumbs brush against her wet eyelashes. "Mary. Tell me what to do. Tell me what to do and I'll do it."
"Marry Lady Carissa." Her voice breaks on the girl's name. "Marry her and be happy."
"Mary." His voice is strong and solid, something she can believe in. "I'm not choosing someone else this time." He kisses her lips briefly before he stands and leaves her room.
A/N: Would love to know your thoughts. Is Mary coming around? How far left does she have left to go? Let's get some momentum and finish this sucker up. :)