First of all, my many, many thanks to all of you who have taken the time to read my story! It still amazes me that there are those of you reading the meanderings of my vivid imagination. For those of you who then take additional time to drop a line and leave a review, your support means more to me than words can adequately express. And such thanks to R. Grace and On Either Side the River Lie for their incredible input and support in helping this story evolve as they so willingly offer insights into plot, character, pacing ,imagery...shall I go on? You are both wonderful!
Chapter 5
Luncheon at Crawley House passed in relative peace. Her unplanned confession of the fleeting attraction she had felt for her companion on the train had most astonishingly left Mary feeling even lighter in Isobel's presence, as if she had been absolved from some grievous sin and had been made righteous again. Although, she thought ironically to herself, righteous would be the very last adjective she would ever apply to herself. The word was much more appropriately applied to Matthew, and Mary again felt the deep and ever-present awe over the fact that he had chosen her, loved her and had somehow believed her to be so much more than she was.
Miraculous, indeed.
It was another small miracle that George continued to sleep through the afternoon, showing absolutely no sign of stirring even well after the two women had finished their meal. At Isobel's suggestion, Mary left the exhausted child with his grandmother to finish his nap while she journeyed on to post her letter and take tea with her grandmother. Posting the letter would be a simple task, indeed. Tea with Violet Crawley…well, Mary knew she would need all of her wits about her for that event.
The undeniable scent of rain was now thick in the air as the force of the wind continued to escalate, the very strength of it threatening to rob Mary of her hat. The temperature had dropped somewhat, as well, making her quite grateful that she and her son would have transportation home as a chill ran up her legs. It would worry her to have George out too long in weather such as this, and the pram would be quite useless in a deluge.
And truthfully, so would she.
As she journeyed towards the Dowager House, her feet led her on a path so very well-known to them, the very wind seeming to push her down the road from behind to the destination she had somehow known would be hers at some point during the day. Mary froze by the gate, her legs taking root into the road below her as she gazed into the churchyard.
Into the cemetery.
How strange and tragic that it was the graveyard that first drew her thoughts whenever she approached the church. Somehow, it should be memories of her wedding that flooded her conscious mind rather than the unwelcome pangs of early death. But Mary knew that would never be. His death had changed everything for her, reordering the priorities of her memories and emotions, giving her very little choice in how she ordered her thoughts. No—those choices had been ripped from her grasp the day that Matthew had met that lorry, and she had seemingly travelled a path already marked for her whether she approved of it or not. And she had truly believed that those choices would never genuinely be hers again, that she would never be able to command her own mind the way she desired…until yesterday.
And that both thrilled and terrified her.
Mary had come to this spot so very frequently throughout the year, sometimes conversing with Matthew as if he could actually hear her, other times not uttering a word. She had come despondent, angry, exhausted, horrified, and at times, even numb. But she had never arrived at his grave feeling even remotely hopeful—this was new, this was…she truly could not even label it, for the feelings swirling within her were so jumbled that she could not sort them properly. A part of her wanted desperately to walk to his grave and to simply sit by the stone that bore his name, to close her eyes and dwell among her memories. But the other part of her wanted to flee, to run as far as she could from any further reminders of her exhaustive pain.
Would it be so horrible if she simply walked away? Was it not alright to visit another day when she felt stronger? Could she really visit the village without visiting his grave?
Was it alright for her to want to be truly happy again?
An invisible magnet pulled her unwittingly forward, drawing her closer to the place she held in utter reverence yet so often dreaded to come. Her legs forced her past the church, through the grass, pushing her towards the unorthodox alter onto which she so often left her outpouring of suffering and guilt.
She had arrived, staring at the words that could both scream at her so loudly that she wanted to cover her ears and whisper so tenderly to her battered heart that she could melt into a puddle on the ground.
Matthew Reginald Crawley…Beloved Husband and Father.
It seemed so little to say for how much he had been, a beautiful life reduced to a mere seven words carved into stone. Mary traced the writing with her fingers as she had countless times before, chilled by the cold rock and wishing with every fiber of her being that she could touch the lines of his face instead.
"Oh, Matthew, this is so hard," she whispered, not knowing if he could hear her or not, but needing to voice her thoughts just the same. She remembered days of being so blissfully happy that she thought her heart would burst from it.
Instead, it had shattered in her hands while she was cradling her new baby.
She had words today, words that she desperately needed to utter, thankful that no one else was present at this moment to hear her as she unburdened her heart to the man who could no longer judge her, and had chosen not to do so even when he had the opportunity. Oh, Matthew…
"I can't stay long today, darling," Mary choked, "but I wanted you to know just how proud you would be of your son. He's a year old now, Matthew. Can you believe it? He will be walking soon, and then I shall have to work hard to keep up with him."
She smiled through welling tears as she spoke of George.
"He loves ducks and anything sweet to eat," Mary continued, rubbing her arms against the chill brought by the wind and stirring in the trees around her. "And he already loves books. 'The Little Red Hen' has become a favorite of his. Of course, Mama insists it is because the Little Red Hen reminds him of me, but I think he just likes trying to say 'Do myself!'"
She had to stop and laugh when she thought of her son mimicking the words that she read to him each night, working so hard to get them right. The sound of his precious voice was so very clear in her mind, making her heart well up in adoration for him. One day soon he would be speaking sentences, he would read for himself and be too large to fit snugly upon her lap in the nursery. The wonder of it all made her shiver in awe.
Her voice broke as she swallowed deeply. "Thank you for giving him to me, Matthew. You would love him so much. He is such a wonderful little boy!"
My dearest little chap.
"I do tell him about you," Mary breathed, her lip quivering slightly as his image filled her mind, "how his eyes are so like yours, how much you loved him and are watching out for him even though he cannot see you. So you had better do your duty by him, Matthew Crawley, and see that he grows to be a fine, healthy young man."
The breeze ever so gently caressed her neck, making her rub it in response.
"I am trying to be the mother you believed I could be," she continued, trying to convince herself, "but it was so unfair of you to leave me to do it alone. He is your son, too, Matthew. You should be here to raise him! He does need a father."
The words gushed out of her before she could call them back, clutching the tombstone tightly for support until the muscles in her arms ached. Mary then stared at her hands, lifting them haltingly, suddenly aware that she would not fall if she let go. She took a small step backwards.
"And I've cut my hair," she admitted, plunging forward and smiling in spite of herself. "I know that you did not want me to, but you also know me well enough to know that I rarely do as I'm told."
Mary could clearly visualize him rolling his eyes at her at her admission, giving her that one-sided grin that always melted her heart.
"Besides—if you had wanted me to keep it long, you should have stayed." She dared a small laugh at what Matthew's response would have been to that statement.
"Everyone seems to think that I should move on," Mary continued, her brow crinkling a bit as she still pondered this unexpected fact, "even your mother." She breathed deeply, licked her lips that were drying in the autumn air and continued, "She has been so good to me, Matthew. And George just adores her. He really loves the little nursery that she had built for him, the one you so teased her about."
A squirrel darted in front of her, startling her as she watched the creature pause for a moment before soaring into the trees above her. He was gathering nuts, no doubt, already making preparations for the impending winter, the leaves shivering on cue as if in confirmation of her musings. She drew her arms about herself to ward off the chill threatening to grip her spine.
"I know you didn't want to leave us," she whispered, a newly forged strength now keeping most of her tears at bay while a stubborn one still managed to break free. "But that doesn't make it hurt any less. The pain has nearly crippled me, Matthew. I feel as if I am having to learn how to walk all over again—just like George." She paused, drawing the autumn air into her lungs, the moisture of impending rain filling her senses.
"But I shall do it," Mary stated, the thread of determination in her voice thin but holding fast. "You know I never back down from a challenge."
There—she had said her peace. And just as she had after sharing with Isobel, Mary felt lighter. The reality of it was still so very new, so fragile, but wholly welcome and miraculous to her.
She closed her eyes, drawing courage from the very depths of her being as she grasped the seeds of hope so recently planted in her heart. The wind suddenly rushed up her dress, billowing under her newly cut hair and making her shiver her as the first fall leaves brushed against her feet. Mary thought suddenly that she was not yet ready to face another winter, her body trembling in response. She was weary of the bone-chilling loneliness that had nearly destroyed her spirit last year.
She was longing for spring's arrival.
"I'll always love you, Matthew Crawley," she uttered, turning slowly and deliberately to face the sun, its rays tingling on her cheeks and warming her slightly. "But I cannot stay. I have to go now."
Of course you have.
The words seemed to be carried by the wind straight to her heart, gripping her tightly as they also oddly set her free. She could nearly feel his touch on her face, sensing to her core just how much he had loved her and just how much that love had forever changed her life. A robin then took flight, its tender song suddenly some of the sweetest music she had ever heard. For somehow, all of a sudden, Mary understood.
Matthew would truly want her to be happy.
He would want her to laugh, to experience beauty, and to open her heart up to the world around her. He would encourage her to be adventurous, to be brave and to create a life full of joy and possibility for herself and their son. And yes, he would even want her to love again.
She was suddenly cold no more.
"Thank you," she whispered, turning back to look at his grave as a lone tear of gratitude slid down her cheek, the September wind carrying her words to a destination unseen. She then paused thoughtfully, clasping both hands to her heart as she breathed, "You will always be my Matthew."
And a lark sang back in reply.
Feeling rather askew and still somewhat fragile upon her arrival at the Dowager House, Mary was trying to right herself quickly as she was shown into the sitting room. The pounding of her heart was nearly deafening as she tried to brace herself for the reaction she was fairly certain awaited her, one she could only hope she had the strength to withstand:
The reaction of Violet Crawley.
"Mary, dear," Violet began as her granddaughter was announced, freezing in mid-sentence when Mary entered the room. The Dowager Countess had seemingly lost the ability to blink, actually gaping at the younger woman until she had quite recovered her speech. "Good heavens, child, where is the rest of your hair?"
"By now I should say that it is probably well-disposed of in the rubbish bin," Mary replied, keeping her eyes steadily fixed upon her grandmother as she willed her heart to carry on at an acceptable rate.
"Do you not think that it served you better attached to your head? What good can it possibly do anyone tossed out with the rubbish?" Violet returned, the pitch of her voice rising with every word. "What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?"
"You did," Mary answered, keeping her voice steady as she forced herself to remain calm at her grandmother's indignant expression. "Did you not tell me that it was time I move forward with my life?"
It was then that Violet actually took in the fact that Mary was dressed in green rather than black, a flash of approval flitting across her expression as she raised her chin in acknowledgement. Their locked stares reflected mutual love, admiration and a high degree of respect, but also resolute stubbornness. The silence crackled between them, each wondering just how long it would take before the other would finally speak.
"Well, then," the Dowager compromised, never breaking eye contact with Mary as a small grin attempted to break free, making her lips twitch in the effort to contain it. "I approve."
"Thank you, Granny," Mary returned, tilting her head and smiling at her grandmother. "I knew that you would."
Violet grudgingly had to admit to herself that Mary had always had to do things in her own way and at her own time, and if moving on with her life meant the loss of some of her hair, well, so be it. She then took a deep breath and decided that it was time to get back to the business at hand.
"I am so glad that you were able to come, my dear," she announced, directing Mary's attention to the other woman in the room. "I have an old friend that I would very much like you to meet."
Mary took in her grandmother's guest, a spritely white-headed woman with some of the merriest green eyes she had ever seen. She had not realized they were to have company for tea but welcomed the fact, wondering if the presence of an additional person would dissuade her grandmother from any further discussion of potential suitors.
But highly doubting it.
"This is Lady Catherine Blake. Lady Blake, may I present my granddaughter, Lady Mary Crawley."
"It is such a pleasure to at last make your acquaintance, Lady Mary," Lady Catherine beamed, her face alight with a smile. "Your grandmother has told me so much about you."
Mary began to wonder if any portion of the woman's face was not smiling. Every wrinkle, every crevice seemed to be lifted upward into an expression she could only describe as utter joy. It was both beautiful and humbling.
"Thank you, Lady Catherine," Mary replied, liking this woman instantly which was a rather foreign occurrence for her. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance." She then sent her grandmother a subtle rather quizzical look as she continued, "I do hope that Granny has not been over-taxing you with tales about me."
"Not at all," Lady Catherine responded, her soft voice actually quite musical. "She is very proud of you, my dear. She has also told me so much about your precious son."
"Where is George?" Violet asked, looking around the room as if the child would miraculously materialize out of thin air. "I thought he was with you today."
"He is, but I am afraid he fell asleep at Crawley House," Mary answered. "He was quite tuckered out."
"I told you going to London yesterday was a bad idea," Violet murmured under her breath, earning a pointed look from her granddaughter that she purposefully chose to ignore.
"Nonsense," Lady Catherine remarked, her eyes twinkling as she reached for Mary's hands and squeezed them gently. "Sometimes a trip to the unknown is good for the soul, isn't that right, dear?"
"Exactly," Mary agreed, finding herself inexplicably drawn to the older woman who had just had the nerve to disagree with her grandmother and was still smiling about it. Perhaps it was the complete absence of pretense, or the fullness of spirit that spilled out of her that aroused Mary's interest. But whatever it was, Lady Catherine Blake simply radiated happiness, almost as if …
As if she had swallowed a box of fireworks.
It was happening again. How could she spiral so quickly from being at peace to feeling as if she had been ripped open once more, from actually believing she was gaining a small bit of control in her life to having that control being torn from her grasp? Would she always walk with one foot in the world of the living and the other in the realm of ghosts? The boundary between the two seemed so frustratingly vague sometimes as she could suddenly see Matthew holding George as through a veil, not knowing it would be the only time he would do so. The force of the memory pressed down on her, breaking through the walls meant to separate the two domains and choking her spirit.
Dear God, it was so unfair!
Mary closed her eyes and drew a deep breath decisively. No—she was not in that hospital anymore! She was at her grandmother's house about to have tea, and she could take charge of this piece of her life. Matthew could not die again. That travesty had already occurred, and he could not leave her another time. It was done. She had survived the unthinkable once, and she would continue to bear its ramifications every day of her life, but she would no longer let them break her spirit.
The shadows had no place here.
"Are you quite alright, dear," Violet asked, a wary look crossing her features as she cut into Mary's thoughts. "Perhaps you should sit down."
"I'm fine, Granny," Mary responded, although she was still quivering inside. "A bit of lunch just disagreed with me. That's all." She would not speak of her struggle, not here, so she pressed a look of interest on her face and stated, "I thought I heard a peal of thunder. Did neither of you hear it?"
"No," Lady Catherine answered before thoughtfully adding, "but my hearing is not what it used to be."
"Well, there is nothing at all wrong with my ears, and I heard nothing," Violet interjected, continuing to stare at her granddaughter in a most unsettling manner.
"It is of little matter whether you heard it or not, for there is a storm brewing," Mary stated, her calm exterior beginning to claim dominance over her shifting emotions once again. "It may become quite nasty soon."
It then dawned upon Mary to wonder just how Lady Catherine would return to her home when the rough weather made its appearance. "How far did you travel today, Lady Catherine?" she queried, looking at older woman with concern.
Lady Catherine smiled, pausing to thank the servant for her tea. "I reside in York now, so the journey by car is rather short, actually. I shall return home shortly and return for the gathering at Downton in a few days. It is so very kind of your family to have me."
"They are delighted to have you at Downton," Violet interjected, her eyes instructing her granddaughter to echo those sentiments immediately.
"Have you lived elsewhere?" Mary asked instead, her storm-tossed insides beginning to finally settle as conversation took a more comfortable turn.
"Oh, yes," Lady Catherine affirmed, nodding her head before taking a sip of her tea. "I resided in Edinburgh until just recently."
That explained the musical lilt that Mary heard in the woman's voice.
"But you are English," Mary stated. "What drew you to Scotland?"
Lady Catherine's eyes suddenly fixed upon Mary, taking in the younger woman's measure with thoroughness and delicacy. Her radiant smile then returned as she leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, "A new life, my dear."
Mary could have sworn she felt the wind upon her neck as those words were uttered even though she knew with certainty that no windows in the house were open. The promise of such a thing seemed so tantalizingly close yet still frustratingly out of reach as Lady Catherine's answer echoed in her mind.
A new life…
"Lady Catherine was always quite the adventurer," Violet put in, as she took a sandwich and deftly steered the conversation. "She has never let herself be bound by convention. I thought the two of you would hit it off quite nicely."
A keen intrigue as to this woman's past was taking root in Mary, giving rise to several questions she would like to ask this new acquaintance of hers. Perhaps she would have enjoyable company and interesting conversation at the house party after all.
"I was an instructor of literature, philosophy and art at a girl's school in Edinburgh for over 30 years," Lady Catherine continued, a wistfulness overtaking her features as she unwittingly did just as Lady Mary had silently bade her to do—discuss her past. "I did so enjoy my life there."
"What brought you back to England?" Mary inquired, unsure of why a lady would have worked as a teacher in a girl's school but deciding that she would hold that question until the two of them had become better acquainted.
"Family, my dear," Lady Catherine answered without hesitation. "I have very little family left, and life is short, you know."
Yes—she knew it all too well.
Who knows what is coming?
"You have family in York?" Mary continued, forcibly pushing down any disturbing thoughts from her being. She turned her musings to Lady Catherine and quickly deduced that a woman who had spent her adult life as a teacher probably had neither a husband nor any children. She then wondered what family had drawn her back to England.
"My nephew," Lady Catherine replied, her face shining at the mere mention of his name. "Charles is such a dear boy, and he only arrived back from India a few weeks ago."
Ah…Charles Blake…one of the unmarried men who would be staying at Downton in a matter of days, one of the three doomed dandies from which she was supposed to choose. Why did there have to be a catch in this delightful situation? Mary hastily decided that she would not like him nearly as much as she liked his aunt. She hoped that Lady Catherine's desire to make her acquaintance was not merely a means to size her up as a possible match for her nephew.
She was in for a disappointment if that was her motive.
"He was there for many years, was he not?" Violet inquired, noticing how Mary had momentarily dropped the thread of conversation.
"Nearly half his life," Lady Catherine replied, pausing before she took a bite of her biscuit and looking directly at Mary. "He attended boarding school in England and then went on to Oxford, but spent the remainder of his adult life in India."
"Oxford," Mary interjected, taking a soothing sip of tea. "He must be quite the scholar."
"Charles is quite intelligent, but he went to Oxford mostly to please his father," Lady Catherine admitted, shaking her head slightly. "They had a rather difficult relationship, I'm afraid."
"He would certainly not be the only child in the world to disappoint his parents," Mary stated, choosing a small sandwich in an avoidance of making eye contact.
"Don't I know it," Lady Catherine added with a small laugh. She then became quite thoughtful as the past flitted across her face, her eyes becoming nearly vacant for a moment before she righted herself and continued. "My brother—his father—did not marry until he was fifty-one years old. He was quite the confirmed bachelor and spent most of his time in India on an estate that he purchased and ran there. He never desired a wife or family and was perfectly content being alone. But he felt keenly that it was his duty to continue the line and provide an heir for his estate."
Mary had felt that same duty—that knowledge that so much rested upon her for the sake of her family's estate. It had consumed her, pushed her, molded her into the woman she had become as it had also nearly kept her from the most glorious love of her life. And duty itself had shown its face the moment she presented her son to his father, that most sacred moment now forever tainted in her memory by her words spoken out of relief.
We've done our duty.
Dear God! Could she ever take those words back? How they had ceaselessly tormented her since the moment they were uttered. She had been elated that her duty had finally been accomplished to Downton by finally giving her father the heir that she had never been able to be. But she had not meant to diminish the wonder of George for himself, not just as heir to Downton but as her and Matthew's child. Mary took a quick sip of tea, lowering her head so the others would not witness yet another moment of weakness on her part. She knew those words would never come back to her, and she was thankful that the only person who had heard her utter them was Matthew.
But he was also the person she hated hearing them the most.
"Mary, are you alright, dear?" her grandmother questioned.
"Yes," Mary answered automatically, purposefully raising her chin and smiling in her manner that alerted her grandmother to the fact that just the opposite was true.
"Am I boring you, my dear?" Lady Catherine inquired, looking at her in genuine concern.
"Heavens, no!" Mary stated truthfully, snapping herself back into the conversation around her as she sought to reassure her grandmother's guest. "Please continue, Lady Catherine."
"Yes, Catherine," Violet affirmed, an obvious command in her voice as she continued, "We are all ears, aren't we, Mary?"
Their eyes locked yet again as another truce was wordlessly forged.
"Well then, if you insist," Lady Catherine agreed, sipping her tea before she began. "Albert, my brother, finally returned to England to find a suitable wife. He married Lady Alice Edgewood, a very young woman from a highly respectable family with very little money." She then narrowed her bright eyes as she stated, "The marriage was a complete disaster. I always thought she was a heartless little thing."
Mary was taken aback by the unprecedented show of bitterness she heard in Lady Catherine's voice. She would have thought the woman nearly incapable of such an emotion.
"Alice absolutely refused to live in India, although Albert had made her quite aware he had every intention of returning to his home there as soon as possible," Lady Catherine explained, drawing a deliberate breath. "She was absolutely horrid to Albert, treated the servants abysmally, and seemed intent on making everyone's life as miserable as her own."
"If I didn't know better, I would swear she was French," Violet bemused, smiling at her own joke as Mary raised her tea cup to her in a silent nod of acknowledgement.
"Even the French would have been embarrassed by her," Lady Catherine retorted, pleasantly surprising Mary as she openly showed this touch of irreverence.
"Oh, dear, that bad?" Violet bemused, shaking her head at the thoughts of an Englishwoman sinking to such depths.
"Quite," Lady Catherine nodded, her expression saddening as she continued. "Neither Alice nor Albert really wanted to become parents, but she conceived very quickly and gave birth to Charlie. He was the most beautiful, perfect little boy. I fell in love with him the moment I saw that precious baby. He was a bit early and little small, but healthy. He just needed the love and care of his mother in order to thrive."
Just like her George…if she hadn't...
What if's are absolutely pointless, Mary. Dwelling on things you cannot change is useless.
Mary drew in her mother's words and wrapped them around herself like a protective blanket. She had to cease using the past to torment herself. She then noticed that Lady Catherine had grown silent, her beautiful face looking so terribly distraught. "What happened?" she asked quietly.
Lady Catherine shook her head, dropping her gaze to her tea momentarily before she stated, "She would have nothing to do with him. His mother would not even touch her own child."
How could that be? When Isobel placed George in her arms for the first time, she had been overwhelmed. He was so very small...so terribly helpless…and absolutely hers. Mary had loved him on sight, and could not imagine how a mother could be so indifferent. She was ashamed to remember that there had been nights right after his birth when she could not rock him because the memories of his father tore at her until she was sure that she bled. She was horrified when she thought of the moments when she had to walk away from George to catch her breath because he reminded her too deeply of what she had lost. But she had always loved her son with a fierceness that would never falter. And she would have cut out her own heart if she had to do so to protect him.
A mother who wanted nothing to do with her child? Was that even possible?
"What happened to him?" Mary asked, concern and disbelief still etched in her features.
"I took him," Lady Catherine answered with a smile, taking a bite of her biscuit as if she had just stated the obvious.
Mary nearly choked at these words as they took her so by surprise. "You took him? The baby?"
"Yes," Lady Catherine replied, smiling softly again at Mary. "His mother did not want him, and his father had no idea what to do with a baby. They were just going to let him falter. So I took him with me to Scotland where I raised him until he was ten years old."
Unconventional indeed!
"What happened then?" Mary inquired, now completely engrossed in this woman's life story. "Did his mother not fight you for him?"
"Alice?" Lady Catherine exclaimed, her eyes wide in disbelief. "Of course not. She whined a bit about being deprived of the love of her son, but she was happy for someone to take him off her hands. She never even wrote to check on his progress."
"Dear God," Mary breathed, still unable to take such unconcern into her consciousness.
"Precisely," Lady Catherine agreed, gazing at Mary as a mutual understanding passed between them, a shared weight of horror at the inaction of this mother. "Alice died not long after Albert finally insisted that they return to India. Malaria, I believe. Charlie was only two years old."
"And his father?" Mary inquired, unable to accept that a man could be so indifferent to his own child—especially after she had witnessed the absolute adoration Matthew had felt for George, how he had stroked her womb when their son still lay nestled within it and would read to both of them each night with such tenderness. Her hand flitted to her abdomen in an unconscious moment of remembrance.
"When Charlie was ten, Albert decided that it was time for Charlie to live in India with him so he could learn to manage the estate. So I had to take him to India—to his father."
"That must have been hard for you," Mary empathized, unable to imagine the torture of sending away a child that you had raised from infancy. She suddenly longed to have George safe in her arms feeling strangely bereft without him.
Lady Catherine sat silent, her breathing the only sound in the room besides the wind pressing against the windows. "I felt as if a part of me had been torn away," she finally admitted, shaking her head gently as she cleared her throat.
Mary knew that sensation all to well, sealing her eyes shut against the pain.
I feel as though half of me is missing….
"I could not have loved a child any more if I had given birth to him, and I missed him so terribly. But his father knew how close Charlie was to me, and he sent him to Scotland for summers and holidays. It was not the same, but it did make life much more bearable," Lady Catherine concluded, smiling to herself. She suddenly drew herself out of past reminisces, sat up taller and added, "Albert died over a year ago, leaving everything to Charles. He took care of the business that needed doing in India, and now he is back in England to stay."
"A wise decision, I am sure," Violet stated, sipping her tea gingerly as she finished, "Why, the insects alone would convince any sensible person to settle as far away from India as possible."
"Charlie is quite sensible, I assure you," Lady Catherine volunteered, her merry smile back in full force as she leaned back in her chair.
"I look forward to meeting him," Mary lied smoothly, noting that even though Charles Blake had lived a rather fascinating yet tragic life, she would not willingly show any interest in the man.
No matter how much she liked his aunt.
"I'm glad to hear it, for he will in fact be giving you a lift back to Downton this afternoon," Violet chirped in, rewarded by a look of utter shock upon the face of her granddaughter. "You will be able to meet him quite shortly."
"Oh, that is quite unnecessary," Mary began, despising how suddenly flustered she felt as circumstances were ripped from her control yet again. She had enjoyed learning about Charlie the boy, but she was in no way ready to meet Charles the man.
"I can ring for a car from Downton. I would not want to cause him any inconvenience,"she offered, knowing even as the words left her mouth that the suggestion would be futile, but trying just the same.
"Oh, it's no inconvenience at all," Lady Catherine soothed, her assurances not making Mary feel the least bit better. "Charles is the one who drove me here for our lovely visit today. I know he will not mind in the slightest giving you and your son a lift home."
Anger stirred quite rapidly within her, coursing through her blood as she sat up taller. Mary was upset with these two women who had arranged for her to ride with this man rather than in a chauffeured car. She was cross with the weather for its uncooperative attitude. Were a storm not on the horizon, she could have simply refused the offer and walked home, claiming a desire for fresh air. And she was mad at herself for not simply taking matters into her own hands by calling Carson and asking him to have a car sent for her. But as it was, she had no choice but to ride home with the nephew. Calling Downton for a car after Lady Catherine's generous offer would just appear rude. But Mary was just not prepared to meet one of her hand-picked suitors today. She felt vulnerable, exposed, and simply too weary to have to suddenly raise her defenses. She was supposed to have had more time!
"Charlie always liked children, as well," Lady Catherine continued, quite unaware of the inner struggle waging within the young woman sitting next to her. "It would give him great pleasure to meet your son, my dear." She then leaned close to Mary, whispering as if she had the most delicious secret. "He was telling me of the cutest little chap he met yesterday on the train from London. He was quite taken with the lad."
Mary's heart stopped.
The train…London… yesterday…It could not be!
I have a favorite aunt who resides in York. I am shamefully overdue a visit with her.
"The train from London?" Violet picked up, suddenly looking at Mary with keen interest taking note of her sudden discomfort
"Yes," Lady Catherine smiled, leaning towards Violet as she said, "Evidently they played some sort of game with a rather large stuffed bear."
Mary knew then that she was going to become ill.
Her hands were shaking violently as the walls seemed to press in on her. She was not ready to face him again—his smile, his dimples, his…
Dear God, she had to get out of this house!
Mary stood abruptly nearly knocking over the table, her face flush as she had trouble drawing breath. She could not think clearly, knowing only that she had to leave immediately, fetch George and go home. She had no time to lose.
"Mary, heavens, what is wrong?" Violet demanded, actual concern now emblazoned on her features.
"Nothing, I, I…" Mary gripped the edge of the table, drew a deep breath and attempted, "I am suddenly very hot. I just need a breath of fresh air."
"Are you ill?" Violet asked, grasping Mary's arm and trying to encourage her to sit back down. "Perhaps I should call Dr. Clarkson for you, dear."
"No, I am quite well," Mary returned, keenly aware that her grandmother was simply too close to something she desperately wanted to keep private. "There is no need to fetch Dr. Clarkson, Granny."
Mary gently forced her way behind her grandmother and made her way across the room. She felt suddenly dizzy, her thoughts tumbling over on each other so that she could not make sense of anything. This could not be happening.
He would be at the house party! At Downton! Oh, God!
Mary turned in haste to face the two perplexed and noticeably concerned women who stood quite suddenly in resistance to her leaving.
"Mary, I must protest…" Violet began, suddenly being quite unaccustomedly cut off by her granddaughter.
"Please forgive my abrupt departure, Lady Catherine," Mary breathed, recovering a bit of composure. "It has been a true pleasure to make your acquaintance. I look forward to having you at Downton." She then looked to her grandmother and added desperately, "Forgive me, Granny."
With that, Mary turned and fled towards the exit, her eyes focused squarely upon the approaching door.
She could not face him! Not here, not yet…not in front of Granny!
Thank God—she was nearly there! With shaking hands, Mary grasped the door handle, yanking it open as she pushed herself forward…
And straight into the arms of a very startled Charles Blake.