Your responses were truly overwhelming to Chapter 7, and once again, I appreciate the notes and reviews more than I can ever say! I must give huge shout-outs again to the Wonderful R. Grace for allowing me to bounce ideas off of her at insane hours of the night and freely sharing her wise advice, and to the Amazing On either side the river lie for offering such incredible feedback and delightful discussion that always makes me smile and challenges my brain cells! I do so look forward to hearing your thoughts on Chapter 8, so without further adieu-here it is. And blessings to all of you delightful readers as we enjoy this Kentucky Derby weekend!
Chapter 8
Dinner was a rather subdued affair with only Robert, Cora, Tom, Mary and Charles in attendance as the storm showed no intention of abating outside. Mary noted with absolutely no modicum of surprise that Charles had been seated next to her and across from her mother, which meant only one thing:
They were under scrutiny.
She should not be astonished by this fact. After all, her mother had spoken with Granny on the telephone earlier, and Mary somehow doubted that they had discussed only sleeping arrangements and the weather. There was no doubt that Violet Crawley had delighted in spilling all of her suspicions on Mary's connection to Charles Blake into Cora's willing ears.
And then Mary had lent the man Matthew's suit. Her mother must be positively rabid with curiosity at the strange turn of events.
As if on cue, Cora looked up at her daughter, Mary quickly quirking an eyebrow in her direction as her mother responded by raising both of hers in feigned innocence. Mary simply rolled her eyes in response, Tom catching some of these proceedings but having little idea of what to make of them.
Tom also was unsure of what to think of the fact that Mr. Charles Blake was wearing one of Matthew's suits—and at Mary's insistence! When Cora had hurriedly confided the fact to both him and Robert before the other two had come down for dinner, Tom was certain that he had surely misunderstood. But he had not missed the forced smile that Mary quickly donned when she first saw the man dressed in the attire that had belonged to her husband or the way that her eyes widened ever-so-slightly when she made eye contact with Mr. Blake. And he was most acutely aware of the fact that his sister-in-law was currently having a difficult time keeping her hands steady. He was certain that they were clasped tightly in her lap around the napkin, a tell-tale sign of high emotion in this woman who desperately needed to feel in control.
He was concerned about her…and he knew that she would hate that.
The truth was that Mary was having a difficult time keeping her composure in check. Every time she glanced to her right at Charles Blake, it seemed to her that two men were sitting there at once looking back at her: one very much alive, dark and so very tangible and the other invisible, so heartbreakingly out of reach yet present nonetheless. Each on his own filled her with such an odd mixture of peace and uneasiness, but combined as they were in her over-taxed mind, the effect was similar to that of veritable whirlwind, competing for her attention in a manner that left her absolutely exhausted. Oh, she had not counted on this…this sensation of wanting to literally crawl out of her skin and make sense of everything. But there would be no opportunity for that until dinner was over…
And they had just made it through the first course.
It was almost more than she could stand, but it had come about at her request. So Mary resorted to making as little conversation and eye contact as possible, praying that everyone would believe that it was all on George's account. But somehow, she knew better. The only person at the table who did not know whose suit he was wearing was Charles Blake himself.
Everyone else was paying her entirely too much attention. And she prayed desperately that she did not give herself away as she had at Granny's earlier.
"So, Mr. Blake, I understand that you just returned from India," Robert began trying to learn more about this man who had shown up with his daughter and grandson and was now sitting at his table wearing Matthew's attire.
A fact that had him completely flabbergasted.
"Yes, Lord Grantham, that is correct," Charles replied, sipping his water as the second course was brought around.
"And what are you dealings there, may I ask?" Robert continued, looking towards Mary in an attempt to discern her thoughts.
"Horses, actually," Charles replied, actually earning a curious glance from Mary at the mention of her most favored creature. "My father purchased and founded a horse farm just out of outside of Bombay several years ago."
"Do you work with a specific breed?" Tom ventured, looking to the man with interest.
"My father specialized in Cleveland Bays," Charles answered, casting a return glance at Mary who resumed studying her plate as if it bore an original Van Gogh.
"Those are very fine, indeed," Robert remarked, "a breed that is a true testament to the quality and standards of Yorkshire." He leaned forward a bit and inquired with interest, "Who manages your estate for you while you are away? You must have someone quite trustworthy to embark upon such a journey as you have."
"I sold the farm just before I returned to England," Charles stated calmly, his answer once again hesitantly drawing Mary's eyes towards him as he continued. "I had no desire to remain in India after my father passed away, so I sold everything with the exception of six horses and returned home."
"I do say, my dear boy, that was a bold move, indeed," Robert exclaimed, gazing at Charles Blake with renewed interest. "I do hope that you obtained a fair price for the place."
A begrudging smile crept across his face as he answered, "I received a very generous sum, Lord Grantham. More than enough to purchase and establish my own horse farm here in Yorkshire."
"Is that your intention, then?" Mary asked, unable to help herself even though she drew the attention of everyone in the room simply because it was the first time she had spoken a word since arriving at the table. "Is that why you kept the six horses and brought them with you?"
His gaze softened when it reached her eyes as he confirmed, "Yes, Lady Mary. Those are my intentions."
"Mary adores horses, don't you dear?" Cora put in, inspecting her daughter closely for her reaction. "With the exception of George, her stallion Diamond is her favorite companion here at Downton."
"I would welcome a visit from Lady Mary once I have things set up and running properly," Charles stated, missing the slight stain of pink that flushed across Mary's cheeks as he was addressing her mother, "I am sure that she would have plenty to offer in how to run the place." He then cleared his throat slightly, understanding that he had just revealed too much and corrected, "All of you would be most welcome for a visit, indeed."
But Cora had missed nothing: not the blush of her daughter, not the slight hint of vulnerability in Mr. Blake's eyes when offering her the invitation, and most decidedly not the air of electricity that hovered between the pair, though neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge its existence. Giving Charles a charming smile as she pondered the situation playing out in front of her, Cora replied evenly, "How very generous of you, Mr. Blake. I am sure we would all be delighted, wouldn't we, Mary?"
"Yes, Mr. Blake," Mary managed, her voice barely discernable. "Your invitation is most kind, indeed."
Charles smiled at her words, frustrated by the fact that she was seemingly resolute to do nothing more than cast an occasional glance in his direction. Had he offended her in some fashion? Something was most decidedly distressing her this evening, and he suspected that it involved more than George's ears.
"Will you stay with Cleveland Bays?" Tom inquired, drawing Mr. Blake's attention, "or do you plan on diversifying a bit?"
"It is interesting that you ask, Mr. Branson, for I actually would like to introduce some new blood to the line," Charles replied, an infections grin breaking across his face. "I am hoping to travel to America in the very near future to visit some of the Thoroughbred farms in Kentucky. The horses being bred there are truly magnificent creatures, and they can breed well with the Bays."
He then paused, taking a sip of wine before he continued, "And I did manage to bring one Marwari with me."
"A Marwari?" Mary exclaimed, sitting taller and actually meeting his eyes at the mention of such a rare breed of horse. "Truly? You have a Marwari here in England? A mare or a stallion?"
"A filly," Charles answered, very pleased at her obvious enthusiasm as he continued, "Kala is a personal favorite of mine. She is quite a spirited and vibrant girl, and I must admit that she certainly keeps me on my toes."
"I say, was she difficult to come by?" Robert inquired, truly engaged in the topic of this rare breed. "Or are they more plentiful in India then we are led to believe?"
"She was a rare find, indeed, Lord Grantham," Charles replied, shaking his head slightly as he continued, "The man who eventually sold her to me loved her nearly as much as his own daughters. It took some time, a vast amount of patience and quite a decent amount of money to convince him that I was worthy of her, I must say."
A small ripple of laughter spilled across the table as the men chuckled at his comment, Cora simply smiling in polite agreement as she kept watch over Mr. Blake with keen eyes.
"Well, are you?" Mary asked softly, her question somehow breeching a wall in the conversation as he turned and gave her his full attention. "Worthy of her, I mean, Mr. Blake?"
All sound at the table ceased immediately.
"I'm honestly not sure," he replied honestly, his encompassing gaze making her throat dry although she had just taken a sip of water, "but I do hope she thinks so. She is a truly magnificent creature."
Her gaze fluttered, brushing his for a few blessed seconds as she dared, "Then you had best remain in top form, Mr. Blake. Creatures such as she can often be temperamental, you know."
"Yes, I do know," Charles smiled, his dimples hitting her with pinpoint clarity as he finished, "but I am certain she is worth it, Lady Mary."
Her eyes flew back to her plate. And Tom nearly dropped his fork.
Mary was flirting with this man! Yes—with some trepidation, to be sure, but flirting just the same. If he had not witnessed the exchange himself, he would have never dared to believe it. His eyes met Cora's fleetingly from across the table, hers sparkling with intrigue as his rounded in utter disbelief. He returned his attention to his meal, trying his best to think of something clever to say to break the crackling silence that had settled over the table. He needn't have bothered.
A master of diplomacy and conversation took that burden from his shoulders with ease, steering the topic of discussion exactly where she willed it to go.
"Kala is a lovely name, Mr. Blake," Cora stated. "Does it mean anything?"
Another brief silence hovered over them, all eyes again focused upon Charles awaiting his answer.
"Yes, Lady Grantham," he replied, clearing his throat with a modicum of discomfort as he smiled through the subtle scrutiny. "Her name means Dark Beauty. Kala is the Hindi word for black."
Mary hastily took a drink of wine with unsteady hands, re-focusing her eyes squarely upon the napkin in her lap as goose bumps pimpled her flesh.
"How fitting," Cora responded, taking a small bite as she smiled at Mr. Blake sweetly, her daughter shooting her a look of warning that Cora took in stride.
Dear God—would the third course ever arrive?
As dinner finally came to an end, Mary excused herself quickly, dashing up the stairs to check on Anna and George. She could stand the thick tension building within her no longer, threads of confusion clinging to her and making her prickle inside as she tried to force all thoughts of anyone save her son from her mind. She stepped inside of her bedroom for a moment of solitude, trying to compose her thoughts and emotions as one hand covered her forehead. She closed her eyes and simply focused on the act of breathing.
There…that was better.
A quiet knock roused her attention, drawing her to the door to answer with some hesitation, "Who is it?"
"It's Anna," a friendly voice responded, prompting Mary to open the door and let the welcome intruder inside.
"Your mother is with George now," she began, answering Mary's first question before she needed to ask it. "She assumed you would want to tend to him yourself for a while, but she thought you might like to change first."
"I'm planning on staying with him the rest of the night, so I suppose my sleep attire would be most appropriate," Mary agreed, allowing Anna to begin helping her out of the dress. "Although I doubt I shall actually get much of that tonight."
"I can check on you later if you like," Anna volunteered, unhooking the clasps on the back of Mary's dress.
"Absolutely not," Mary insisted, removing the clip from her hair as her dress slid off of her shoulders. "You need a full night's sleep, and if anyone disturbs you, including Mr. Bates, they shall have to contend with me."
"You spoil me, mi'lady," Anna grinned. She paused, her hands stilling and drawing Mary's full attention as a look of melancholy crossed her face before stating haltingly, "I shall miss being your lady's maid."
Their eyes met wordlessly in the mirror, reflecting their shared sorrow at the very thought of it. It was a topic they had avoided discussing but they both understood was inevitable. Once Anna's child was born, she would devote her time to her baby and would be unable to complete the duties of a true lady's maid.
And that thought distressed Mary almost more than she could bear…so much so that she had not even had the nerve to begin searching for a replacement, and she was running out of time. Losing someone so precious to her, even if only to a cottage that was walking distance from Downton was just too painful to even consider.
"I shall miss you terribly, Anna. I'm not quite sure just how I shall cope without you."
Mary turned to face her, her brow creased as she hesitantly broached an idea that had taken root before dinner, one she hoped Anna would at least consider.
"I have wondered, though," she began, finding speech difficult as she knew her idea to be unorthodox, "if you might consider becoming George's nanny."
Anna's eyes flew wide, her expression leaving Mary in doubt of just how much she had been taken by surprise by the request. She doubted that Mrs. Bates could have looked any more shocked if she had just been offered an invitation to dine with the king.
"You could bring your baby with you, of course," Mary continued, hoping to allay any doubts she might have before she could speak them. "We can easily fit another crib in the nursery here, and they could grow up together. Don't you see just how well this could work?"
Anna's chest began rise and fall at a slightly quickened rate, her eyes glistening as she managed, "Do you mean it? Are you really certain about this? This isn't usually done, mi'lady, hiring your lady's maid as your nanny, I mean."
"As if I give a fig about how things are supposed to be done," Mary responded, raising an eyebrow in Anna's direction. "I'm much more concerned with George's future and your companionship." She paused momentarily, her uncertainty of Anna's response clouding her eyes as she continued, "I cannot think of anyone I would rather help me raise my son than you, Anna." She paused a moment before offering, "You are truly the best person I know."
A smile crept across Anna's face as her tears spilled over onto her cheeks. "Thank you so much, mi'lady," she exclaimed as the two women embraced each other, a wordless acknowledgement of the true relationship forged between them. "I shall have to discuss it with Mr. Bates, of course, and I wouldn't be able to start immediately," she continued as she drew back and quickly fetched Mary's nightgown.
"Of course not," Mary agreed. "You shall need time to get your strength back and for your baby to grow a bit. We could hire someone on a temporary basis until you are ready. But please consider it, at least."
"I shall, trust me," Anna assured her, still unable to comprehend that she had been offered such a post. They suddenly could not contain the bursts of laughter that sprung out of them as the spark of an idea actually became a real possibility, easing some of the pain that had been flitting in the corners of their minds.
Yes—it just might work after all.
After she had successfully changed for the night and sent Anna on her way, Mary crept stealthily to the nursery, careful that the men were not wondering the hallway as she made haste to reach her son. She knocked quietly, walking in to discover her mother reading "The Little Red Hen" to George as he tried to chime in, "Do Myself!"
"He looks better," Mary began, walking towards the pair rocking in momentary contentment and placing a hand on his forehead. "But he is still warm."
"Yes, but not hot, thankfully," Cora returned, standing carefully with her precious charge as she passed him to his mother. "I put the peroxide drops in his ears already, but I believe he is getting hungry. Mrs. Hughes is bringing up a bottle of warm milk for him to see if he will take it."
"Thank you, Mama," Mary returned, taking her seat in the rocking chair as George willingly snuggled up against her.
"I should go down and check on the how the men are doing," Cora stated, still threading her grandson's locks through her fingers. "We did leave them to their own devices rather hastily, I'm afraid."
"I believe they can manage," Mary remarked as she leaned down to retrieve George's Teddy Bear from the floor beside her.
"Yes, I'm sure that they can," Cora agreed, "but that is not the point."
"Then pray, what is the point?" Mary inquired, already quite suspicious of the answer but finding herself unusually curious to hear her mother's response.
"The point is that Mr. Blake brought you and George safely home in a storm, that he was basically stranded here for doing so, and then we deserted him after dinner, poor man." Cora paused and looked at her daughter thoughtfully.
"I just want to make sure that he knows that he is most welcome here."
"Well, when you put it like that," Mary quipped, her attention suddenly distracted by her son as he began to whimper unhappily. She raised him up so his head was lying contentedly on her shoulder, rubbing his back in the manner that always seemed to soothe him.
"Please thank him for me, Mama," she requested, keeping her voice even as she rocked her child. "And apologize to him for my absence after dinner. Let him know that George demanded my attention."
"I shall do so," Cora replied, "but I most certainly know who commanded his attention this evening."
"Mama," Mary began, knowing that she had no valid defense but not ready to discuss any details of Charles Blake with her mother. "He was a kind and courteous guest who entertained all of us this evening. I cannot imagine why you think I captured his interest more than anyone else at the table."
"Oh, Mary," her mother laughed, Cora's expression letting her daughter know that her contrived explanation sounded just as ludicrous to her ears as it had to her own. "His attention was so focused upon you and the fact that you would barely even look at him that I think Carson could have overseen dinner in his nightcap and slippers, and Mr. Blake would not have noticed."
"I believe you are overstating the facts," Mary tried, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage as she continued to rock her son.
"And I believe that you are clearly out of your mind if you think that for one minute I am buying the story that the two of you met a few hours ago at your grandmother's house," Cora returned, her gaze as direct as her statement as she looked at her daughter.
"Please, Mama," Mary pleaded, her ire deflating as George fussed against her neck. "Can we not discuss this now?"
Cora acquiesced to her daughter's request and walked towards the door to the nursery, turning once more towards Mary as she observed, "It is your story to tell, Mary, whenever you are ready to do so. I shall not try to force it out of you." Mary quickly shot her a disbelieving glance to which Cora responded, "But I do like him, and I think you do, too."
Mary cast another look in her mother's direction, refusing to rise to the bait offered her as she continued to comfort her son in silence. Cora hesitated but a moment before making her exit, a look of hesitant wonder overtaking her face as she gently shut the door behind her. Her daughter had discovered that she could feel attraction for a man besides Matthew—a fact that was simply astonishing! And whether or not anything developed between Mary and Charles Blake, at least her daughter's senses were stirring again, proving to her that life could actually begin anew for her and for her son. Cora smiled to herself, offering up a short prayer of gratitude as she absorbed the beauty of this one small miracle while her offspring rocked another in her arms on the other side of the nursery door.
He awoke too early as he had so often since returning to England, his body still not completely adjusted to the changes in time and climate and therefore hesitant to permit him a sound sleep. He had only had three or four nights that he had slumbered without waking since returning to Europe, often rousing fitfully as his mind refused to settle into blissful oblivion. The responsibility of caring for his aunt weighed heavily upon him as he came to understand that now it was his opportunity to bestow upon her the same care and tenderness she had shown him throughout his life. Without Aunt Catherine, his life would have been devoid of any type of nurturing affection, and he truly prayed that he was up to the task of giving her the care she so deserved. But he feared disappointing her, as he had continually disappointed his father, a fact that still plagued him though he was loathe to admit it to anyone, even himself.
Of course, he knew that part of his difficulty in sleeping tonight had nothing to do with his aunt, his father or even his life in India for that matter, and everything to do with a certain woman who had so unexpectedly crossed paths with him twice during the past two days. A woman whose eyes and spirit had completely captured his attention and interest in a manner he had not experienced in far too long.
And she was at this moment sleeping under the same roof as he.
Lady Mary Crawley was still such an enigma, a woman still obviously mourning the untimely death of a husband she loved to her very core. A lady with a quick intellect, a fear of trusting people, and—he suspected—a passionate nature underneath the cool demeanor she so desperately tried to manifest. But it had been her eyes that truly arrested him where he stood as he accidentally opened the door to her compartment on that train—eyes nearly black with sorrow, with guilt, and with desperation to feel some measure of hope again in her life. He had instantly recognized such feelings as they had so dominated the past few years of his life. But Lady Mary had been given a son who relied upon her care, a precious life to mold that had kept her from allowing herself to spin hopelessly on the downward spiral that had squandered precious years away from his own life.
And he truly admired her for that.
No—sleep would not come easily again tonight, especially as the storm continued outside, albeit more subdued than it had raged earlier. Charles dared a glance at the clock on the wall, both needing and dreading to see the time that seemingly mocked him. Yes—3:20 a.m. Perhaps a book would dull his senses, chase away the ghosts that could still plague him at night, and at least allow him a bit of rest between this witching hour and dawn. Lord Grantham had graciously offered the use of his library while drinking their port after dinner, and Charles decided that he would take him up on his generosity, albeit at a much less orthodox time of day than the Earl had surely intended.
He donned the richly hewn dressing gown that most assuredly had to belong to Lord Grantham himself judging by the fit, making him wonder just whose suit he had been offered on loan for dinner. It was decidedly not Tom Branson's—not by a long-shot—and he would also wager that it did not belong to Robert Crawley. He silently made his way down the corridor towards the stairs, still attempting to puzzle out a solution to this small mystery when his attention was distracted from his task on hand entirely.
He could hear George crying.
The small, pitiful sound beckoned him from the path he had intended into a route towards the cry's origin, following his senses until he stood undeniably at the door to the nursery. He wondered if his mother still tended to him, or if someone else had come to relieve her and allow her some sleep. He wanted to knock, hesitating as he considered the response if indeed it was Lady Mary who answered his summons. After her reluctance to engage in any sustained conversation with him at dinner, he was unsure of whether or not his presence would be welcome in her son's nursery—a place of privacy, a possible sanctuary from the grievous loss that had been inflicted upon both mother and child.
But as the boy continued to wail, Charles knew that he would not retreat from him—or her, for that matter. If she had indeed been caring for the child throughout the night, then she would be in dire need of some rest, whether she approved of his intrusion or not. Having made his decision, he then raised his hand and quietly knocked upon the thick wood, reasoning that he would bear her anger in stride if it meant he could offer her some sleep.
Her confusion at seeing him standing there when she cracked the door open was as obvious as the utter exhaustion in her eyes. She had not slept at all—he was certain of it.
"What are you doing here?" Mary asked, clearly astonished at the appearance of Charles Blake at the nursery door.
"I heard George crying," he answered, looking at her with concern.
"From your room?" she asked incredulously, obviously dubious of the fact before the words ever left her mouth.
"No—from the hallway," he began, gazing upon her fragile complexion as he continued, "I was making my way to the library to borrow some reading material."
"Then you have veered dreadfully off course," she stated flatly, the shadows smudged under her eyelids creasing as she finished, "Good-night, Mr. Blake."
"Lady Mary, might I come in for a moment?" he queried, his obvious concern for the pair of them staring back at her as his voice delayed her in shutting him out of the room.
Mary's brows drew together in contemplation as she considered his request. The last time a man besides Matthew had entered her room, nearly catastrophic repercussions that had haunted her for years had ensued. But this was the nursery—not her bedroom, Mary reasoned, and she was not the somewhat naïve and reckless girl that had been afraid to cry out for her own honor ten years ago.
And Charles Blake was not Kemal Pamuk.
Blake had asked for her permission to enter the room and stood unthreateningly in the hallway as he awaited her consent rather than sliding his way into her room bent on seduction. And Mary gave him her answer by slowly stepping back just far enough to allow him entrance, her gaze still slightly unsure as she followed his every move with eyes wide open.
His stature seemed to fill the very room as she realized with a small start that she was not used to seeing a man in here. Yes, her father, Tom and Carson would stop by, but their presence was not a constant one, not like that of her mother or even Anna.
George noticed it, too, his sobbing ceasing as he took in the unknown yet somehow familiar person standing in his room. He suddenly held his arms out towards him, nearly leaping out of his mother's embrace at such a speed that Charles had to take a rather large step in his direction to catch the lad in time. George looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes still wet with tears, his ruddy cheeks wet to the touch as his dimpled hands reached out to touch either side of his face. Mr. Blake's expression of absolute surprise quickly transformed into one of tender consideration, making George bold enough to reach out and play with his nose…
Just as he had on the train.
Mary stood frozen, observing it all in a mixture of wonder and utter frustration. She had been trying to no avail to soothe her inconsolable child for hours now, walking him, reading to him, singing, cooing, rocking…anything she could possibly do to comfort him and allow both of them to rest. But at the very moment when she would allow herself to truly think that he was finally asleep, he would force himself awake, crying over his discomfort, his fever, and simply the fact that he was exhausted. Her patience had worn uncomfortably thin, a sigh of resentment heaving out of her sleep-deprived body as she watched this interloper achieve success with ease when she had come close to having to admit defeat.
She wanted to embrace Charles Blake in gratitude and pull his hair out at the same time.
"Have I done something wrong, my lady?" he inquired softly, treading carefully upon the minefield surrounding her persona created by an exhausted mind.
"You were able to calm him," she shot back, unable to fight the resentment swelling inside of her as she stared incredulously at the two males in front of her, one cooing quietly while the other watched her in a manner that did nothing at the moment but irritate her further. Had they formed some sort of secret conspiracy between them of which she knew nothing? Why had she even bothered for hours upon end?
"Would you prefer that I give him back and leave you?" he continued, the calming timbre in his voice unleashing the claws she was attempting to keep at bay.
"Yes! No—don't you see that it is all so ridiculously unfair?" she cried, amazed at just how the male mind could not see the problem so obviously in front of them. "I have tried to calm him down for hours, and you just waltz into the room and somehow magically make him happy?" She began to pace as weary agitation spiked her indignation to its boiling point. "How is it he has forgotten his mother so easily?"
"He has forgotten no one," Charles soothed, daring to take one step in her direction, halting immediately as her eyes warned him off from coming any closer. "I daresay that I am just a distraction, someone new and interesting." He rubbed the boys back as she had done so often, whispering something quietly in his ear when he began to fidget before returning his attention to Mary and proclaiming softly, "I shall only be a sufficient replacement for a short while. Believe me, my lady, no child ever loses the need for his mother."
Somewhere in her overly-tired being, she remembered the fact that this man had never known his mother, that his aunt had taken that role in his life, making her wonder if he still felt that loss keenly…just as George had never known his father and was eagerly absorbing the attention and affection of this man who held him so gently. But reality bit back quickly as he offered, "Why don't you allow me to sit with George for a while so you can get some sleep? I daresay you need it."
"And just what gives you the right to offer anything to me?" she spat, past the point of caring if her words were at all rational. "I don't need your assistance to raise my son!"
"No, you don't," he agreed, his eyes somehow seeing past her ire and deflating a bit of her righteous indignation by offering, "You are doing an admirable job of that."
Mary released a heavy sigh as one hand rubbed her forehead in agitation, knowing that Charles Blake was absolutely right yet hating the fact that she really should admit it.
"I am sorry," she finally breathed, taking a hesitant step in his direction, the fact that they were both in night clothes just registering in her consciousness as she pulled her dressing gown tighter to her body. "You did not deserve that."
"Lady Mary, you are tired," Charles responded, holding George gently against him as he offered, "Please—allow me to give you some respite while he is still enjoying my company. You will do him no good if you make yourself ill from exhaustion."
"Have you been consulting with Dr. Clarkson, then?" she hesitated, a part of her incredibly tempted by his offer as the seductive thought of sleep dangled enticingly before her, a yawn overtaking her in betrayal of her wishes.
"No, but if you have been given the same advice by a doctor, I daresay you should consider taking it," he smiled gently, adding with a self-depreciating smile, "Not that I would ever assume to tell you what you should do, my lady."
"Liar," she retorted, making him chuckle softly in such a manner that George actually giggled in return, earning him an incredulous look from his mother. "It would seem as though I have been out-voted as he obviously prefers your company to mine at the moment."
"There is no accounting for his taste, then," he soothed, gazing at her intently as she returned his stare in kind. "But it would give me great pleasure if you would allow me to grant you some much needed rest."
Mary wanted sleep at that moment as badly as she had ever desired anything in her life, or so it felt as she stood there, her legs leaden as her body felt so suddenly weary. And George was actually content for the time being, even though she did wonder just how long that phenomenon would last. She silently cursed Nanny Rodgers for abandoning her post on tonight of all nights and placing her in this position, reproaching herself just as quickly as she did understand the woman's reasons for leaving.
Would it be so dreadfully bad if she were to lie down for a few blessed minutes? The lure of a warm bed was frighteningly overpowering.
"Alright," she finally relented, albeit with obvious misgivings in her eyes, "but you must promise to wake me after a few hours or if anything changes with George."
"You have my word," Charles assured her, his feet tracking a path on the thick carpet to keep his charge subdued. "Now will you go and rest?"
"I believe I already answered that," Mary returned, walking towards the small trundle bed that had been set up in the corner.
"What are you doing?" Charles asked quietly, true confusion crossing his features as he watched her lay down, her dressing gown cinched tightly around her waist, and pull the blankets nearly up to her chin.
"What does it look like, Mr. Blake?" Mary quipped, propping herself up on her elbow to face him, "I am doing exactly what you instructed me to do, or are bedtime rituals so vastly different in India?"
He actually quirked a brow at her, forcing her to respond in kind as he stated, "I meant for you to go sleep in your own bedroom, Lady Mary, where you could actually have some peace and quiet and divest yourself of your dressing gown."
"Where I choose to sleep is really none of your concern, Mr. Blake, nor is the state of my sleep attire or lack thereof," she retorted, laying her head down comfortably on the pillow, "but I have no intentions of leaving this room tonight when my son is sick."
He shook his head ruefully as he sat with George in the rocking chair. "I know you claim to have armor in your skin, but do you also have a brick wall in your head?"
"Those are my terms, Mr. Blake," she replied, reclining onto her back and smiling to herself as her eyes begged her to finally let them close, "and I promise you that I am in no mood to have anyone attempt to scale my walls tonight."
His only response was deep chuckle, and she quickly turned her face from him, hiding the sleepy grin that actually broke free from her inner high barrier of restraint. The small bed actually felt immensely glorious, the mattress seemingly sucking her down into its depths as her muscles succumbed to the temptation of rest almost immediately. Mary was even more tired than she had even imagined or dared to admit. She had no idea just how low her resistance truly was.
"Promise that you will wake me soon," she yawned, her body eagerly merging with the bed as it sought its release from exhaustion. "It would not to do for us to be found together like this."
"I have already promised, Lady Mary," Charles breathed, the barely discernable creek of the rocking chair becoming deliciously hypnotic to her ears. "Now go to sleep."
"You are rather demanding, you know," she murmured, her barely discernible voice sounding nearly drugged, making him smile at the picture she presented all bundled up in blankets with her back to him as she struggled in vain to remain in control of every fiber of her being.
He so desired for her to finally let go and give in to the rest she craved so desperately but had been deprived of for too long. And so he sat, keeping watch over both of them as he held her child in his arms, a primal protectiveness overtaking his emotions, along with an unreasonable pride that she would even allow him to meet this one private need for her.
A whisper of sound brushed softly against her ear as Mary drowsily became aware of the fact that he had begun to hum softly to George, noting to herself how very pleasant a voice he possessed and wondering how nice it would be to hear him actually sing. His rich tenor tone wrapped her intimately in layers of velvet, seducing her fogged mind and quieting her body as she finally surrendered to the lure of his voice. Her resistance now broken, she could fight fatigue no longer, its possessive hands embracing her and refusing to let her go. And his warm melody continually stroked her senses from across the room, caressing her weary spirit and unleashing a soothing darkness throughout her body that filled her with a peaceful ecstasy she could no longer deny, her limbs tingling from it. Mary finally gave in to his song and embraced sleep with a passion, clasping her pillow in utter abandon until she was completely spent in the arms of restful oblivion.