To say that I was completely overwhelmed by the responses to Chapter 12 would be a gross understatement. :) I believe you must be the loveliest readers in the world, and I cherish each review, note and message! Please allow me to thank those of you responsible for nominating me and this story for four Highclere Awards...a fact that still renders me speechless. To the two phenomenal writers R. Grace and On either side the river lie who so graciously allow me to pester them on a regular basis with my ramblings and questions, I again extend my deepest thanks!
And now...on to the story!
Ch 13
Mary and Cora had taken George back to the nursery to ready the child for bed while the men retired for drinks after dinner. Mary was vastly thankful that her mother seemed reluctant to engage her in conversation concerning her newfound standing with Charles Blake, wondering if she feared that any outside interference would push her daughter firmly in the opposite direction.
Heaven knew that there was certainly history enough to support such a hypothesis.
George had most willingly performed his walking feat for his grandmother, and Mary could not decipher just who was more thrilled with his accomplishment as Cora swept him up into her arms and planted one large kiss upon his giggling face.
"Oh, Mary!" was the singular response that her mother seemed able to formulate, yet it was more than sufficient. This night was proving to be a milestone for them all in many ways.
Cora moved intentionally to the small table in the corner, examining the new book lying there before looking expectantly towards her daughter.
"A gift from Mr. Blake," Mary answered evenly, noting her mother's smile of immense satisfaction.
"How very thoughtful of him," Cora stated, directing her attention back to her grandson as he pushed himself upright yet again. "It would be nice to allow him to read it to George himself, don't you agree?"
"Why not?" Mary responded, sighing inwardly at the flash of excitement her answer inspired. "I suppose it could do no harm."
"I understand that Mr. Blake arrived with two packages this evening," Cora continued, leaving the remainder of her sentence open for her daughter to fill in.
"He did," Mary admitted as she helped George regain his balance. "The other has yet to be opened."
"Oh," Cora responded, her face drawing together in contemplation. "I wonder what it could be?"
"I'm afraid I have no idea as he has not yet allowed me to open it," Mary answered directly, giving her mother the satisfaction of at least knowing for certain that she was the intended recipient. "Perhaps he is saving it for tomorrow."
"Or perhaps he is waiting until no one else is around tonight," Cora returned, Mary taken slightly aback by the overt suggestion in her mother's smile.
Her own penetrating gaze was met head-on by Cora's teasing one, the contest of wills left undecided as Lady Grantham put in, "I shall return downstairs and inform him that George is now ready for bed."
She then made her exit before Mary could utter a word in response.
A veritable cocktail of nerves began stirring within as Mary gathered her son up into her arms and walked the circumference of the nursery. She was allowing Charles Blake to read a bed-time story to her son, a sacred ritual that had been performed by her the entirety of his young life. She had no doubts that George would enjoy the experience or that Mr. Blake would be quite adept at making the story both interesting and soothing for the boy.
But he was not Matthew. And Matthew had never been given the opportunity to read to his own son.
Then again, she was certain that Charles Blake had never had the chance to read a story to his little girl, either.
The utter tragedy of their circumstances struck her anew.
Before she could immerse herself into this realm of thought any further he arrived, his knock drawing George's attention as the boy pointed eagerly to the door. She opened it slowly, much as she had two nights ago when he had once before summoned her to the nursery entrance.
But this time, she was neither confused nor agitated by his presence. And she did not hesitate to allow him in.
"Lady Mary," he began, shifting his stance in a nervous gesture that took her by surprise. "You are by no means obligated to allow me this privilege, you know. If you would prefer that I leave you and George for the moment, I will most certainly understand."
She stood in a momentary silence as so many thoughts and images played through her mind, stacking themselves atop one another in a rather disjointed pyramid. But there he stood, waiting patiently for her response while making no demands of his own. She was oddly reminded of an afternoon eight years ago when Matthew had stared at her in expectation, awaiting an answer she hesitated too long in giving.
How that hesitation had cost her. She would not make such a mistake again.
"I appreciate your sensitivity to my situation, Mr. Blake," she began, dark eyes resting upon him as she concluded, "but George has been expecting you. Surely you do not mean to disappoint him."
"No, Lady Mary," he smiled, taking her gaze gently into his grasp as he admitted, "that is the very last thing I would ever wish to do."
Keen awareness hung between them in a charged silence.
"Well then," she cut in, taking a deep breath as she directed him to the rocking chair. "Are you ready for him?"
"Always," Charles answered, taking George into his arms quite comfortably before sitting down and adjusting him on his lap. Mary presented him with the book, her heart squeezing tightly at the look of wondrous expectation hovering upon her son's small face. How very natural they looked together, the pair of them so warm and contentedly snuggled in the comforting confines of the chair.
The image pierced her very soul.
Later, Mary would wonder just how she had managed to stand upright while Charles had read to George, so many conflicting emotions struggling for dominance within her that the force of them made her dizzy. Hope, regret, fear, expectation, sadness, wonder, uncertainty...they each demanded her attention, pulling her in one direction just as another would clasp on to her in an attempt to lead her elsewhere. She remembered Matthew cradling their son, the unspeakable joy on his face forever seared into her memory so tangibly she could paint it effortlessly if she only possessed the skill. Yet she kept her eyes purposefully open, intently forcing herself to dwell in the present and upon the scene unfolding before her. She could no longer live on the border between the two worlds—it was unhealthy for her, for George...
And it was exceedingly lonely.
Charles's rich voice bound her fast as he read of a teddy bear and his friends setting off on a grand adventure to faraway places. But beneath the written words verbalized to George, an unspoken conversation played out, voiced through silent glances and punctuated by answering expressions.
"Will you do me the honor a dance, my lady?" brown eyes inquired as they flickered up from the page and found hers unwaveringly.
"Perhaps...but be aware that I may falter," the honest response of a trembling glance.
"Then I shall hold on to you tightly," a smile, a dimple promised in unison.
"And what if it is that possibility that makes me stumble?" lifted brows inquired.
The book was finished, yet they remained immobile, any sense of a world existing beyond the confines of the nursery world quite forgotten as Charles continued to rock the sleepy child until George's eyelids finally drifted shut in slumber. Yet theirs refused to break contact, engaged in a hesitant waltz which neither of them wished to conclude even as the orchestra had ceased to play. The internal melody held her in sway as Mary watched Charles finally rise and transfer the boy successfully to his crib, her heart tightening as she witnessed the look of tenderness so freely bestowed upon her son by this man who truly should be a father.
With a fair amount of hesitation, they quietly made their way out of the small room and into the hallway, Charles taking care to gently shut the door behind them before they resumed their wordless path down the stairs. Their feet carried them lightly through space until they arrived downstairs, Mary somehow not surprised to see that everyone else had mysteriously retired for the night.
They had purposefully been left alone.
Her heart began to pound resolutely in response to this fact, her emotions playing host to a fierce battle of tug-of-war between hopeful expectancy and sheer fright. Yet she allowed him to gently guide her to the sitting room, breaking away from her long enough to retrieve the package he had obviously left lying in wait for her return.
And she focused upon breathing evenly.
"This is for you, Lady Mary," he spoke, ending the silence even as the dreamlike atmosphere continued encircling the room.
His offering lay in his hands, awaiting her acceptance as she considered what receiving it would mean for her...for them. Dear God—what an unnerving thought! But the idea of refusing him left her rigidly cold, and she had experienced enough coldness to last three lifetimes. She longed for a warmth that would not leave her, an extended summer in which to bask.
And he stood before her, offering her a taste of the season if she chose to partake of it with him.
"Forgive me," Charles put in, her prolonged hesitation making him uneasy. "I hope you do not mind my presumptuous action."
"I will mind only if I do not approve of what you bought me," she returned softly, the hint of coyness in her tone making him shake his head smilingly in response.
"Then I pray I chose well," he stated, the measure of relief in his voice endearing him to her anew as he lay the present in her arms.
"Let us hope you did," she replied demurely despite the fact that her insides were alight in anticipation.
Mary opened the gift ever so slowly, taking time to carefully preserve the paper as she observed him anxiously awaiting her reaction. The wrapping finally came undone, her gaze fixing upon him from under her lashes as she slid a beautifully bound volume embossed with golden lettering from its confines.
"The Daydream and other works by Alfred Lord Tennyson," she read, the snippet of poetry he had written down for her resounding softly within her mind.
"I thought it could lead to interesting discussion," he breathed, pausing just slightly before uttering that final word as he searched her face for a sign of whether or not his offering had pleased her.
"It could indeed," she agreed, so very, very aware of just how close he stood. "Although I do seem to remember a promise you made concerning quoting me no sonnets during the house party."
"That is very true, my lady," he returned, "However, once again I must remind you that these are not sonnets but dramatic poetry. And you must readily admit that reading and quoting are vastly different entities."
"Must I now?" she questioned, his proximity effortlessly asserting dominance over her reason.
"Oh, yes," he returned, daring even one step closer. "Besides, the house party does not officially begin until tomorrow."
"You are much too clever for your own good, you know," Mary observed, his dimples instantly attesting to the truth of her assertion.
"You have no idea just how often I have heard that very statement from my aunt," he laughed, drawing out a smile from her in response.
She gazed at the book he had given her, gliding her fingers over the cover as she voiced, "This is lovely, Mr. Blake. However, there was no need for you to feel obligated to bring me a gift."
"Obligation was the furthest thing from my mind, I assure you," he admitted, her pulse plunging dangerously ahead into uncharted waters.
"Lady Mary, it has been an exceedingly long time since I have attempted to court a woman. You must promise to take pity upon me and let me know immediately if I am doing it poorly."
Poorly? She nearly laughed at the absurdity of his fears even as his honest assertion gave her a moment's pause.
"I am afraid that I must inform you that I may not be the most reliable judge in that matter, Mr. Blake, for I have actually never been properly courted," she volunteered, smiling softly at the rather stunned look upon his face at her assertion. "However, I can assure you that I currently find no fault in your methods."
A small sigh of relief escaped him at her assurance even as he questioned her statement.
"I find it extremely difficult to believe that you never received a proper courtship," Charles pondered, running his fingers through his hair in disbelief. "Even from your husband?"
She then knew it was time.
Mary turned wordlessly, her measured steps leading him away from the mantelpiece and to a small sofa where she motioned for him to sit with her. He sensed even as he took his place that she was granting him a glance into the windows of her past, knowing with certainty that the time had arrived to throw open the drapes covering his own life for her inspection.
And he honestly had no idea what her reaction would be.
"Matthew and I never quite followed a traditional path, I'm afraid," she began. "He came to Downton as the new heir poised to claim an inheritance I believed to be rightfully mine. To say I resented him at first would have been an understatement."
"I see he changed your mind," he ventured, pausing as a look of remembrance overtook her.
"I was truly dreadful to him at first," Mary admitted. "It is a miracle that he didn't write me off from the beginning." She then turned her gaze back to him and added, "I did tell you about my bad side."
"It must be fearsome, indeed," he grinned, earning him a pointed stare that only broadened it.
"I'm afraid it actually is," she continued, shaking her head slightly. "Consider yourself warned."
"Alright, then," he acquiesced, looking at her inquiringly as he ventured, "but your husband did not seem to mind it."
"He did at first, believe me," Mary sighed, her hands idly toying with her skirt as she collected her thoughts. "But we eventually learned that we got on very well together. He proposed to me early on, but then so much went wrong, you see, and he withdrew his offer."
"He did what?" Charles asked, more than slightly incredulous over the thought that anyone—even her beloved late husband—would ever treat her in such a manner.
"Please, you must understand," she pleaded quietly, unwilling to allow him to think negatively of Matthew for even a moment, "the fault rested with me. I delayed too long in giving him an answer, and he believed my hesitation had to do with the state of his prospects."
"But it didn't?" he gently questioned, leading her guilelessly towards the very ledge she had so desperately feared allowing him to glimpse just hours ago.
"No, not really," Mary sighed, sealing her eyes away from her immediate surroundings as she prepared herself to do this again. "It had to do with something I was afraid of telling him—something from my past."
He studied her wordlessly, observing the quickening flutter of her lashes, the more pronounced swallow hitching in her throat and the slight movement of her hands that all signaled her unease. She was attempting to bolster up her courage to share this same detail with him, he deduced, and the realization that an event from so long ago still affected her this much made him ache for her even more deeply.
"Is this what you spoke of in the car?" he asked gently, leaning slightly forward in an attempt to ease her discomfort. "When he told you that you had done nothing he need forgive?"
Her gaze found his immediately, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she replied, "You have a very good memory, Mr. Blake."
"I do try to remember what's important, Lady Mary," he returned, noticing that her hands had stilled somewhat and now rested upon her lap.
"But aren't there times when you would give anything to forget?" she questioned unexpectedly, her own openness a bit of a shock to her as she sought his face for an answer.
"Oh, yes," he breathed, shaking his head slightly. "There are times when a keen memory can be a curse, indeed."
Her raised brow at his choice of words made him grin. "Perhaps burden would be a preferable term," he recanted, relishing the small but genuine smile he was granted in return.
"Burden would be an all too appropriate term," Mary said, searching his eyes to test the safety of the water into which she was preparing to plunge. "I become so weary of it at times."
"And what is this burden that you have carried for so long, Lady Mary?" he asked, his hushed voice barely audible over the pronounced throbbing of her pulse. "I shall listen if you wish to tell me."
She breathed heavily, determining the likelihood of his casting judgment upon her when his aunt had experienced something so very similar. But no matter his response, it needed to be done. She had to be certain of his reaction before allowing him to step in any further.
"I actually spoke with your aunt about this very thing earlier," she ventured forward, gathering her thoughts and emotions about her as orderly as possible.
"Aunt Catherine is quite a good listener," Charles injected into her brief silence. "She has a way of drawing things out of people, usually without even having to ask them."
"It must be a family trait," Mary mused, her eyes flicking up to his briefly before they rested upon her lap. "I spoke of things with her I have never discussed with anyone."
His astute gaze intensified as his mind drew a tenuous connection.
"And what did she tell you?" Charles inquired, a stealthy fear of what she had experienced crawling up his spine as he deduced the type of confession she would have freely offered his aunt.
Mary hesitated, looking directly into his eyes as she read his suspicions fluently. "She told me that it was alright for me to finally put it to rest. And that I should not blame myself for the circumstances that were beyond my control."
His own heart was pounding now as she confirmed what he believed to be true, his eyes shutting fast at the utter unfairness of it.
He knew, she realized. Yet he was still listening.
"Was your experience similar to hers?" he ventured, his concern for her covering the exposure she felt as she prepared confess everything.
"Somewhat," she breathed, her hands beginning to fidget uncomfortably again. "He was a guest here, a Turkish diplomat, actually. I made a fool of myself flirting with him throughout the day. He kissed me after dinner—rather shockingly, actually—and I told him that if he ceased his advances that I would not inform my father of his behavior."
"But he did not heed you," Charles spoke for her, laying a large hand atop her trembling ones, the warmth of him a welcome balm.
"No," she whispered, hesitating but a fraction of a moment. "He found his way to my bedroom."
A thick hush consumed the room, the ticking of the clock in the corner sounding unnaturally loud to her ears as her every sense seemed to pause momentarily.
"Did he hurt you?" he finally asked haltingly, searching her carefully for the truth of her reaction.
"Not in the manner you are suggesting," she confessed, looking to him for understanding as she faltered, "but...but in others..."
She could not bring herself to speak the words, yet he unflinchingly understood her silence.
"Dear, God," Charles uttered softly, the deep emotion Mary observed in his eyes filling her with an odd sense of absolution. "What was your father's response to his actions?"
"My father did not know about it until many years later," she admitted, the confusion in his gaze prompting her forward. "I could not bear his disappointment, not when I had already lost favor with my mother."
"How could she fault you for such a thing?" Charles interjected, standing as his anger refused to allow him to remain in a seated position.
Mary did not answer at first, pressing her lips together firmly as she relived that defining moment in her mind.
Did he force you?
She had been shaking so horribly, her mind racing over so many things that had been unthinkable— a lingering, burning pain just there she tried so hard to ignore, the insistent fear that blood might yet run down her leg, the horror creeping through her mind that she had killed him somehow...
Her utter mortification as she saw herself through the eyes of her mother and Anna.
"You did not tell her?" he deduced through her silence, returning to the small sofa to calm her distress as his ire began to abate somewhat.
"I told her that he did not force himself on me," she replied huskily, facing him with trembling courage as she added, "I could not think clearly...I was still in complete shock, actually. You see, he...he died...there in..."
His jaw hung open, his eyes unable or perhaps unwilling to formulate a picture of what she was telling him. His hand ran through his hair as he turned his gaze away from her for a fraction of a moment in an attempt to piece these fragments together cohesively.
"He died in your room?" he finally voiced, continuing softly as she shut her eyes in assent. "Forgive me, was he still...?"
Her silent nod fractured him, comprehension of the utter nightmare she had lived gripping his gut painfully.
"How old were you, Mary?" he whispered, her eyes widening at the familiarity with which he had addressed her, yet astonished by the soothing intimacy of it.
"Nineteen," she replied unsteadily.
She suddenly had a difficult time believing the fact herself, one simple admission making her examine the entire situation with new eyes as she sought his for a reaction. Had she really been that young?
"Good God, how frightened you must have been!"
His words caught her off guard as her own fright had never been mentioned by anyone that she could recollect. Her shame, the possible ramifications of her actions, how to conceal the truth or best deal with exposure had been discussed more than she cared to remember. But her own fear? She had buried it privately as she often had so many other unwelcome emotions that were entirely too difficult to face alone.
"Was there anyone to help you? What on earth did you do?" he asked, striking her momentarily speechless by the fact that there had been no flicker of disdain in his countenance nor words of shock over her behavior.
"I awoke Mama and Anna," she returned, oddly noting his surprised expression might actually seem somewhat comical under different circumstances. "We...we moved him back to his room so no one would know."
Inexplicably, he began to chuckle.
"Dear God, you are remarkable," he finally stated, staring at her with something Mary could not quite identify as he concluded, "Iron and steel, indeed, my lady. I do not know many men who could have accomplished the feat that you three women managed."
All traces of hilarity vanished from his features as quickly as they had emerged, his eyes mirroring his fractured voice as he uttered, "I am so very sorry, Mary. So very, very sorry."
It was done. Perhaps truly done, she hoped, a chapter she could close with finality once and for all.
And the relief she felt was potent.
His thumb captured a stray tear trailing a solitary path down her cheek, lingering a mere moment upon her face in a tender benediction.
She stared at him, waiting for his sudden excuse to leave her or at least for a flicker of disappointment to cross his countenance with a dreadful expectancy. But he did not falter in his expression...
Nor did he move from his seat.
"Well," she observed huskily, "you are still here."
"Would you rather I be elsewhere?" he prodded softly, unsure of exactly what emotions were stirring just under her skin.
"No," she smiled softly, meeting his gaze. "I just keep expecting you to suddenly realize what I've just told you and decide to flee the room."
"I may be many things, Mary, but I do pray that I am never a fool," he returned softly.
"So you don't mind a woman with a past?" she queried, the hitch of uncertainty in her voice betraying her nervousness in asking such a question.
A rather wistful look overtook him. "I was raised at a girl's school by an unmarried woman who was basically cut off from her family for a tragedy not so very different than the one with which you just entrusted me." He held her gaze fast, his voice heavy with conviction as he stated, "Let me assure you, I have absolutely no intentions of walking away from you unless you ask me to do so. And I never want to hear you refer to yourself in such terms again."
"My, my, aren't you demanding?" she observed, small patches of relief now beginning to slowly circulate within her.
"You've told me that before, you know," he teased gently before his expression once again became serious. "Besides, everyone has a past, and mine leaves me no room in which to judge you, believe me."
His statement straightened her spine, her eyes searching him diligently as she attempted to imagine just what he could have done for him to make such an assertion.
"I'm sure it can carry nothing more shocking than what I have already told you," she put it, hoping that he would feel the same level of trust with her that she had just bestowed upon him.
"Mary, you were given very little choice in the matter," he stated directly. "I, on the other hand, made some rather poor decisions, indeed."
"I chose to give in to Mr. Pamuk rather than scream," she returned flatly, swallowing deeply before she continued. "I chose to keep it a secret from Matthew for too long instead of being forthright with him when he first proposed. I chose to become engaged to a man to keep my scandal from being splashed across the newspapers, so if you think that I have not made my share of poor choices in this life, you would be dreadfully mistaken."
"It sounds to me as though you were protecting yourself in the absence of someone to do it for you," he observed carefully, her sudden look of surprise quickly replaced by one of contemplation as her eyes moved rapidly back in forth examining her past.
"I've not lived my entire life unprotected, Mr. Blake," she asserted, uncertain if she liked this conclusion he had spoken.
"I am quite sure of that," he answered, "but have you never have moments when you felt as if no one was there to shield you?"
"Why would you ask me such a thing?" she demanded, feeling rather uncomfortable as his questions hovered too near a pulsing nerve.
"Why do you not wish to answer?" he whispered calmly, making her shake her head in denial for reasons she could not name.
"Am I now obligated to answer everything you ask of me?" she retaliated rapidly, unsure of why she felt so defensive as she stood to her feet.
"You are not obligated to speak to me at all," he replied gently, risking her ire as he rose up beside her, "but I am most honored that you do."
"What do you want from me?" she demanded, all frustration from his line of questioning gushing out from her at once as she turned from him, taking strides across the room to settle this onslaught of turmoil.
"The very last thing I would ever wish to do is distress you," he responded calmly, taking two steps towards her. "But I do want you to realize that we often react quite differently when we are attempting to protect ourselves or someone we love than we would under normal circumstances."
Her lack of retort encouraged him forward as he dared bolder strides in her direction, carefully risking a bit more as he stated, "I realize I have known you only a matter of days, but it is clear to me that you protect those whom you care about rather fiercely."
"Is there something wrong with that?" she ventured, the thickness in her voice betraying her high level of emotion.
"Not at all," he replied quietly. "It's exceedingly admirable, in fact. But do you ever allow anyone to take care of you?"
She turned slowly, dark eyes widening upon an ashen pallor as she swallowed.
He moved two steps closer.
She reminded him uncannily of a graceful doe caught unawares, poised to flee but too frightened to move.
"It is rather difficult to let one's guard down when you've been dreadfully hurt so many times," he pressed gently, stepping nearer yet.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, her eyes closing to ward off the discomfort brought about by his words.
"So that you will give yourself some grace, Lady Mary," he offered softly, moving to stand before her. "You do not have to bear the responsibility for everything that has gone wrong in your life."
"Don't I?" she managed, still unable to face the measure of his gaze when she could not even bear the weight of her own.
"No," he breathed, tilting her chin up ever so gently. "It will consume you alive if you allow it. It very nearly ruined my life, in fact."
Her eyes widened slightly, the realization that he had deftly shifted the focus from her life to his own taking root immediately. A door had been cracked, a small invitation issued.
He was granting her permission to ask.
"Your wife and daughter? Did you blame yourself for their deaths?" she queried hesitantly, noting that this time it was she who had caught him slightly unaware.
"I noticed your expression when Tom was holding Sybbie tonight at dinner," she explained, the lingering grief in his eyes serving as an added confirmation of her observation.
"I wondered if you had caught that," he revealed, his shoulders falling slightly as a renewed weight settled upon them. "I'm not sure if there is a man alive who does not hold himself at least partially responsible when his wife is lost giving birth to his child."
"Tom once said something very similar to me," Mary revealed, searching her memories for clarity. "Not long after I lost Matthew, actually."
Heavy strain marked brown eyes that normally danced with laughter.
"I never had the chance to even see her, you know."
His admission had been uttered so very softly that she might have missed it had she not seen his lips form the words. She shuddered slightly at the change in atmosphere as he allowed her to step into the darkness of his own hidden realm.
"I am so sorry," she offered, leaning forward into him even as she had feared venturing closer just seconds ago. "That must have been very difficult for you."
"We had wanted to have children for years, but we had such difficulties," he stated, drawing a deep breath. "We lost three in the early stages of pregnancy, and we had truly begun to wonder if perhaps it was just not meant to be."
A feeling she all too readily understood.
"We were elated that everything seemed to be going so well this time," he continued, the vulnerability in the edges of his eyes urging her to touch his arm. "I had been in the city for a few days on business, and I worried about her the entire time I was away. I had purchased gifts for the both of them before I journeyed home—we were getting so very close. But when I got there, her father met me at the door to inform me that they were both gone. They had died but hours before I arrived."
She bowed her head slightly at the harsh impact of his words.
"Why were you not allowed to see your own child?" she asked finally.
His chuckle bore no trace of mirth as his fingers swiftly ransacked his hair.
"Her family was so very much against our marriage," he answered, her brow darkening in confusion as he continued, "Her father most certainly did not approve of me."
"Why on earth not?" she inquired, wondering just why his wife's parents would not be happy with such a man.
The intensity with which he looked at her alerted Mary to the importance of what he was about to tell her, the uncertainty that flickered there only increasing her confusion.
"My wife was Indian, Mary," he stated resolutely, watching her with unblinking eyes as she digested his words.
Dear God.
To say she was taken by surprise would have been accurate, and realization dawned steadily upon her that she had already somehow visualized his late wife in quite a different manner. She had been Indian, not English or of European descent, a fact which would be quite scandalous in many circles. What her family might make of this knowledge she dared not venture. But Mary found that to her, it simply did not matter.
"You must have loved her very much," she deduced, looking upon him with eyes newly focused.
"I did," he smiled, a bit of tension dropping from his shoulders as he could read no censure written upon her. "We met when we were so very young. Her father was a rather prominent local official who had frequent dealings with our estate, and Rashmi often served as a translator in delicate transactions."
"Rashmi—that is a lovely name," Mary stated, appreciating the genuine gleam of adoration on his face as he spoke of her.
"She was a lovely woman," Charles returned, the slight tilting of his head suddenly reminding her of one of Matthew's most endearing mannerisms. Was it possible to ache for two different men at the same time? She reasoned it must be so, for the pull towards both tugged resolutely within her. How odd that they did not seem to be in competition any longer.
"She was intelligent, well-read, and loved to laugh," he continued. "We knew that we were embarking upon a difficult road together, that neither my father nor her family would support our union, but we decided to marry despite their disapproval."
"That was quite brave of you," she admitted softly. "It rather reminds me of my sister Sybil's marriage to Tom. He used to be our chauffeur years ago, you know."
He stared back at her in genuine amazement.
"No. I was unaware of that fact. And it makes me respect him all the more."
"Even after how he treated you earlier?" she questioned, rather surprised at his revelation.
"I respect a man who tries to protect a woman," Charles voiced sincerely. "Mr. Branson was only attempting to watch out for your best interests."
"And just who protected your interests when your own wife and child were withheld from you?" she ventured, noting the quick gleam of recognition as her question registered with him.
"No one, I'm afraid," he admitted, hanging his head as he stated, "I wasn't even allowed to give them a decent burial." The brokenness of his features tore at her, the scars of a life torn asunder suddenly so clearly visible.
And Mary hesitated, afraid of breathing too loudly as she knew the enormity of what she was about to ask.
"Did you name her?"
His control finally faltered. And he could not look at her, dipping his head just as the first tears formed in his eyes.
"I called her Rashmika."
"After her mother?" she whispered, stepping forward until she was nearly leaning into him.
"Yes," the sheer weight of his voice pressing upon her, "and for its meaning. Rashmika means ray of light."
His tears very nearly made her knees buckle. And this time, she held him.
Mary never knew just how long they stood there together, her arms cradling his head to her shoulder, her fingers weaving themselves instinctively into his hair in a familiar gesture of comfort. And when his arms encompassed her tightly, hers automatically followed suit, cleaving to him as if she could grant him a solace he could find no where else.
Just as he was offering to her.
"Forgive me," he finally uttered, releasing his grip on her gently. "I did not mean to fall apart on you like that."
"And just how many handkerchiefs have you given me now?" she replied as lightly as she could, relieved to observe a renewed flicker of light finally stirring within his gaze.
"Am I supposed to be keeping count?" he voiced, attempting to regain full control of his composure.
"If you won't, then I won't," she returned, smiling softly in recognition of his kindred need to appear less shaken than he felt.
He paused momentarily, drawing measured breaths before stating, "I reacted very badly to their deaths, I'm afraid."
"How else would you have reacted?" she returned, renewing her grip on his arm. "After losing so much, after being barred from performing those final acts of respect for their lives? I don't know of anyone who would have reacted nicely under such circumstances."
"Perhaps not, but I should have demonstrated more self-control than I did," Charles returned, shaking his head at his own admission. "I fled to the city and nearly destroyed myself. I squandered every penny my father had given me in brothels and bars...Dear, God, it was not pretty—not in the least."
"Grief is ugly," Mary whispered, flinching inwardly at her own painful memories. "I was not the best of mothers at the beginning, I'm afraid. I would look at George and not even notice him. All I could see was Matthew, and it just hurt too much." He squeezed her arm in sympathy as she added, "There were days that I cared for my own child out of obligation rather than any feelings of love, I am ashamed to say."
"Don't ever be ashamed of that," he insisted, "for you did what you were supposed to do. You did take care of George, whether you felt like it or not. And you overcame those negative feelings in the process of becoming a most excellent mother. I, on the other hand, let my emotions rule my logic and behaved not much better than a barbarian."
"But you did overcome it, did you not?" she put forth, drawing his attention fully. "You now own your own estate and are caring for your aunt in a most compassionate manner. You did not let your grief destroy you."
"I believe you cut me too much slack," he stated resolutely.
"As if you haven't done the same for me?" she mused, finally glimpsing those dimples that were quickly becoming dear to her.
"So you are not shocked at the fact that my wife was Indian?" he ventured.
"After I just told you that a Turkish diplomat died in my bed?" she breathed softly, amazed at how those words had just left her mouth without hesitation or fear. "No, Charles, I am not shocked."
Her deliberate use of his given name drew his immediate attention, granting him the courage to slowly seek out her hand. And they stood there, immobile and silent, even as the lights began their flickering waltz yet again, finally leaving them in darkness save for the lingering fire.
"Mary," he breathed, his gaze moving between joined hands and eyes of rare depth, "I know all of this is very sudden, and I most certainly do not want to push you too hard."
She paused, taking him in fully in a manner unavailable to her until this moment. Before her stood a man—a good and decent man—who understood her pain and knew the worst of her secrets. Yet he wanted to take a chance with her...
A chance to be happy again.
"Don't worry about me, Charles," she finally answered, meeting his eyes squarely. "I do know how to push back."
She took the arm he offered, relishing his nearness as they made their way back up the very steps they had earlier descended. They stopped at the door to her bedroom, turning to face each other under the protective canopy of darkness.
"Good-night, Charles," she finally murmured, the need to touch him yet again prompting her forward as a tentative hand rose to cup the side of his face. Impulsively, she leaned forward, trembling lips brushing his cheek ever so delicately in a small gesture of promise.
He inhaled sharply at her touch, a large hand gently encircling the back of her head in response. Warm lips descended slowly, sending small shockwaves down her limbs as they achingly grazed her temple, his breath lingering there ever so lightly as he whispered, "Good-night, Mary."
Her hands grasped the lapels of his jacket to hold herself upright. And he knew he was utterly lost to her.
They remained there in the hall a moment longer, clasping on to this newness between them, their quiet refusal to break contact an unspoken testament to a lingering fear that it might vanish without warning. And it was only when necessity forced their hand in making them release their small claim on each other and retire to their own rooms that the lights dared to flicker back on.
Well...there you have it. :) Chapter 14 should post next Thursday or Friday on schedule. However, the week following I shall be on vacation with my family, so Chapter 15 will be delayed one week. I would very much love to hear your thoughts on this installment! Have a lovely weekend, and blessings to you all.