How can I ever begin to thank all of you for the beautiful responses I received this past week? I could not stop smiling after reading your encouraging words! Chapter 13 was so very special to me, a chapter I have been preparing to write for quite some time and one so pivotal to the story. The manner in which so many of you have embraced my version of Charles Blake and this story still astonishes me, and to those of you who write reviews to which I cannot respond, let me send you a huge "Thank You" right now. To you special readers who take extra time to review each chapter-HUGS! Your notes and thoughts truly mean the world. :)

Special HUGS also to the two amazing writers who take their time to help me bring Strangers to life and offer me their invaluable opinions, insights and support each week: R. Grace and On either side the river lie. I do hope you have an inkling of just how much I appreciate you!

And off we go!

Ch 14

Sleep had not come easily.

For what seemed like hours, Mary had lain awake, staring at the ceiling as if it would grant her the opportunity to review the night's happenings upon its surface. Myriads of images paraded through her mind, her heart drumming the cadence that prompted them to continue their persistent circling. Matthew...Pamuk...Charles...his wife...they were all impossibly with her, stubbornly refusing to leave her thoughts until she had finally fled to her window just to be afforded a bit of privacy.

As she stared out into darkness, she could just envision his daughter, a precious innocent unfairly denied the right to life and the love of her father. She was still unable to wrap the blinding pain he must have suffered around her mind, suddenly feeling the need to rush down the hall to his room and press him securely to her yet again. How she wished she had the power to restore that tiny miracle to him, to allow him to cradle his own living, breathing child in his arms even if for only a moment. At least Matthew had been granted that privilege, even though he had been denied the gift of a lifetime with his son.

But she had been given no such power. And Charles's interactions with George now spoke to her with even more clarity.

From the confines of her window, she surveyed the grounds of her home under the cloak of absolute night, a view with which she had become all too familiar during the weeks after Matthew's death. How she had begged her body for sleep, the only escape from the nightmare of her life she had allowed herself, yet even that one small comfort had mockingly alluded her all too often. Living had hurt so very much that she had at times desired to cast herself out the very window from which she now gazed, the ghosts she sensed upon the lawn the only company she sought.

Yet tonight, thoughts of the spirits of those she loved roaming the grounds below her brought her an odd measure of peace, a fact that both comforted and disturbed her. She held no desire to remain buried in the throes of grief any longer...yet she could not—would not—allow herself to forget. Fingers touched the cold surface of glass, her breath casting a misty shadow as she pressed her forehead to the pane. Somehow it felt like a protective barrier erected for the sole purpose allowing her a glimpse into a world out of her reach even as she moved forward in the one that surrounded her. She whispered his name but once, eyes drifting shut as she drew the drapes around her for warmth.

And for a shattering moment, he was there.

Tears fell...she could not stop them as she stood embraced by shadows. Moon-kissed skin shivered, touched by memories of a treasured past life.

Past life.

She grudgingly opened her eyes to her surroundings.

The sky's unearthly shimmer commanded her attention even as her present returned. Its harsh edges were somewhat smoother than she remembered, a glimmer of stars now visible through the thinning veil of clouds. She allowed the drapes to fall, clasping her own arms in the need to hold living flesh within her hands. And the view of the waxing moon painting the landscape in silver hues brought back one event with crystal clarity:

She had kissed him.

That reality thrummed inside of her with a relentless dominance, making quite certain that she could in no manner forget that it had been she who had instigated the contact. Mary could formulate no explanation for her action, for it had taken her as much by surprise as it had Charles himself. She could still feel the texture of his cheek beneath her fingers, still sense the heat of his skin that was even more pronounced when touched by her lips. And his response, the gentle brush of his mouth upon her temple…

It was no wonder she could not rest.

The depth of her reaction had been unexpected, the raw need to clasp him close, the betrayal of her legs as they wantonly faltered the moment his lips touched her skin...

The surprise at just how very different he felt.

The heady relief from that simple fact droned a consistent accompaniment for any other theme playing in her mind. He had not felt like Matthew, and that knowledge carried the power to nearly make her weep in gratitude.

It would have killed her if he had.

Her finger traced an outline softly across her lips, painting a translucent trail across her jaw before sliding with delicacy down her neck. And she stood at the window wondering...fearing...

Hoping.

She returned to her bed, waiting for the guilt to descend, to convict her of being shallow and cold as she had overheard others refer to her when they were unaware that she was listening. But it never arrived, and she had finally succumbed to sleep still rather amazed by its absence.

And she had dreamed of Matthew.

Ms. Glynis Campbell would indeed work out well.

Well, at least she now believed it might be possible. Mary had been quietly pleased at the girl's cheerful yet understated manner as she assisted with her morning routine. Ms. Campbell had listened to any instruction Mary had given and absorbed it instantaneously, obviously eager to make a good impression without speaking more than necessary.

And for that, Mary was extremely thankful.

She had then moved on to the nursery to see just how the morning was progressing with Nanny Thompson. She was alerted immediately to a problem brewing inside as George's unhappy wails could be heard the moment she entered the hall.

Her mother was standing outside the closed nursery door, her ear nearly pressed to its surface as she unashamedly eavesdropped on the one-sided conversation taking place between her grandson and his new nanny. Mary's brows rose in a question, Cora's shoulders' shrugging in response as both women stood immobile, wondering just what was to be done.

Mary had finally had enough.

"He has to get used to her, Mary," Lady Grantham whispered, "just give him a few minutes more before you rush in there."

"I refuse to stand her and listen to him cry any longer," Mary returned, her unease at hearing her child in distress propelling her forward.

"But it will make his adjustment to her take that much longer," Cora argued, shifting her stance so that she blocked the doorframe altogether. "Sometimes it is necessary to let him cry it out."

"George has had too many adjustments to absorb in his young life," Mary insisted, moving a step closer to her mother in insistence. "I shall not force another upon him if he is not ready."

"But Mary," her mother began, halting her protest as she noted Mr. Blake's progression down the hallway in their direction.

She turned from her mother's gaze, intentionally hiding her face lest her expression reveal more than she was yet willing. The sight of him both comforted and unnerved her, pitting opposing urges to flee or reach out to him squarely against each other. She licked her impetuous lips, remembering with clarity how they had acted of their own accord just hours ago in this very hallway. Demanding fingers began to crave the texture of his cheek, twitching involuntarily to meet this need as she clasped her hands together tightly lest they take action without her consent.

Had her own mind and body held a secret council to plot their own course of action while she slept? Keeping a respectable distance was proving to be even more challenging than she had anticipated.

"Good morning, Lady Grantham," Charles stated, bowing slightly to her mother before his full attention rendered her immobile. "Good morning, Lady Mary."

His eyes betrayed him, wordlessly speaking to her of his own raw need to make contact in order to seal this newly forged standing between them. And her expression thanked him for addressing her formally in front of her mother, for keeping up necessary pretenses even as her memories of him whispering her name into her skin fluttered treacherously inside.

"Good morning, Mr. Blake," Cora responded. "You look rather refreshed this morning. You must have slept well."

"I must credit the company found here rather than sleep, Lady Grantham," he smiled in return. So he had been restless, as well. Had is mind been as occupied last night as hers had been? A secret thrill scurried up her limbs at the idea.

The piercing wail of an unhappy child sounded through the door, drawing Charles's attention turned to the nursery entrance as he questioned, "Is George alright? He sounds a bit distressed."

"No. George is having a rather trying morning," Mary began. "He is-"

"He is having difficulty adjusting to his new nanny," Cora interrupted quickly, "Mary and I are just trying to give Nanny Thompson some time to ease things over with him."

She looked up at him with meaning, her back still resolutely to her mother. And he read her contrasting opinion flawlessly.

"Well, then, I am not sure if I have arrived at an opportune time or not," he began, watching Mary carefully. "I was actually coming to seek your permission to procure George's assistance with a project I am undertaking this morning, Lady Mary. However, if you feel it would interrupt this bonding time..."

"How very thoughtful of you, Mr. Blake," Mary cut in, catching the flicker at the corner of his mouth, "and I cannot think of a reason why George could not spend some time with you this morning."

"I am relieved to hear it," he returned, "I shudder to think of just how things might turn out without his help."

"What on earth makes you require George's assistance, Mr. Blake?" Cora asked, her puzzled expression quietly demanding an explanation.

"I am afraid that would be giving away a surprise, Lady Grantham," Charles replied, his dimples doing their job admirably as her mother questioned him no further.

"Then by all means you have my permission," Mary cut in. "Although you must know that I am supposed to visit Anna this morning, so I shall be out for a while."

"Then I hope you have a delightful visit," he returned softly, patiently waiting for Lady Grantham to open the nursery door and step inside. "After you, Lady Mary," he breathed, the slight hitch of uncertainty in his voice touching her somehow.

His hand then flickered deliberately across her back, an assurance that their time in the darkness had indeed been real, not a mutual fleeting fancy. The gesture went unseen, yet it was keenly felt.

And she could have sworn his hand had trembled.

When they entered, George let out a yelp, attempting to fly to his mother as Mary staked her claim and caught the child. He quickly buried his tear-covered face against her shoulder, rubbing it back and forth as she attempted to calm him.

"I am sorry he's having such a difficult time," Nanny Thompson stated quietly. "Perhaps a change of scenery might do him good."

"I agree," Mary stated, "We shall give you some time alone with Sybbie while George calms down."

"As you wish, my lady," the younger woman replied, smiling as her other charge ran up and embraced her legs. It was quite evident that Sybbie was having no difficulty in becoming attached to her new nanny.

But poor George was utterly miserable.

The four of them then left the nursery and made their way downstairs, George's occasional sniffle urging his mother to hug him more tightly to her chest as she bestowed a comforting kiss upon his forehead.

"Are you quite sure that you want to take him on in such a state, Mr. Blake?" Mary questioned as they of them entered the sitting room.

"I am willing if he is," Charles responded, ruffling George's dark curls and drawing the boy's attention. "Besides, time spent in his mother's arms has improved his demeanor already."

Eyes quietly hinted of shared secrets as George offered Charles a wide grin.

And Cora beheld it all with precision.

George remained attached to his mother a moment more before agreeing to a transfer, immediately grabbing Charles's nose in that funny gesture of recognition that always struck her.

"If you will excuse us, ladies," Charles began, "we have rather important business which to attend." His attention then turned squarely to the child in his arms as he put in with enthusiasm, "Let's get to it, George."

Off they went towards the back of the house, Mary and Cora leaning forward in interest as George happily waved good-bye to them. But the potent stare she received when Mary returned her gaze to her mother took her a bit off guard.

"What?" Mary inquired, entirely unsure if she was actually prepared to receive an answer.

Cora wordlessly handed her a book—her book—she realized with a start, his gift that had been left behind last night in the aftermath of intimate conversation.

"Your present, I assume," her mother put forth, quirking a brow at her daughter in a manner even Mary had to grudgingly admire.

Her breathless surprise at the complete oversight wordlessly confirmed her mother's deductions.

"Thank you," she managed, reclaiming what was hers with hands she fought to keep steady. "I must have left it down here by mistake."

"I thought as much," Cora continued, probing undertones making Mary fidget uncomfortably. "A book of poetry—how very thoughtful of him."

"Yes," Mary stated, "he is a very thoughtful man."

Cora stepped directly to her eldest, clasping her arm as she voiced, "Be careful with him, Mary."

"Mama, I do not think you need to concern yourself over Mr. Blake's character," Mary tried, cut off decidedly before she could complete her statement.

"I don't mean in that manner. I mean be careful with him," Lady Grantham returned meaningfully, speaking with a deliberation that emphasized the importance of each word. "He is already quite taken with you, Mary, and I would hate to see him disappointed."

"And you think that I shall disappoint him in some fashion?" Mary questioned, staring incredulously at her mother. Breathing evenly became her primary focus as she sought to calm the rumblings deep within.

"I think your emotions are still volatile right now," Cora expounded. "I know you like him, and it's obvious that the two of you are very attracted to each other."

"And to think that I thought that might please you," Mary retorted, the uncertainty of just where her mother was taking this conversation crawling nervously up her spine.

"It does," Cora emphasized, giving her daughter a half-smile. "I think the two of you have a lot of promise, Mary. I just don't want to see you..."

"What? Ruin everything?" Mary interrupted, her mother's real meaning finally becoming clear. "Is that what you are afraid of, Mama? That I shall do something to destroy this promising relationship as I have every other one in my life?"

"That is not what I said," Cora tried in a futile attempt to assuage her daughter's rising ire.

"But that is what you meant, is it not?" Mary demanded, her chest rising and falling markedly.

Lady Grantham's heavy sigh was all the answer she required. And her bitter laugh of response cut through the atmosphere between them sharply.

"Dear, God, that's it! You think that I will somehow turn him against me or behave in such a manner that he flees from my presence. Thank you, Mama, for having such unwavering confidence in me!"

"I do have confidence in you, more than you have ever realized," Cora defended, the steel flashing in her gaze commanding her daughter's attention. "It is just that he is beginning to look at you the way that Matthew used to, Mary. And you left his gift sitting here for anyone to find."

She felt as if she had been punched.

Mary skirted silently to the door, shutting it with a deliberation not lost upon her mother before rounding upon her.

"Is that what you think?" Mary fired, moving back in the direction from whence she had come. "That I am toying with him in some sort of emotional frenzy? That I am using him for my own pleasure only to toss him aside eventually for something better? Really, Mama, if your assumptions weren't so absurd they would be laughable!"

"Then tell me what this is," Cora replied evenly, "so I won't formulate any further ridiculous conclusions."

Mary sat abruptly, rubbing her forehead as if to exorcise the anger from her mind.

"Last night I sat in this very spot and told him of Mr. Pamuk," she finally admitted, drawing nothing short of absolute shock from her mother's expression. "And he told me details of his wife's death and of the fact that he was never even given a chance to see his own daughter."

Cora nearly collapsed into the seat beside her, the roundness of her eyes steadily increasing.

"Let me assure you that his gift being left behind had nothing to do with any lack of appreciation on my part," Mary defended, feeling all too vulnerable under the scrutiny of her mother. "I do pray that even I am never that heartless."

The nearness of him overwhelmed her memories, the brokenness he had allowed her to witness still fresh in her mind. She shut her eyes tightly, the tentacles of deep emotion still embedded within her senses as she sought her reason for the right words. "We were both just a bit overcome after all we had shared, I'm afraid."

Dear God—after all they had shared.

"Oh, my darling girl," Cora whispered. "I owe you such an apology."

The sudden shift of emotion was almost surreal for Mary, regret that she had volunteered so much descending quickly upon her like a shroud. But it was too late to retreat, she deduced, leaving her the options of moving forward or standing her ground.

"I'm really not sure what to do, honestly," she finally admitted, her mother grasping her hand in support.

"Most of us don't in situations such as this," Cora returned, her face alight in new understanding. "I'm afraid there is no map to follow in matters of the heart."

Mary's eyes closed yet again as she haltingly took up the thread threatening to unravel her.

"He...he cannot be looking at me as Matthew did," she voiced, the weight of her words requiring extra effort to push them from her mouth. "You must be mistaken, Mama."

"Not in the manner Matthew gazed at you when you were married, Mary," Lady Grantham explained, squeezing Mary's hand in assurance. "That was the look of a man who truly knew his wife in every way, a look that can only be cultivated over time."

Cora breathed deeply, the emotional fragility of her eldest stirring protective instincts anew, even for this child of hers who had so often resisted those very impulses.

"What I just saw upon Mr. Blake's face was so very similar to the expression Matthew wore when Lavinia and Richard were still with us, the one he would only allow himself to show when he was certain that no one else was looking," her mother added, watching Mary's face for understanding as she plowed forward.

"It's the look of admiring someone more that you think is prudent, of wanting so badly to be able to express your feelings to them even thought you understand that it might not be wise."

Mary dared a direct gaze upon her mother's face, unsure of the wisdom of that decision when Cora concluded, "It's the look of someone falling in love when he fears his feelings may not be reciprocated."

Mary shut her eyes, Matthew's face achingly clear as she visualized that dance from what seemed a lifetime ago. The phonograph had played that tune from a show he liked in spite of himself, the show that flopped she herself had labeled the pair of them. She had been shaken to a depth she could not fathom as he had drawn her ever closer, confounded by the burning look he gave her as he whispered, "Oh, God, Mary,"...

His lips had hovered so agonizingly close...and that kiss that had taught her to hope until reality descended the stairs and knocked the air from her lungs.

Then the eyes gazing upon her were brown, staring at her in compassion as she spread her past open before him leaving little to his imagination. The smile before her was dimpled, goading laughter from a soul who wondered if she would ever be able to experience such a simple joy ever again. And the lips were new—wondrous yet still unknown to her in ways she wished to explore yet feared touching all the same.

What was she to do with all of this?

"I'll be careful with him, Mama," she breathed, the promise hovering between them as a fragile covenant.

"I know that you will. Just be careful with yourself, as well," her mother returned, pulling her daughter into an embrace needed by both of them more than either would ever verbalize to the other.

The solitary walk to Anna's had been cleansing, the brisk breeze whipping her skirt a refreshing welcome after the unnerving scene with her mother. Keeping her hat in place was her only annoyance on the journey, the wind teasing it so that Mary was tempted to remove the blasted thing. Her courage in that matter failed her, however, and her hands took turns holding it securely upon her head, increasingly thankful for her short hairstyle even as she cursed her lack of daring.

Sybil would have removed her hat without a moment's pause.

She smiled wistfully as she remembered the moment Sybil had modeled her first pair of trousers, wishing not for the first time that her father's expression could have been captured by on film. Mary wondered if Sybbie possessed that same streak of independence, that inner fire that lit her mother from within yet burned no one who ventured near. How she missed her, longing for her youngest sister's counsel even as she could only wonder what her advice would be.

Just what would her sister say to her concerning Charles Blake?

Would she encourage Mary to continue moving forward with him? Caution her to be reasonable? Warn her to stand strong when her senses threatened to overwhelm her or push her to cast herself into this sea of promising enticement?

How tragic that she was forced to imagine what her sister would advise, robbed of that special camaraderie unduly. But she could stand keeping her feelings tightly bound only so much longer, needing an outlet that would listen to her confusion without judgment or undue expectation. So she sought the counsel of the other woman with whom she felt comfortable enough to share this cascade of emotions that she could not sort out alone.

Anna was sitting up in bed when Mary arrived, obviously as eager for the company as she was tired of being restricted in her actions.

"Good morning, Anna," Mary began, smiling at her missing companion. "You are looking very well."

"You are much too kind, mi'lady," Anna returned, rubbing her abdomen with affectionate impatience. "I know that I must look a fright."

"Nonsense," Mary retorted, taking her seat by the bed. "Have you not heard that all expectant mothers are radiant?"

Mrs. Bates stifled a giggle, pushing herself up taller in the bed. "That's funny. I seem to remember you once describing yourself as a pillow squeezed into a stocking when you were expecting Master George."

"You of all people should know by now not to listen to what I say," Mary mused, passing a basket along to her friend. "It will only lead to trouble."

"That's not true," Anna replied. "It's just knowing how to translate what you say that can get tricky sometimes."

Mary grinned in spite of herself, shaking her head slightly as she offered, "And that is why you are so sorely missed, Anna. Too many people don't bother with the translation, and I'm just stubborn enough not to speak the common tongue."

"I have missed your company, too," Anna laughed good-naturedly. "I am quickly losing my mind having to stay in bed and do nothing."

"You cannot have much longer to go," Mary stated, trying to encourage the other woman even as she remembered the utter discomfort of advanced pregnancy.

"Hopefully no more than a week," Anna spoke sanguinely, halting her passing thoughts. "I cannot imagine that I have any room left in here for this baby to grow. She must be getting uncomfortable."

"She?" Mary questioned, her senses stirring in interest. "Do you think it's a girl?"

"Both Mr. Bates and I do," Anna confirmed, a rather ethereal smile shining through as she imagined her child. "But we'll be thrilled no matter what."

"I know you will," Mary responded, the very idea of not needing to be concerned over an expected child's gender still a bit beyond her grasp. How very freeing it must be! She had spent more than half of her pregnancy agonizing over the need to provide Downton with an heir rather than freely indulging in pondering the sex of her baby.

Anna opened the basket lid in anticipation, her eyes widening in delight at the contents. "Thank you, mi'lady. This looks good enough to eat."

"It should be safe enough seeing that I had nothing to do with its preparation," Mary stated drily. "Mrs. Patmore did all of the work, I'm afraid. I just told her what I wanted."

"It is still extremely kind of you to think of us," Anna said with a grin. "I never have been much of a hand in the kitchen."

"I am certain that you are more skilled than I am," Mary voiced, quietly pleased at the other woman's delight.

"Speaking of skills, how is Ms. Campbell working out?" Anna inquired directly, Mary unsure of just what the other woman would prefer to hear as an answer.

"Fine, so far," Mary admitted, "Although she'll never be you, I'm afraid."

"You are too kind," Anna added, adjusting her position in an ill-gotten attempt to get comfortable.

"No—I'm not," Mary quipped.

Mrs. Bates shook her head in disagreement. "You are much kinder than you like to let on to anyone, mi'lady, and I've known you too long for you to disagree with me."

Mary quirked her brow sharply. "Alright. But you must promise not to tell anyone. We have a house full of people coming later today, and I should hate it dreadfully if word got out."

"I promise, then," Anna conceded, her expression betraying her eagerness for news as she asked, "And the new nanny? How is she working out?"

"Temporary nanny," Mary corrected, giving Anna another pointed look that awaited confirmation.

"Temporary nanny," Anna agreed, filling Mary with a most profound sense of relief as her hopes on this issue were left dangling no more.

"She and Sybbie are getting along quite well, I believe," Mary answered. "But George is having a more difficult time of it. Mr. Blake actually took him for a while this morning to keep him happy."

"I did hear that Mr. Blake arrived a day early," Anna hinted, the eagerness in her expression resembling that of a child with a new toy.

"Hmmm...news travels fast, I see," Mary quipped

"You're not the first visitor I've had this morning, mi'lady," Anna confessed, dropping her chin a bit. "Mrs. Hughes was here earlier with a basket of her own."

"And just what did she bring you besides the latest news?" Mary inquired, always a bit stunned at just how early the morning began for those in service.

"Mrs. Hughes is truly not a gossip, but we do often talk to each other." Anna paused, picking up another basket and handing it to her visitor. "She made the most beautiful blanket for the baby. Here—see for yourself."

Mary examined the handmade quilt with a modicum of reverence, the time and effort put into crafting such an offering momentarily overwhelming her.

"It is exquisite, Anna," she stated, allowing herself to rub the soft material across her fingers before returning it to the rightful owner. "I am useless when it comes to making anything, I'm afraid."

"But not useless in attracting handsome suitors," Anna dared, dangling bait so obviously that Mary just shook her head.

"I'm not sure just what Mrs. Hughes has told you, but I offered him a place to stay while his aunt is recovering her health in the hospital," Mary reasoned, easily noting that Anna was not going to be put off quite so easily.

"That was very kind of you," Anna grinned, the gleam in her eyes forcing Mary to roll hers in exasperation.

"Yes, it was rather," Mary agreed, actually procuring a giggle from Anna that finally drew one from her, as well.

"It's been a while since I've heard you laugh," Mrs. Bates stated, her mood becoming more serious. "I am very glad to hear it."

She sat quietly for a moment, still rather stunned by the re-emergence in her life of such a simple pleasure.

"Believe me, I still do my share of crying," Mary confessed solemnly, remembering tears shed just last night.

And the arms that held her while they fell.

"That's alright," Anna put in sincerely. "We all carry so many different emotions all jumbled up together inside. It's a rare moment when we only experience one at a time."

Mary's pulse began to throb, the need to unburden herself suddenly urgent as she stared thoughtfully at the woman across from her.

"I kissed him, Anna," she finally breathed, unable to look at her companion as her confession spilled from her lips.

The moment of absolute silence that followed was actually tortuous, making Mary begin to rethink her impulsive decision to admit her actions.

"You did what?" Anna finally exclaimed, unbelieving excitement nearly pushing her from the bed as she leaned forward as far as her pregnancy would allow.

"I believe you heard me the first time," Mary returned, chancing a glance at Mrs. Bates and nearly laughing at her expression in spite of herself.

"When?" Anna demanded, her eyes continuing to widen as her jaw remained slack.

"Last night," Mary confessed, quickly adding, "and it wasn't really a proper kiss, you understand. I kissed him on the cheek."

"But you kissed him!" Anna cut in emphatically. "Did he kiss you back?"

"On the forehead," she admitted quietly, frantically trying to contain the blush she felt creeping up her neck as Anna gently tossed her body back against the pillow with an audible sigh.

"Did he do a good job?" Mrs. Bates whispered mischievously, sending a bolt of surprise straight through Mary.

"Anna!" she shot back, unable to contain a matching giggle as Anna succumbed to them rather quickly. "Yes...he did, rather," Mary finally gave in, her friend's gleeful expression almost too much to bear.

"It all sounds rather exciting," Anna breathed, sitting up straight again as her eyes again questioned Mary. "And how are you today?"

She weighed the question carefully, too many emotions rolling within to voice them all. How on earth could she possibly explain this never-ending Ferris Wheel her life had become when she herself still had trouble making heads or tails of it.

"I am well, I think," she finally responded, gauging Anna's unconvinced expression and knowing her answer would not suffice.

"That's it?" Anna finally voiced, tilting her body forward as she tried to pull the truth out of hiding. "You kiss a man who was a stranger to you last week, he kisses you back and all you can say is that you are well?"

"Any other answer is just too complicated," Mary sighed, her hands beginning to fidget in her lap.

Anna considered her response, digesting Mary's words thoughtfully before replying, "It is alright for you to be happy, mi'lady. I hope you know that."

Mary's eyes reluctantly searched those of her friend, her brow creasing in thought as she voiced, "Is it really, Anna? What if I'm not meant to be?"

"Where would you ever get an idea like that?" Anna asked quickly, disbelief edging the rim of her voice.

Mary drew a deep breath, her thoughts flying back to that rainy day that still stung in her memory. She had been there at his request, standing next to him in the cemetery with which she was now much too familiar, the finality of his words to her striking like nails driven into her own coffin.

We are cursed, you and I...

"Mr. Matthew once said it," she reluctantly uttered, "right after Lavinia died."

"He was speaking out of grief," Anna returned sensibly, "and you know what grief can do to your logic."

"Yes, I do," Mary breathed, standing as her legs could not bear to remain immobile a moment more. "But look at what happened to us, Anna. What if he was right all along?"

"But he wasn't," Anna insisted, searching desperately for the right words. "What happened to Mr. Matthew has nothing to do with you, mi'lady. It was an accident—a horrible accident—but it didn't happen because you deserved to be punished." She drew a deep breath, refusing to break eye contact as she continued, "And he would never want you to think this way. He would want you to be happy."

"Even with another man?" Mary dared, her heart beating uncomfortably in her throat at the impact of her own words.

"What do you think?" Anna returned, leaving her room to answer herself.

What did she think?

She had wanted Matthew to be happy so desperately that she had accepted Lavinia for his sake, even when the other woman's presence made her own sense of loss more acute. She had smiled when the act strained every fiber of her body, played the part of a happy fiancé when she wanted to run screaming from the room, all because she had desired his happiness above her own. Yes—she would have done anything within her power to ensure that Matthew was granted every drop of joy he could have possibly squeezed out of the life he had been granted.

And she knew that he would want nothing less for her.

A knock upon the front door startled her from her thoughts.

"That will be the nurse who checks up on me periodically," Anna clarified, still searching her friend's face for clues as to her emotional state. "Don't worry—she will let herself in."

Mary nodded silently, moving towards the bed as she grasped surprisingly strong hands.

"Thank you, Anna," she breathed, something in her expression seeming to satisfy Mrs. Bates as she smile gently in response. "I shall return tomorrow to see how you are doing."

The nurse announced her entrance from the front room, prompting Anna to pull Mary forward and whisper loudly, "Kiss him again."

Mary drew back in surprise, certain that she had heard the sentence correctly but taken completely aback by the boldness of the command.

And Anna simply smiled back at her, raising her own eyebrows in a wordless challenge Mary knew she would find nearly impossible to resist.

She turned to make her exit as the nurse came in cheerily, immediately stepping to the bed to fluff Anna's pillows and check her pulse as Mary moved to the door.

"Properly!"

She froze instantly, turning in search of confirmation of the word she had heard tossed in her direction with precision. And Anna's returning grin was so blissfully innocent that Mary knew she had misunderstood nothing.

The wind was still in a playful mood as she approached the big house, threatening to steal her hat in a game of hide-and-seek she knew without a doubt she would lose. Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye—a large bird, perhaps? No—yet it swooped down again on the east side of the manor, tweaking her curiosity just enough to set her feet upon a path in that direction.

The destination to which they led her left her momentarily speechless.

Charles and George were seated together on a blanket, the elder of the two speaking to George as if he could understand every word as he adjusted what looked to be the tail of a hand-made kite.

He had not yet spotted her from the angle at which he was sitting, granting her the freedom to creep stealthily towards them and shamelessly eavesdrop upon their conversation.

"I believe we have made the correct adjustments, George," Charles continued, still oblivious to her impending approach.

"Kite! Kite!" the boy exclaimed as he pointed up to the sky, pulling a smile from his mother at how much his version of the word resembled cat.

"That's right, we're going to fly this kite," Charles instructed, touching the boys nose and making him clap his hands in glee. George then plopped his hands down on the blanket, pushing himself up with deliberation as he teetered purposefully towards the man who sat mere inches from him. Tiny hands cupped his cheeks just before dimpled arms wrapped around his neck. Charles set the kite down promptly, carefully pinning it beneath his knee lest their prize be lost, and hugged the child close to his chest.

Dear God.

Her heart stood precariously on tiptoe, betraying her yet again as a tear formed without her consent. It was one of the most beautiful sights she had ever seen, yet almost more than she could allow herself to take in. All motion was suspended as she witnessed this moment she knew with certainty was now forever etched in her mind. Yes—it should have been Matthew, but Matthew was gone.

And Charles Blake was here.

"You are such a good boy, George," he affirmed as the child stepped back, smoothing his dark head fondly. "Shall we give it another go, then?"

"Perhaps that should depend on what you are planning to do," she broke in purposefully, relishing the fact that George was their only witness as he turned in her direction.

Was this the look that her mother had witnessed? Its very intensity stilled her.

He appeared quite differently to her now, as a painting that had suddenly taken on an extra dimension through an in-depth knowledge of its background. How very visible to her were the fierce brushstrokes of pain masquerading in his smile, how utterly clear the flecks of vulnerability etched his eyes. The vivid pallet of Indian tones were so vibrantly a part of him, yet they were tempered by the more subtle hues of Scotland and sophisticated strokes of Oxford. Mary had never experienced anyone quite like this man standing before her now, his complexity so beautifully intriguing.

Then she suddenly wondered if he was reading her just as carefully as she was studying him.

Anna's instructions then burned in her ears, his tenderness with her son only spurring her forward as she added impetuously, "After all, one should not waste repeated effort unless the task at hand is worthwhile."

The roguish grin then made its entrance. And she knew that the game was afoot.

"A valid point, indeed, Mary," he conceded willingly as he stood to greet her, "but if the appointed task is truly worthy then diligent practice is most assuredly wise."

Her gaze dropped involuntarily to his lips...a fact that did not go unnoticed by anyone but George.

"It is good to know that you are not one to walk away from a challenge," she stated, "but prefer to keep at it until the task at hand is mastered."

"Hands and tasks are quickly becoming two of my favorite things," he grinned, grasping hers gently within his.

It emerged again, that deep ache refusing to be ignored as it swelled treacherously at the stroke of his thumb, cresting up her limbs at the caress of his mouth upon her fingers.

Just how proper would Anna consider that, Mary wondered breathlessly.

"While there are many other challenges I am more than willing to master, George and I must tend to our kite at the moment." he offered, the glimmer in his eyes alerting her that he would be most willing for her to follow every syllable of Anna's advice if she chose to act upon it.

"Hmmm...that sounds intriguing," she mused. "And just what adjustments were you making, may I ask?"

"Just taking care of the tail," he explained, giving it a tug even as George reached for it in vain. "It is foolhardy to neglect it, you understand."

"And just what purpose does the tail serve?" she inquired, smiling at her son's obvious enjoyment of this outing.

"Well, it helps to balance the kite and allows it to fly straighter," Charles explained, eyeing his handiwork one more time before adding for her benefit. "And when it moves about, it is delightful to observe."

He dared.

"Should you not be careful with it less it strike you while it is in motion?" she quipped, circling around him. "I would think that tails could be dangerous indeed if one eyes them too closely."

"Only if it causes one to neglect the remainder of the frame," he breathed, the motion of his hands as he inspected the kite suddenly feeling quite personal as she watched them in fascination. "Careful consideration must be given to every facet, you understand. You must pay attention to each small detail if you want it to fly smoothly."

Their eyes locked...and she could barely breathe.

"Come, Mary, you can help," he finally stated, grabbing George back up in one arm while he held the kite in the other. "Why don't you steer it for us?"

Her eyes widened as her breath caught in her throat.

"That's alright," she returned. "I am more than content to watch you and George manage."

He looked at her quizzically, stepping once in her direction as he implored, "Mary—please tell me that you have flown a kite at least once in your life."

She heaved a small sigh, turning her gaze towards the grass around her as she responded, "Would you prefer me to satisfy your request or answer truthfully?"

He shook his head slightly, holding the string out to her insistently as he instructed, "There's really nothing to it. Come on and give it a go. "

Why she was so nervous about holding a piece of string she would never know, but she clasped onto it with faltering hands, shrieking in surprise as the force of the wind nearly pulled it from her grasp.

"Don't hesitate to hold it firmly," he coached her. "You don't want to let it get away from you."

"I assumed that much," she retorted uncomfortably, trying desperately to keep the thing airborne as George pointed to the sky.

"The key is not to fight the wind, but to release the kite into it," he explained, walking stealthily around her. She pulled the string rather harshly instead, sighing in frustration as he added, "You must relax your body, Mary. Let your hands do the work."

"Somehow that sounds easier said than done," she breathed, finding his instructions rather ridiculous as she fought to keep from losing the blasted thing.

"Not really," he disagreed. "Keep in mind that this structure was made to soar. Your guidance just gives it the freedom to do so."

His arm came around her from the back instantly, coaxing hers in silent direction as his sudden proximity made her legs tremble.

"Now just let it out a bit, like this," he breathed, warm instructions tickling the surface of her ear disconcertingly. "Don't yank it too hard, Mary. Release it slowly—steadily—just like that."

The kite began to dance before her much to George's delight, but her attention was riveted to the action she could not see as she felt his lips just barely make contact with the side of her ear. Her arms jumped in response, sending the kite into a bit of a frenzy.

She could feel his chuckle vibrate across her back.

"The control lies in your hands, you see," his voice hummed into her neck. "Don't be afraid of it. You command this vessel."

"It is rather difficult to steer with outside interference," she murmured, the waves of his soft laughter splashing over her insides.

"Just hold it gently, steadily...that's it," he continued, his hand moving atop hers as he encouraged her to let it soar even higher, releasing more string from tightly wound confines as the kite rose steadily.

"And if you move your hands just so..." he continued, pulsing hers up and down in rhythm, taking her completely by surprise as the kite began to spin in arcing circles. She watched in fascination as it danced in oblivion before her eyes, starting just slightly at the contact of his cheek daring to press itself against hers.

"You are doing very well, Mary," he observed, her ache morphing steadily into a driving pulse as she felt his dimple form against her skin. "I believe you must be a natural."

His lips were just there, his mouth so close that is she just tilted her head ever so slightly then...

Her body jerked convulsively, pulled forward with a force that ripped her from his arms.

His laughter behind her only served to flare her temper, George's cries of "Uh-oh," alerting her to the crisis at hand.

"The point of flying a kite is to keep it away from the trees, Mary," Charles explained, chuckling even as he saw the daggers flying from her eyes towards a target she could clearly visualize upon his head.

"A rather impossible feat with pests buzzing about your ear," she fired, becoming all the angrier as his smile just grew before her eyes.

"At least it wasn't the bat trying to bite your neck," he crooned, handing her son over to her care as he plopped upon the grass and began to remove his shoes.

"What are you doing?" she questioned, confusion overtaking ire as he then began on his socks.

"Going after the kite," he answered reasonably, his jacket joining the other discarded items of his clothing as he rolled up one sleeve.

"You're planning on climbing that tree?" she asked incredulously, George chiming in as he repeated the word, pointing towards the oak in emphasis.

"That is the general idea," Charles confirmed, heading off in its direction as Mary watched in a stupor.

"Do you just want to break your neck, or do you think you shall win my favor by taking on such asinine tasks?" she exclaimed, following him in exasperation as he stared up at the tree looming before him.

"As far as necks go, I would much rather concern myself with yours rather than my own," he grinned back at her, earning a well-deserved eye-toss from her as George struggled to get down. "And just what do you find so objectionable about retrieving a kite from a tree?"

"You will get hurt," she stated factually, disbelief that he could not fathom this notion clearly painted upon her features. "And I have no desire to play nursemaid to you."

"If you will be my nurse, then I am definitely climbing up," he smiled, jumping up to grasp on to the lowest branch as he pulled his body up with effort.

"God, what a stubborn man," she spoke under her breath as she watched him climb steadily upward, George looking at her in confusion as the wind finally tore the hat from her head.

She cried out without meaning to do so, watching in frustration as her hat sailed across the grounds until she heard an exclamation, a grunt and a thud.

"Are you alright?" he demanded, pulling his body up slowly from the ground beneath the tree where he had just obviously landed flat on his back.

"What happened to you?" Mary demanded, concern for his well-being propelling her legs quickly in his direction.

"I heard you scream, and I lost my balance," Charles admitted, looking up to her with the impish expression of an errant boy.

"You're bleeding," she announced, kneeling down beside him and granting George a modicum of freedom to toddle around in the grass.

"Where?" he asked in confusion, examining his own body for evidence of an injury.

"Just there," she answered, pulling one of his handkerchiefs from a pocket in which she had secretly placed it. She touched it to his temple, a rather nasty-looking scratch continuing to pour forth its anger as his blood dripped down the side of his face.

"Well, come on," she instructed, standing on her own before offering him a hand up. "I guess I shall have to play nurse to you after all."

She picked up George, quieting his frustrations at losing his freedom of movement before turning to Charles and adding decisively, "And if you make any impertinent remarks concerning this situation, I shall gladly give you stitches, whether you need them or not."

"And just where are you planning to administer said stitches," he dared, risking the obvious danger to catch the anticipated gleam in her eye.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she purred, her attempt at a sharp expression softened by the twitch in her cheek as she fought a smile.

Well-there you have it. As always, I would love to hear your thoughts! And Chapter 15 will be posted in two weeks rather than one as I shall be on vacation next week. Thank you again for reading, and may the days ahead be full of joy. :)