Thank you all so very much for your most thoughtful notes and reviews over the past two weeks! Yes-we had a most glorious and fun-filled vacation, although it is always lovely to be home. But I must admit that we are all missing Disney World right now...
I so treasure the time and input given on a regular basis by the amazing R. Grace and marvelous On either side the river lie. I cannot say it enough! And I have adored the great discussions on the responsibilities of writing, the inner-workings of characters and life in general with La Dona Ingenua. You are a dear! And to those of you who send reviews to which I cannot reply personally-bless you!
Finally, to any of you who took the time to vote for Strangers for the Highclere Awards-thank you so very much! When oiseaus messaged me to offer congratulations on my awards, I nearly screamed...I had no idea I had won anything. To receive two first place and two second place awards completely blew me away. But it would not have happened without such lovely readers as you. So thank you again!
Some of you may notice my small tribute to Charles M. Schulz tucked away in these paragraphs-I am a lifelong fan of Peanuts.
So here is Chapter 15. I do hope it does not disappoint!
Ch 15
"Ouch!"
Charles jumped, earning himself a rather pointed glance from his newly appointed nurse as she tended the nasty scratch now grazing an angry trail across his temple and forehead.
"Would you please sit still," Mary commanded, pausing in her cleansing ministrations to the wound. "You're a worse patient than George, for God's sake."
"That's because you are enjoying yourself entirely too much at my expense," he retorted, gifted with a sideways smirk from her. "I doubt you wear such an expression of triumph if George protests."
"Well, if you had only listened to me in the first place, you would not be in this predicament," she returned, applying the stinging liquid yet again to his face. "So now you must take your medicine."
"I believe I have had entirely enough medicine for one day," he stated, wincing at the slight discomfort. "Don't you think that scratch is clean enough by now?"
"One should never take any foolish chances," Mary instructed, "such as climbing trees when it is entirely unnecessary."
"I think George would take my side in this issue," he insisted. "We spent quite a bit of time crafting that kite this morning."
"Don't you think it's a bit underhanded to enlist a one year-old to support you?" she questioned, pausing her ministrations to look at him directly.
"Not when the one year old is as clever as George," he grinned, earning himself quite a look from the child's mother.
"Now I know you are just trying to get back into my good graces," Mary deduced, "but I must caution you that flattery will get you nowhere in this situation."
"Not even off of this blasted stool?" he inquired, his feigned look of injury procuring nothing but a sigh.
"Especially not off of this stool," she insisted, ensuring that the bleeding had indeed stopped before moving on to other matters. "At least not until I am certain that I've fixed you up properly. Now, let me look at that shoulder."
"There is nothing wrong with my shoulder, I assure you," he argued, eyeing her stubbornly.
"It is bleeding through just there, so there is clearly something amiss," she replied. "Now are you going to unbutton this shirt, or do I have to do it for you?"
"Well, if those are my choices…" he began, smiling broadly at the stabbing gaze she aimed in his direction.
"Don't look at me that way. Remember the consequences I promised you for any impertinent remarks," she stated firmly.
"I made no remarks," Charles retorted, raising his own brows in defense.
"Oh, yes you did," Mary insisted, her expression brokering no argument in the matter while it made him grin.
"I see neither needle nor thread in here," he observed, looking around Mrs. Hughes's sitting room from his perch. "Perhaps I am in no actual danger."
"I'm sure Mrs. Hughes could have one in my hand within a matter of seconds if I asked her," she reasoned, sharpening her glance on his features. "And I was instructed on how to administer stitches during the war when Downton was converted into a convalescent home. You had better behave yourself, Charles."
"And did you ever stitch anyone up, Nurse Crawley?" he teased, finally drawing her eyes to his for more than a few seconds.
"No," Mary admitted, tilting her head as she pondered the situation. "But I suppose there must be a first time for everything."
"So I would be your proverbial guinea pig?" he mused, pursing his lips together before concluding, "That is not a very comforting thought."
"Perhaps not to you," she crooned, "but I am becoming more and more attracted to the idea. Now stop stalling and unbutton that shirt while I cut a new bandage."
"I must say, Lady Mary, I never expected such behavior from you," Charles teased. "I believe that Mr. Carson would be shocked, indeed."
"Trust me, I saw my fair share of men's upper torsos during the war, Mr. Blake," she retorted authoritatively. "I cannot imagine that yours would be so exceptional that it would render me incapable of performing my duties."
"And I believe your bedside manner leaves something to be desired," he prodded, following her instructions and watching in fascination as she measured out the wrapping and began to cut it.
"I'm not even going to acknowledge that remark," Mary poked back, moving towards him as his shirt slid off the injured shoulder, exposing his left arm.
"What on earth did you do to the poor branches to make them so angry with you?" she questioned, stepping in to eye the deep gash that cut across his collar bone and down his chest. "I didn't realize that limbs could be so sharp."
"Trees like that have to have sharp branches in order to eat kites, you see," Charles replied, her proximity threatening to distract him terribly. That moment vanished, however, as he jumped in response to the alcohol-soaked cloth being pressed firmly to his shoulder.
"I had no idea that flying kites could be so treacherous," Mary said smoothly. "From now on you shall have to take more precautions."
"Perhaps you can lend me your armor," he retorted, a small hiss escaping him as she applied yet another round of antiseptic.
"Perhaps," she quipped, suddenly eyeing him quizzically as she pondered an item of interest. "Who taught you how to build and fly a kite, Charles?"
"Mr. Fraser," he answered directly. "He was a solicitor that took care of any legal issues with which Aunt Catherine's school would have to deal. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I assumed it was not your father," Mary admitted, looking him in the eye, "and I am having rather a difficult time of picturing your aunt taking on such a task."
"Very astute of you," Charles replied, a slight wince pinching his expression that had nothing to do with the alcohol applied to his cut. "My father spent as little time with me as possible, I'm afraid. His only interest in having a son was to perform his duty in having someone to whom to bequeath his estate."
It was her turn to flinch inwardly.
"Mr. Fraser came to school on a regular basis," Charles continued. "He always insisted that it was to check up on things, but I have suspected for some time that he was secretly interested in my aunt."
Mary smiled softly. "A secret admirer—how very intriguing. I wonder why he never said anything to her?"
"I can't answer that," he concluded, "other than he may have been afraid to face the possibility of rejection."
His eyes were so close, too close as she drew her gaze from his shoulder to his face. "I can understand that," she admitted with measured reluctance. "I was frightened of revealing my feelings to Matthew for years...even when he was sent to the front. Carson told me that I would regret it if something happened to him and I never let him know the truth. Now I can't help but wonder if things would have been different if I had taken his advice and been bolder."
"It is never easy to lay your feelings out in the open when you are unsure of the reaction you will receive," he agreed softly, his eyes dropping to the floor a fraction of a second before returning to face hers directly. "Don't punish yourself for decisions made in your past, Mary."
"Said the pot to the kettle?" she questioned, her voice barely above a whisper as he gave her a half-smile.
"Said the pot to the kettle," he agreed, his mouth twitching slightly in a manner that made him appear very suddenly unsure.
"So Mr. Fraser took it upon himself to teach you about kites?" she asked delicately as she finished cleaning the wound.
"Yes, he did," Charles reminisced, "as well as fishing, riding and a bevy of other pursuits he felt it was important for all lads to learn. I think he was concerned that my upbringing was somewhat lacking as it was taking place at a school for girls."
"That's understandable," Mary put in, looking to his shoulder as she prepared to bandage it. "Still, it was very kind of him."
"He was a man with no son, and I was a boy without a father," Charles stated wistfully, offering her a brief glimmer of a much deeper internal wound carved out of sheer neglect. "It worked out rather well for both of us, I think."
Her heart thudded painfully in her throat, the obvious parallel stilling her hand as she clutched the bandage tightly.
"I am glad you found each other," she whispered, swallowing deliberately in an attempt to return a semblance of order to her senses.
"So I am," he breathed.
Her attention was sharply commanded by a gash newly seen, an old scar that began just below his shoulder blade and disappeared into his undershirt quite conveniently.
"What is this?" she asked determinedly, drawing back far enough to look him in the eye.
"That was very nearly the end of me," he replied, attempting a flicker of a grin that she cut off with the seriousness of her expression. "And the wake-up call I needed to get my life back in order."
She peered closely at the scar again, quelling her instinctive need to pull the shirt aside to examine it fully. "Just how far does this extend?"
He silently pointed to the bottom of his ribcage, remaining calm even when facing the horror upon her face.
"Dear God, what happened to you?" she demanded, her mouth slightly agape as she began to realize the enormity of this wound from which he had recovered.
"I started a fight with three men in Bombay," he sighed, his fingers brushing through his hair as he continued. "It turned out that one of them had a knife."
"Why did you start a fight in the first place if you were so clearly outnumbered?" she demanded, unable to quite imagine the man before her acting in such a manner.
And inexplicably angry with him for putting himself at risk.
"I had had a bit to drink," he admitted, unable to meet her gaze as she watched him intently. "And they were attacking a woman."
She was somewhat aware of the noises taking place outside of the closed confines of this room graciously offered, this new knowledge of his life striking her mercilessly as the enormity of it pushed its way in. The painful finality of death dropped as a stone in her stomach, and she mourned those lost yet again even as she was thankful that at least he had been spared from its voracious appetite.
"How did you recover?" she managed, the bandage in her hand all but forgotten as she felt the need to tend to this scar already healed.
"At the hands of some amazing women," he grinned, drawing her eyes up sharply as a small chuckle escaped him. "The Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy."
"You were rescued by a group of nuns?" she questioned intently, nearly dropping the bandage.
"Some men found me and delivered me to their doorstep," he explained, shrugging his shoulders slightly as he finished, "I had basically been left on the street to die, you see. No one really expected that I would last through the night. No one except Sister Deborah, that is."
He smiled ruefully, shaking his head slightly in remembrance. "She kept a vigil by my bedside for two days, praying continually that God would spare my life."
The chill of death blew down her neck, making her shiver as she contemplated just how narrowly he had escaped its ugly talons.
And how during the war she had prayed in the same manner for Matthew.
"I am glad that He did," she whispered, her gaze solidly fixed upon the floor.
"So am I," he breathed, wordlessly beckoning her eyes to his where they lingered in silence. "Although there are times when I am still uncertain why He would choose to do so."
"Don't say that," Mary requested softly, a silent plea issuing forth from under her eyelids.
"If you insist," he offered quietly. "Anyway, I stayed with them for nearly a year, assisting them with tasks around convent and projects throughout the neighborhood. They in turn offered me a place to live and a needed refuge from my life."
"They sound rather marvelous," Mary put in, still piecing together these new bits of him in her mind.
"They were indeed," Charles agreed immediately. "Those women helped me in more ways than I can ever repay."
"Were you ever able to forgive your father?" she queried, still having difficulty in fathoming a child being so unwanted by his own parents. "He did have quite a bit to answer for, in my opinion."
He sat in thoughtful contemplation, his expression creasing as his gaze moved from one point to another in the room.
"I'm not really sure, Mary," he admitted honestly. "I hope that I have, and I did attempt to make things right between us before he died. But it is difficult to offer forgiveness to someone who never sees the need to seek it from you."
"I suppose that it is," she breathed, realizing the true gash in his chest had been formed long before the street fight in Bombay.
Halting hands then stretched forward, boldly touching his ribcage in a gentle inquiry. A single nod granted her permission as she hesitantly lifted the side of his shirt. Her eyes traced the puckered flesh, her thumb following the marked path in reverence as she learned this small plot of his landscape.
His slight intake of breath halted her surveying immediately as she pulled back in hasty embarrassment.
"Did I hurt you?" she inquired quickly, instinctively knowing the answer before it was given.
"No, Mary," he whispered darkly. "You did not hurt me."
A shiver rocked her from the depths of her being. She could no longer maintain the professional façade donned in order to treat his injuries. It fell to the ground, leaving in its wake the insistent knowledge that they were alone and that he sat before her in a partial state of undress. Heat stung her cheeks and dried her throat as the full weight of just how intimately she had touched him throbbed blindingly through her veins. She had kissed his cheek, she had touched his skin…and still from the recesses within came a cry to know more of him.
"Mary," he whispered, the husky choke in his voice betraying the state of his own need.
And she began to burn.
He stood from his perch on the stool, his hand claiming hers as the forgotten bandage fell to the floor in neglect. Her fingers wrapped around his instinctively as he drew them agonizingly upward, caressing each knuckle gently with his lips as she watched in fascination. Her blood began to throb forcefully, heat within her spreading fast as he delicately parted her fingers, opening her palm to him fully for his inspection. He grazed sensitive flesh with his nose, her ache now sharply acute as his mouth descended to palm and claimed its center.
Dear God.
A soft moan escaped her, his other hand moving to the small of her back as it drew her in closer—ever closer. His lips trailed to her wrist, his tongue tickling her pulse until Mary thought she might truly go mad. She leaned into him, summoning his full attention towards her face as their foreheads made contact. She jumped as the pad of his finger grazed her mouth, languidly tracing an outline on the surface of lips he fully intended to kiss.
It was too much, yet just what she had been craving. She could feel his breath on her skin, his mouth reclaiming the temple he had so achingly marked the previous night. His face embarked on a slow descent, his nose nudging hers so very gently as his lips brushed her cheekbone. She began to shake as her arm encircled his neck, fingers seeking the softness of his hair in her need to clasp a part of him to her as he kissed a freckle just above her jawbone.
Then hot air teased her own lips, enticing them to part for him just as his finally, finally touched down….
"Oh, there you are, Mary!"
She jumped back in shock, smoothing her skirts instinctively as her pulse pounded mercilessly in her ears. Mary dared a quick glance in his direction, noting with renewed alarm that he was righting his shirt—his shirt! It had been untucked and half-removed from his body, his undershirt drawn up his torso leaving him partially exposed.
And Isobel stood before them, understanding with a clarity marked upon her face what she had just interrupted as she stood silently agape.
"I heard that you had been injured, Mr. Blake," Mrs. Crawley recovered quickly, smiling brightly as if she had walked in on the two of them having tea.
"Yes, I fell from a tree," Charles returned, looking rather more composed than Mary felt except for the blackened tones in his eyes, the somewhat flushed state of his skin, the state of his hair where her fingers had…
It was utterly hopeless.
"It was very good of you to tend to him, Mary," Isobel replied in a rather chipper fashion, moving towards the pair in a slow precision to inspect the injuries herself.
"Lady Mary has been an excellent nurse," Charles added, her gaze throwing him a pierced warning from over Isobel's shoulder.
"I am glad to hear that you remembered so much of your training, dear," the older woman continued, nodding her head in satisfaction as she turned to her daughter-in-law. "You have done a fine job in tending to Mr. Blake's wounds."
Mary could not formulate an answer, swallowing with all the force she could muster as she turned her gaze from the all-too knowing one of her mother-in-law. To her knowledge, Isobel had never even seen her in such a state of dishevelment with Matthew—her own husband—for God's sake! Just to think of what she had seen…what she must be thinking…
"Isobel, I…" she tried, blood rushing to her head with such a speed that it nearly made her dizzy. She grabbed the edge of the table for stability as her legs felt momentarily week, bringing Charles immediately to his feet as he sprang to her side in assistance.
"Are you alright, Mary?" he questioned, forgetting himself as he addressed her in such a familiar manner.
"Yes, I think so," she answered, stifling a sudden urge to run from the room.
"Sit down, my dear," Isobel instructed calmly, pulling out a chair as Charles assisted her into it. "Mr. Blake, perhaps you would fetch a glass of water for Mary."
"Of course," he responded promptly, fastening a button as he exited the room.
She sat motionless, wishing she could press a damp cloth to her own burning cheeks as she forced herself to face the woman with whom she was now momentarily alone.
But Isobel remained uncharacteristically silent. And Mary was unnerved.
"Heaven knows what you must think, Isobel," she finally managed, focusing squarely upon her hands as she found herself unable to look anywhere else. "There is no logical explanation, I'm afraid. It's just…he just…"
Words then failed her. And the older woman pressed her lips together thoughtfully, finally extending one hand to cover Mary's two.
"There is no need for apologies, my dear," Isobel replied in such a matter-of-fact manner that Mary's gaze flew to her face. "It seems to me as though you are simply finding yourself again."
Her mother-in-law's eyes were glistening, her smile quivering brightly as she clasped the younger woman's hands tightly.
"You are grabbing on to life, pushing yourself forward, forging something new," Isobel continued, continuing to amaze her daughter-in-law as Charles quietly re-entered the room. "Good for you, Mary. Good for you."
The enormity of this unexpected gesture laid before her filled her own eyes with moisture. What the woman had walked in on was far removed from what was considered proper interaction between two unmarried people—even those who had been widowed.
Yet Isobel was a widow herself. Realization quietly dawned that the rumblings of emotion stirring within her could not be all that foreign to Mrs. Crawley. She was a woman, after all.
"Thank you," Mary whispered, actual speech unable to make its way through the tightened confines of her throat.
Then she looked up and found him.
Charles remained on the perimeter, hesitant to interrupt this interaction wrought with apparent difficulties for both women. But her gaze summoned him forward and he placed the water in her hands, watching her closely in concern.
"Are you feeling better?" he questioned, searching her face closely.
"Yes, thank you," Mary answered quietly, his gaze suddenly too much to bear as a myriad of emotions assaulted her at once. She quite abruptly felt the need to be alone.
"Your mother would like to see you, my dear," Isobel continued. "She asked me to send for you just before I came down. Something to do about guests cancelling, I believe."
"I shall go and see what she wants," Mary nodded, self-consciously attempting to straighten any remaining hairs that had come as undone.
"That's fine, then," Mrs. Crawley returned. "I shall finish tending to Mr. Blake while you take care of business upstairs."
"Oh, perhaps you would do me a favor, as well, Mary," Isobel continued, catching her daughter-in-law just before she exited the room. "I was planning to accompany Mr. Blake to the hospital to pick up Lady Catherine and bring her back to Downton. I do feel, however, that it might be more practical if I remain here and make sure that all is in order for her arrival. Would you consider taking my place and going with him?"
Mary stared at her in a bit of a stupor, certain that she must have just misunderstood what seemed to be spoken so clearly.
"That is, unless you would rather not have to return to the hospital again, my dear," Isobel added, searching Mary's face for a sign of what she was thinking. "I do understand if that is the case."
"No—no, it is fine," she stated, catching the small smile of appreciation upon Charles's face as he witnessed this exchange. "I would be happy to assist Mr. Blake and Lady Catherine. Now if you will excuse me."
She made her retreat, shutting the door behind her as she continued to contemplate just what had taken place in the confines of Mrs. Hughes's sitting room…
And what might be occurring now that she had left the vicinity.
Charles watched Isobel Crawley in a respectful fascination, unsure of just what she would say yet admiring the manner in which she had interacted with Mary. That the two of them had forged a special bond was evident.
But just what Matthew's mother might have to say to him after what she had just witnessed was not clear at all.
She turned her full attention to him, creasing her brows as she stepped in his direction. She first cut a new bandage, applying it deftly and in silence to his shoulder before stepping back to address him.
"Mrs. Crawley," he began, wondering if she were waiting for him to formulate an apology or explanation for what she had unwittingly witnessed. "Please allow me to…"
"There's no need for that, Mr. Blake," Isobel interrupted, her tone suddenly crisp and business-like. "We are both adults here."
He smiled at her in newly forged respect. "Yes, we are."
"I understand from your aunt that you lost both your spouse and your child not too very long ago," she observed empathetically. "I am very sorry. I know the pain of both acutely, I'm afraid."
"Yes," Charles responded. "It would seem as though we share an unfortunate commonality. I am sorry for that as well, Mrs. Crawley."
Her gaze was penetrating, as if she were trying to discern his every thought and motive as she stood immobile before him.
"Take care of her, Mr. Blake," Isobel finally voiced, her expression leaving him in no doubt that he had just been issued a command of utmost importance. "Even if she is reluctant to let you do so. Mary is quite a strong and proud woman, you know. But she is still very fragile, more so than she would ever want to admit."
"I know," he uttered, a renewed sense of responsibility for Mary's well-being settling resolutely upon him.
"It is rather ironic, actually," Isobel mused, clasping her hands together in front of her, "I did not care for Mary when we first met, and I know she resented everything that I represented. But I have watched her grow into quite an amazing woman over the years, and my Matthew loved her so very deeply."
"As she loved him," Charles put in, drawing forth a half-smile from Mrs. Crawley in acknowledgement.
"Mary masks her feelings very well, but her love of Matthew was so very evident to anyone who paid attention," she continued, staring into a past she would give anything to once again make a reality. "Yet Matthew was blind to it for so long. I never quite understood it."
"Emotions can all too easily cloud ones judgment and powers of observation," he stated with a slight shrug, looking towards Mary's mother-in-law as she took one step nearer.
"Well said, Mr. Blake," Isobel responded, nodding firmly in agreement. "So please, take care with her. You see, I have come to love Mary deeply myself, and I would very much hate to see her suffer any further."
"As would I, Mrs. Crawley," Charles returned softly, the raw honesty in his gaze attesting to his statement.
There was a pause as a wordless understanding was brokered.
"Good," Isobel finally replied, granting him a small smile as if they had just signed a contract. "And when you go to the hospital this afternoon, don't let her wander up to the second floor. The memories of that place are still much too difficult for her to face."
"I understand," Charles stated, his heart squeezing tightly in response to the pain evident in the expression of the woman standing before him. "I shall do all that I can to protect her, Mrs. Crawley. I give you my word."
"That's all I can ask," she responded, reaching out to give his hand a gentle squeeze. "Now—let's see to that shirt of yours."
She had retreated within herself.
Mary nodded her head and said next to nothing as her mother informed her of Lord and Lady Keeton's inability to attend the house party due to their son recovering from a sore throat and fever. She smiled at George's progress with Nanny Thompson even as very few words escaped her lips to either of them. She nodded at the appropriate times when Tom informed her of the progress in repairs happening across the estate and when Glynis sought her approval of a dress for the evening.
And she hardly spoke to Charles as they drove to the hospital to pick up Lady Catherine.
Her thoughts were anything but quiet, pestering her to the point of distraction as she strove to untangle the mangled knot within her.
He seemed to understand that she needed some distance to sort through all that had just happened, to process this onslaught of emotion that was making her feel as if she had been caught up in a whirlwind. Isobel's discovery of their actions had shaken her—making her need to step back and examine the situation before her with as much logic as she could muster. A mind that had been so fixed upon the past now felt overly-crowded as the present asserted itself, even more so as questions that hinted of a future now peeked around the corner, seeking admittance into a consciousness that had banished them into the realm of impossibility. She felt quite suddenly unprepared, disorganized…and dreadfully unsure.
Yet logic was difficult to summon when he sat only inches from her in the car.
He was painfully considerate at the hospital, looking after her in such a manner that an onlooker could have easily deduced that she was the patient and he her devoted husband. She smiled and thanked him, speaking jovially enough with Lady Catherine to keep further questions at bay. But she would not meet his eyes for more than a second.
And that fact was hurting him deeply.
She began to see it—the pain pooling in his expression, the slightly more clipped timbre to his voice, the manner in which his eyes traversed the landscape but truly saw nothing. And it shook her to know that this was all her doing, that just a few hours ago they had been laughing together, teasing and flirting, touching…
Yet these were the very reasons she had taken a step back.
George demanded her attention when they arrived back at Downton just as his aunt demanded his. But even as she played with her son in the privacy of the nursery, her thoughts strayed to the morning outing, the feel of the unruly kite string pulling on her fingers…
The warmth of him pressing up behind her.
She could suddenly stand this self-imposed wall of silence no longer, needing to seek him out and explain herself as best as she could. The temptation to simply avoid him hovered before her, encouraging her to wall herself in and keep all thoughts and feelings within her own secure confines. But she had just spoken earlier of Carson's advice to her when Matthew had been home on leave, and had admitted her regret over not speaking up when she had been given the opportunity.
It would be unfair to them both for her to choose silence this time.
She slipped out of the nursery once George had settled in with Nanny Thompson and Sybbie, unsure of his location yet unwilling to ask anyone who might know. This was a private matter between them, something they must decipher with no further outside interference. She slipped downstairs, careful to draw no attention to herself as she flitted from room to room. She was ready to begin searching the grounds, stifling a gnawing fear that perhaps he had grown tired of her reclusiveness already and set off for York.
She drew a deep breath to quell her unruly imagination, forcing it back into line as she convinced herself that he was not the type of man to simply walk away from her.
Then she found him.
He was back in the corner of the small library, examining a shelf of books Mary knew housed volumes of history and some of her father's favorite biographies. If he noticed her entrance into the room, he did not acknowledge it, pulling a well-worn edition from the shelf for further perusal.
But he did hear her shut the door fast behind her. And the book in his hand was suddenly all but forgotten.
She moved wordlessly in his direction, holding up her palm towards him to ward off any unnecessary apologies she knew he would offer without hesitation. She crossed the space separating them, finding direct eye contact more and more difficult as she drew nearer. He stared at her in silence, the uncertainty filling his eyes forcing her to close her own to muster the clarity she needed.
"Mary, I…" he began, his gaze dropping to the floor as he dreaded the words he feared she would utter.
"Don't," she interrupted, daring a step closer and swallowing to loosen the words sticking stubbornly in her throat. "You did nothing wrong, Charles."
He drew a deep breath, now searching the ceiling as he ravaged his dark locks. "But I must have done, Mary. I pushed you too hard downstairs, I should not have…"
"Stop it, please," she demanded, unwilling to allow him to continue down this path of self-recrimination. "This is about me, not anything you did or did not do down there."
She had claimed his full attention, his eyes compelling her to continue.
"One week ago, I did not even know you, Charles Blake," she stated, her expression creasing in explanation. "Yet within a few days I have told you very personal things—things I have never spoken of with anyone else. I shared a room with you in the nursery—slept in that same room with you. I have held you, touched you, even kissed you, for God's sake."
Mary paused to draw breath, enclosing her arms about herself.
"Don't you see?" she continued, beginning to pace on the small patch of floor beneath her. "This is not like me, Charles. I behave nothing like this under normal circumstances, nothing at all."
"I would never assume that you would," he put in, shifting his stance slightly as his eyes followed her closely. "And I apologize if it seemed as though I was taking advantage."
He paused, shoving restless hands into his pockets. "I should never have presumed that it was alright for me to kiss you."
She stared at him incredulously, her mouth gaping slightly.
"Is that really what you think?" she asked, her stunned expression catching him completely off-guard. "That my silence has been because I don't want you to kiss me?"
His brows drew together in contemplation, his mind struggling to follow the path of her logic but failing miserably.
"Yes, that is exactly what I assumed, Mary," he admitted quietly. "Are you telling me that I am wrong?"
She threw her arms up in disbelief, spinning on her heels to face him directly.
"Yes, you are wrong," she declared, gazing at him in exasperation. Did he truly not see what was right before his eyes?
"The problem is not that I don't want you to kiss me, Charles. The problem is that I do."
His slack-jawed expression immediately informed her of his shock.
"It has been one year since I buried Matthew," she continued, shutting her eyes fast for a fractured second. "A very long, difficult year, but still only one."
"You think it is too soon then?" he questioned haltingly, risking one step in her direction.
"I-I don't know!" she answered, spreading her arms out before him. "I just never expected that I would ever want anyone else to be in my life, especially not so quickly."
Her hand covered her forehead, trying to pull forth any words that at least sounded reasonable.
"You stepped on to that train a week ago, and suddenly everything in my life has turned upside-down," she exclaimed. "I don't know what to make of it, I don't know what to think, how to act..."
Her breath was audible, the rising and falling of her chest pronounced as she gazed at him fully.
"I don't know what to do with you, Charles Blake."
Utmost tenderness touched blatant confusion across the small space between them.
"I don't believe you have to know, Mary. Not yet, anyway."
He took three small steps towards her, gratified to see that she made no move to retreat from him as he spoke, his voice quieter than to what she had become accustomed.
"Would it surprise you to know that I'm not exactly sure what to do with you, either?"
A whispered laugh escaped her even as her eyes widened in amazement.
"Yes. It actually would."
He pursed his lips for a moment, watching his shoes as he took a deep breath and looked back at her.
"Mary Crawley, you are the first woman I have had any desire to truly be with in five years," he admitted quietly. "Yes, I have had more time to mourn Rashmi than you have had to grieve Matthew, but that doesn't mean that this…this thing between us hasn't taken me completely by surprise, as well."
He gave her a rueful half-grin, hands fidgeting in his pockets as he dared to continue.
"I am feeling my way through this too, you know. I have no idea exactly what I should say or do next, if I shall offend you in some manner or make you uneasy. I'm afraid of doing nothing, yet worried about doing too much. Good God, I feel like such a bumbling oaf."
He paused thoughtfully, his hand moving across his scalp.
"I have no idea what will happen tomorrow or the day after that. We are both all too aware of how life can turn on you in an instant."
She breathed audibly, cold hands clasping together in want of something tangible to grasp.
And one more step was taken, even as words threatened to fail him, forcing him to clear his throat.
"I just know that ever since our paths crossed on that train that I am much happier when I am in your company than when I am without it."
His tone bore the timbre of shyness, a trait she would have never associated with him until this very moment.
And it moved her deeply.
"Do you ever wonder if we are doing this for the wrong reasons?" she queried with some hesitation, "That we are trying to forget or to just not be sad anymore?"
"Is there something wrong with not wanting to be sad, Mary?" he asked her gently, finally summoning the courage to take her hand within his. "Are you really so frightened of being happy?"
Her gaze fell to the floor, her pulse pounding mercilessly against her ribs as she simply nodded her head.
"It terrifies me," she finally whispered, feeling his grip tighten as he enclosed her hand within both of his.
"I understand," Charles replied.
It just happened then, a hesitant descent of his lips to hers, at first no more than a soft caress that made her own tremble in response. Her free hand slid slowly up his chest, coming to rest gingerly upon his shoulder as his mouth brushed hers again in soft strokes, each drawing a more pronounced response from her. Their hands then broke free, his seeking her back and waist while hers found his hair, clutching on to each other as the pressure of their lips continually intensified.
All hesitation was then lost as lips parted and mouths tasted, this sampling of newness spiraling pinpricks up and down her spine. Her hands pulled him even closer, pressing into his scalp as his fingers traced a deliberate path across her back. She felt breathless—somewhat lightheaded as he drew her to him purposefully, her arms intertwining around his neck instinctively, the need for more of him spurring her daring.
Until the door was thrown open rudely, interruption wedging them apart yet again.
"Oh, do forgive me," a male voice preened. "My esteemed sister keeps insisting that we have arrived earlier than expected, but it would seem as though I have actually arrived quite late to this party."
As always, I love hearing from you! I do hope to see you again next week for Chapter 16. :)