In honor of Independence Day here in America tomorrow, I am posting Chapter 16 one day early rather than one day late per request of my friends on tumblr. Once again, please allow me to thank all of you for the wonderful reviews for Chapter 15-you always make me smile! :)
R. Grace and On either side the river lie...HUGE thanks again to both of you (as always) for your comments, opinions and amazing insights into this chapter, as well as the joy of laughter you send my way! La Donna Ingenua-once again I have so appreciated and enjoyed a week of great conversation and full of challenging questions!
For my fellow Americans, have a most wonderful July 4th. And for my friends in other countries, have a most lovely upcoming weekend. :D
Ch 16
Mary disconnected herself from Charles, her frame shaking slightly from frustration and exposure coupled with the abrupt loss of his body warmth. Good God—were they never to be left alone? She bit her lip to prevent herself from swearing, choking down words that were fitting under the circumstances yet would most certainly shock her mother if she ever heard them fly from her lips.
Breathing deeply became her focus, her nostrils flaring in chagrin as Charles turned to face the intruder. Shielded quite effectively from prying eyes by his large frame, she attempted to gather her wits and claim at least a semblance of respectability. But such basic tasks were proving to be rather difficult when her skin and lips were still tingling mercilessly from the aftermath of their kiss.
"Lady Mary," the interloper continued, actually daring to step further into the confines of their private haven, his pestilent smile broadening with each step. "Perhaps it has been too long since we have seen each other, and you do not remember me?"
Mary moved forward to stand at Charles's side, instantly commanding a frigid glower as she stared down this man she passionately longed to toss into a pack of wolves.
"On the contrary, Mr. Roquefort," Mary replied evenly, "You are a person quite impossible to forget, no matter how strenuously one may attempt to do so."
She heard the appreciative sniff of laughter from Charles, knowing with certainty that it was imperative that she not look at him if she were to keep her composure.
"I see that the sharpness of your wit nearly reaches that of your personality," Mr. Roquefort crooned, the absurdity of his smirk barely preventing it from becoming frightfully offensive.
She felt Charles stiffen beside her, prompting her to set a hand upon his arm to halt his charge of defense.
"Not all of us are blessed with a natural dullness of temperament and mind as you have been, I'm afraid," Mary retorted, her eyebrows daring the man facing her to issue another challenge.
"Oh my, I do believe I might be bleeding after that remark," he preened, "although from the looks of that gash upon your forehead, sir, it would seem as though I am far from being her first victim of this gathering."
"Now that is enough-" Charles rallied, stepping forward even as Mary physically attempted to pull him back once more. He drew a deep breath, righting his jacket as he demanded, "You will address Lady Mary with far more respect, sir."
Mr. Roquefort stepped right up to Charles, waving his hands frantically in mock distress.
"Easy now. You can call off your attack dog, Lady Mary. Let him know that I mean you no harm."
"Oh, I don't know," Mary replied in a markedly cool tone. "I'm rather enjoying seeing you squirm a bit, Mr. Roquefort. And perhaps he can teach you some manners."
"It certainly appears that he is quite the adept instructor in many areas," the man dared, pushing Charles one step too far as he lunged forward and forcibly grabbed the red-headed antagonist by the lapels.
"You will apologize to Lady Mary for your abominably rude behavior immediately, is that clear?" Charles growled, overwhelming Mary a bit with such a fierce protective display.
Mr. Roquefort inexplicably began to chuckle, clearly outmanned if it came down to a fight with the figure looming over him.
"You do have him well-trained, Lady Mary. Why, he is already at your beck and call, and the party has only just gotten underway...well, at least for most of us, that is."
Charles knew that the thread of reason keeping him from pummeling the man in front of him was stretched dangerously thin, so he drew breath steadily as sincere words of warning hissed from his mouth.
"You are finally correct in one matter, sir. I am at Lady Mary's complete disposal and will not hesitate to defend her honor or rid her of pestering nuisances slithering about her feet at her slightest inkling."
He drew the man's face even closer, not allowing for any misunderstanding as he continued, "The only thing that is preventing me from tossing you out the back door right now is the fact that you are a guest here at Downton Abbey, and for some inexplicable reason Lady Mary does not wish for you to suffer any injuries. However, I can assure you that even her generous nature has its limits, and as you have already reached the end of mine, my advice would be to tread carefully."
A small thrill surged through her as she witnessed this exchange, glimpsing for the first time both the power and flash of temper that must have spurred Charles to take on the three men who very nearly ended his own life. It would be almost alarming if not for the fact that it was displayed in all its finery for the sole purpose of protecting her.
"Calm yourself, Mr. Blake," she uttered smoothly. "I would not have you expend unnecessary energy when Mr. Roquefort's intentions were clearly meant to be humorous rather than offensive. It's too bad that he has such difficulty in distinguishing the two."
Charles reluctantly released his grip on the other man, not daring to take his eyes off him as Mr. Roquefort straightened his lapels.
"Mr. Blake, may I introduce you to Mr. Edward Roquefort," Mary put in, her gaze darting between the two as she attempted to gage if it was yet safe to withdraw the restraining hand she had placed upon Charles's sleeve. "Mr. Roquefort—Mr. Charles Blake."
"Ah, Mr. Blake," Edward sighed dramatically, "it is an honor to make your acquaintance."
"Mr. Roquefort," Charles responded evenly, even as Mary felt the muscles of his arm twitch through his jacket.
Edward chuckled, the sound grating on Charles's every nerve as he pushed down the need to do the man bodily harm.
"It would seem as though my presence has put a bit of a damper upon previously scheduled activities, and my father always insisted that it was quite middle-class to wear out one's welcome," Edward grinned, backing up two steps before pausing to take a small bow. "Lady Mary, Mr. Blake, I shall see you at dinner. Carry on."
He then turned on his heels and strode out of the room, smiling knowingly back in their direction as he purposefully shut the door behind him.
Mary exhaled audibly, rubbing her forehead to release pent-up frustration as Charles shook his head.
"Forgive me, Mary, but that man is a pompous ass," he proclaimed through gritted teeth, staring at the door as if he could somehow throttle Edward Roquefort through its panels.
"I rather agree with you," Mary laughed quietly in agreement. "But he is harmless. Just a complete boor, unfortunately."
"What on earth possessed your parents to invite such a creature to stay at Downton?" Charles questioned, clearly perplexed by the fact.
"Unfortunately, they have never witnessed this side of him," Mary explained. "He can actually put on quite a charming face when he desires to do so."
"Well, if he insults you again, I shall not be so patient in my dealings with the man," Charles insisted, finally returning his gaze to her. "Regardless of your parent's opinion."
"He's not worth it, Charles," she insisted with a shake of her head. "Truly. Just ignore him. That should drive him absolutely mad."
"Worth it or not, Mary, I will not allow that worm to address you in such a fashion," he declared, his tone laced with a resolute determination she understood would not be undone.
"Well, it was rather nice to observe you leap to my defense," Mary admitted coyly, her hand returning to his arm in a much gentler manner.
"I did promise to stay close to you and ward off any unwanted suitors, you know," he returned, the slight flicker of his grin lightening her mood somewhat.
"You also promised not to steal any kisses during the house party, if I remember correctly," Mary baited, noting the slight flash of acknowledgement in his eyes as he turned his body fully towards hers.
"I was not aware that the party had officially begun," he replied. "You cannot fault a man if he is caught unawares."
"Perhaps," she acquiesced blithely, "but now that it has and you are fully aware…"
"I shall attempt to steal no more," he stated with a small bow, catching a glimmer of surprised disappointment upon her face. "But that does not mean that I shall not seek your permission."
A hum of eager awareness resonated within her at his declaration, prompting her to tilt her face upwards slightly.
"I might be persuaded to grant it under the right circumstances," she breathed, her pulse responding to his nearness as he leaned in closer.
"And just what circumstances would need to be orchestrated to bring about such approval?" he inquired in a whisper, the warmth of his question skimming across her face.
"Ensuring that the door is properly locked," she answered slyly, drawing forth his dimples appreciatively as he chuckled quietly in agreement.
"A brilliant requirement," Charles stated, "but perhaps I could be granted an exception just this once…before we are forced to join the rest of the party, you understand?"
"Did your aunt ever tell you no as a child?" Mary inquired, a secret thrill speeding up her legs at the touch of his darkened gaze.
"Very rarely," he admitted with a small shrug. "And I should truly hate for you to break such a lovely tradition at this moment, Mary. It would be quite a pity under the circumstances, don't you think?"
"Indeed," she smiled, glimpsing the delight of a small victory as it settled upon his face. "What am I to do with you, Charles Blake?"
"I can think of one thing that would be rather nice," he smiled, leaning down until his lips were just achingly out of reach. "With your permission, of course, my lady."
A breath of anticipation caressed her lips, its source seeking admittance into the private wonder of her yet unwilling to plunge ahead uninvited.
"Of course," Mary whispered, the words barely escaping her mouth before it was otherwise claimed by his, much to their mutual satisfaction.
The rest of Edward's family did nothing to improve the quality of the guest list, in Charles's opinion. His brother-in-law James Ballard, The Duke of Hartsford, was as quietly boorish as Edward had been overtly. And the duchess, Edward's sister Lillian, spoke only when addressed directly, averting her eyes in such a manner that conveyed a boredom with everyone and everything in her immediate vicinity. He did rather hope that a means to avoid their company without offending the Crawleys could be devised, watching Edward warily as he spoke with utmost politeness to Lady Grantham. He worked intently to stifle the blatant desire to bloody the man's overly-large nose.
Mary's attention had been drawn by Lillian, however, as one unexpected fact had nearly rendered her speechless upon greeting the woman. She bore a remarkably strong resemblance to Lavinia.
Mary had not seen Lillian in years—since her own ball celebrating her entrance into society, actually—a time when Lavinia Swire had been completely unknown to her. And Lillian Roquefort had been so far from her thoughts by the time that Matthew had introduced them all to his fiancé that Mary had never made the connection. Their resemblance was not so striking as to be frightening, but it was a bit uncanny, enough to give Mary a moment's pause as she so clearly recollected the numerous times that Miss Swire had walked these halls.
An involuntary shiver crawled up her spine.
But there were thankfully vivid differences separating the two women. Lillian was considerably taller than Lavinia and rarely smiled, her dismissive demeanor distinguishing her sharply from her late look-alike. Yet Mary could not help but watch Isobel closely when she was introduced to the duchess, admiring her mother-in-law for the steadiness in her features and ready smile she gave the younger woman even as she was denied one in return.
But as Isobel passed by Mary on her way to check on Lady Catherine, she clasped her daughter-in-law's hand wordlessly, an acknowledgement of their kindred observation and loss. Yes—she had noticed it, as well. It was a bit difficult to maintain an emotional balance when both the past and the present continued to tug so insistently upon ones heels.
Mary could not help but smile softly, envisioning how Matthew would have treated the duchess with utmost politeness here among her family, only to give Mary a secretive eye roll when facing no one else's scrutiny. He would have made obligatory conversation with the duke, doing everything in his power to find some common ground for discussion, although he would have given up on Edward within seconds, she was certain. But Mary knew that Matthew would have subtly sought an exit from their company with utmost politeness and gone in search of a more interesting and friendly companion among this gathering.
He would have sought out Charles Blake.
She slowly digested the irony of that fact, a keen certainty that the two men would have liked each other, could have even become friends had their paths ever crossed, settling deep. The thought warmed her, binding a portion of her uncertainty fast within peaceful confines.
And her heart offered up a silent breath of thanks.
Charles had been granted the good fortune of conversing with Lord Grantham until her father was drawn away by the duke, presenting him with the opportunity to stare at her for one gloriously unguarded moment. She felt his eyes upon her, her stomach fluttering in remembrance of his tongue's lightest brushstrokes artfully canvassing the pallet of her mouth. She crossed her ankles instinctively, her body vividly recalling the sensation of her limbs turning to putty at his exquisite gentleness. Gooseflesh rippled across her upper torso, her nerves reliving the coaxing and teasing interplay with her lips, relishing his mouth's insistent strumming of chords inside her whose vibrations ran deep. He had been holding back deliberately—she was certain of it—sensing amidst his tenderness a blistering passion being held purposefully in check.
And he did that for her.
Heat began to throb with a subtle insistence, pooling into a quiet ache as she continued to observe him. She noticed his large hands, trails they had traced across her skin blazing vibrantly in remembrance, and she shamelessly began to wander if the snippets of what she had heard of the practice of the sensual arts in India were actually true. He had lived there a good portion of his life, had loved and married an Indian woman, for God's sake. Perhaps he knew…
Mr. Barrow's intrusion into her private musings made her jump, his murmured message that she was needed in the nursery forcing heat that had been pulsing within to retreat to her cheeks. She shot Charles a look of accusation, eliciting a grin from the source of her embarrassment as he knowingly observed her grasp the opportunity to leave the room.
How he wished he could follow her out the door.
"You know, it was rather bad form of you to arrive days early and stake your claim so very quickly, Mr. Blake," Edward stated quietly, having snuck to Charles's side unobserved as his attention had been rather distracted. "You might have given the rest of us a fair shot at the prize."
"Excuse me," Charles retorted quickly, hoping in vain that what his mind had registered did not match what his ears actually heard. "Just what are you attempting to say, Mr. Roquefort?"
"Oh, come now, Mr. Blake," Edward returned, tossing him a rather incredulous look. "Surely you must have realized that this entire party was devised to grant those of us sans spouse the opportunity to woo and win Lady Mary."
"Lady Mary is neither a claim to be staked nor a prize to be won," Charles stated firmly, not even taking the time to gaze down upon his unwelcome companion. "She is a lady who has suffered a most grievous loss and is attempting to rebuild a life for herself and her son."
"Oh, please," Edward interjected with a flick of his hand, "She did leave the room, you know. Save those sort of noble speeches for when she is actually in the vicinity and can hear you. It is no wonder that you have made such strides with her if you can speak with such compelling eloquence, Mr. Blake. Well played, sir. Perhaps I should begin taking notes."
"Tell me, Mr. Roquefort, do you treat everyone with an equal amount of disdain, or is this treatment reserved for a lucky few?" Charles questioned, eliciting a begrudging smile from the man he truly wished would dissolve into the floor.
"Very few receive special treatment from me, Mr. Blake," Edward answered evenly, "so I am sorry to inform you that you and Lady Mary are simply experiencing the same delightful personality traits that the rest of society enjoys."
"Even your own sister?" Charles asked pointedly, looking Edward directly in the eye for the first time since their encounter in the small library.
"I am sorry to confess that yes—poor Lillian has to put up with my intelligent conversation on a regular basis," Mr. Roquefort admitted, an exaggerated sigh following his statement for emphasis. "However, I am nothing in the boorish department when compared with my esteemed brother-in-law, Mr. Blake. Trust me—my company is much preferable to his, especially where Lady Mary is concerned."
"I do not want to see you anywhere near Lady Mary, Mr. Roquefort," Charles uttered through clenched teeth, his jaw tightening in emphasis.
"So you can sniff around her unfettered by the rest of the pack?" Edward crooned, raising his brows to a ridiculous height. "Just because you have already picked up her scent doesn't mean that you should be the only one to dig for buried treasure, Mr. Blake."
Hot fury shot through him in an instant, his fists clenching in a nearly futile attempt to keep his rising temper at bay.
"Perhaps you would step outside with me, Mr. Roquefort, where we can continue this discussion away from the presence of ladies?" Charles managed, his pulse throbbing visibly in his temple.
"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?" a calmer voice inquired, grasping Charles's attention at just the right moment.
"Not at all, Mr. Branson," Edward answered smoothly. "Mr. Blake here has just been barking up the wrong tree." He then returned his attention to Charles and gave an exaggerated smile. "I am a toothless dog, you see. All bark—no bite."
"I don't care how many teeth you do or do not possess, Mr. Roquefort," Charles growled quietly, "If you sniff, bark, or even look at Lady Mary in the wrong manner, you shall feel the effects of my bite, and you will not like it, I assure you."
"Oh, but I do like you, Mr. Blake," Edward preened with a flourish. "I can tell already that we are going to be such good friends. However, I am afraid that my sister requires my attention at the moment, if you will kindly excuse me."
He turned and walked to the duchess, the sway in his stride doing nothing but provoking Charles even further.
"Steady now," Tom interjected, laying a hand on Charles's bicep with a bit more force than Mary had done earlier. "He's a pompous windbag of a man, that's for certain, but he's just trying to get a reaction out of you. Don't give him the satisfaction."
"I don't know, Mr. Branson," Charles replied, a modicum of calm returning to his voice. "I am not at all certain that creature is actually a man at all."
Tom chuckled appreciatively, nodding in agreement as he added, "I think you may have a point, there. More like a weasel of some sort."
Charles narrowed his eyes in Edward's direction, observing how Mr. Roquefort's own brother-in-law removed himself from his wife as the louse approached.
"Mary seems to think he is harmless, but I do not like the manner in which he addresses her," Charles stated firmly. "Not at all."
"Mary, now is it?" Tom asked quietly, observing his companion as Charles suddenly realized what had just slipped from his mouth.
"Forgive me, Mr. Branson," Charles began, attempting to right his oversight before Tom cut him off.
"What you and Mary choose to call each other is your own business—not mine," Mr. Branson stated factually. "I've never been much of one for titles and the like, anyway, although it did take me a long time to feel comfortable addressing her as anything but Lady Mary."
Charles smiled appreciatively, looking towards the exit Mary had used moments earlier as he uttered, "She is quite a lady."
"Yes, she is," Tom agreed. "She was also one of the only supporters I had when Sybil announced to her family that we wanted to marry."
"I understand that your courtship was rather unconventional, Mr. Branson," Charles stated, purposefully turning his attention away from Mr. Roquefort to address Tom directly. "I must say that I quite applaud such daring and courage as it must have taken to woo the woman you loved under such circumstances."
Tom stared thoughtfully out the window for a moment, mulling over the correct words before responding. "I'm really not sure I could have acted any differently, Mr. Blake. I loved her."
The simplicity of the statement struck him, a kindred recognition taking root as Charles replied, "I understand."
Tom drew his brows together in contemplation, shifting his stance a bit before offering, "I was sorry to hear that you also lost your wife, Mr. Blake. I know how hard that is."
"I am certain that you do, Mr. Branson," Charles responded quietly. "And I am sorry for your loss, as well."
"How did you do it?" Tom questioned haltingly, rubbing his chin in thought. "How were you able to move on after losing your wife and your child? I think it would have broken me if I had lost Sybbie, as well as her mother. She was the only thing that kept me going for a while."
Memories of his past wrung his insides mercilessly, muting his speech a fractured moment before Charles was able to answer.
"I was a broken man for some time, Mr. Branson. It's rather miraculous that I am standing here with you now in one piece."
Tom nodded his head in understanding, a newly-forged respect forming for the man before him.
"And as for how I managed, I'm not sure that I have an answer other than that I kept breathing," Charles stated flatly. "I woke up every morning, whether I wanted to do so or not, so I really had no choice in the matter. I had to survive, somehow."
"It's so unfair, isn't it? All this death associated with the beginning of a new life?" Tom queried, as much to himself as to Charles, who nodded solemnly in response.
"Cherish your daughter, Mr. Branson," he finally spoke, the sting of great loss shooting through him yet again as his eyes canvassed the floor.
Tom smiled ruefully. "I do, Mr. Blake. Believe me."
Matters were sealed between them in a brief silence, a new understanding brokered while small talk continued across the room.
"Losing Matthew nearly broke Mary, you know," Tom offered quietly, staring out the window. "Her spirit, I mean. I was really worried about her for a long time."
"I'm sure you were a great help to her through her grief," Charles theorized, noting the brotherly affection the man held for his sister-in-law.
"We tried to take care of each other," Tom explained, "as well as our children. I think Sybbie and George have grown up more as siblings than cousins."
Charles smiled at this observation. "It's good for children not to be alone."
"Or adults either, I guess," Tom continued, sizing up Charles once more. "I wasn't very nice to you last night, I'm afraid, Mr. Blake. I apologize for that."
"You owe me no apology whatsoever, Mr. Branson," Charles quietly insisted. "I am glad that you watch out for Mary so strenuously and attempt to guard her interests."
"I'm not sure just how much she appreciated it, though," Tom mused, pulling a grin from Charles as he shook his head slightly.
"I must admit that I was glad that you were the targeted recipient of those pointed looks last night rather than me," Charles laughed, "although they have been aimed in my direction from time to time."
"Believe me—they targeted Matthew often enough," Tom remembered, suddenly realizing what he had said. "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to…"
"Please, do not feel the need to walk on eggshells with me, Mr. Branson," Charles assured him. "He was her life for so long—the very reason her heart continued to beat. I have no desire to try to erase any part of her past nor to compete with Mr. Crawley's memory. He will always be a part of her, just as my late wife and daughter will always be a part of me."
"You like her, though," Tom began, the rise in his voice allowing for his statement to resemble a question.
"I like her very much," Charles replied without hesitation. "And I shall not deny that I am interested in more than friendship with her. I am just not certain what she is ready for at this stage in her life."
"When you say more than friendship, you do mean that your intentions are honorable, I take it?" Tom questioned, needed to make certain that there was no misunderstanding in this matter.
"Yes, Mr. Branson," Charles assured him quickly. "The very last thing I would want to do is to bring any scandal or difficulty into either Mary's or George's life. They deserve much better than that."
"That they do," Tom agreed, pausing markedly before putting forth his next inquiry. "The two of you met on the train from London—is that right?"
The question caught Charles a bit off-guard, and he hesitated in formulating an answer having assured Mary that he would keep that meeting a secret.
"Lady Grantham is quite certain of it," Tom explained, sensing the man's discomfort with his inquiry. "I only ask because something changed in her that day. When she left that morning for London, she was still so desolate. But when she returned…I don't know how to describe it. It's like a light came back on inside of her, something I was very glad to see."
He had no idea of just how profoundly his words were swelling inside of the man who was taking them in silently, daring to allow his hopes to rise even as he feared expecting too much.
"All I'm trying to say is that if you are the one who helped her rediscover some of her spirit, then I'm glad for it," Tom concluded, eyeing Mr. Blake with renewed scrutiny. "Just don't crush her again, alright? I'm tired of seeing her hurt so much."
"Mr. Branson, if I hurt her in any fashion, you have my full permission to take me outside and thrash me heartily," Charles returned, eliciting and appreciative grin from the other gentleman.
Tom stared at him a moment further, finally extending his hand to the man in peace. Charles accepted the offering, and the men shook hands in mutual respect.
"Listen, Mr. Blake, if you see me get cornered by the duke or any of his family, I ask you to please come to my rescue," Tom grinned, summoning an appreciative chuckle from the other man.
"I shall be happy to do so if you will kindly return the favor. And please, call me Charles. I am not much of one for titles or formalities, either."
They locked eyes before Tom agreed. "Thank God. Call me Tom, then. Titles do wear me out a bit."
Mr. Barrow reentered the room, this time seeking out Charles with a quiet summons.
"Forgive me, Tom," Charles stated after Thomas left the vicinity. "It seems as though I am needed upstairs. If you will excuse me."
"That's fine," Tom returned, "But if I get stuck talking to Mr. Roquefort, I'll come looking for you later."
Charles chuckled in response, happily making his exit from the room even as he was uncomfortably aware that Edward Roquefort was observing his every move
.
Charles made his way to the nursery as instructed, perplexed yet eager to learn of the reason behind his most unexpected summons. He knocked upon the door, only to be greeted by a rather frustrated Mary holding a clearly discontent George.
The boy threw his arms out towards him as he cried out the word cat, and Charles swept him up, all the while looking to the child's mother for an explanation of this display.
"Come in and shut the door," Mary commanded softly, guiding them back into the room's confines as she stared at him in contemplation.
George's cries had stilled somewhat, but something was still clearly antagonizing the lad as he kept pointing in the direction of his mother.
"Do you want your mother, George?" Charles questioned, bouncing the child in an attempt to quiet his distress.
"No, he doesn't," Mary answered for him, taking two steps in their direction. She then held out The Teddy Bearoplane book in Charles's direction, obviously wanting him to take it from her. He did so, looking back to her with a query in his eye.
"He begged for this book at naptime," Mary began. "He picked it up and gave it to Nanny Thompson, even. But he began to scream when she tried to read it to him. So when she attempted to try another book, he pushed himself out of her lap and retrieved this one. However, he blatantly refuses to allow her to read it."
Charles sat with the boy in the rocking chair, still eyeing Mary as she began to pace. "She sent for me, so I tried to read to him. But he reacted in the same manner, and he kept pointing to the door and saying cat."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," Charles admitted, noting that the boy's protests had stilled as he opened the book.
"I believe he wants you," Mary stated factually, scrutinizing her son's reaction to Charles as a smile reappeared upon the lad's face. "He associates that book with you now, Charles, and he doesn't want anyone else to read it to him."
"Are you certain about this, Mary?" Charles questioned, clearly perplexed by this line of thinking even as George began to babble as if trying to read the book for himself. "I think you must be mistaken in this matter."
"Oh, really," Mary returned, quirking her expression weightily. "Have you heard him fuss since you sat down with him?"
He had no answer for her.
George once again began repeating the word cat as he repeatedly tapped the book, looking up to Charles with obvious eagerness.
"No, George, bear," Charles corrected good-naturedly, pointing to the teddy bear in emphasis.
"I believe cat is you," Mary corrected, somewhat amused by the utterly confused expression that quickly met hers. "It's George's word for kite, you see. He's calling you kite."
The brilliant smile that broke across Charles's face momentarily melted away all frustration she had felt as he turned to her son and laughed.
"Am I kite then, George?" Charles inquired as George continued to repeat his word and point to the book. "I do believe that is the most precious thing I have ever heard in my life, Mary."
Mary just shook her head, stepping in closer as she took up the actual issue. "He cannot call you kite, Charles, but the problem is that he doesn't know what to call you."
"Mr. Blake is rather a mouthful, isn't it?" he stated to George who looked up at him in confusion. "I am perfectly content with kite, Mary, and so is George. I fail to see a problem here."
"Why does that not surprise me?" Mary mused, shaking her head at the twosome who had quite obviously just outvoted her on this issue. "It's not exactly proper, you know."
"Mary—he's only one year old," Charles argued good-naturedly. "Just how proper does he have to be at this point? Let him be a toddler."
She had no response then, silently observing them happily reading the book as previously unnecessary questions surfaced concerning the bond George was forming with this new man in their lives. She and Charles were well aware of the obstacles they could face, understanding that nothing was certain as they entered this courtship together. But George? He only understood that he had a new friend, a man who played with him, read to him, doted on him as his father should have done. Her son was beginning to revel in this newly-found attention, staking his own claim on Charles in an innocent childish manner. The weight of the fact that she could disappoint George if something went awry pressed upon her, underlining the heightened responsibilities of forming a new relationship while raising a child.
She had thought her relationship with Matthew complicated, but the intricacies of being an unmarried mother were at times unspeakably daunting. Factoring in those concerns along with her own needs as a woman…if she allowed herself to dwell upon them too long, she would give herself a headache.
But she could not let it go, this thread of thought that insistently tugged at her hem, forcing her to consider angles of this relationship in a light just illuminated. If things continued to progress between them, if they should eventually marry, she had no doubt that Charles Blake would be a most excellent father to her son. Mary shook her head slightly, completely taken aback by the fact that she was allowing herself to even consider such possibilities. But she had to—these were necessary considerations for a woman in her circumstances. Logically, she understood with grave certainty that living the rest of her life without a husband would bring difficulties upon her and George that could be curtailed if she were to remarry. Her very being recoiled at the idea of marrying strictly out of duty—that had been her destiny for far too great a portion of her life. No—if she were to marry again, it would only be to a man of her choice—a man who could make her laugh, who could love her son and understand that no matter how many years might pass, Matthew would always occupy a portion of her soul.
She nearly laughed out loud as she realized just how accurate a description she had penned in her mind of the man sitting in front of her, the very irony of it making wonder if a force unseen was orchestrating this chain of events for her very benefit.
Be happy, Mary.
Dear God—the destination to where her thoughts momentarily led her was absolutely absurd. She did not believe that Matthew had somehow brought this entire scenario together from an unseen world—she was not fanciful enough to allow such thoughts to take root within her. But the very idea of it made her shiver just the same as she continued to try to make sense of her situation.
"You don't have to figure out every detail of our relationship in the next five minutes, Mary," Charles quietly interrupted, pulling her attention back to him and the drowsy boy now rubbing his eyes contentedly as they rocked back and forth.
"It isn't very polite to intrude on someone's private thoughts, you know. Were you taught to read minds in India?" she asked wryly, enjoying the appreciative grin her comment brought forth.
"No—you just think loudly," he returned, finally procuring a smile from her as she continued to stare at him.
"What happens when you leave?" she put forth, her serious expression returning as quickly as it had fled. "When this party is over and you return to your estate in York?"
"I have plans to return and continue courting you, Mary," Charles replied, speaking in a low tone so as not to disturb George as heavy lids finally began to seal shut. "I also hope to invite you and your family to York for visits. It is not that far away."
"I realize that," she breathed, "I meant what happens to George when you're not here to read him that story or take him outside to fly a kite? You have become a sort of fixture here the past few days, and he is beginning to expect that you'll be here for him. You cannot read to him every night from York, no matter how close by it may be."
He pursed his lips in thought, the crease in his dark brow alerting her to the fact that he was taking what she had said seriously.
"I don't know, Mary," he began, still working out details quietly in his head as he addressed her concerns. "I daresay he will adjust admirably. He has rather quickly adapted to my presence—it would just be a new schedule for him to learn. Please know that I shall miss his company dreadfully, as well."
"I know, I—" she cut herself off, not wanting to reveal too much yet fervently needing him to understand her dilemma. "I just don't want him to be disappointed or feel abandoned if, if something…" Oh, why was this so difficult for her to explain?
"If something should go wrong between us, you mean," he finished for her, watching her keenly to deduce if his words were correct.
"Yes," she admitted shyly, uncertain as to why the ground beneath her feet suddenly felt quite shaky.
Charles looked down upon the boy who rested contentedly upon his lap, realizing the true depth of the questions Mary was courageous enough to lay before him. It wasn't just her heart she worried about guarding from further pain—it was her son's, as well. Although she was a most beautiful and vibrant woman who was exploring the possibility of moving forward with her own life, she was first and foremost a mother.
His respect for her increased exponentially.
He scooped up the sleeping child, carefully moving with him to his crib and laying him down with gentle hands. He stared at him a moment more, watching the beautiful rise and fall of his chest as George settled himself into a new sleeping position. When he returned his gaze to Mary, words nearly deserted him, the very sacredness of what she was sharing with him making him feel horribly inadequate to the task.
"Nothing is certain in this life, Mary," he began haltingly, wanting to be as blatantly honest with her as she would desire him to be. "Not with the circumstances life hands us, anyway. We're given choices that somehow get unmanageably knotted up with feelings, and then we have to decide what to do with them. But their outcome is unfortunately never clear until that portion of our life is over."
Who knows what is coming? Her own words uttered in pain years ago played again through her mind, solidly attesting to the truth of his assertions. What she had believed to be the destination of her own life had been drastically altered one year ago, making her question so many things that she had rarely even considered.
"How I wish I could promise you that everything will work out beautifully and that we shall never have to face any difficulties or nasty surprises along the way," he continued, glancing down to his feet as he strolled slowly in her direction. "I cannot give you false assurances, Mary, no matter how badly I might want to do so. But I do believe that this relationship we have formed has great possibilities for all of us. If I didn't, I wouldn't be standing here with you now."
She digested his words, searching dark eyes that had fastened unwaveringly upon hers before responding with a small grin. "If I didn't think it had possibilities, I would have left you bleeding under that blasted tree."
He chuckled quietly, drawing her to his chest with one arm as the other stroked her hair. She reveled in the warmth of him, his utter strength held at bay in arms that now encompassed her even as her thoughts continued to churn.
"You're still willing to risk it, aren't you?" she questioned, her voice barely above a whisper. "To take a chance even though something horrible could happen?"
"Mary—would you give back your time with Matthew to save yourself the heartache of his death?" Charles questioned softly, taking in her surprise at his inquiry as her eyes searched his face.
"No, I wouldn't," she answered firmly. "Absolutely not."
"Neither would I give away my life with Rashmi," he admitted quietly, "not even a day of it, even if I knew what was coming."
He exhaled loudly, kissing the top of her head and claiming her hands within his. "Risking much is never easy. But it's taking the risks that matter that make life worth living, don't you think?" They stood in close silence a moment, broken by his soft chuckle as he grinned down at her in a rather sheepish manner. "I rather like being called cat, you know," he admitted disarmingly, squeezing something within her to the point of it being painful.
How had he done this to her?
She clung to him in the quiet hush of the nursery, attempting to shove aside the rising panic gripping her as she realized that she was already standing ankle-deep in uncharted waters, that she had already allowed this man to matter to her and her son. At this point, if something were to happen to him, she could not emerge from the experience unscathed…it was too late for that outcome. An attachment had been formed even if its bonds were new and fragile. The question before her now was not whether or not she was willing to take a chance with Charles Blake. No, it had morphed into one with larger ramifications, with higher stakes and more drastic consequences, one she could not yet answer but would have to work out within herself in the near future.
Just how much was she willing to risk with him? And where would it take her?
Posting will resume on the regular schedule next Thursday.
I have been asked by a few readers if I would consider writing a sequel to this story (we still have several chapters to go, yet...) once Strangers does come to a conclusion. I am open to the idea and have a rather firm idea of how it would play out, but it would affect just where and when I conclude this story. I would just like to know if there is enough interest in a sequel to make plans in that direction, or if I should simply conclude things with this story. Yes-I am asking for your thoughts...drop me a message if you would like to share your opinion with me.