To R. Grace for all of the encouragement and insight...
To On either side the river lie for laughter and deep, delightful discussion...
To La Donna Ingenua for probing questions and prompting me to look at my writing from another angle...
To all of you readers who have taken the world of Strangers into your heart...
And to my amazing husband and most-loved children who willingly share me with Mary, Charles and George on a regular basis...I thank you so very much!
Ch 17
"Mary, are you quite alright?"
The question drew her back to her immediate surroundings, pulling her from the pool of thought in which she had been immersed as she attempted to right her mindset.
"Yes, Papa," she replied promptly, smiling politely in his direction as she sat up a bit straighter. "I am perfectly well."
"But your thoughts are elsewhere, it would seem," Robert deduced, walking towards his daughter as they enjoyed a few blessed moments away from their rather tiresome guests.
"I am sorry," she admitted, drawing a deep breath. "I admit that I find myself rather distracted with all of the day's excitement. What is it you were saying?"
He looked at his daughter thoughtfully before putting forth, "I was simply expressing my hopes that the arrival of the Gillinghams will improve the atmosphere of this gathering. The duke and duchess as well as Mr. Roquefort are not exactly the most stimulating of guests, I'm afraid."
Mary could not help but roll her eyes in return. "You are being too kind, Papa. Mr. Roquefort is tedious to the point of being completely annoying and the duke and duchess possess personalities that are nearly as charming as O'Brian's used to be."
Robert chuckled, conceding her point wordlessly. "At least Lady Catherine and Mr. Blake make for rather good company," he put in, studying her face at the mention of the gentleman who had been occupying so much of her time, not missing the slight hint of color that splashed across her cheeks. "And just where is Mr. Blake at the moment, may I ask?"
Mary glanced up at her father, knowing there was no sensible reason for her to deny that her thoughts had been thoroughly fixated upon the very man of which he spoke. She drew breath and answered honestly.
"He is upstairs with Lady Catherine," she began. "She has expressed the desire to join everyone for dinner this evening, so he and Isobel are trying to determine if that is a wise course of action or not."
"I hope she is able to do so," Robert stated, moving to take a seat across from his eldest. "She seems to be quite an intelligent woman, and her presence would keep your grandmother quite happily occupied at the table."
Mary could not help but smile as she envisioned Mr. Roquefort attempting to best Violet Crawley and the natural consequences of such a fallacy. "I have a feeling that our rather tiresome guests will be all the whetstone Granny requires in order for her to satisfactorily sharpen her wit."
"I daresay you are right," Robert agreed, "Although just how well they bear up under her scrutiny remains to be seen."
"Perhaps if we are lucky they shall turn tail and decide to flee back to the safe-haven of London before the night is over," Mary returned, her hands beginning to fidget subtly as her thoughts kept indelibly skipping back to stolen moments in the small library…
And conversation in the nursery that touched upon feelings stronger than she possibly dared to admit.
Robert leaned back in his seat, understanding with marked certainty that he was approaching risky ground as he considered his next words carefully. "What do you think of Mr. Blake, Mary?"
Her eyes flew to his, staring resolutely as she debated on just how much to say. How could she possibly begin express to her own father just how Charles Blake somehow drew her towards him as if he had fastened a lasso fixedly around her waist and continually tightened his grip little by little? She smiled to herself as words Lord Grantham had spoken to her years ago emerged from her memories, words encouraging her to dump Richard Carlisle and bring home a cowboy from America to shake them all up a bit. Mary could not help but wonder if a certain widower who had spent a good portion of his life in Scotland and India would be an acceptable substitute.
Heaven only knew just how much the knowledge that his late wife had been Indian would shake up the inner-workings of Downton.
She cleared her throat, noting that her father was quietly awaiting her response.
"I think he is a good man," Mary finally answered, knowing she would have to elaborate in order to appease Lord Grantham. "I like him very much."
Robert nodded slowly, his gaze quite deliberate as he refused to look away from his daughter. "He obviously likes you very much, Mary, and it would seem as though he gets on quite well with George."
No—she would not have him pushed upon her by any outside sources.
"And just when have you observed the two of them together?" she retorted defensively, the words slipping out of her before she could censor their progress.
"Only at dinner," Robert admitted quietly, "although your mother has described their interactions for me in great detail."
She sighed audibly in frustration.
"And what if I don't want their interactions discussed by every member of the household?" Mary shot back, her spine prickling as the walls protecting her privacy were being breeched.
She could hear her son's precious voice proclaiming him cat, reaching out for him, understanding even at his tender age that Charles's arms would welcome him willingly. She envisioned George's bright face smiling up at him, craving the man's attention and presence just as she continually caught herself doing these days. These interactions were precious yet fragile, a new element in her life of which she was uncertain.
And she had no desire to discuss them with anyone besides Charles himself.
Robert exhaled loudly, futilely attempting to read this daughter of his who could hide her feelings too well for her own good. That Mary was unsure of what to do at this point seemed evident, but just how deeply she had allowed her interest in this man to take root was completely unknown to him.
"You do realize that your mother and I just want you to be happy?" he questioned, creasing his brow in concentration. "You need not feel any pressure from us to move on with someone else until you are ready to do so."
The sincerity of his voice cut through to the inner-reaches of her soul, delicately slicing through layers of protective assumptions woven to steel herself against deeply-held beliefs that she would never truly live up to the expectations set out for her. Yet her father looked upon her now with the eyes of a man who simply loved her, and the very sweetness of his offering almost bringing forth tears she swallowed to curtail.
"Thank you, Papa," she returned softly, looking down to her hands as she strove to contain this onset of emotion. "I do appreciate that, more than you know."
He stood and walked to her side, sitting down beside her quietly as he spoke words difficult to say.
"I am so very sorry for all you have had to bear in this life, Mary. Perhaps I did not protect you from this world as fiercely as I should have done."
She stared at him, stunned momentarily speechless as she swallowed forcefully.
"I sometimes still wonder if I should have fought the entail all those years ago," Robert pondered, looking to Mary's face to gage her reaction. "Your mother was rather adamant that I should have been more vocal in the matter and should have sought out every possible angle to overturn it."
A rueful laugh escaped her as she shook her head. "If you had followed that path, we might never have come to know Matthew as we did," she observed, her eyes suddenly tracing invisible patterns on the floor.
She could not imagine her life without the shaping of his hands, the softening of her inner-crevices wrought by the sheer beauty of him. And she would not allow her mind to even entertain the notion of a life without their son, his small life the very pulse that propelled her own heart to continue beating during a year lived in shadows.
"And our lives would have been all the emptier."
Her quiet admission spoke deeply to Robert, tightening the ache that still grasped him harshly when he thought of his son-in-law and all that their family had lost at his passing.
"I know that you have not completely healed from losing Matthew, and I'm honestly not sure if one ever completely recovers from such a blow," he admitted quietly, staring off into the distance. "There is not a day that goes by that I do not miss your sister. Sometimes I still catch myself expecting to see her enter the room."
"I know," Mary managed, still unaccustomed to seeing such a vulnerable side of her father. "So do I."
"It would, however, bring me great peace of mind to know that your heart had found happiness again, even though the emotion might feel differently to you after all the weight you have been forced to carry," he continued, reclaiming her eyes as he pursed his lips together in thought.
"I'm beginning to understand that," Mary whispered almost to herself. "Happiness is not always absolute, is it? It can suddenly turn up in some areas of your life while others are still to tender to take it in."
Robert took in his daughter in a manner he had not done so in quite some time. Gone was the arrogant girl who had been engaged to Patrick or the foolish one who had made a life-altering mistake with Mr. Pamuk. Absent was the lady who had dismissed Matthew as not being one of them only to realize too late that she loved him. Yet this was also not the young woman who had become engaged to Richard Carlisle out of the desperation to save her own reputation or even the glorious creature he had walked down the aisle to marry the man she had loved for so long.
This Mary was a woman who had walked through the very flames of hell and emerged on the other side still breathing. Her strength suddenly astonished him as a newly found respect for this amazing woman he knew as his daughter welled up within him.
She was utterly dazzling.
"Make sure that whomever you choose, be it Mr. Blake or someone else still unknown, make certain he will watch out for you always," Robert uttered, emotion choking back sound as he cast his eyes downward for a moment. "You deserve to be cared for, Mary. I should hate for you to face the rest of your young life alone."
"Oh, Papa," she finally breathed, a tear stubbornly whisking down from the corner of her eye before she could catch it. He drew her to his shoulder, hugging her to him in a manner he wished he had done more often in his life.
They sat in silence, the abiding love shared frequently but spoken of rarely binding them fast for a few sacred moments. Her father, the man whom she had revered and sought to please her entire life had effectively given her his blessing and permission to move forward in any manner she saw fit. He hoped she would marry again, not for the sake of title or position, but for the simple fact that he did not want her to face the world alone. She suddenly saw her parent's marriage in a new light, their graceful acceptance of each other, the looks of affection that could be caught if one looked in their direction at the right moment, the manner in which they somehow understood just how the other would react to a given situation.
They had been granted a lifetime together—one wrought with pain at times, yes, and one that had faced its share of trials along its journey. But they had chosen to love each other, creating a work of art from the skeleton of a marriage brokered out of financial need and duty.
Their marriage had been crafted by design, but loving had been their choice. And from the recesses of her being came an unbidden supplication that she would be courageous enough to make the same decision for herself and her son.
She later left the protective confines of her father's embrace and study, stepping into the vastness of her home that seemed surprisingly empty even though she knew its walls were filled with people. Her musings were hijacked as her feet responded to an unexpected bidding, drawn by the sound of a piano that too often sat in disuse. The lush melody was poignant, mirroring her thoughts and emotional state perfectly as its sheer beauty washed over her. She recognized it, but was much too engaged by its hypnotic qualities to mercilessly pillage her memory in search of the exact piece and composer.
She found him seated on the bench, playing the haunting tune with a passion that matched his disposition. He did not perform without flaw or hesitation, but it was beautiful, nonetheless, the imperfections somehow making his performance even more precious to her.
She hovered in the shadows of the door, unwilling to interrupt him as she continually learned of his inner-workings expressed upon the keys of the piano. She had known Charles could sing, his humming to George in the nursery having solidified that fact in her mind days ago. But Mary had never imagined that he would play an instrument, although she should have deduced such a fact given that he had been brought up at a school for girls where instruction in music would have been commonplace. Had Lady Catherine sensed this ability in him and encouraged him to take lessons, or had she just insisted that it would be good for him to learn to play whether he chose to do so or not?
Mary dared to imagine Charles Blake as a boy, smiling to herself as she could all too vividly envision an impish grin that would broker no refusal, a sparkle in those brown eyes that would somehow free him of many consequences he had most likely deserved. He would have most certainly been an inquisitive child, exploring the world around his with a curiosity that would more than likely get him into some rather sticky situations.
Just how had his aunt explained to him that he had been unwanted by his parents, she suddenly wondered? The thought again pierced her, shaking her head at the utter waste that could have been his life had Catherine Blake not taken it upon herself to raise him as her own. How old had he been when she finally told him the truth? Had she attempted to soften the blow at all, or had forthright honesty always been her manner?
"You're thinking loudly again, Mary Crawley," she heard him say, looking up from her private musings to see him smiling at her endearingly.
"How could you have possibly heard my thoughts while you were playing the piano," she questioned with a tease in her voice. "I could barely make them out myself, you know."
"Ah, but they resound so clearly in my ears," he returned, gesturing for her to enter the room.
She walked steadily to the piano, taking the offered position beside him on the bench on which he slid over quickly to accommodate her.
"Was it Chopin?" she questioned, her glance moving back and forth between his eyes and long fingers, wonderfully crafted just for this ability it would seem.
"Rachmaninoff, actually," he replied, taking up the melody again softly as she marveled at the movement of his hands over the keys. "Concerto number 2, second movement—one of my very favorites, actually."
"You play it very well," she noted, her brow attesting to her assertions as she continued to study his movements.
"I believe it would be highly more accurate to say that I butcher it rather well, I'm afraid," he argued good-naturedly, grinning at the sudden affront on her face.
"If you think your playing sounds butchered, I pray you never hear mine," she mused. "I'm rather ghastly."
"It's good that you can admit to it, Mary," he quipped, feigning a serious expression rather badly as he added, "After all, admitting one's shortcomings is quite a big step."
She nudged him wordlessly, procuring a chuckle as she shot him a pointed look.
"Well, you did tell me earlier that flattery would get me nowhere," he added playfully, his dimples appearing at the flicker in her eyes as her stare intensified.
"Neither will insulting me, I'm afraid," she returned with a smirk on her lips that dared him to kiss her.
"I honestly cannot imagine that you are ghastly at anything, Mary," he admitted with a shrug, bringing a slight blush to her cheeks at the compliment.
"I am rather ghastly in the mornings," she sighed, tardily aware of the possible implications of the words that had just flown out of her mouth.
He grinned at the widening of her eyes, removing his hands from the piano to dare a gentle stroke down the side of her face.
"But quite beautiful, all the same," he breathed, wrapping a wayward strand of hair loosely around his fingertip.
"And just how would you know?" she inquired, pushing helplessly against a rather lovely fog settling upon her thoughts as his finger grazed her neck.
"Remember, I have seen you in the wee hours of the morning," he explained, grinning to appease the flicker of shock upon her face."
"Yes—tending to a sick child," she hastened to put in for her own defense. "It's a wonder you survived that encounter at all."
All teasing vanished from his features as he stared at her with aching honesty. "That night is a memory I shall cherish always."
The fluttering of her heart at his statement was enormously distracting, bringing forth the same ache that had overwhelmed her earlier in the nursery. The uncertainty of their situation still unnerved her, pushing her eyes from his back to the relative safety of the keys. The power he had come to hold over her was daunting, making her wonder why she wasn't fighting any harder to break away from it.
But the answer to that question was absurdly simple, even though a portion of her still rebelled against its veracity:
She wanted to give in to him, in spite of the fears that still clutched at her.
"Who taught you to play?" she managed, husky emotion weighing down her voice as she continued to avoid his direct gaze. "The piano, I mean."
"Well, I must admit that I began as a self-taught pupil," he offered, shrugging slightly as he resumed the tune that had beckoned her. "I would sit in the hall and spy on Mildred Shaughnessy's piano lessons."
"Mildred Shaughnessy?" Mary questioned, raising her eyes back to his.
"A girl with whom I was quite infatuated at the ripe old age of seven," Charles explained, happy to see a slight persistent tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I would purposely position myself outside of Miss McElroy's piano studio every Thursday when Mildred would receive her weekly instruction."
"I take it that Miss McElroy was the music instructor," Mary intervened, receiving a quick nod in answer to her inquiry.
"Quite right, although Miss McElroy did not concern me at all at the time, I admit," he continued, the somewhat exaggerated tone of his answer making her shake her head at him.
"You were all eyes for Mildred Shaughnessy, I take it?" Mary prodded.
"I followed her around like a besotted puppy, I'm afraid," he admitted. "I am sad to report that she hardly even recognized my existence. Of course, she was thirteen at the time, and the age difference between us was just a bit much for us to overcome."
"That's what you get for pursuing an older woman," she teased. "I hear such relationships rarely work out in the long run."
"Well, this one never stood the slightest chance," he sighed dramatically, "but I did start to find the instruction that Mildred received each week quite interesting. So I began to sneak into one of the practice rooms and try my own had at the piano."
"Surely you received some proper instruction at some point," Mary asserted, unwilling to believe that the skills she had witnessed were entirely self-taught.
"I did, actually," Charles confirmed. "Another one of the teachers caught me practicing in secret and quickly went to fetch Miss McElroy. Once she learned what I had done, she insisted to my aunt that I must be given formal instruction, and I began my weekly lessons the following afternoon."
"So you were a natural?" she asked, still rather in awe of the delicate strokes that seem to be magically applied to the keys.
"Not really," he replied, turning his head to face her directly as the tune halted once more. "I would say rather that I was lonely at times growing up, and the piano became my best friend."
The statement took her aback, squeezing her heart as she envisioned him in his own words…a lonely little boy.
"It is alright, Mary, I did have a good childhood, I assure you," he added. "There just weren't very many boys with whom to play or interact, and Aunt Catherine was both running a school and trying to raise a child alone. So I often took refuge with the piano. It was always available when I needed it."
She remained silent while his confession spilled over her, understanding in a different manner as she recollected all of the times she felt completely alone among her own family. Her hand came to rest quietly upon his, even as her eyes fixated themselves upon the piano keys.
"I read," she began quietly, "under the tree where you found me that morning."
"It's a special place for you, then?" he guessed, receiving a small nod in affirmation.
"A refuge, actually, when I needed to escape the confines of my life," she admitted, knowing emphatically that he would understand.
"Did it become a special place for you and Matthew, as well?" he asked, the deep tone of his voice underlying the fact that he understood this to be a very personal question.
"Yes, it did," she answered, her memories drifting to more moments than which she could possibly speak, times of lively discussion, honest admissions, or just quiet companionship.
"Thank you for sharing it with me," he voiced, drawing her back to him even as the she could nearly sense the rustling of the leaves over her head. "You did not have to do that, you know."
She simply nodded, his hand gently tightening around hers. It was just enough.
"I rather enjoy hearing you play," she offered, smiling slightly before she turned her brow on him in a question. "Is your aunt musical? You must have gotten the ability from somewhere."
He laughed in response. "Hardly. It had never occurred to her to have me take lessons because she always swore that she had a tin ear."
"Perhaps it came from your mother's side of the family?" she queried, looking to him to gage his reaction concerning the one person in his life of whom she had never heard him utter a word.
His entire body seemed to still, as if time had stopped momentarily in the immediate vicinity of the instrument at which they sat.
"I would have no way of knowing that."
Mary started at the flat tone in his voice, leaning closer to examine his features more thoroughly to ensure that he was in fact alright.
"Do you know so little of her?" she dared, pushing forward slightly even as she sensed his discomfort. "Did your father never share any details about her with you?"
"Do we really have to discuss her, Mary?" Charles asked, taking her rather aback as he had never denied her access to any topic of discussion. He looked rather sheepish after the slight outburst, eyes suddenly vulnerable as they sought her forgiveness. "I'm sorry, Mary. It's just that I never speak of my mother. I have nothing whatsoever to say about her, I'm afraid."
"That is understandable," she ventured, her concern for him quite vividly written across her features. "But have you never been curious about her?"
He exhaled loudly, raking long fingers through thick hair as he shook his head. "Of course I was, I mean, what child would not want to know more of his mother?" he returned, the slight twitch in his cheek alerting her to the difficulty of what she was asking him to divulge. "But as I grew older and began to understand the choice she made, the pain began to outweigh the curiosity."
He turned towards her, as much as the small bench on which they sat would allow him. "If she had been unmarried, or a victim who had suffered an incident such as you and Aunt Catherine had done, I could understand her decision…truly." He spread his hands before her, imploring her to understand his reasoning. "But she had a husband…a position and means, you understand. There was no reason why she had to give me away. She just did not want to assume the responsibilities of raising a child."
She sensed the utter brokenness left behind by a woman long dead, a woman who had been so absorbed by her own life that she had discarded the most precious gift she could have ever been granted. She had crushed a portion of her own blood in the aftermath, leaving with him the need to battle a legacy of self-doubt Mary began to understand had never been truly erased.
An image unbidden of a boy dressed in the garb of a knight wielding his sword towards the onslaught of difficulties thrust his way pressed into her consciousness, forcing Mary to attempt to curtail the instinct to draw the man before her into the confines of her arms and soothe away his pain.
"It had nothing to do with you, you understand," she insisted quietly, clasping his hands within the steady grip of her own. "The problem was hers, not yours. She knew nothing of you, not who you were or would grow up to become. She did this out of her own selfishness, not because of any flaw in your character, Charles."
One dimple peeked out at her as a solitary corner of his mouth turned up in a smile, the other side remaining unmoved. "I do realize it now, as an adult, but it took me a lifetime to reach that conclusion." He squeezed her hands slightly, raising one to his lips for a small kiss, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "When Rashmi and I were having such difficulty conceiving a baby, I would get so angry at times, thinking of how she and my father gave away a child so readily when we would have given anything to have one of our own."
The boy knight had grown into a man, yet the struggle of his quest still marked him. She breathed a silent prayer of thanks that even though George would have to learn to accept the death of his father, at least that tragedy had not occur as a result of anyone's choosing. His arrival into this world had been most eagerly wanted and anticipated by both parents.
And his very existence had unwittingly become life's greatest solace for his mother.
"I watch you with George, and I am overcome with respect for you," Charles continued quietly, suddenly unable to meet her direct gaze as he swallowed forcibly. "You are raising him so incredibly well on your own, even when facing such seemingly insurmountable obstacles and difficulties. You remind me very much of my aunt in many ways—your spirit, your refusal to back away from a difficult life and your decision to face the elements with such dignity."
It was she who could not seem to formulate any words that would be adequate, her lashes fluttering in a bit of confusion as she shook her head.
"I'm not at all sure that I am deserving of such praise, Charles," she finally verbalized, entreating his eyes back to hers.
"I am quite certain of it," he returned, her emotions once again being tugged unrelentingly in a direction that still frightened her.
"She would have regretted her decision if she could have seen the man you have become," Mary put in, laying her palm upon the cheek that had not smiled, the whisper of her thumb just above his eyebrow melting away any resistance he had remaining when it came to her.
He laid his hand atop hers, tenderly drawing it from the side of his face towards his mouth. She held her palm open before him, the kiss he placed upon it pushing deeper within her than any they had yet shared.
"I do not deserve you, you know," he breathed, his uncertainty pulling her even more firmly in his direction.
"Don't say such things," she insisted, the timbre of her voice rising at her declaration. "If you keep speaking in such a manner, I shall have no choice but to take you back to that tree for a thorough thrashing."
A small chuckle emerged, making him inhale deeply as if filling his lungs with air for the first time in hours.
"I don't know about that, Mary," he quipped as blithely as he could. "That beast has already had a taste of me. Things could get rather ugly this time, I'm afraid."
"Then you had best adhere to my advice," she returned, raising a brow in his direction, "lest you suffer even further consequences."
"Do you have any idea just how badly I want to kiss you right now?"
His question was no more than a rough whisper, the texture of his voice sparking a flame that made her shiver.
"Then I suggest we shut the door," she returned, barely recognizing the whiskey-laced timbre of her own speech.
Mary rose with him, following the hand he took as they threaded their way to the entrance Charles intended to bar from any intrusion.
He closed it decisively, taking her by surprise as she was gently pressed up against its surface. This unexpected entrapment was thrilling, yet it allowed her no recourse other than to await the descent of his lips that hovered so near. A slight quivering at the base of her spine tightened her senses, anticipation beginning to warm places of which she dared not speak.
"Mary," he whispered, his brief suspension above her igniting a brush fire.
She had suddenly had enough of waiting.
Mary took matters into her own hands, pulling his mouth rather firmly down to her own in a move which surprised even herself. She nearly laughed at the absolute release it brought, reveling in this small act of dominance as she tasted his lips at her own leisure. It was freeing and slightly wicked—this physical rush spurring her forward. She felt a small shudder rock him, ever nerve inside her clamoring for more as the knowledge that she was not the only one bound by this web they had woven sped throughout her frame. She drew back the width of a whisper, biting her own lip teasingly as she tossed him an undeniable challenge masked as a smile.
His response was instantaneous.
Burning lips took liberties only hinted at before as they possessed her mouth, giving her no recourse but to moan her approval. Every cavity was explored, the very depths of her probed masterfully until reason deserted her. Desperate arms clasped him firmly, one tangling itself in his hair while the other roamed downwards to his upper back, effectively bringing their bodies into a closer contact than they had ever before shared. The softness of her pressed against him was almost more than he could stand, threatening to snap any remaining cords of sanity as he held her fast. His mouth left hers, the need to taste her skin suddenly overpowering as he drew a hungry trail slowly down her neck. Her head flew back in response, offering him an unhindered journey of which his lips took full advantage.
She was falling now, her season of hibernation at a decisive end as an ache morphed into a drive that demanded his lips upon her own. She sought them out deliberately, her insistence brokering no refusal on his part as his mouth pillaged hers deliciously. He somehow pulled her in even closer, her breasts hardening in response to the directness of his body and the insistence of his kiss.
This was utter madness, a dance on the ledge of an abyss that effectively promised to mute the harshness of her life. How was it that she suddenly could not get enough of this—of him—when things were still so new and uncertain? She could all too easily lose herself completely in this man, the temptation to plunge ahead attempting to kidnap her sanity.
But losing control was dangerous. And she knew better.
Heady sensations racing unhindered rebelled loudly at the unwelcome re-emergence of her reason, even as it stood upon wobbly legs.
"Charles," she breathed, drawing back slightly to hold his face within shaky hands. "We must keep in mind that guests will be arriving at any moment."
Mary hated speaking the words even as they left her, staring up at him as she waited for his eyes to reopen. The rich darkness that focused upon her when they did nearly made her lose her footing, the pulse in her neck screaming for the return of his lips upon this terrain that now felt woefully abandoned.
"I'm beginning to hate the thoughts of this house party as much as you do," he whispered throatily, the breath of a laugh escaping her and brushing his skin in response.
"At least the door is closed," she murmured slyly, unwilling to let go of him just yet.
"A fact which does not necessarily mean much in this house, I'm afraid," he quipped, actually making her giggle slightly in earnest as her head bobbed down to his shoulder.
"I must go, you know," she finally stated, turning her hands to his lapels in an attempt to straighten any damage she might have unwittingly wrought upon them. "I need to see to my hair again as I fear it may now be in quite a state, thanks to you."
"I'm happy to oblige with your hair at any time," he grinned, his face once again seeming so boyish in nature it drew her forth to kiss his cheek in parting. Why was it so difficult to leave him when she knew fully well that their next meeting would occur in a matter of minutes?
Madness, indeed.
"Debussy next time?" she queried quietly before daring to open the door.
Charles stared at her, the slight mussing of her hair brought about by his own hands nearly undoing his resolve to remain a gentleman. Good God—she stood in full command of him without even realizing the absolute power she held in her grasp.
And at that moment, he knew unflinchingly that he would give her anything in the world she might ask of him.
"Clair de Lune?" he offered, gratified to see the smile that reached her eyes as she nodded her approval of his selection.
"I shall look forward to it," she replied, gazing at him in a manner that humbled him to his very roots.
The room felt colder once she left its confines, leaving in her wake a man who returned to the piano bench, sitting in response to the immense weight of a fact no longer disputable.
He loved her.
How it had come upon him so quickly, he dared not reason out. He had not had the courage to admit to her that the notes she heard him play just minutes ago were the first he had attempted since his life had been torn to shreds and thrown at his feet. He had been unable to hear the graceful lilt of melodies after Rashmi and Rashmika had died, his ear suddenly deaf to the music that had been his life-line since childhood. Fighting and drinking had become his outlets after being robbed of it, and even when he had begun to piece back together the shards of his soul, the music had been too personal to allow back into his life.
His fingers still felt the rust of disuse, but as he took up the impressionistic melody upon pliable keys, the image of Mary bathed in moonlight colored every note he played. Each phrase was crafted in her image, the ebb and flow of dynamics attesting to the interplay of passions he knew were welling up within them both in this newness of discovery. She had somehow become his opus, the song caged within him now free to sing as it had not been able to do in five years.
He worked out fears over failing her upon the black and white, pouring forth the ever-present need to prove to parents no longer living that they had been mistaken in letting him go into each note. The instrument again spoke words that were sometimes too difficult for him to utter, freeing him to think through his own situation with a renewed mind.
Tom Branson's declaration played back in his memory, the truth of it resounding as a delicate ostinato. He loved Mary, and that left him little choice in how he acted towards her. He would continue to woo this woman as best as he could, to assure her that he would not leave her even as she worked out her own doubts and misgivings concerning their relationship. He would attempt not to rush her, to allow Mary to set the tempo of this waltz they now danced even as the music drew them steadily closer.
He at least reached the final cadence of the piece, Debussy's genius coming to a conclusion even as his own uncertain journey with this woman was just beginning. Charles looked to the open door, his eyes tracing the path she had walked moments ago as he recalled Mary's smile before she left, storing into his hidden enclave of memories before it had the ability to leave him. And as he sat immobile on the bench, he finally allowed himself to hope beyond reason that perhaps her heart might one day allow him to call her his own. Then he rested his head heavily upon his hands, steeling himself against the realization of just how devastatingly unprepared he would be if she completely denied him that right.
As always, I cherish your thoughts!