I so appreciate the patience my readers have had in waiting two weeks for an update rather than one. Unfortunately, I would anticipate this schedule for the next few chapters as I try to get life back on schedule after the utter chaos of the past three weeks, and as I do not want to short-change the content of the story. Being back at work full-time coupled with all of the activities in which my children are involved has cut my writing time decidedly. (I miss my summer vacation!) But I assure you that I will be diligently working on Chapter 24 starting tomorrow. If it does not post next Thursday, it will the following.
As always, many thanks to R. Grace for her amazing skills and consistent support with this story. And to La Donna Ingenua...I love that you aren't afraid to take me to task when I need it and push me to make it better. The feedback from both of you on this chapter was invaluable, and you are very much adored!
And now...The Morning After...Part 1:
Chapter 23
"Mary."
Her mind fought the summons, her body perfectly content to remain in the comforting realm of sleep. Hues of gray shrouded her consciousness, leaden limbs finding it impossible to move under such conditions. No, there was no possible need to formulate an answer.
But the intruder was persistent.
"Mary, wake up."
Displeasure at such an insistent tone cascaded across lazy nerves, and she stretched in response, clasping the pillow to her chest as the remnant of a decidedly masculine scent tickled her nose.
Charles…
Her awakening mind languidly filled in missing pieces even as her eyes remained sealed, deliciously suspended in the foggy realm where dreams and reality intermingled freely. Remembered sensations caressed slumbering skin, rousing her slowly in more ways than one. She hummed to herself, seeking him with fingers that found only sheets and formless blankets where his body should have lain.
"Mary!"
A crisp tone coupled irritatingly with shaking hands on her shoulders, startling open dark eyes that were surprised to see her mother. Mary propped herself on her elbows in a bit of a stupor, yawning as she blinked repeatedly in an attempt to focus her gaze and shake warm memories from her body.
"Mama?" she questioned, her pulse picking up in concern. "What is it? Is George alright?"
Cora sighed, nodding her head as she kept her gaze fastened upon her daughter.
"George is fine, Mary. In fact, he and Sybbie have been outside with Nanny Thompson for the past half an hour."
"Isn't it rather early for an outing?" Mary questioned, still attempting with a certain amount of reluctance to draw her mind into the present moment...
And away from events that had both tantalized her dreams and fueled a body now most decidedly awake.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" her mother replied, the slight trace of irritation lacing her tone raising the hair on Mary's arms. "You have slept away the morning. If you don't get up now, you'll miss luncheon, as well."
Mary pushed up her weight on limbs that felt strangely wobbly. She was instantly assaulted by vivid details, images of what had transpired in this very bed unconsciously urging her to pull the sheet up to her chin as if to hide them from her mother's glaring eyes.
Eyes that were watching her much too closely at the moment.
"I'm sorry," Mary managed, willing steadiness into her tone as she began to make out small details in the light of day. "We returned rather late last night."
"I'm aware of that," Cora continued, her intense stare steadily unnerving her eldest. "And I am most delighted to hear of Bates and Anna's precious daughter."
"Yes," Mary returned quietly. "She is beautiful."
A shiver rocked her spine as the emotions that had shaken them both fleetingly touched her. She clasped arms and blankets protectively around herself, wishing that her mother would just leave and allow her some time to steady her mind for the day...for entertaining guests…
For facing him.
Needless conversation was simply beyond her, and crackles of ire spat forth their displeasure at this forced encounter. She was still attempting to make sense of all that had transpired in her room, trying to untangle feelings so jumbled yet almost frightening in their accelerating clarity.
Converging worlds of past and present, of skin and spirit, of releasing and binding had been bedfellows last night—all merging as she and Charles had come together in the darkness, forging a delicate union as new and tender as Anna's babe.
One that could unravel all too easily.
How she needed him at the moment.
After all, Charles had experienced the same famished desperation as she, understood all that had happened between them in a manner that no one else possibly could. With him, words would be unnecessary. He would allow her to rest, to ponder this newness, to process the sensation of waking up on a raft afloat in uncharted waters. He knew.
He knew her.
In every way.
Dear God.
She silently cursed the warming sensation around her eyes, hoping the flush would not extend to her neck as she forced her gaze back to her mother's with a steady grit.
"Isobel returned sometime after you and Mr. Blake did, from what I have been told," Cora continued, either unaware or unconcerned with her daughter's overwhelming need for privacy. "But she had her breakfast some time ago and is already at Crawley House checking on the progress of the repairs."
Mary nodded dutifully, wondering just where her mother was attempting to steer this conversation but unwilling to budge from her roost.
"Where is Campbell?"
"Campbell has been a nervous wreck all morning," Lady Grantham put in. "She does not yet know you well enough to feel comfortable rousing you from a sound slumber. I told her that I would take care of everything."
She sensed the shift in tone, a subtle implication that something unpleasant was about to be let out of its cage. Her pulse sped slightly as she attempted to swallow down a nagging fear that only sharpened at her mother's next statement.
"And I'm glad that I did."
"What is it, Mama? Just what is it you are after?"
Eyes locked, expressions held neutral, one unfazed by an arched brow and clipped tone, the other meeting implied accusation with arms that now folded in an attempted stance of defiance. Cora then extended her hand, unfurling fingers to reveal something previously hidden to Mary's blinking gaze.
A button.
A man's button.
Her eyes darted back to her mother's in a flash, words held back by both as they attempted to read the other in silence.
"What's this?" Mary questioned flatly, breaking the stalemate first in an effort to control the direction of the conversation. "And just why are you showing this to me? Did Barrow manage to lose this somewhere?"
"You know perfectly well what this is," Cora returned without blinking. "And to whom it belongs."
Blood rushed to her ears as all pretense clattered to the floor, the inner noise almost deafening as she willed her breath to remain steady. She would volunteer nothing of what had transpired between her and Charles to her mother. It was too personal, too intimate…
And still much too dangerous for anyone's knowledge besides their own.
"Why would you make such an assumption?" Mary asked directly, issuing a small challenge of her own. "It's not as if I make it a habit to study the buttons on men's attire."
Cora stared, her eyes narrowing slightly as her arm indicated a location behind her that stilled Mary's breath in her throat.
"Because I found it right there."
At the foot of her bed.
Where he had cradled her so tenderly, absorbing her grief into himself as his own dampened her hair.
Where she had attempted to kiss away his pain, weaving an intangible web that effectively bound them to each other.
Where she had removed his jacket, determinedly worked off his shirt…granting eager hands the opportunity to explore his skin unhindered by clothing, offering her mouth a first taste of the saltiness of his chest.
Where she had implored him in a deep whisper to make love to her...
And he had. Dear God, he had.
She breathed deeply, tilting her head in such a manner as to imply boredom even as her insides churned mercilessly.
"How strange," she managed, surprised by just how even her voice sounded as she tweaked her expression slightly, refusing to look at the spot in question. "But I'm still uncertain what this has to do with me."
A warning was flashed, too marked to be missed. She would not allow her mother to trespass into this realm.
"You can be as coy and uncooperative as you like, Mary, but that doesn't change the fact that you should be grateful that it was me and not Campbell who strolled into your bedroom this morning."
The warning had been blatantly ignored, lines drawn in the perilous quicksand between mother and daughter.
"Might I ask just what you are implying?" Mary retorted coolly, sitting up taller as she allowed the sheet to fall to a forgotten bundle at her waist.
"Might I ask you just how you managed all of the buttons on your dress last night without ringing for Campbell?" Cora returned, noting Mary's hasty glance to the crumpled heap in the corner that had been her evening attire. Dark eyes then traversed an incriminating trail of bread crumbs…a slip cast off close to her vanity, an undergarment of silk and lace eased off her thighs by warm palms lying discarded near her bed. Then there was his scent still lingering on her sheets, in her hair, pressed lovingly into her very pores.
How horribly ironic that her own clothing and small remnants of himself had morphed into outspoken accusers, threatening to paint an act so fragile and intimate in the cheap oils of misunderstanding.
Their carelessness could condemn them without a trial.
She grabbed his button residing mockingly in her mother's flattened hand, drawing it to herself with eyes that refused to flinch.
"We are adults, you know."
There. It had been said.
"Yes—I am well aware of that fact," Cora returned, the quietness of her tone only highlighting its razored edge. "And I also realize that I have no real say in how you manage your affairs."
Her choice of words hung tangibly between them, making Mary clasp the button even tighter, imprinting its details into her palm.
"It would seem we have reached an understanding," she voiced, refusing to blink. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to send for Campbell so I can get dressed."
The stalemate widened.
"I'm disappointed in you, Mary."
The words stung, no matter how stubbornly she attempted to convince herself that her mother's opinion didn't matter. But it did—it always had.
"Well, that's nothing new. I've always been a disappointment, haven't I? With the exception of marrying Matthew and producing George, it would seem I've done very little of worth in my life."
"That's not true," Cora rebutted, scooting closer, her voice still maddeningly calm.
"Isn't it?" Mary demanded, burying hurt under ire. "Because I would wager that we have had more conversations about my failings and blunders rather than my accomplishments."
"I am not here to berate you over what took place here last night, but I did think you were smarter than this," Lady Grantham stated, sitting up taller and putting a bit of space between them. "Did you learn nothing from what happened ten years ago?"
That did it.
Mary turned abruptly, swiftly sliding out of her bed and whirling on her mother with feline agility.
"Why am I not surprised to have that thrown in my face again? It seems I am never to escape the scarlet letter branded on me a decade ago, even among my own family."
"This has nothing to do with branding you, Mary," Cora rebutted. "And if it were just our family we had to be concerned about, things would be much easier. But word did manage to get out about Mr. Pamuk in London, if you remember, although nothing was ever proven and the damage contained."
She stared at her mother intently.
"How could I forget? It was implied at our own dinner table just three nights ago."
Lady Grantham dropped her eyes, unable to hold her daughter's accusing stare in the precursor of her next statement.
"And who stood up for me, Mama? Was it you? Papa? Granny? When guests you brought into our home had the nerve to speak of me publically in such a fashion, who put a stop to it?"
The answer hung with enormity between them.
"You know that I like Mr. Blake," Cora threw in, "but he is not the issue here."
"That's funny, for some reason I thought we were discussing the fact that he spent the night in my bedroom. How does that exclude him from being a part of the issue?"
"Because he is a man, Mary, and whether we like it or not, it is always the woman who carries any stigma associated with an affair. Charles Blake could have twenty lovers and move through his life relatively unscathed, but you—you will not be granted the same anonymity, and you know it."
"He would disagree with that reasoning, you know," Mary stated flatly, recalling pieces of conversation about his aunt…about her. "And there is no comparison between what happened with Mr. Pamuk to what took place last night between me and Charles. None whatsoever."
The words were marked by an icy edge as she rubbed her arms unconsciously, his button still hidden in her hand.
"At least Mr. Blake is still alive and well, thank God."
A bark of laughter flew out of her at the absurdity of her mother's observation. She shook her head incredulously, tossing her arms up in frustration.
"You have no idea, do you?" she breathed fiercely, old wounds merging with new in a distorted partnership.
"I understand that you and Mr. Blake are both still hurting and you may not have used your best judgment," Cora cut in, watching her daughter warily. "And the fact that you are a widow does change things a bit. However…"
"However," Mary laughed mirthlessly. "There's always a however, isn't there? Why can you not simply accept what has happened and leave us alone? Charles and I can work out our own affair, as you put it. We are in no need of your assistance."
She was trembling again, her nightgown offering no protection from the cool air assaulting her skin.
"You may be more in need of it than you realize," Cora contradicted. "God only knows what you might be facing if Campbell had been the one to walk into your room this morning. The entire household could have been alerted to your lapse in judgment before you ever made it down the stairs."
"And what if they had?" Mary shrugged, feigning indifference with a false show of bravado. "You just said it—I am a widow, and the standards have changed. How large a scandal could we possibly cause?"
"Enough of one to make your life uncomfortable," came the immediate reply. "And you're a mother, now. You must consider what kind of impact your decisions will have on your son."
George.
She felt suddenly deflated, turning her stance towards the window where she faced no judgmental stares, where newly opened drapes hinted at nothing more threatening than an impending rain. She inexplicably longed for a crack of thunder, for a relentless deluge to pour out in an unabashed fury against the glassy surface.
To hell with all of this grief and complication.
"My private life should be allowed to be just that," Mary asserted quietly. "I am a good mother, you know that, Mama. Having Charles as a lover does not alter that fact."
Describing him in such terms triggered an odd flutter in her stomach. She rubbed the back of her neck absently, touching skin that he lavished just hours before.
"No, but it could place both you and George under a huge amount of scrutiny, most of it unfriendly and some of it decidedly hostile. You cannot tell me that that is what you want for him, Mary."
A sigh escaped her, and she closed her eyes at the sensation of being penned in a space much too small.
"And Charles Blake does not strike me as the type of man who will be content to remain merely a lover for very long, either."
No—he wouldn't be. Of that fact, Mary was quite certain. He would not want to expose her to the possibility of censure, would adamantly protect her reputation even if it meant sacrificing his own. He was a good man, an honorable man, the type of man her father had always wanted for his daughter…
The type of man she had loved with everything she possessed and lost on a winding road.
"Has he mentioned marriage?"
Eyes darted open in a coerced reckoning.
"It's too early for that," she insisted, bristling at the irony of her statement even as it left her lips.
"You may have no choice in the matter," Cora returned, the impact of the inference hitting Mary with force. Her hand settled unthinkingly on her abdomen as the possibility took root. It was only then that she noticed how cold her fingers truly were, sliding them under her arms as she sought the warmth denied her….
Still holding on to his button, now wondering if she held something else of his deep within.
Oh, God.
"That's highly unlikely," she uttered in a half-hearted attempt to convince herself. "You know how long it took me and Matthew…this was only…"
The sentence remained incomplete, sentiments voiced without conviction doing little to reassure either woman. After all, there had since been a surgical procedure, a healthy child delivered…
And she had been with Charles more than once.
Her mother stood, calmly handing her a robe, waiting in silence until it covered her daughter's form.
"No matter how likely or unlikely, the possibility is still there," Cora returned frankly. "And I would wager that we aren't the only ones who have realized that, either."
No. It would be fresh in his mind, she was certain. The thought of facing him became increasingly unnerving with the knowledge that when he looked at her he would be wondering, speculating…
Hoping?
As deeply as he had always longed for a child, would he welcome having one with her so quickly? Or would an accidental pregnancy be as overwhelming to him as it was to her at the moment? Would he come to resent the fact that she had instigated their lovemaking, feel trapped into a forced union that could gradually chip away at the fragile delicacy of what they were building? Heaven knew he was not a man who would ever attempt to flee his responsibilities.
She rubbed her temples in an attempt to slow maddening thoughts racing headlong into territory that in all likelihood had no more substance than a morning fog. This was futile—worrying over a child that might not even exist.
Wasn't it?
Her stomach fluttered yet again.
"I really can't think about all of this right now," she insisted quietly as she focused her gaze directly on her mother. "And please show me the respect of allowing me to address these matters with Charles privately."
It was a plea to conceal what had happened from her father that eerily paralleled one made a decade ago in this very room, a cry for trust that she could and would do the right thing for herself and her son. Yet the composed woman voicing this request was not the same girl who had begged for compassion as she shook in delayed shock while a man lay dead across her bed.
"Trust me to manage this, Mama. Please."
Faint cracks in her daughter's composure called out to Cora, the decided uncertainty hiding behind a façade of calm drawing out protective instincts to shelter her eldest, to attempt to smooth small lines creasing around dark eyes still fragmented emotionally…
To ensure that Mary did not break apart again.
She nodded her assent in silence, swallowing down any need to press home a point on a soul so blatantly overwhelmed.
"There is nothing fair or right about what you have had to live through this year, Mary. Nothing at all."
The final words were no more than a shaken whisper, a voiced remembrance of another life snatched from them much too early. Mary stared into the pained eyes of her mother, all gauntlets momentarily cast aside as shared bereavement forged a tenuous connection.
"Do you know how hard it was to be there, Mama? To witness Anna giving birth, to see her with her baby and her husband?"
The words formed quite independently of her conscious will, needing to be spoken, seeking to be understood by the woman who had given her life.
"She gets to keep them both, Mama…not one. Both."
How childish she sounded, but she could not care. Her palm began to sweat as it continually clutched his button, clasping onto this small remnant of him to keep her legs from faltering. She drew the robe tightly around her waist, keeping her gaze steadily fixed on clouds pregnant with rain.
"I can imagine."
The whisper was just audible, yet strong enough to be felt by them both.
"And although I may not approve of your methods, I will not condemn you for what happened with Charles."
Cora dared a soft touch to her daughter's arm, receiving her full attention at the pull of physical contact. "I do want you to find happiness again, Mary."
The word shook her, rendering her momentarily mute.
Happiness…
Are you really so frightened of being happy?
His soft inquiry before they truly kissed for the first time in the small library… and hers to him…a question so startlingly relevant in light of what they had just done….
And what they could have possibly created.
Do you ever wonder if we are doing this for the wrong reasons? That we are trying to forget or to just not be sad anymore?
What had her reasoning been last night…for drawing him inside her room and into her private depths, for baring herself to him in every way possible, for actually making love to him rather than mindlessly sharing her body?
She shuddered internally, clasping the robe even tighter out of habit.
"It's strange, really," Mary uttered into the glass, more to herself than to her mother. "For a few moments last night, I actually forgot. That I was a widow, or a mother, even."
Her next words fogged the cool pane, the window now her most unexpected confessional.
"I was just a woman."
She waited for a statement of censure, for a grunt of disbelief. But she received a marked silence, the magnitude of which made her close her eyes.
"And were you happy?"
Her eyes opened abruptly as they stared through the question, searching herself wordlessly, startled by her own answer that seared her heart even as she refused to give it a voice. She turned her eyes from her mother lest she see and know, attempting to conceal secrets not yet ripe enough for sharing. But she was aware of her absolute failure in the matter, sealing her eyes shut against her own transparency as a new reality thudded in her chest with rhythmic clarity.
Yes.
Yes.
And again, yes.
She curled chilled toes under icy feet as she finally opened her hand and stared at the small piece of Charles unknowingly left behind in her keeping. The fluttering in her stomach returned yet again as she rested a suddenly warm forehead on the window's cold surface. She wished for a map to navigate her own future as so many variables had been tossed into a strong wind with the same abandon as her clothing when they had clung to each other breathlessly in her bed.
Her temple pulsed in a remembrance, in expectation, in both wonder and fear at her body transformed, cradling the button against her chest with the same tenderness as he had cradled her to his own.
She sighed audibly into an uncertain morning that bore the promise of change.
God help her. God help them both.
A bit shorter than usual, but I hope not lacking! As always, I love and covet your feedback. Next chapter...Mary and Charles finally speak. :)