I know this is repetitive, but I would be remiss if I failed to properly thank all of you for the lovely reviews and messages! Some of you have even pm'd me your predictions of where this tale eventually going, and I have adored reading them. They don't influence where the story is heading (sorry!)-it has been mapped out for months-but I love hearing your thoughts and am flattered that you take the time to send them. Drop a line anytime. :)
To my amazing feed-back artists R. Grace and La Donna Ingenua...you girls rock!
Now that Season 4 is underway in parts of the world and this story truly becomes AU, I find myself quite anxious indeed to meet canon Charles Blake. No matter how he turns out on screen, I do hope you will stick with this version of him for the rest of this story and the upcoming sequel "Strangers Among Us". And just a reminder...I own no part of Downton Abbey.
Ah, well, off we go!
Ch 25
Her pulse was finally decreasing its frantic pace, despite the marked speed she was maintaining in her stride.
The needle-pricks of panic had begun the moment he had stepped away from her, pressing in firmly as he slid behind the wheel of his car, constricting her supply of oxygen as he drove away. He was leaving her, travelling a road he knew, tossing her a smile coupled with a chaste kiss and a promise to return later. She could not take her eyes from him, even as the vehicle disappeared from her vision, even as her parents made their way back inside. Her mother had squeezed her hand in passing, a gesture of certainty to still her daughter's unease.
But Mary knew better. There were no guarantees.
Nausea threatened menacingly, her hands trembling as she attempted to swallow down the suffocating anxiety that had become her most unwanted companion over the past year.
Yet no one seemed to notice.
He had, she was certain. The crease of concern etched around his eyes, a most tender stroke feathered across her cheek, all had been subtly offered as a private assurance from one who understood. The art of missing nothing was one he had mastered, a skill she was certain had been inherited from his aunt. It was a trait she found both maddening and comforting, unearthing things uncomfortable, yet comprehending them in a manner that required little explanation. And last night that attention to detail had been maddeningly relentless, leaving her trembling and sated yet wanting more…more of what they had shared…
More of him.
God, she could not allow herself to think about that now. It would do nothing but build frustration into a situation that had already become sticky enough. It was better that she focus her thoughts upon his safe return.
Any other reality was just unthinkable.
He had driven them to and from his estate but yesterday, her fear kept steadily at bay due to her own presence with him. It was illogical in the worst sense, she who struggled with the idea of being cursed somehow believing she could offer him modicum of protection simply by being with him in his own car. But feelings were wildly irrational, one reason she so often chose to shove them aside rather than sort them out into something manageable. She had to overcome this insatiable panic when someone she cared about journeyed from her sight, it was crippling.
But was there anything even remotely manageable about her feelings for Charles Blake? Perhaps there had been but days ago, but so much had happened, emotions shared, bodies given, and lines crossed decidedly.
When she was with him, it all somehow made sense, his persona simply too irresistible to ignore. But when distance placed itself between them, the utter ludicrousness of their relationship would strike her, forcing her to examine what in reality was happening between them.
An accidental meeting, a ride home, a courtship, a relationship…he appeared out of nowhere, sweeping her up into a dance she didn't know before she had been given the opportunity to decline. His wit intrigued her, his smile made her dizzy, and the utter determination he had shown to win her heart…
It was dismantling her tower stone by stone.
His pursuit should have pushed her away, but for some reason it kept reeling her in. His song beckoned her, his transparency binding her with rope she continually fed to him. Her own mind seemed to have deserted her when it came to this man, yet there were times when she was relieved by its non-interference. Her thoughts too often wounded her, entangled with memories still sharp enough to dismember and hurt.
But Charles made her smile.
The fear of loving once more, of binding herself to another inextricably yet again still haunted her, chilling her with a ghostly shiver when she allowed herself a lapse of happiness. If she dismantled all of her armor, if she left herself completely exposed to him, what would that mean?
But had she not done just that last night? When she allowed her slip to slide from her body with a nervous deliberation that had left her legs shaking, when she had stepped naked into an embrace she trusted to shield her, she had opened herself to him in more ways than one. And if something happened, if she lost him it would sever a part of herself yet again, she who was not even wholly repaired. Yes, she had survived the unthinkable once, but just barely.
The numbness in her limbs, the black void of her vision, the assuredness that everything good in her life had been buried with him on that afternoon that nearly destroyed her, it was all still there. Yes, it had been packed away, locked into a storage vault to which she still held the key. She had worn it as a talisman around her neck for months, always keeping it within her grasp, wearing her pain as a shield, flashing her anger as a weapon. Then it had been laid by her bedside, close, but not as cumbersome as she allowed herself to venture out of mourning with baby steps. Yet it was to the familiar she always retreated, the deadness of her own life a heavy cloak of protection from the world around her.
Then something unnamed possessed her, and she had dared a trip to London, a journey with her son to test her limits, to see if she could actually again stand on her own.
It was a journey that changed everything.
From the moment he stepped into her berth and interrupted her grieving, that key had been nudged further and further away from her sight. He helped her remember how it felt to live, to give in to the lightness of laughter and allow the thrill of attraction to awaken cold nerves. She continually caught herself seeking him, craving his assurance, yearning for his grin. This courtship was certainly unorthodox, unearthing needs in them both that cried out to be tended. It was a cry they had both heard clearly, and one that had culminated in an act of indescribable intimacy after an acquaintance of a mere two weeks.
Life with Charles Blake was madness, pure and simple.
Yet there was a simplicity about this relationship they had crafted. Parts of it were logical, almost too logical, in fact. He wanted children, her son needed a father, the pair of them already adored each other. In this light it appeared so neat and tidy.
But there were parts of her still wounded, scabs that still needed protecting, bruises upon her heart that were still tender to the touch. Charles soothed these places, perceiving their particular needs in a manner quite personal.
But Matthew…
Her cheeks reddened, and she clutched her arms around herself protectively, as if trying to hide from her late husband the details of the night she had spent with another. It was idiotic, she knew, but there it was. She still sensed his eyes upon her at times, even though he had been gone from her a year.
What was a year, actually?
There were days that felt like an eternity and months that had vanished in a vapor of morning fog. At times she was certain she had lived a lifetime mourning Matthew, yet others when everything still felt fresh. Who exactly ascertained how long one should grieve? Was there a formula to answer when the heart was ready to be offered to someone else?
And just where did mourning leave off and remembrance take over?
She knew where her feet were taking her, had realized their destination from the moment he pulled away from Downton. Another lifetime had been lived in the weeks since she had visited, her existence altered in a manner she would have scoffed at just weeks ago. Yet she stood timeless at the entrance, looking ahead steadily as she shook her head at her own foolish notions.
After all, the dead had no answers to offer.
Legs carried her to his resting place, its impersonal stone still difficult for her to reconcile to the gentle man he had been. She brushed fallen leaves from his marker, a breeze stirring others at her feet as an unfamiliar struggle took hold of her.
She wanted to speak with Matthew about Charles Blake. What in God's name did that mean?
"Hello, my darling."
The greeting was spoken clearly, no wobble in her voice, no trembling of her hands.
"I'm sorry it has been a while since my last visit. So much has happened, you see."
She laughed in rueful silence at her own remark.
"George is walking now. I thought I should tell you."
Images of her son's valiant efforts made her smile, her heart swelling as she envisioned those first halting steps yet again.
Yet whose arms had caught him when he stumbled? Whose nose he had grasped as he squealed in delight?
"He has also discovered kites, you know," she continued quietly. "Although he calls them cats. It really is the oddest thing."
Cat—the man he recognized, to whom he clung in lieu of the father he had been denied. Cat—the man who rocked him to sleep when he had been ill, whom he sought out personally to read his favorite story.
Charles was with her here, even now, just as Matthew was always with her when she was with him. It would seem that solitude was lost to her, these two men in her life filling her mind and claiming her emotions so completely that something somewhere always hinted at one of them.
"I've met someone, Matthew."
There. It had been said.
Nothing happened, and she was overtaken by a modicum of surprise. What she had expected, she could not have verbalized. But for there to be just silence, no tremor of the ground beneath her, no roll of thunder at an admission of such magnitude…
Perhaps it wasn't as unusual as she had believed.
"I wasn't expecting this at all, you understand, and I'm still not sure what do about it."
A small gust of wind nipped at her ears, and she wrapped her arms tightly around her middle in a protective manner.
"He's a good man, he raises horses, actually. He understands me, somehow. I never thought anyone else would ever be able to do so, actually. I'm not exactly an easy case, you know."
She was a bit startled at her own admission, biting her lower lip as she delved even deeper.
"He's so good with our son."
She paused to swallow the sudden lump that had formed at her words, pushing past the constriction in her throat to continue.
"And George just adores him."
I adore him.
The words were a mere breath released into a community of stones, the reverberations of her confession striking her with force. She felt the first wobbling of knees.
"I may need to marry him, actually."
The swell of a tear pushed through, releasing a breath held internally as a difficult truths were whispered.
"Is this alright? I really need to know, you see. I still love you, Matthew. I know I didn't say it enough when you were here with me, but I did. So very much."
So very much.
She knelt in the leaves, tracing his name as had become her habit, touching him in the only manner left to her besides the flesh of his son.
"Things would have been so much easier had you stayed."
Another tear, another release. She reached into her purse for her handkerchief and withdrew his into the breeze of autumn, the one he had given her when they had first met.
The utter irony was not lost upon her.
She touched the cloth to her cheeks, to her eyes, accepting this offering of comfort as she faced the reality of an actual life beyond the one she had lived. It was time, she knew it, the realization filling her with a terrifying exhilaration unlike she had ever experienced.
A choice was before her. And she was the only one who could make it.
"You don't need his permission, you know."
A voice from behind her startled her, her head darting around to look into the face of her mother-in-law.
"Nor mine, for that matter."
Mary stood, clasping his handkerchief protectively to her abdomen.
"Perhaps not."
Isobel moved parallel to her, both women looking at the memorial to the man they had cherished as no one else had.
"How much did you hear?"
She sensed Isobel's sigh before it was heard, unable to look at Matthew's mother as she asked what could accuse her.
Not after all that had transpired with a man not her son in her bedroom last night.
"Very little, actually," Mrs. Crawley returned quietly, finally drawing Mary's hesitant gaze. "But probably more than I should have."
She hung her head again, feeling the weight of their actions in a manner yet new, swallowing back the first true stirrings of guilt.
"I'm sorry, Isobel."
The breeze wafted around her legs, Mary suddenly quite aware of the distance Mrs. Crawley had left between them.
"You owe me no apology, Mary. None whatsoever."
The words were true, yet they felt somewhat odd, as if a rift had formed in the fabric that had so tightly bound them together these many months.
"But your apology does lead me to the conclusion that your possible need to marry Charles Blake has nothing to do with the future management of Downton."
She closed her eyes, forcing down a different kind of panic that now demanded her attention.
"No. It hasn't."
Isobel finally looked at her, at the wife of her son, this young widow no longer bound to him in life as she picked up the reigns of her own. Mary's hands were restless, her eyes downcast as she awaited the reaction due her.
"I take it he has made an offer."
Her silent nod spoke for her, the need to see Isobel's face finally trumping her mortification of giving herself away.
"This morning, actually."
Their eyes locked, standing before Matthew's gravestone in a moment that would define their relationship.
"Last night was difficult for you."
Mary released more air than she had realized was pent up, this one sentence revealing that Isobel held at least some understanding of what had prompted their actions.
"Quite difficult. For both of us."
Isobel nodded, staring into the trees. She had been there, with Anna, with Bates, had seen the struggle Mary had fought so stubbornly to hide, had noticed the ashen pallor upon Charles Blake's face as he sat through the rigorous birth vigil with an expectant father.
"Have you accepted him?"
The question struck her with a thud, reminding her of another wounded expression brought about by her refusal.
"No."
Eyes met hers in surprise.
"But if the need arises…"
"If the need arises, of course I'll accept him," Mary interrupted in an attempt to defend her decision. "But there is still so much uncertain."
Isobel finally took a step towards her, daring to ask something of which she had never been assured.
"Were you certain of Matthew when he first proposed to you?"
Mary blinked in confusion, this inquiry catching her off guard.
"No, not at first, although I wanted to be."
Mrs. Crawley pursed her lips together, her brows linking themselves across the crevice of her forehead.
"Did you love Matthew then?"
How young they had been, sipping wine out of the wrong glasses, eating sandwiches at an ungodly hour, toying with each other in a rather childish dance that still tickled her ribs when she allowed herself to remember.
The reckless thoughtlessness of youth.
"Yes, although I didn't realize the full extent of it then."
She had held back, fearing his reaction to her indiscretion, wondering if she would be happy as the wife of a solicitor, wishing she knew if her mother's child was a son or a daughter…so many things distracting her from the one thing that had truly mattered.
She had loved Matthew. And she should have said yes.
"And do you love Charles Blake?"
She felt suddenly exposed, as if she were once again naked but standing before the judgment of many rather under than the loving gaze of one.
"I don't know," came her whisper, her eyes fixed upon the name of her husband carved in granite, steady and unmoving, so very unlike the pulsing fluidity of her own life at the moment.
"I think it's beginning, but…"
Could she say it, voice something even she did not fully comprehend?
"It's very different."
Another step was traversed until they stood eye to eye.
"I think it's supposed to be."
Mrs. Crawley then turned and left her, giving her a smile but offering her hand no squeeze. A sadness enveloped Mary, dampening feelings already unsteady in nature. She hoped fervently that whatever damage had just been wrought between them could be repaired quickly, the distance between them but a temporary parting. But the wound Mrs. Crawley had just been dealt was emotional.
And emotions had their own set of rules.
Where was he?
The remainder of the afternoon had drudged by slowly, tea with the ladies, details of the final dinner discussed with her mother. But she could not pry her unintentional conversation with Isobel out of her mind.
And she anticipated his arrival with a need that bordered on manic.
Everyone was now gathering, dinner nearly ready, yet he was not here. He had missed Granny's grand entrance, something he had admitted to enjoying each evening. Thankfully her arrival did afford Mary the opportunity to ease as far from the crowd as she could manage without being obvious, slinking into the background, observing and waiting. Her mother was chatting with Lord Gillingham, her father with the duke and Anthony. And it was then that she noticed something quite glaring.
Isobel was not here.
It was a small blow to her although she could not deny feeling a hint of relief. It would have been awkward at best to sit across from her with Charles at her side, to wonder what she was thinking, to second guess every expression. Having to manage under the watchful eye of her mother would be quite enough to persevere throughout the evening. Yet still…
She shook her head at her musings, looking to the clock once again, staring at the door…watching…waiting…
Praying to a God she hoped would listen.
"Why, Lady Mary. How utterly enchanting you look this evening."
His voice puckered her skin, every muscle cinching in revolt as she turned against her will to face him.
"Mr. Roquefort."
"Oh come now, Lady Mary, surely after as much as we have shared together you can refer to me as Edward."
Her very skin reeled at the thought of such, and she inadvertently took a step towards the door.
"After all that we have shared, Mr. Roquefort, I can assure you that there are many things which I would enjoy calling you, but your Christian name is not one of them."
There it was, the chuckle that wasn't, the mirth that sought destruction.
"I see we are to dispense with the pleasantries, then."
"As there is nothing pleasant to be taken from your company, I find them quite painless to do away with, actually."
His eyes became hard, her arms chilling at the smile he offered.
"But Lady Mary, you have only seen me at my most pleasant. I'm not at all certain you will like it when I deal with you otherwise."
God, how she detested this man.
"If what I have experienced has been you at your most pleasant, then I have no qualms in taking my chances with your worst."
His lip twisted with anger, his outer demeanor still unruffled.
"You think yourself so superior," he breathed, daring a step closer, increasing her resolve to stand her ground. "You always have. But it is prudent to remember who has the trump card when calling a bluff."
"And you think it is in your possession?" she shot back quietly, attempting to draw no attention to their altercation. "Simply because you know of Mr. Blake's wife?"
She wore her mask of bravado convincingly, staring down at the man with glare designed to wither. Yet his chuckle unnerved her, and he leaned in too close, making her palms sweat as his proximity made her recoil.
"Do you really think that is all I know?"
She pushed down the pounding in her temples.
"I think you are a miserable, wretched dried up little man who enjoys tinkering in other people's lives to compensate for the complete lack of his own."
Her voice had been smooth, quiet and lethal, her brow as high as she could comfortably lift it. And his face was a controlled crimson.
"Do not attempt to back me into a corner, Lady Mary," he breathed nearly upon her, smearing her title in a most derogatory fashion through a tightened jaw. "Don't you understand? I know your true identity, in spite of your station and your tragic history. And I shall have no qualms whatsoever in exposing you for whore you really are before the evening is over."
His smile of superiority lasted but a second, his face then contorting in shock before she could formulate a response. Suddenly his feet were off the floor as a hand she knew well squeezed the collar around his neck.
"What did you just say to her?"
How he had sneaked in unnoticed was a mystery, one she had no time to sort out as he held Edward Roquefort in a vice designed to punish.
"Did I just hear you insult Lady Mary?"
"You misunderstand," Roquefort attempted, a cough racking his voice just before he was released to the ground.
And pummeled squarely in the jaw.
He hit the floor with force, the screams of the ladies and exclamations of the men completely lost in the din as she stared at the man beside her.
She had never seen such fury in his eyes.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Her father took center stage, his infuriated gaze darting from Edward to Charles with an expression that demanded an immediate explanation.
Yet he was completely ignored.
"I told you to stay away from her, Roquefort, and you have the nerve to threaten her in her own home?"
He was circling Edward now, watching for any sign of rebuttal, waiting for an excuse to hit him again.
"He did what?" Robert cried, looking to Mary for confirmation of such an accusation.
"Mr. Blake is mistaken," Edward began, recoiling quickly at the movement Charles made in his direction before he was halted from bludgeoning the man further by Tom's restraining arm. "Lady Mary and I were merely discussing a difference of opinion."
Tom held him fast, Charles's fury radiating from him with a force Mary could feel from where she stood. She quickly made her way to his other side, laying a calming hand upon his arm as she stared at him intently. She needed this to end now.
"Mary? Did Mr. Roquefort threaten you in any manner?"
Her father's direct question stilled any commotion left in the room, all eyes directing themselves squarely upon her as her tongue pasted itself to the mouth.
"It's over now, Papa," she voiced steadily, avoiding Charles eyes as his stare burned her skin. "Can we please just leave it?"
"What?"
Attention moved quickly to the woman on the fringes, the Duchess who rarely spoke stepping forward to have her say.
"Your Neanderthal of an admirer just viciously attacked my brother without cause, and you stand there like some distant goddess and pronounce that it is over?"
"Your grace," her grandmother began, "Perhaps we should all simply sit down and…"
"It's alright," Edward cut in, pushing himself up from the floor as no one offered to assist him. "It wasn't actually Lady Mary with whom I had business, anyway."
The rush in her ears was deafening, and she squeezed his arm in preparation for the inevitable.
"You really are an idiot, Blake," Edward crooned, wiping blood from his nose as he stood. "If you had but taken the time to listen to me, I could have saved you such embarrassment."
Charles's muscles flexed through his jacket, but her fingers clutched him in a vice, begging him.
Warning him.
"Would someone please kindly inform me what the hell is going on?"
Robert had reached his limit, his ringing question aimed at Mary. Her eyes held his for a moment, attempting to douse this fire already kindled before she was interrupted by the one she dreaded most.
"I would be delighted to tell you, Lord Grantham," Edward smiled stepping towards the earl and out of Blake's line of fire. "It is my duty to inform you that one of your guests has not been entirely honest with you."
Oh, God, he was really going to do this. Here-in front of everyone.
"What are you saying, Roquefort?" Robert inquired harshly, his voice on edge as he stared at the man in blatant dislike. "Are you implying that someone here is attempting to take advantage?"
"Don't listen to him, Papa," she pled, grabbing Robert's attention immediately, releasing Charles as she stepped towards her father.
"What is this Mary?"
"It's nothing but the pathetic attempt of your daughter to shield her gentleman friend from being exposed for the man he truly is."
Now all gazes fixed upon Charles, the utter confusion on his face wrenching her heart.
"What in God's name are you talking about, Roquefort?" Tom cut in, releasing his hold on Charles as he took a step in Edward's direction.
"I'm talking about the fact that Mr. Blake was previously married," Edward returned, clearly enjoying the flush of power thrust upon him.
"We are all well aware of the fact that Mr. Blake was married and then tragically lost his wife," Robert replied calmly, the twitch of his brow betraying his agitation.
"Yes," Edward breathed, looking to Mary directly as he smiled broadly. "But were you aware that his wife was Indian?"
She shut Roquefort out, shut everyone out, sealing her eyes to expressions of shock, to stares of accusation. She inhaled the air available, drawing it greedily into her lungs, searching for clarity, needing steadiness. Her eyes then opened, seeking him out immediately, moving to him through a fog, the sound of her shoes clicking across the floor unnaturally loud to her ears.
She took his hand and looked to him with eyes unflinching. And he squeezed her hand in response.
"Is this true, Mr. Blake?"
Robert's inquiry was subdued, yet insistent. And as his gaze moved back and forth between them, Mary knew that he had already ascertained the truth.
"Yes it is. And I make no apologies for it."
Small details etched themselves into her consciousness, the owl-like quality of her grandmother's eyes, the angle of her mother's mouth hanging slightly agape, a thin line of sweat trailing downward into his hairline…
The iron set of his jaw as his gaze was fixed steadily forward.
"Did you know about this Mary?"
Her father's question called her out, yet his tone was non-confrontational.
"Yes. Mr. Blake informed me of this some time ago."
Her fingers fluttered in his grip, assuring him as best as she could.
"And this fact does not bother you?"
It was her mother who had spoken, stepping towards her father stealthily, her eyes fastened upon her daughter's in blatant fascination.
"No. Not in the slightest."
His thumb caressed her palm within the enclosure of his hand, and a piece of her melted into him.
She wished someone would say something—anything—that this damnable silence would be rent asunder so that they could at least attempt to resume a bit of normalcy. But the only sounds she noticed were the forced steadiness of his breathing intermingled with the thrumming of her own pulse.
"Well, now that that seems to be settled, do you think we could go through for dinner?"
The swell of relief at her grandmother's words made her want to laugh and cry simultaneously, a bubbly sensation in her chest nearly rendering her giddy as murmurs echoed in the hall. Yet she dared not move…not until she was certain they had completely weathered this cloudburst.
"I don't see why not," came her father's reply, his stance and glare an immediate dismissal to Edward and a decided show of support for her.
"Thank you."
She felt his whisper in her hair, its path moving down her skin and taking root within with a rapidity that warmed her. She stared up at him, truly seeing the beginnings of what she had admitted to Isobel, feeling something deep cry out to her to grab on, to clasp tightly, to take a chance with this man and the delicious insanity he had ushered into her life. Her eyes lifted in a smile, a glorious release filling her lungs as nothing short of absolute adoration shone out of his gaze.
Yes—this was good. This was what she needed.
And he was worth the risk.
"Do you mean to tell me that you're just going to leave this alone?"
Roquefort's incensed question cut through the air, halting footsteps already making their way to the dining room. Robert turned on his heels slightly, not even giving the man the consideration of facing him fully, staring at him as one would an injured rodent.
"That's exactly what I intend to do, Mr. Roquefort." Lord Grantham replied steadily, "If you do not care for my methods of dealing with my family, you are most welcome to leave Downton at any time."
They could not help the grins that were unleashed, an unabashed lightness weaving itself around them as the air seemed freer somehow. He took her hand and kissed it, tucking it into the crook of his arm as his smile unleashed a heady floating sensation across her limbs.
"Shall we, my lady?"
There was a decided possessiveness in the manner he addressed her, one that tickled the base of her spine in a subdued frenzy.
"It would be my pleasure."
She noted the spark of comprehension in his eyes, her need for time alone with him increasing with each second. There was suddenly so much to say.
They dared a step from the place they had been fixed, Charles staring at Roquefort unabashedly as he brushed by the man in disdain. She should have noticed the duchess walking to her brother, touching his arm in a show of support, soothing his cheek which would bear quite a bruise. She should have taken note of the utter malice in her stare, but her attention was completely transfixed, her mind wrapped up in the man beside her, lured astray from an opponent unaware.
She should have been prepared the disaster looming before them.
But the words struck her mercilessly, rendering them both speechless as a foe unanticipated dealt a blow a changed everything.
"I had no idea that the hospitality at Downton extended so far as to sharing bedrooms, Lord Grantham. But since your daughter was gracious enough to open hers to Mr. Blake last night, does that mean that he shall be offering her the same courtesy this evening?"
Thoughts, anyone? You know I adore your feedback. :) And yes, I am aware that I basically have drive two stories off a cliff in one week. Please forgive me!