So here we go, the final chapter before Charles Blake makes his television debut in Season 4. (NOT the final chapter of this story, however. We still have 2 or 3 to go. :) I confess to begin quite anxious to see how Julian Fellowes conceived of this character as opposed to my interpretation of him. Whatever happens in canon, this Charles Blake will remain unaltered through the rest of this tale and into the sequel.
And no-I own no part of Downton Abbey. Not even a rock from the grounds.
Many thanks as always to R. Grace for her constant support and encouragement! And special thanks to Cls2011 and miscreant rose for some impromptu yet incredible conversation over this chapter and the direction of this saga in general. I owe all three of you some pecan pie.
To everyone of you who take the time to read, review, send predictions, thoughts, and messages my way, I thank you. You make the writing process so very worthwhile! Hugs to you all. :) And for those of you who read my drabble So Much Uncertain, I must say how much I have enjoyed all of your guesses/comments! As there are no impending chapters to that one-shot, I shall thank you for those here. :)
And now, back to the story...
The click of the door closing behind her was nearly non-existent, yet the dark solitude felt all-encompassing. The silence filled her pores, granting eager lungs the freedom necessary to take in as much air as they could, a luxury that had been oddly lacking in the atmosphere she had just fled.
She had managed the short journey miraculously without incident—without question. Out of the small library, directly to the staircase, up the steps and finally down the hall to the nursery. She needed to see him, to gaze at the one constant in her life, to touch dark curls already mussed in the throes of sleep.
And there he lay.
His teddy bear was snuggled in beside him, his thumb still enclosed sweetly in his mouth. How innocent he looked, his beauty a marked contrast with the ugliness which she had confronted from so many angles. A tear she had managed to stifle downstairs found its freedom, dripping onto her dress as she gazed down at her son. Her mind suddenly took her back to their first meeting, watching George take up with a certain stranger in a berth, dropping his toy only to have it scooped up repeatedly with that blasted smile.
It's a game now, you know… he'll just drop it again.
It's alright. Sometimes things of importance need to be repeated frequently.
Things of importance…
She quenched the sudden urge to nab the teddy for herself and rock it in her embrace, the need to hold something tightly almost overpowering. Empty arms wrapped around herself in an attempt to assuage a pulsing ache. So much now lost forever, so much brutally taken. Yet she had just turned her back on the very person who had awakened senses long buried and had bolstered her rather infirm ability to hope.
What in God's name was she thinking?
To be honest, she wasn't thinking at all. Panic had mercilessly overthrown reason, dictating the course of her actions, even as she had vehemently attested her desire to steer the direction of her own life. But the possibility of impending tragedy haunted her relentlessly. If Charles left, something could happen—something devastating. It had before.
Why should her luck now suddenly change?
Just when she had finally dismantled defenses crafted to protect and allowed herself to simply revel in the beauty of what her life had become, it had been ripped from her embrace and thrown at her feet. The pieces had taken a year to reassemble, and she was well aware that gaps and holes still existed in the framework. But it was at least a solid mass again, a mostly-whole entity weaker than it might appear to the naked eye, but not to a most keen observer. An observer like Charles.
And if he left, if something happened to him…she could not even contemplate the thought.
A journey to America—impending disaster seemed to be etched across its very description. And two months—how much could go wrong within such a vast timeframe? Too much. Just how would she manage with him so far away, out of reach for weeks on end?
Tired legs gave way willingly, the rocking chair supporting her as she was stunned yet again by the course of her own thoughts. How had she become so dependent on the man so very quickly?
She had managed without Charles Blake her entire life, had dealt with staggering grief quite apart from him. She had learned to survive, adapted to a rather solitary existence, taken on the responsibilities of serving as both mother and father to her son, all in ignorance of his very existence. Her capability in maneuvering life without him was not the actual issue sitting heavily upon her chest.
No. The fact was simply that she did not want to do so.
She wanted him with her, desired his company, longed for the manner in which they bantered and flirted, ached for the physical and emotional stirring she felt in their kisses. He fueled her laughter, made her feel desired and valued, not in the same manner as Matthew, yet a deep sensation still lovely in its own right. She was experiencing the beginnings, the stirrings of something so new and exquisite it terrified her.
God help her, she was falling in love with Charles Blake. But he was leaving her for America.
The horrid irony pounded uncomfortably in her temples.
Was it possible to feel such things so quickly? Would he stay if she confessed the truth of her feelings to him? Was it even fair to admit something just conceived before she was certain that it would continue to grow? She cringed at the possibility that he might think she was using sentiment as a ploy to keep him in England, to somehow force him to concede to her will.
Wouldn't it be better to put these questions to him directly rather than debating them with herself? Probably—but she couldn't bring herself to take that leap. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Dear God, she felt like such a coward.
He would return tomorrow, she was certain, knowing enough of his character to discern he would not want any misunderstanding to fester between them. What exactly was she supposed to say when matters had just gone so horribly awry? She felt no compunction to apologize yet had no desire to keep him at arm's length. Perhaps a good night's rest would help her sort everything out in a manner she herself could comprehend properly.
How she envied George the guileless sleep of the young.
"Damn you, Charles Blake."
The nursery absorbed her whispered frustration, its walls observing in silence the form of a woman still straddling a precarious tightrope intersecting two lives. Cold fingers massaged her temples in the knowledge that this high wire act was quickly drawing to a close and decisions would have to be made as to on which side she would disembark. The carnage of an evening that had begun with such promise left her in no doubt of one fact: time would not wait upon her indefinitely. Yes—a time of reckoning was rapidly approaching, perhaps even growing within her own womb. And it would arrive upon her doorstep sooner rather than later, whether she felt ready to face it or not.
His stride was deliberate, his eyes unwavering as he made his way to the front door. Thank God he met no one on his path, the clinching of his fists alerting him all too loudly of an insatiable urge to hit something.
Or someone. Edward Roquefort would be an ideal target.
For once, he actually wished the man would appear out of thin air. Then he could finish what he had started before having been forced to cease giving the idiot his due.
The bloody bastard.
He would never forget the horrified shock frozen upon her slackened features as ugly accusations targeted them with a chilling accuracy. The grip of her fingers still burned on his arm, the absolute stillness of her body as they stood in disbelief continuing to unnerve him. The debacle had affected her more than she would ever admit, her need to keep her composure intact overtaking the baser instinct to express what she truly felt. He had been rendered speechless, caught completely unawares in a situation he should have anticipated. And as if the public declaration of their intimate act had not been bad enough, Roquefort had then tossed Mary's past into her face, making her revisit yet again an episode that still bore the power to hurt her.
Damn it! How had he allowed things to go so horribly astray?
They had been happy—he deliriously so, tucking her arm proudly within his own as she stood unflinchingly at his side. His wife's ethnicity had become a weapon wielded in a failed attempt to maim, yet she had not faltered, taking his hand rather than taking her leave. But the second strike launched had been brutal, dragging Mary by the ankles into a quagmire in which he refused to let her sink.
His face flushed hot with anger.
Anger at the absurdity of the entire evening, at the pitiful attempt of shaming them both for an act none but the two of them would ever fully understand. Anger at Roquefort, his vindictive sister, at Lord Grantham for speaking to Mary in the condescending manner in which he had. The man had actually thrown Matthew in her face, for God's sake, a pathetic attempt to forcibly conjure guilt out of a woman who had faced enough unmerited shame in her life. But mostly anger at himself for allowing this situation to exist in the first place.
He should have been strong enough to leave her bedroom last night. He had known the risks, was fully-aware of what damage it could inflict upon both her and George if their actions were made public. Yet emotion had overpowered reason, and he had willingly embraced the lure of desire, turning a blind eye to the reality of ugly consequences until the act had been completed.
His lack of self-discipline could now cost him everything.
"Looking for something?"
He turned quickly, ready for a confrontation, even though the bearer of the voice was not his intended target.
"My car, actually."
Tom stared at him, the hardness in his eyes clearly readable even in the darkness.
"I know where the cars are kept," Mr. Branson replied, his voice surprisingly even. "And I might help you track it down, if you'll answer something for me."
Charles swallowed down threatening dread, pressing irrational anger as far into his inner-recesses as he could.
"And what is that?"
His heart hammered loudly in his ears.
"What's your plan?"
A measured silence hung between them, the sounds of distant frogs the only noises discernable.
"You want to know if I have proposed to Mary."
Steps were taken in his direction, Tom's hands deceptively encased in his pockets as if they posed no threat.
"Yes. That's right."
He stopped within striking distance, yet made no threatening move. Charles returned stare for stare, relaxing his own fists as he drew a cleansing breath.
"I have."
A terse nod of the head was all he received.
"Before or after all of this mess tonight?"
Ah—the true issue at stake had risen to the surface.
"Before. This morning, actually."
Branson's posture relaxed perceptibly.
"That's what I assumed, the way both of you were acting. And what did she say?"
He felt his own shoulders slump.
"She prefers to wait."
Tom closed his eyes, shaking his head as he turned and paced a few steps away from him.
"I can't say that I'm surprised," he put in, rounding his direction and moving back towards Charles. "She has come a long way, but Matthew's death is still fresh in her mind."
"Something you and I both understand," Charles added, his eyes dropping to the ground.
"All too well, I'm afraid."
Tom's expression softened a bit, and he looked around him, searching for words as both men remained immobile in the dark.
"She may well change her mind," he finally put in, watching Blake steadily. "Decisions are not her strong suit, quite honestly."
"Yes. I am aware of that fact." He shifted slightly on his feet, staring at his shoes. "But she is also rather stubborn."
Tom nodded slowly, a small grin emerging as his hands returned to their enclosures.
"That she is. It's a family trait, you understand."
"Yes. And one with which I am all too able to relate."
Three strides were taken in his direction, Charles watching Tom carefully as the man made his approach.
"And you do love her? Truly?"
He rubbed his scalp in an attempt to calm frayed nerves.
"With everything I have."
Tom gazed at him in silence, narrowing his eyes as he rocked back and forth on his heels.
"She needs to reconsider your proposal, I think. It would make things much easier on her and George if the two of you announced an engagement. By tomorrow, she may have calmed down enough to see that."
Charles pursed his lips tightly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"Perhaps. But I don't want Mary to feel forced into anything, not even marriage with me. This is a big step for her, and one I never want her to have cause to regret."
A lone breeze ruffled hairs on his neck, the need to claps her in his arms a tangible ache.
"I just hope I haven't pushed her too hard."
"I doubt it," Mr. Branson put in. "You've gotten to her, and that's a feat in itself. Besides, Mary is a pragmatist at heart. I remember Matthew telling me that once, and it's a trait of hers I've witnessed for myself on many occasions."
Charles shook his head decisively.
"Would you have wanted a pragmatic marriage, Tom?"
The other man's chest deflated.
"No."
His heart squeezed tightly, the physical sensation of it nearly painful as he ached for her anew.
"I love her."
Even the night creatures seemed to hush at his declaration, the darkened stillness almost unearthly.
"Well, I guess you've earned yourself a second chance then," Tom replied quietly. "As far as I'm concerned, that is. As for Lord Grantham…"
"As for Lord Grantham, I'm quite certain it's a miracle that I walked out of Downton with all of my parts intact."
This actually brought a chuckle from Brason as he rubbed his chin.
"I remember feeling the very same way. Right after Sybil and I first announced our intention to marry."
The lack of aggression facing him now prompted him to lower his defenses.
"Did you have an audience as we did tonight?"
Tom's nod preceded his answer.
"Yes. Her entire family plus a few others."
"It seems unfair to have to make private matters subject to public scrutiny, doesn't it?"
A wry smile met his inquiry.
"Terribly unfair."
They stood in silence another moment, a gust of wind bringing an unexpected chill as dry leaves flurried in its wake.
"Shall we go and find your automobile, then?"
Charles looked back to the house, wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking, stifling down the urge to bolt back through the front door and grab her up in his arms.
"Yes. I suppose that would be best."
The crunch of gravel seemed overly-loud to his ears, each step towards his car a step away from Mary that pulled at his insides mercilessly.
"Just give her some time," Tom reasoned once they arrived at the garage. "She needs a bit of space to collect her wits and reason."
"Should I not come back tomorrow?" Charles questioned, his brows knit together. "I hate the thought of leaving things as they are between us."
A heavy sigh escaped Tom.
"That's up to you, of course, but I think I would give it another day or two. Both of you might be able to think a bit more clearly."
The thought did not settle well with him, but following his own judgment had caused nothing but heartache tonight. Perhaps he should heed the advice of one who had known her longer.
"I could take care of some matters in London," he mused aloud. "Then return in a couple of days to check on her. But I don't want her to think I have abandoned her after…"
His voice faltered, his hand resting on top of his automobile.
"After all that has happened."
"Then send her a message, let her know she's on your mind and that you'll see her in a day or two."
The idea was reasonable—almost too reasonable to work.
"I don't know. Let me sleep on it."
Tom nodded in agreement, backing up two steps as Charles eased into his vehicle.
"Do you really think you'll be able to sleep tonight?"
Charles smiled in spite of himself, the gesture devoid of mirth as he looked Tom in the eye directly.
"I haven't slept well in five years, Tom."
And with that, he drove away from Downton.
It could not be morning yet.
The pillow pulled over her face in frustration only accomplished so much, effectively blocking the light peaking in but doing nothing to placate an overly active mind. Sleep had alluded her for most of the night, her clock quickly becoming an adversary she had nearly thrown across the room at some ungodly hour.
Images of what had transpired the night before had plagued her, and she realized with a bitter irony that losing sleep because of his presence in her bed was immensely preferable to staring at a cold ceiling with only covers for a companion.
She missed him terribly. And she half-hated herself for it.
He would come today, and she must be ready. What would she say to him? How would he respond? The same questions that had denied her rest still flittered unanswered in a mind too exhausted to formulate answers, and she rubbed her temples in an attempt to ward off a headache.
It was no use. An ache had already formed, one not confined to her head.
The morning progressed, her thoughts never stilling, her stomach a ball of anxiety. She thought of him as the Gillinghams graciously took their leave, the subject of last night's debacle never crossing their lips as cordial good-byes were spoken. Even George's presence could not soothe her as she anxiously anticipated his call. Would he arrive before lunch? No-it was much more likely that he would appear in the afternoon, giving them time to discuss matters but affording him the opportunity to leave if a dinner invitation was not forthcoming. But luncheon was served, and there had still been no word.
Where was he?
By mid-afternoon, she was restless, angry, and more hurt than she cared to admit. There had been nothing, no call, no message, just a stubborn silence that made her feel empty. Had she pushed him further away than she realized when she turned away from him last night?
A sickening thud resounded in her abdomen.
"Excuse me, Lady Mary."
Thank God—a distraction.
"Yes, Mrs. Hughes. How can I help you?"
A piece of paper was extended in her direction.
"A message has just arrived for you, my lady. I was instructed to tell you it was of utmost importance."
A message. Finally.
It was from Charles—she was certain. The paper trembled slightly in her fingers as she accepted it, her cheeks warming at the contact. If only his words were accompanied by his presence.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."
She had to be outside when she read it, away from walls that listened and panels that watched. Feet swiftly carried her out the door around the property, until she stood underneath the tree that still bore a certain kite in its branches. She stared up at it, determined to ask Barrow to have the contraption extricated from captivity. It was sad to see it so hopelessly entangled, stuck in a labyrinth of branches when it was designed to soar weightlessly.
The wind read her thoughts, billowing her skirt in response as she clasped the message tightly to her chest. Her back found support against rough bark, and she nervously addressed the message she had awaited all day.
His script had already become fondly familiar, and his words blurred a moment before her pupils focused properly.
My dearest Mary,
Please know how sorry I am for the manner in which we parted last night. I accept full responsibility for the unfortunate events that occurred, and you most certainly have every right to be angry with me. I do hope, however, that we shall be able to speak again tomorrow if you will grant me an audience. I am away to London this afternoon to tie up some loose ends in hopes of making right what I can of this horrid situation.
I love you. That has not and will never change, regardless of any misunderstanding between us. I miss you terribly, and pray we can reach some common ground before I depart for America.
Always at your disposal,
Charles
Before I depart for America.
There it was—his plan, his blasted idea. She re-read the note, studying words, learning them by heart as a mixture of warmth and anger warred within her. He missed her—loved her, yet he was still planning to leave. To follow this path he had marked for himself in a misguided attempt to protect her honor.
That stubborn oaf of a man.
Did he not understand what the thought of him leaving did to her? How she would not rest for weeks, wondering if a misfortune of the worst sort had befallen him? Perhaps he did not read her quite as well as she thought he did. Surely he would not knowingly demonstrate such a complete disregard for her feelings?
She pushed herself away from the tree's support, turning to look back upon it as she haltingly caressed its surface.
I miss you, and I pray we can reach some common ground between us before I depart for America.
"So do I, Charles," she whispered into the breeze. She then pulled her arms protectively to her chest, stifling back a fear that no good would come of their impending conversation.
He stood staring at Downton, summoning a courage beyond him, praying silently for the wisdom he too often lacked. He sighed, clenching his fists as he looked towards the upper floor.
What was she doing? How had she responded to his note?
Would she even see him at all?
He stepped to the door, moving with a nervous determination, feeling rather like an awkward school boy calling upon a girl he admired from afar. He should have brought flowers, he suddenly mused, the thought striking him as both absurd and damning simultaneously.
Flowers wouldn't begin to touch the damage he had inflicted.
Barrow led him to the sitting room, and he stood in an uneasy silence staring at walls that now seemed impersonal. Yet here just nights ago they had confessed so much, secrets shared in shadows forging a bond more powerful than either had anticipated. Pieces of himself had become her own when she had held him weeping in her arms, his tears fragments of a soul willingly pressed into to her keeping. This bargain was sealed later with a stroke on his cheek and a trembling kiss, pushing him soundly past the point of no return with this woman who now claimed his heart.
He could not lose her.
Then she was there.
Her entrance was muted, yet her presence overwhelming, the scent of a favored perfume quietly summoning him closer. He obeyed without thought, moving in deeper without knowing the direction of the tide. Eyes met, bodies stood immobile. They stared at each other, so much stirring, yet so much uncertain.
"Thank you for seeing me."
The timbre of his voice stroked her vertebrae from across the room.
"I expected you yesterday."
His face flushed, his hands suddenly restless.
"I wanted to see you sooner."
Her brows knit together tightly.
"Then why didn't you come?"
He noted the shake in her hands, the fluttering of eyelids as she licked her lips nervously.
"I was advised that it might be prudent to give you a bit of time and space."
She stepped towards him shaking her head.
"My father's attempt at wisdom, I daresay," she huffed, dropping her arms to her side.
"No. It was Tom, actually."
The surprise was evident on her face.
"Tom?"
"Yes. We spoke just before I left last night," he offered, daring a step nearer. "He told me that a bit of time might provide both of us with some clarity."
Her eyes dropped momentarily to the floor before reclaiming his own.
"Do you feel the need to distance yourself from me?"
He moved forward, taking her hand gently.
"No. But you might need some distance from me."
She couldn't deny it, her heart squeezing painfully as her mind tried to reason.
"You're really going, aren't you? To America?"
There was a measure of calm in her voice that scared him.
"I think it is our wisest course of action."
She swallowed through the constriction in her throat, forcing her chin not to wobble.
"And if I can't accept that?"
Her whispered question nearly broke him, and he drew her palm to his lips. She leaned into him, closing her eyes, needing more of him than was decidedly prudent.
"It won't be for long. I assure you."
Her head shook, denying his rationale as emotion pushed in.
"That's not what I meant, Charles."
Dark eyes searched each other, and she nearly faltered when his thumb caressed her cheekbone.
"What is it, then?"
Moisture suddenly pooled in her eyes, and she broke free of him, turning quickly in an attempt to wipe away evidence of her weakness.
"It's just that…"
Her voice broke, then his hands were on her shoulders, holding her steady even as she wanted to flee.
"What if something happens?"
He turned her slowly to face him, the concern in his expression too much for her.
"If you're pregnant, you mean? Because if there are any indications that your are—"
"No," she shot back, already tired of this line of conversation. "This is not about whether or not there is a baby."
Her breathing quickened, the sudden concern that a child might be of more importance to him than she leaving her cold.
"Besides, you needn't worry about that possibility anymore."
She moved away from him, unwilling to risk the possibility of disappointment in his eyes.
"I don't understand," he began, ravaging his hair. "I thought you said it would be weeks before—"
"These things aren't always predictable, you know," she shot back, ire pooling within her at a rapid rate. "It's not as if a woman's schedule is set in stone."
His shoulders fell noticeably.
"Yes. I do know that."
She cringed at the impact of her words.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"
"It's alright, Mary."
But she knew that it wasn't. He tried to smile, but his eyes were heavy, weighted down by a wound she had dealt.
"No. That was unfair of me."
His measured pause was painful.
"It's alright."
They stared in silence, bleeding openly, each needing something intangible just out of the other's grasp. She had to distance herself from him, to give herself a modicum of sanity.
And she knew then quite suddenly what must be done.
"Perhaps you should go. We seem to be doing nothing but hurting each other at the moment."
The words left her numbly, her eyes staring into nothing as she gave them voice.
"Look, Mary, I—"
"No. Really, Charles. You're right. Some time and distance just might be the answer. It may be our only answer, actually."
Hands bound themselves to mask their trembling.
"We obviously have hit a wall of some sort, and continually beating our heads against it is doing neither of us any good."
She swallowed back a tear, wrapping herself protectively in the deception of her own words.
"Only if you know it's temporary, and that I shall be back."
His voice bore a trace of desperation.
She finally faced him again, her mask revealing nothing as she nodded in response.
"I know you will."
It was all she could offer. To give him more would leave her exposed.
He was before her then, claiming her shoulders, demanding her eyes, pleading for understanding in the hushed reverence of simple words.
"I do love you, Mary. Don't forget that, please."
God, this man. How had she given him such power over her emotions?
She couldn't contain herself, kissing him softly even though she knew the danger in such an action. He pulled her against his chest, deepening the kiss as they clasped each other with desperate hands and fractured spirits. Her body shook when they parted, his face drained of all its color.
How utterly hopeless it all now seemed.
"Good-bye, Mary."
She shut her eyes.
"Good-bye, Charles."
He turned to leave, somehow knowing it had to be done, despising each step his legs bore him away from her.
"Would you stay?"
Her blurted question surprised herself as much as it did him, both freezing as words from her past spilled from her lips.
"If I asked you to?"
His response was no more than a whisper.
"Are you asking me to stay, Mary?"
Her heart thudded relentlessly as her knees trembled.
"No."
She felt a piece of herself wither.
How she watched him leave without crying out, she was uncertain, wiping a lone tear only when he was lost to her vision. She sat without thinking, her body numb, her mind heavy with self-reproach.
To doubt her actions now was useless, she knew, but doubts lingered all the same. She considered going after him, asking him to reconsider. But why should he listen when she had so coldly ushered him from her life?
She shook her head at her own folly, despising herself for lying to him twice. For no matter what she had claimed, she did not think that his leaving was a good idea.
And her courses had not yet started.
So...what do you think?