I honestly had no idea what reactions to expect after posting Ch 30, but you all just blew me away. Thank you so much for all of the amazing reviews and kind messages. They really mean even more after writing such an emotionally draining chapter. And as promised, here is the next installment in one week rather than two. :) I'm so glad I was able to get it completed and look forward to your thoughts on it, as well.
It was so good to have my dear sister La Donna Ingenua back on board for her eagle-eye editing and thought-provoking questions. Life happens to all of us, but I have missed you in this process and am thrilled to have your feedback once again. And to my precious friends Cls2011 and miscreant rose, thank you for talks, rants, ideas, read-through after read-through...everything, basically. I love you guys!
Own nothing...wish I did. And I do hope you enjoy!
Ch 31
She stirred, feeling his chest rise and fall under her cheek, his scent filling her lungs, his arms sheltering her back. She pushed herself slightly from his ribs, staring into a face she has seen in sleep only once.
How relaxed the lines around his eyes, how boyish the slight crook in his cheek. Her heart winced as all that has happened rushed back in a contorted tidal wave, pressure building behind her cheekbones as emotion pressed against her eyes. Would their baby have looked like him, she wondered, adorned with a head full of unruly brown hair and dimples that would never cease to melt her? She folded her face into his shoulder, nuzzling in, absorbing the simple comfort that his presence brought, pushing away the notion that the two of them wouldn't be able to stay like this at Crawley House indefinitely.
He was here. With her.
For now, that was enough.
He later shifted and sensed her alertness, pressing her in closer as strong arms held her tight. His strokes along her hair soothed more profoundly than they should, heavy hearts greedily drawing peace from the simplest of gestures.
"Charles," she murmured, disturbing the silence.
"Yes?" he responded, turning to her so he would miss nothing.
"What if.."
She hesitated, uncertain if she yet possessed the strength to voice what she feared. He moved his touch to her forehead, making her feel safe.
Making her feel loved.
"What if I am unable to give you another child?"
Her unease stared clearly back at him, the price of such a direct inquiry etched onto her expression.
"I thought Dr. Clarkson said that no lasting damage had been done?" he questioned softly, stroking the length of her arm.
"He did, but—"
She paused yet again, biting the edge of her lip.
"What if he's wrong?"
His breath brushed her shoulder, his gaze never faltering.
"Then it will be you, me and George. We'll be a family."
She detected no waver in his tone, no shift in his body position.
"And is that enough for you?"
His kiss on her cheek was tender, the raw emotion on his lips felt keenly.
"More than enough. And much more than I deserve."
Something was still bothering her, something that went beyond the pain of what was lost. He traced her cheek, beckoning eyes that stared at her hands towards his own.
"What is it, Mary?"
She swallowed, turning her face up to his, lacing her fingers into his hair.
"I should never have said what I did before you left. About there being no baby."
The tremor that crawled up her limbs pressed against his own, and he held her closer, bringing her directly to his body.
"And I should have never put you in such an impossible situation," he responded, feeling her entire frame fall into him. "Please don't blame yourself for this."
"You don't think that this is some sort of punishment, do you?" she voiced, ashamed at her own suspicions yet powerless to stop them. "For lying to you as I did?"
"God, no," he exclaimed, sitting up a bit taller. "Don't even allow yourself to think such a thing."
She hung her head, wanting desperately to believe him while she wondered if he blamed himself. Other thoughts began to stack themselves on top of each other, ones that needed a voice held silent for too long.
"Sometimes it's difficult not to," she began, looking at him directly. "To wonder."
It was his spine that shuddered this time, his own past nudging his sense of unease.
"That's not how things work, Mary. There are just some things in this life that defy explanation," he put forth, convincing himself as much as he was attempting to allay her misgivings. "If we try to assign blame where none is merited, we just end up hurting ourselves even more."
She exhaled audibly, fingers stroking his chest.
"You're probably right," she mused, still uncertain of her own convictions.
"I hope that I am," he agreed, squeezing her shoulder.
"Conceiving George wasn't easy for Matthew me and. Not at first."
He nodded, understanding this frustration and touched by her willingness to share such details from a life still held close.
"Rashmi and I had difficulties, as well."
She caressed his cheek, her brow creasing slightly.
"I know. I remember you telling me."
How long ago that evening of revelation now seemed. He rubbed her back, the gesture seeming to settle her further.
"I had to have a surgery, you see," she offered, her voice barely above a whisper. She noted the first lines of surprise crease his face, his expression rather akin to what Matthew's had been when he had first learned of that detail. "A procedure to repair a blockage of sorts."
It was impossible to look at him after the words left her mouth. Talking about her body in such a mechanical fashion made her skin squirm uncomfortably.
"To conceive a baby, you mean?" he asked, the thought never having occurred to him.
Her nod was answer enough, and he wondered why she would not meet his eye.
"That is nothing to be ashamed of, Mary," he assured her, tilting her chin so she was caught in his gaze. "How wonderful that the problem could be fixed and you were able to give birth to George."
"Yes," she breathed, laying her head back down on his chest. "I just worry that…"
"Shhh," he insisted, lacing his fingers through his own. "There's no need to worry about the unknown, Mary. Things will work themselves out at the right time. You'll see."
How she hoped he was right.
She remembered the moment she first suspected, the anxiety she carried for weeks as she awaited a final verdict, praying it would be in her favor, frightened it would be another false alarm. How quickly the fear of surgery and the embarrassment of discovery had fled when Dr. Clarkson confirmed what she had hoped. Matthew's expression when she told him was one she memorized and pressed into her soul, a near match for the smile he had worn when he met and held his son.
A moment that was now and forever her own.
A hope then quietly stirred, one that she might see another face alight with that same joy, that brown eyes would one day shine in anticipation rather than crease in pain. How odd that the very thing she had dreaded for weeks was now something she desired and hoped would come to pass.
And the very thing she had lost.
It was then she realized something fundamental had shifted, her line of thought now traipsing down a road she had been reluctant to travel. She was thinking of them as a unit: She, Charles and George. And he had shown no shock as they discussed the future and the past, had even reassured her that she and George were all the family he needed if another baby never came along.
A family. The three of them. How such an abrupt change had occurred nearly undetected, she could not say. But it had.
And to her astonishment, she feared it no more.
He slipped into the hallway, allowing her some time with her mother, needing to make arrangements of his own. He paused by the door and shut his eyes, his hand resting on the door frame, his soul to the point of cracking. Knees nearly gave out, a heart stretched to the point of physical pain thudding insistently, a mind overwhelmed by the changes in his life over the past few hours racing to both grasp hold of reality and process new grief.
They had spoken to each other as if they were already a family, discussing George, the possibility of other children, the reality that such children might never exist. His chest caved in, breaths emerging heavily from his lungs as he willed his feet to move down the hall.
It hurt. God, it just hurt everywhere.
It was then he realized he was no longer alone. Isobel Crawley was there, standing near the stairs.
"How is she?"
Concerned eyes stared back at him, coercing his shoulders to relax a bit.
"She's getting there," he answered, rubbing the back of his neck. "She actually asked for something to eat. I thought that was a good sign."
"It's a very good sign," Isobel agreed, nodding several times. "I'll order up some soup for her, something warming and easy to digest."
"That sounds perfect," he responded, offering her what he could assemble of a smile. "Thank you."
She stared back at this man, father of Mary's child just lost, most likely the only father her grandson would ever know.
"There will be more than enough for you, as well, Mr. Blake."
The magnitude of her gesture echoed in the stairwell, nearly stilling his blood.
"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Crawley," he finally uttered, shaking his head slightly. "But please, call me Charles."
"Charles," she nodded, looking towards Mary's room. "And you must call me Isobel."
"Very well," he returned, a rising admiration for her filling his chest. "And I shall accept your offer after I return from securing a room."
Her genuine confusion gave him pause.
"There is no need for that, Charles."
"Yes there is," he insisted, running his hand over his scalp. "I will not return to Rufforth Hall while she's like this. I intend to be as close as possible in case Mary needs me."
His chest then collapsed, the brokenness in his eyes difficult for her to take in.
"I left her once. I won't make the same mistake again."
For a moment, neither could speak.
"I believe you misunderstand me, Charles," Isobel began, clearing her throat. "What I meant to say is that there is no need for you to secure a room in town when I have a perfectly good room for you here."
He looked at her directly, attempting to process what has just been spoken.
"Here? At Crawley House? But I thought Mary was settled in the guest room"
Her eyes faltered, her swallowing forced. Yet she took a step forward, deliberately brightening her gaze as her breath shook.
"It is Matthew's old room I offer," she managed, the words scraping the side of her throat. "It's sitting in disuse, and he would want you to…"
She sniffed, blinking rapidly as she garnered the courage to continue.
"He would want Mary to be well looked after."
That's when he could look past her no longer.
"Thank you, Mrs. Crawley," he uttered, shaking his head in amazement. "I don't know what to say."
"Just say yes," she stated softly, reaching forward to squeeze his arm.
First contact was made between them as he attempted to give her an answer. He fell apart instead.
It all poured out of him, everything that had been held back pushing past boundaries no stronger than a castle of sand. He was guided into a nearby room, seated upon a soft surface as the hands of a mother rested on his back.
How long they sat together he could not say, but she did not move until his last tear was spent, standing only when she seemed certain that the worst of it had passed. She murmured something to someone outside of his eyesight, the sound of her step alerting him of her return as he attempted to gain control.
"I've sent for some tea," she explained, taking a seat across from him. "I thought it might help."
"Thank you," he managed, his eyes suddenly tired. "You are very kind."
He swallowed past the thickness in his throat, wiping his cheek with his bare hand as his other searched his pocket for a handkerchief.
His handkerchief.
"This is how we met, you know," he began, looking into a past still recent. "I accidentally entered her berth on the train, thinking it was empty. But she was bending over, looking for a handkerchief. I gave her mine."
He toyed with the slip of cloth in his hand.
"Was this on George's birthday?" she queried, pressing her lips more tightly than usual. "When Mary took him to London?"
"Yes. It was."
She looked at him directly.
"You love her, don't you?"
It was a statement, not a question, but she awaited his confirmation just the same.
"More than I can say," he answered, rubbing his chin.
"I'm so glad," she returned, her smile quivering slightly. "Mary deserves to be happy again."
Guilt pressed his eyes to the floor.
"And look what I've brought to her life," he stated, the self-reproach heavy in his voice. "More heartache, even after I promised to protect her."
"You're only human, you realize," Isobel asserted, sitting up taller. "There's only so much we can control in this life, and the rest we simply must learn to accept and overcome."
He pressed his eyes shut, allowing her words to enter and take root.
"But the fact remains that I should never have gone to America," he clarified, directing his gaze back to her. "Perhaps if I hadn't…"
"Forgive me, Charles," she interrupted, "But a miscarriage is not something you could have prevented even had you been here. You and Mary would have still lost this baby, and your grief would be just as profound."
His shoulders collapsed as all defiance left him.
"Focus on helping her heal rather than directing needless blame at yourself," Isobel continued, looking up as the tea service was brought into the room. "It will be much more beneficial for you both, I assure you."
She poured him a cup that he readily accepted. The steaming brew soothed its way down his throat, and he leaned back in his seat, allowing his body to relax.
"I suppose Mary will want to return to Downton tomorrow," he ventured, taking another sip. "I know how much she misses George."
Isobel could not help but smile at the mention of her grandson.
"I'm certain she does, just as he must be missing his mother."
There was a pause, one whose meaning was evident as they stared at each other intently.
"You will take care of him?" she put forth, feeling something loosen in her rib cage as a genuine smile crossed his face. "George, I mean."
"Just as if he were my own," he stated without hesitation, his tone clear and direct.
A nod was all she could muster, her show of trust more than he ever imagined. And within the walls of this newly-forged understanding, they quietly finished their tea.
Walking into Downton had rarely felt so strange.
She held no memory of doing so when she returned from the hospital with George, those first days and nights such a blur that only selected images retained clarity while most blurred into a backdrop of blacks and grays. But everything was sharp today, the mood solemn, the atmosphere uneasy as she stepped within the enclosure of her home.
Thank God she had Charles holding her steady.
Her mother had honored her request, ensuring them an entrance without fanfare. Attempting to swim against the tide of ceremony was simply too much to consider, the mere thought of having a bevy of eyes on her back truly sickening.
The entire staff would have been informed of what had transpired, a fact which both soothed and disturbed her. It was necessary that there be no questions asked about what hurt too much to voice. Talking was the very last thing she wanted to do. In all honestly, she had longed for Charles to take her straight to Rufforth Hall where she could rest without judgment and simply exist without explanation.
But George was here at Downton. And right now, she needed her son.
"Are you alright?" he questioned softly, scanning the perimeter to make certain they were undisturbed.
"Just a bit tired," she admitted, looking to him as he nodded.
"We should get you to bed, then," he reasoned, squeezing her hand slightly. "The rest will do you good."
"That's all I've done for the past two days," she replied, stopping to stare with new eyes upon a place she had lived all her life.
No one. There was no one standing nearby to meet them. Her mother's absence was not surprising, Cora having volunteered to personally check in on Lady Catherine so Charles could accompany Mary back to Downton. But the fact that her father was missing was akin to a slap on the face. Robert had been well-versed in the tragedy that had befallen her, yet there had been no visit, no note, and now no reception.
The disappointment gnawed at her insides.
Of course, they had barely spoken to each other since that horrid evening months ago, conversation always kept to a minimum and manners practiced with forced civility. She blamed him, actually, for placing their backs against a wall and pushing Charles out the door. And the way he looked at her now, as if she were somehow less than she had been before…
"Welcome home, my lady."
Tears pricked instantly against the edges of her lashes, a rich baritone voice summoning her attention as it covered her pain.
"Carson," she managed, dropping her eyes.
"Will you please allow me to express just how sorry I am," the butler stated, each word pressing into her. "How sorry we all are. For both of you."
She felt Charles's arm quiver slightly, sensed his intake of breath.
"Thank you, Carson," he voiced, meeting the man eye to eye. "This has not been easy for either of us."
She finally drew her gaze to the older man's face, his expression nearly breaking her.
"Of that, I have no doubt," Carson replied.
She prayed for the strength to get through this.
"If you will allow me, my lady," he continued calmly, moving to her opposite side and taking her free arm. Her feet followed their lead as the two men bore her up steps and in the direction of her bedroom.
"Wait," she insisted quietly, stopping mid-stride. "I need to see George."
They paused, and she felt their eyes over her head.
"What if we get you settled, Mary, and then bring George to you?" Charles suggested, his brow knit tightly. "That way we can get you off of your feet before you wear yourself out."
"I can sit in the rocking chair well enough," she returned, making him smile at this first sign of spark. "Please," she continued, her words morphing into a plea. "I need to be with him now."
His nod spoke for him, as he looked to Carson with the signal to proceed. They made their way to the nursery, the urgency to feel her son's living form against her breast increasing with each step.
"I can walk in on my own strength," she stated when they reached the door. "And I think it will be better if George sees me that way. I don't want to frighten him."
His eyes showed his understanding, and he leaned back slightly.
"Are you certain you're up to it?"
"I'm fine," she insisted softly, raising a brow towards him in emphasis. "I'm fine."
Charles stood back as she opened the door. And there he was.
George reacted to his mother's presence immediately, tossing his arms and body in her direction as Nanny Thompson stood from the rocking chair. Mary moved to the seat just abandoned, taking him quickly, grasping him close.
Thank God. Thank God.
His babbling rolled over her like the lushest of melodies, the silken texture of his hair more precious than any jewelry she possessed. She breathed him in, absorbing every facet of his existence into emotions scraped raw. She couldn't stop kissing him, this son who reached up to trace the tears spilling down her cheeks.
How easily she could have lost him when he fell.
This was new-a pearly tooth beginning to emerge beneath pink gums. And the marks from his stitches were now more faded than she remembered. How had so much changed within a mere two days?
Her heart was to the point of bursting.
His was stretched to the point of pain.
He had to turn his face, moving to the side of the door frame as his chest shook. He inhaled roughly, muffling his grief into his arm as what had been lost hit him afresh. A firm hand then grasped his shoulder, and he turned to look directly into the face of Mr. Carson.
"Anna is waiting for Lady Mary in her bedroom," the butler explained softly. "I thought you would like to know."
His words sank in slowly, and Charles shook his head to clarify what wasn't making sense.
"What about Campbell?"
"When Anna heard what had happened, she asked for permission to attend Lady Mary until she came through the worst of it," Carson elaborated, his brow raising slightly. "Campbell agreed as she understood the painful nature of this situation. That's why there is an extra crib in the corner. Nanny Thompson has volunteered to watch over Marianne while Anna is looking after Lady Mary."
The corner of his mouth raised slightly as he shook his head.
"Of course, now that Mrs. Hughes has the girl, and I'm beginning to wonder if Nanny Thompson will ever get her back."
God—what to say?
He ravaged his hair as he attempted to process this news, pacing back and forth until it settled. There it was, the crib that had gone somehow unnoticed, staring back at him.
A crib that should have been prepared for another baby in a few months' time.
"Where is Lord Grantham?"
His question drew Carson's attention immediately, the butler's discomfort in answering evident.
"Not where he should be," Carson returned quietly as he stared meaningfully to the pair sitting in the nursery.
His fist flexed involuntarily.
"Would you kindly inform His Lordship that Lady Mary has arrived home safely?"
No attempt was made to disguise the sarcasm dripping from his lips.
"I shall do so, Mr. Blake," Carson returned. "With all due expediency."
"Thank you, Carson" he managed, watching the other man's eyes crease in recognition as he nodded his head slowly.
"Think nothing of it," Carson stated deliberately. "I shall leave her to your care, Mr. Blake. Tend to her well."
There was no question that he had just been issued a command.
"I shall," he returned, clearing his throat. "I refuse to let her down again."
A slow nod of acceptance preceding the butler's departure. Charles watched him go, his thoughts tugging him in a myriad of different directions, none of them down a path he particularly wanted to take.
"Cat!"
The summons grabbed his immediate attention.
He stepped quickly into the nursery, all frustration melting away at the eagerness staring back at him with rounded blue eyes. Their bearer squirmed out of his mother's lap, pudgy legs forging a direct line towards arms now extended. He scooped the boy up readily, relishing his weight and the mixed scents of warmth and powder.
"Hello, George," he exclaimed as the child grabbed his nose. "Look at how you've grown!"
Hair was mussed, noses pinched, sloppy kisses haphazardly dotted across his cheeks. A young squeal of delight instigated a laugh Charles felt all over. He then looked to her as George babbled on, feeling now what he saw shining in her eyes.
Hope—stirring within the embers. Even here, even now.
"Gook, gook," the boy cried, pointing to something on the floor with insistence.
"Book," Mary translated, noting Charles's confusion. "He wants you to read his book to him, the one you gave him about the Teddy Bear and the airplane. He insisted on it several times while you were away."
And he had feared the child might not remember him.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here," he stated, receiving a look from Mary he now knew well.
"We've already covered that, I believe," she whispered, somewhat mesmerized by the pair of them huddled so naturally together.
"So we have," he returned quietly. Enough said.
He set George down and watched him scamper to the object of his desire, moving to sit on the floor across from Mary. The child promptly crawled into his lap, handing him the story as he tapped the cover excitedly.
"Is this the right gook, George?" he asked with a grin, quickly wiping the corners of his eyes before clearing his throat.
"Bear," George responded, pointing to the creature in question.
"Yes, bear," Charles replied as he opened the cover, embellishing the story with sound effects and accenting it with occasional belly tickles that made George giggle. Mary watched them, unable to look away, unwilling to consider anything but the sight in front of her.
This was good. More than good, actually. This was right, what she wanted, what she needed to step forward. There was still so much uncertainty in what the future would hold, but there always would be.
She suddenly had so much to tell him, but doubted her lips could yet form the words. Instead she simply stared at him, watching him with her son, memorizing an image she wanted to keep with her the rest of her life.
And when his eyes finally captured her own, she knew he understood.
Slam.
The booming echo of the oak door reverberated through the room. He watched the Robert's head snap around in surprise, his every muscle and nerve on high alert.
"Who's there?" a shocked voice demanded.
He purposefully emerged from the shadows, the rage pulsing in his ears reaching a nearly deafening roar.
"Mr. Blake," Robert shot back derisively. "How dare you intrude upon my privacy in such a manner? Have you not taken enough liberties in this house already?"
He inhaled deeply, reigning in his anger.
"Lady Mary is in her bedroom resting. But I think you're already aware of that, Lord Grantham."
"Yes. Of course, I'm aware," Robert returned defensively, straightening his spine. "I do like to keep apprised of important happenings within my own home."
The hurled accusation landed squarely at his feet.
"Your daughter," Charles persisted undeterred, "is upstairs in her bedroom, recovering from a miscarriage."
"I know very well what has befallen Mary, Mr. Blake," Robert spat, now nearly toe-to-toe with the man. "I don't need you to inform me of the status of my own family members."
"Someone evidently needs to!" Charles shot back, the veins in his temple beginning to throb. "Because any father worth his salt would have at least checked on her well-being at some point this afternoon."
"Do not question my skills as a father!" Robert shouted, leaning in closer. "You of all people have no right."
He bit back the retort he wanted to fire, drawing measured breaths, quelling the overpowering urge to hit Robert Crawley square on the jaw.
"I of all people shouldn't have to, Lord Grantham," he returned, the edge in his tone cutting sharply. "But someone needs to tell you that you are behaving like a complete ass."
Robert snatched his lapels harshly, and Charles fought the urge to shove back hard.
"If it weren't for the fact that for some reason my daughter loves you, I would have you thrown out on the street and banished from this house forever!"
"And if it weren't for the fact that your daughter loves you, I would never dare to speak to you as I am doing right now." Their stare held firm as Robert slowly backed away.
"You—," the earl attempted, shoving his finger as close to Charles's nose as he dared. "You have no right to speak to me of my daughter's feelings."
He squared his shoulders, eyeing the man without blinking.
"Mary needs you right now, Lord Grantham. She has been hurt by this more than you know."
"How dare you presume to tell me what I do and do not know?" Robert returned quickly, turning his face to the window. "Her mother and I went through the same experience years ago."
"Then why are you locked away in your library rather than upstairs offering Mary your support?" Charles questioned incredulously.
"Because this situation should have never existed in the first place!" Robert asserted, landing a blow Charles felt physically. He paused, flexing his fingers, attempting to draw an even breath.
"This situation was a child that would have been your grandson or granddaughter," Charles fought back, his voice rising measurably. "My child. Mary's child, for God's sake!"
The earl froze momentarily, swallowing audibly as his eyes and voice narrowed.
"Which makes this entire tragedy your fault, doesn't it, Blake? You brought this pain upon Mary—you, and no one else."
His gut cinched at the accusation.
"Mary and I created that baby," he began, breathing rapidly to overcome the sharp sting in his chest. "Yes. I readily admit to that fact. Our actions that night may not have been the wisest, but they do not warrant her being treated no better than a fallen woman in her own home nor the child we lost referred to as a mere unfortunate situation."
"I am not treating her in any such manner," Robert defended. "But I cannot condone what she did and how she subsequently behaved when confronted about her indiscretion."
"Her indiscretion?" Charles fought back, pacing in frustration. "Mary is a grown woman, a mother, a widow. She neither deserves to be called out for her decisions nor requires your approval." He halted, gazing at Robert directly. "But she loves you, and she is in desperate need of your support at this moment."
Robert shook his head slightly, taking one step in Blake's direction.
"Regardless of what you may or may not believe, Mr. Blake, I love my daughter very much."
His hands trembled with the urge to shake the older man.
"Then forgive me, Lord Grantham, but you're a fool."
The earl stared back at him in shock.
"What in God's name do you mean by that?"
Charles stood motionless, swallowing past the tightness in his throat, the clock's rhythmic ticking unnaturally loud in the ensuing silence.
"You've lost one daughter. So have I."
He paused as all color drained from the earl's face, his mouth suddenly parched.
"You've lost another child, one denied the right of birth," he continued, daring a step forward, his pulse drumming incessantly. "So have I."
He faced Robert directly, standing so close he could almost feel the perspiration forming on the man's forehead.
"Yet you stand here pushing a living child away, even though she craves your attention."
He watched a small crack form in Lord Grantham's expression, noting a slight tremor in the older man's cheek as he shook his head in disbelief.
"That, sir, makes you a fool in my book."
He then turned on his heels and made his way to the exit, shutting the door behind him in disgust without ever looking back.
I must tell you that my son's first word was "gook". The first time we took him into a Barnes and Noble bookstore, his eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he began to point and exclaim, "Gook. Gook. Gook-gook-gook-gook..." He couldn't get over all of the books surrounding him! Now he's reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Harry Potter and Goosebumps. How quickly time does get away from us.
Two installments left, my dear companions. I truly doubt I'll have the next chapter up in one week, but watch out-I might post on an odd day to get you a chapter before Christmas. :) And, as always, I would cherish your thoughts! Have a most wonderful weekend, everyone!