Chapter 6

Depression

Part 2

(A quick end to the nursery scene with Mary and Tom, with a bit of a guess at Mary's inner turmoil, as was recently hinted at for series 4. It seemed to fit here.)

Anna quietly stood in the doorway of the nursery until Mary acknowledged her.

"Anna." Mary's voice went flat, as if she knew the reason for the visit, while an irrational antagonism suddenly crept into the room.

"Sorry to interrupt," said the lady's maid. "I've sorted out some things for you to wear for dinner tonight, but I think you'll have to try them on first."

Mary winced, unable to bear the thought of sitting at any dining table that had a big hole where Matthew should be. Needing to aim her warring emotions somewhere, she shrugged and spoke to Tom, but suddenly without the friendliness of their recent conversation. "It is difficult to know exactly how things will fit so soon after delivering the baby. We hadn't exactly anticipated a post-partum mourning wardrobe."

Uncomfortable with her flippant remark, Tom just nodded knowingly at her.

To her maid, Mary said, "I'm not very hungry. I think I'll pass on dinner."

She turned away, dismissively, but Anna tentatively stepped forward and gently tried to prod her lady. "You should try to eat something."

"Then send something up." It was sharper than Mary had intended, and Tom squirmed at the dramatic change in atmosphere as Anna gave a deferential bow.

"Well, you must be tired," Tom said. "I should clean up for dinner myself. Excuse me." He patted Mary's arm, gave a small apologetic nod to Anna, and started for the door.

"Tom?" Mary stopped him. A wave of remorse and sadness consumed her. She regretted the way she had spoken, and didn't seem to know exactly how to continue with either of them. The last people she should be angry with were Tom and Anna, the closest thing to friends she had left in the world. She suddenly had trouble meeting Tom's eyes. She looked away and into the crib that held her sleeping son.

"Yes?" Tom asked. "Is there something I can do?"

"No." Mary exhaled sharply. "I'm not sure, actually. Nevermind."

Tom turned once more to take his leave of her.

"Wait," she said, trying to smile and sound conversational again. "You're…so good with little Sybbie."

Tom shrugged and nodded. "She's my daughter. And all I have left of her mother." He looked pointedly at his sister-in-law. "Before they took Sybil away I made her a promise that I'd always look after our little girl; that I'd be both mother and father if I had to."

"Of course," said Mary, in that off-handed way of hers; the way that said there was much, much more left unsaid. Ghoulish. Her father's words drifted into her consciousness. I think it's ghoulish to call her after Sybil. How harsh they seemed at the time, but now she understood her father's pain and desire for distance. She wanted to ask how Tom could stand to utter Sybil's name, even with it attached to that darling little girl. How could he possibly find comfort in his daughter's resemblance to her mother? Her eyes quickly darted around the room, both noticing and avoiding Tom and Anna; and when they finally fell upon her son, tears began to flow.

Tom glanced at Anna, and realizing the maid could not appropriately step forward, especially with him in the room, spoke first, "I'm sorry. My yammerin's upset you."

"No," she said, trying to wipe her eyes and stand tall. "It's not that. It's just…I'm not so sure I could keep that promise. You look born to be a parent. Natural."

"I don't know about that," said Tom reassuringly. "It just sort of comes to you. Wait until things settle down."

"Yes," said Mary with a small shake of her head. "Of course." She waited for Tom's footfalls in the hall to fade before breaking down again.

"Can I do anything?" asked Anna.

"No," said Mary, trying again to compose herself. Lately, that seemed to be her primary objective. She almost instinctively said she'd be fine, but choked on the words. Would she ever be fine again?

Left with nothing to do, but waiting for Mary to speak, Anna folded the baby blanket and left it beside the ornate crib. She took a peek at the sleeping boy, and tried to open a safe conversation. "He's quite handsome. And Mr. Branson's right, you'll be a wonderful mother. You'll see."

The words were intended to bring friendly comfort, but had the opposite effect, as Mary only cried harder. She'd heard the same sentiment from Matthew, but then he'd always see things in her she wasn't positive were actually there—or perhaps they weren't until Matthew unearthed them. "I'm not so sure," she said, wanting to tell someone her deepest fear; the one that nagged her in the night and drew her back to this room and this child.

"Of course you will," said Anna. "Motherhood must be the strongest instinct of all. I saw you in hospital with him. You took to it right away."

"You don't understand," insisted Mary. "I keep wandering in here and holding him, but…"

"But, what?"

"Don't you see?" said Mary, gesturing to the crib. "It isn't there. I keep waiting for it, but I don't feel it. At least not the way I should. It was different in the hospital." Did she really have to say why?

Anna's heart broke for the young widow. She knew the long and rocky road Mary had taken to happiness with Matthew Crawley, but the maid knew a bit about delayed happiness herself. "Some things take time. It seems you'll never see light again, but look at Mr. Branson and baby Sybil, or what I went through with Mr. Bates—"

"You?" cried Mary. "You have your husband!" She knew she sounded bitter and hateful, but couldn't quell the envious outburst. She pointed at the baby, who stirred at her raised voice. "I want to love him. I want to be what everyone wants me to be, but I look at this child and all I see is Matthew, and he's never coming back! I'll never get a letter or go to visit him, or wait at the door for his joyous release. We were supposed to raise a family together. I didn't sign up for this!"

Shocked, Anna watched as Lady Mary Crawley ran from the nursery, the now wailing cries of baby George echoing after her.