Trigger warning: In the opening section of this chapter, Mary relives the details of her assault by Pamuk. If you want to avoid that, skip to after the page break.
March 1913
Shame boiled through Mary, shame and a growing sense of her life spiralling out of her control, of the comfortable future she'd always imagined would be hers disappearing into a deep, dark, black hole.
She felt like she was grasping at the threads of her sanity as she tried to focus on simply putting one foot in front of the other on a deserted back road on the Downton estate, trying to block out everything else.
This morning, every inch of the Abbey seemed to have people in it, muttering about the sudden and shocking demise of an apparently healthy and vital young man. How awful, they whispered. So young, so handsome. He had his whole life ahead of him. It was too cruel. Taken too young. Terrible business.
The whispers built to a crescendo, a cacophony of voices battering mercilessly at Mary until she wanted to scream at them all to shut up, shut up, shut up!
And so, she'd hurried from the house to escape it all. To get away from the aftermath, the atmosphere, the suffocatingly heavy twin weights of her mother's disapproval and disappointment, the searing sense of having brought irrevocable shame on herself and her family.
She'd hoped a walk in the fresh air would help distract her, take her mind off everything that had happened, but she couldn't stop thinking, thinking, thinking. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop her mind scrolling through the sequence of events as they happened last night.
First, Kemal Pamuk's shocking appearance in her room, his assertion that she wanted it too, that she'd led him on. His threats and his confident statement that even if she screamed, no-one would believe she hadn't invited him there. All that would happen, he'd said, was that the hall boy would know her shame, and then so too would everyone else, every single person in the house, from the very top to the very bottom. She would be ruined.
But it didn't have to be like that if she just let him have his way with her. And then he was pressing her onto her bed, climbing heavy and insistent on top of her, pinning her down, trapping her slight frame under his muscular bulk.
She remembered the pulsating feeling of panic as he'd overwhelmed her, the stomach-clenching realisation that this was happening, that he was bigger and stronger than she was and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Next came her confusion at the surprisingly heady feel of his lips, first pressing against hers, his tongue pushing rudely into her mouth, and then his wet-lipped mouth trailing down her neck, unexpectedly awakening interesting and tantalising sensations in sensitive skin. Then the nascent feelings of excitement liberally laced with fear as, despite her protests, he'd pulled up her nightgown, his knee forcefully pushing her legs apart. And then he'd touched her in places no-one had ever touched her before, playing with her, fondling her, caressing her.
She remembered him taking her hand and putting it on the thing between his legs, surprisingly and shockingly tumescent, the skin soft like velvet yet the whole thing hard like iron, confusingly paradoxical sensations assailing her when he'd wrapped her fingers around it, putting his hand over hers, making her tug it.
She remembered the terrifying yet strangely exhilarating moment he'd breached her, pushing thickly inside her, his large member stretching her body in an unaccustomed way.
She remembered the initial pain and discomfort followed most unexpectedly by burgeoning feelings of desire as he'd thrust in and out of her, his thumb rubbing at that particular spot between her legs that gave her pleasure, stoking an unexpected bright fire within her.
He'd talked as he did these things to her, telling her she needed to be wetter, but she still felt marvellous, nice and tight around him just as he liked it. Telling her that he would pull out before he finished. Telling her that if she was a good girl and she pleased him, he would make sure she did something he called come before he was done with her. Most of the things he said, she didn't understand.
And then that dreadful moment when he'd grunted, flooding her with some kind of hot liquid. And then, even worse, he'd toppled forward, flopping heavily on top of her, crushing her, his eyes wide, his words gone.
And finally, the horrifying realisation that with his empty, staring eyes and his very still chest, he was dead. Quite, quite dead.
In her bed.
In her.
Mary stumbled a few yards off the road and threw up, emptying the meagre contents of her stomach, then continuing to retch.
Tom glanced briefly at the map he was holding across the steering wheel, checking he was where he thought he was, and then he looked up again.
A flash of colour coming up on the left side of the road caught his eye.
There. A solid block of burgundy against the green and brown.
He could see now it was a woman, standing at the edge of the trees, her back to him, and it appeared she was in some distress. Out of habit, he checked the rear-view mirror, despite being sure there wasn't another car in sight, and then he pulled up on the side of the road, getting out of the motor and rounding the bonnet.
'Are you all right, miss? Do you need help?' he called from the road, not wishing to frighten her. He saw her spine stiffen and she cast a panicked glance back over her shoulder before she spun forward and retched again.
That glance was enough for him to recognise her as the eldest daughter of Lord Grantham, his employer of just over a week. Tom paused for a second, knowing Lady Mary would be mortified that he should see her like this, but quite clearly, she was unwell, and he couldn't leave her alone.
'It's all right, milady,' he called again, aiming to reassure her. 'It's only Branson, the new chauffeur. I can help you get home.'
She straightened up, wiping her mouth with her gloved hand, then she took a deep breath and turned to face him. Tom was shocked by how pale she was, whiter than a saucer of milk. She took two or three shaky steps towards him then her eyes rolled up, her knees buckled, and she folded gracefully to the wet, mulchy ground as if an unseen puppet master had suddenly and viciously cut her strings.
'Oh, bloody hell!' Tom blurted out then ran forward over the dewy grass to get to her side. 'Lady Mary!'
When he reached her, he was instantly grateful that, one, she was still breathing, two, she didn't appear to have banged her head when she fell and, three, she hadn't landed in her little pile of sick. But, on the minus side, she was still unconscious.
He crouched beside her, also avoiding the vomit, and patted gently at her pale, clammy cheek. 'Milady, milady. Wake up, milady.'
Her eyelids fluttered and she groaned a little.
'You fainted, milady. I'm going to carry you to the car.'
He got one arm around her back and one behind her knees and hoisted her up to his chest, getting awkwardly to his feet. He set off, hoping the uneven ground wouldn't trip him up. Thankfully, although she was tall, Lady Mary weighed barely anything, and he got her back to the car without too much trouble.
She stirred against him just as he was approaching the side passenger door and wondering how he could open it with her in his arms.
'What's happening?' she muttered, confused. Her head lolled against his shoulder, then she looked up at him in panic. 'Who are you? Put me down! Put me down at once!'
'It's Branson, your father's new chauffeur, milady,' he said gently, keeping his voice calm, non-threatening like he would with a skittish horse. 'You fainted in the woods.'
He reached the car and set her gently down on her feet, stepping away far enough for her to feel safe but not far enough that he couldn't leap forward and catch her if she fainted again.
'Branson,' she murmured, eyeing his livery and nodding slightly to herself. 'Yes, of course. Do forgive me. I'm afraid I'm not quite feeling myself today.'
'I think you should probably sit down before you fall down again, milady,' Tom said, still concerned by the deathly pallor of her skin, the sweat on her brow and upper lip. Quite clearly, she was unwell. He opened the rear door and held his arm out to her. 'I'll take you home.'
Her fingers curled tightly on his arm, digging in, and she looked at him in panic.
'No! Don't take me home! Please! I don't want to go home. Not yet.'
'But you're not well, milady,' Tom said, surprised by her reaction.
'No, please don't take me back to Downton! Please!' she begged him, seeming to forget she was the one who gave the orders.
Tom hesitated, unsure what to do. 'Is there somewhere else you'd like me to take you?'
Lady Mary sagged against the car, looking like the only thing holding her upright was the corsetry she was no doubt wearing, and he took a concerned step closer.
'I rather think I need to sit down, Branson,' she said, weakly.
Tom moved quickly, helping her into the back seat of the car. He stood at the open door, watching her as she closed her eyes, her fingers curling tight around the edge of the seat, and took a series of deep breaths.
'My mouth tastes like something revolting crawled into it,' she said, wrinkling her nose. 'It's quite disgusting.'
'Oh, yes, you were sick in the woods before you fainted,' Tom told her, wondering whether she didn't remember that. 'I have a bottle of water in the boot if you'd like some.'
'A sip of water sounds like heaven, Branson, thank you.'
Tom retrieved the small stoneware bottle and passed it to her. Lady Mary popped the swing top lid open and took a swallow of the cool water, licking her lips and closing her eyes in relief. When she opened them, she looked straight at him.
'I'm so sorry, Branson. What a dreadful first impression I must be making on you.'
Tom smiled gently at her. 'Well, technically, it's a second impression, milady, so don't you worry yourself none about it. Are you feeling better?'
Her face fell, panic edging into her eyes again, puzzling Tom. 'Yes, thank you, although I believe I am still a little shaky.'
'You need a cup of hot, sweet tea. It's good for restoring the blood after a faint. My mother swears by it,' he said, hearing his mam's voice reciting that mantra in his head. 'I should take you home, so you can have one.'
'No!' Lady Mary cried out again. 'No, please! Don't take me home.'
Tom stared at her, perplexed by her insistence on not returning to the Abbey. 'Then is there somewhere else you would like me to take you? The Dower House perhaps?'
She shook her head firmly, not willing to submit herself to her grandmother's perceptive gaze, and he watched as she cast around in her mind for somewhere he could take her. Finally, she turned her gaze on him.
'I know this is highly unorthodox and very impertinent of me, but you have a cottage, don't you, Branson? Would you mind dreadfully taking me there and giving me a restorative cup of tea?'
Tom's mouth dropped open. 'You want me to... My cottage? You want me to take you to my cottage?'
She nodded, even as she looked as uncertain about it as he felt. 'If it's not too much of an imposition.'
'His lordship wouldn't like that,' Tom said carefully, seeing his new job going up in a puff of smoke if anyone found out he'd entertained his employer's unmarried, unchaperoned eldest daughter at his cottage.
'I don't intend to tell my father. Or anyone else for that matter,' she said, firmly. 'I know how inappropriate this is, believe me, but please, Branson. Just for a little while until I regain my equilibrium. I would be most grateful.'
Tom bit his lip, feeling caught between a rock and a hard place. 'All right,' he said, much against his better judgement.
Lady Mary slumped in relief against the upholstery of the back seat. 'Thank you. Thank you very much.'
