Trigger warning: Mary mentions elements of her attack in this chapter.
Keeping one eye carefully on his unexpected guest, Tom filled the kettle and set it on the hob to boil. Lady Mary sat at his kitchen table, glancing around her. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth, then daintily wrinkled her nose as she saw and presumably smelt the smears of sick on her expensive gloves.
'Would you like to wash your face, milady?' he asked, turning around fully to face her. 'It might make you feel a bit fresher, a bit more human.'
Lady Mary looked up at him, then glanced at the kitchen sink, looking unsure.
'Oh, no, I have a pitcher and bowl you can use in my… in my bedroom,' he said, trailing off awkwardly as he realised too late how inappropriate that sounded.
She regarded him silently, then nodded. 'Actually, a chance to freshen up sounds wonderful if it's not too much of an inconvenience,' she said, gratefully.
Tom nodded, moving towards the door. 'I'll fetch the pitcher down and fill it with water, then you can attend to your needs in private.'
Mary watched him disappear, heard him run up the stairs and then back down them, reappearing with a pitcher in his hand. He filled the jug and turned to face her again.
'If you'd like to follow me, I'll show you where it is,' he said courteously, even though he was quite sure she would be able to find his bedroom with her eyes closed, so small was the cottage.
Mary rose to her feet and followed him up the stairs, every fibre of her being screaming at her that this was entirely and indisputably inappropriate. She was risking both her reputation - what was left of it - and his job should anyone discover her here in Branson's cottage, let alone his bedroom. She quelled the chastising inner voice that sounded suspiciously like her grandmother and watched silently as Branson placed the pitcher on a tall chest of drawers with a bowl and a neatly folded towel already on top of it.
'Well, I'll leave you to it,' he said awkwardly, squeezing past her and backing away. 'The towel is a fresh one. Just come back downstairs when you're ready and I'll have a cup of tea waiting for you.'
'Thank you. You're very kind.'
She watched as he closed the door behind him, then glanced curiously around his bedroom. About a quarter the size of her own bedroom, there wasn't much to it. A neatly made double bed with a brass bedframe. A bedside cabinet with a pile of books on it. A wardrobe. The chest of drawers with the bowl and pitcher on it.
Mary crossed to the chest of drawers, removing her hat and pulling her soiled gloves off. She dipped her hands into the cold water and splashed her face, going back to scoop up more water and scrub it over her face, again and again. She picked up the thin towel he'd left for her, the material much coarser than those she was used to, and dabbed the water away.
She caught sight of herself in Branson's shaving mirror beside the bowl and stared at herself.
'So that's what a ruined woman looks like,' she murmured, shame rising within her again, mixed with more than a little panic.
Unable to look at herself any longer, she turned her eyes instead to the framed photograph on the far side of the chest of drawers. Taken in a formal studio setting, it was of an older woman wearing what seemed to be her Sunday best clothes. She beamed at the camera, her smile and her eyes marking her as Branson's mother, she who swore by hot, sweet tea after a faint.
Mary stared at the picture and then felt her legs shaking. She stumbled back and sank onto the edge of Branson's bed as his mother looked down at her.
Mother.
Was it possible that she too could be a mother soon? And in the most shameful of circumstances.
She wrapped her arms around her midriff and curled in on herself, a loud sob escaping her.
Tom looked up at the ceiling as he heard what sounded unmistakeably like a sob coming from upstairs. Something was upsetting Lady Mary dreadfully, and although he barely knew her, he wanted to help her. He didn't like seeing a woman in distress.
He hesitated, wondering whether to go back upstairs and comfort her. It would be highly inadvisable for many reasons, he knew that, but the reason that gave him most pause was the fact that she was in his bedroom. It seemed inconceivable that he should go up there and offer her comfort in his bedroom.
The whistle of the kettle reaching boiling point saved him from making a decision that could get him sacked. He picked it up and poured the hot water into the teapot, ready and waiting with the tea leaves.
By the time he set the kettle back down, all was quiet again upstairs. Tom crossed to the dresser and took two cups and saucers down, setting them on the table, then he went to the tiny pantry and took out his precious twist of sugar, pouring it into the sugar bowl.
And then he took his tunic off, hung it on the back of a chair, sat down at the table and waited.
Lady Mary appeared only a few minutes later, her eyes red, a few damp spots on her coat, her hat clutched in her hand.
Tom stood as she entered the room. 'Would you like me to take your coat, milady?'
She looked down as if surprised to see she was still wearing it. 'Oh, no, that's quite all right, thank you.'
Tom pulled out the chair for her, and Mary sat down, grateful to be on a solid chair, feeling less like she might fall to the floor at any second again. She lay her hat on the table, fiddling self-consciously with the brim.
'Would you mind if I sat too?'
'Oh, yes, of course, please do, Branson. This is your home. I'm the intruder here,' Mary said, anxious not to make him feel any more awkward than he must already be feeling when he'd been so kind to her.
They sat in silence as Tom poured the tea, Mary accepting a single spoonful of sugar stirred into hers at his insistence that she needed it to restore her energy after her faint.
'You seem distressed, milady, if you don't mind me saying so,' Tom said tentatively after they'd both taken a sip of their tea. 'Is there anything I can do to help you?'
'Oh, no, no, you've already been exceptionally kind, Branson. I'm sure this is not how you expected your first week at Downton to go,' she said, taking another quick sip of her tea and glancing only briefly at him.
There was silence again, the seconds stretching painfully until Tom ventured to speak again. 'I've been told I'm a good listener, should you wish to talk, milady. I know you don't know me, but I don't gossip. Anything you say to me, I give you my word, I will keep it in the strictest confidence.'
She looked up at him, pressing her lips together, sudden tears filling her eyes. Tom looked at her in concern, unthinkingly reaching his hand across the table to her. To his surprise, she grasped it before he could pull it back, curling her fingers around his and squeezing tightly.
'I so want to believe that, Branson, because I think I might burst at any minute with everything that's swirling around inside me. But I can't tell anyone, not a single soul. What I've done, it's too… it's too shocking,' she said, her distress increasing by the second.
Tom squeezed her hand gently. 'I promise you, milady, I will not break your confidence if you wish to say what's upsetting you so. You'll find no judgment here.'
'You say that, but you don't know. You don't know what I've done,' she whispered, her agitation growing.
'It can't be that bad, surely,' Tom said reassuringly, unable to fathom what a young lady of quality could have done that would be shocking to someone like him.
'I killed a man!' she blurted out, then stared at him with wide, shocked eyes as if she herself couldn't believe what she'd said.
Tom stared back at her in disbelief, almost sure he could not have heard her correctly.
'Not deliberately! I swear it wasn't deliberate, but I killed him all the same, even if I don't know how,' Mary said in a rush, squeezing his hand tighter and tighter. 'And I've undoubtedly ruined myself into the bargain too! So, all in all, it's been the most awful, terrible night!'
'Last night?' Tom frowned, memories of the furore that morning up at the Abbey churning in his head. When he went up there for his breakfast, the staff had been in an uproar over the death of a young guest. 'Do you mean the Turkish gentleman Thomas found dead this morning?'
She withdrew her hand from his, wrapped her arms over her chest and nodded her head miserably, looking away from him.
'But Thomas found him in his bed. Why on earth do you think you killed him?' Tom asked, puzzled.
'Because that's not where he died! He didn't die in his bed! He died in mine!' she cried, the words tumbling out of her like she couldn't stop them.
Tom stared at her, his mouth dropping open.
'Yes, you see now, don't you, Branson? He was with me when it happened. We were… we were… and then he just… oh, God, I think I'm going to be sick again!' she cried, clapping her hands to her mouth.
Tom sprang to his feet and pulled her up, shoving her over to the sink just in time as she vomited again, nothing more than the mouthful of tea she'd just drunk. Absently, he rubbed her back, his mind full of what she'd just told him.
Her shoulders heaved as she began to sob, pulling in great, gulping breaths. Tom put his arm around her shoulders and turned her, pulling her against his chest, hugging her as he would have his female friends and relatives back home if they'd been upset. She tensed at first and then relaxed against him, curling her fingers into his waistcoat, burying her head in his shoulder, accepting the comfort he offered her.
When she got herself under control, she stood straight, moving back from him, awkward and embarrassed. Tom let go of her, very aware that they were in uncharted territory here. She wiped her eyes with her fingers and sat back down. Tom took a glass and filled it with cold water, setting it in front of her and then he sat down again.
'I'm sorry for your loss, milady. Had you known the gentleman for very long?' he said, gently.
She stared at him guiltily, her pale skin flooding with colour, her eyelashes spiky with tears. 'I barely knew him at all. I only met him yesterday. Isn't that shameful? He flirted with me all day and then he asked me to let him come to me last night. I said no, of course, but then he just appeared in my room when I was going to bed, and, and…'
Tom narrowed his eyes. 'He appeared in your room?'
'Yes, completely out of the blue. Just came barging in. I don't know how he even knew it was my room, but suddenly he was there and saying all these things, and I told him to go, but he wouldn't. He just said that no-one would believe that I hadn't invited him in. I said I'd scream but he said the hall boy would tell everyone that I had a man in my room, and I'd be ruined anyway, and then he, he…' Mary stopped talking, dropping her face in her hands.
'Milady, did he… touch you?' Tom asked delicately as a horrifying picture began to emerge from the words falling thick and fast from her lips.
Mary raised her face from her hands and nodded, flushing with shame. 'Yes. He pressed me down onto the bed, and he touched me. He touched me in my... my private places and then he… he… pushed himself… he pushed himself… he was… he… he took my maidenhead.'
Tom felt white hot anger flood through him at what that despicable excuse for a man had done to the woman in front of him. If the Turk weren't already dead, he would have had no compunction in taking him aside and beating him black and blue, gentleman or no gentleman. With an effort, he pushed away his anger and focused on the distraught young woman in front of him. He reached out and took her hand again.
'You mustn't blame yourself, milady. You did nothing wrong.'
She stared at him wildly, shaking her head. 'Have you not been listening to me, Branson? Of course, I did! And now I'm ruined!'
'No, it was not your fault. He's the one to blame, not you. He raped you,' he said as gently as he could.
Mary stilled, her eyes fixed on his. 'No,' she whispered. 'No. It was my fault. I didn't stop him. I should have stopped him, but I didn't.'
'He was bigger and taller than you. He was stronger than you. There was little you could have done to stop him. And that's what he did, milady,' Tom said, keeping his voice gentle. 'He forced himself upon you.'
She looked skywards, thinking about that, then dropped her eyes back to his, guilt all over her face. 'I don't think it can have been rape, Branson. Not when… when...'
'When what?' he asked softly, still holding her hand.
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them, facing him bravely. 'Parts of it, parts of what he did to me, I… I enjoyed it,' she whispered, her cheeks flaming. 'When he touched me between my… my legs... when he was thrusting inside me, I felt… I felt some pleasure. So, it can't have been rape, can it?'
Tom's heart went out to her, this woman who had so much but knew so little of the world.
'Did you consent to him coming to your room?'
'No.'
'Did you consent to him pushing you onto the bed?'
'No.'
'Did you consent to him touching you as he did?'
'No.'
'Then it was rape, milady. That bastard raped you as much as if he'd dragged you down a dark alley and forced himself upon you there,' Tom said firmly, belatedly following it up with 'if you'll pardon my language.'
She stared at him, turning that over in her mind. 'But… but what about the… the pleasure I felt?'
Tom gazed at her sympathetically, squeezing her hand again. 'You mustn't blame yourself for that either. If he touched you enough in the right places, your body would react to that stimulation. It's not something you can help. Sex between a man and woman – a consenting man and a consenting woman – it should be pleasurable. But it shouldn't happen like it did to you last night.'
Mary was silent for a few minutes, thinking about what he'd said. 'Can I ask you something, Branson? Something… delicate. I wouldn't, but I have no-one else I can ask.'
'Yes, all right then,' he said, half dreading what she was going to ask him.
She took a deep breath, pushing through her mortification. 'What happens when a man… when a man makes love? What happens physically I mean when he reaches the end of his… his excitement?'
Tom swallowed, feeling his cheeks warm. 'Well, er, have you… have you seen animals mating?'
'I've seen horses. I know the stallion's, er, appendage stiffens and then he mounts the mare and when he's finished his appendage is floppy again. But I don't know what makes it stiff or what makes it soften or what happens while it's inside her,' Mary said, her cheeks flaming bright red.
Tom considered his answer, battling his embarrassment with the need to help her understand more about what had happened to her. 'Um, well, it's the same with men. When we're, er, aroused, the blood rushes to our, um, appendage, and it stiffens, which is how we can make love, and then, well, when the friction gets too much and the excitement peaks, we… we ejaculate.'
'Ejaculate?'
'Yes. From our, um, appendage. It comes out of the hole at the end of it,' Tom said, fervently wishing he wasn't having to have this conversation. 'And after that, the pressure goes, and our appendage becomes soft again.'
She nodded her head like that made sense to her. 'And when you ejaculate, that's when your seed comes out? The thing that makes babies?'
'Yes,' he said, getting a horrible feeling about where this was going.
She chewed her lip, looking mortified but she ploughed on. 'And is it... is it an actual seed or is it something else? Like maybe a sort of liquid?'
Tom felt his heart go out to her again, trying so hard to battle through her embarrassment and ignorance to find out what she needed to know. 'It's a liquid,' he said, gently.
She snatched her hand from his, cramming both hands over her face, her breath coming fast and uneven. 'Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. Then I'm ruined. He's ruined me.'
'He ejaculated in you,' Tom said heavily, already turning things over in his mind.
'Yes, yes. He was… his thing was in me when he… he died and when I finally got out from underneath him and stood up, it ran down my thighs, a white substance,' she whispered, looking up at him, horror on her face. 'So, I could… I could have a baby then? Do you think I'm going to have a baby, Branson?'
'Well, it doesn't necessarily happen every time, but it's possible,' he said reluctantly, squashing down his horror at the thought of the bastard actually being inside her when he died and how traumatic that must have been for her.
'Oh, my God,' she mumbled despairingly, dropping her face back into her hands. 'He's ruined me. He's ruined me.'
Tom thought quickly. 'Maybe not. I might be able to help you, milady.'
She spread her fingers and peeked out at him. 'If you're about to offer to marry me, Branson, I hate to say this, but as noble as that is, I don't think it would lessen the scandal any.'
Despite the circumstances, Tom grinned, a small involuntary laugh escaping him. To his relief, she gave him a small smile too.
'No, that wasn't quite what I had in mind,' he said, as the tension eased slightly. 'I was going to say that back home in Ireland, my mother is a midwife.'
Mary put her hands down on the table, studying him keenly. 'Are you suggesting packing me off to Ireland to have the child in secret?'
Tom smiled at her, amused by the leap of logic she'd made. 'No, although I can't say you're not coming up with plenty of solutions yourself, milady. No, my mother, she's a good, God-fearing, Catholic woman, but in her profession, she's also a practical woman. Many women and girls in our neighbourhood, they come to her when they find themselves in a similar position to you, taken advantage of by a man of low character.'
'And what does she do for them?' Mary asked curiously, eager to know if there was a way out of her present predicament.
'Well, it depends when they come to her, but for the ones like you who may have only just fallen for a baby, she gives them a tea to stop the babe implanting in the womb,' Tom said, carefully.
'A tea?' Mary asked doubtfully, casting a look at her teacup.
'Yes, but it's not an ordinary tea. It's made up of plants and herbs that she steeps before they drink it.'
'And what does it do, this tea?'
'It makes the womb cramp and then bleed, expelling anything that may try to form a child,' Tom explained, quietly.
'Like my monthly courses, then,' Mary said, thoughtfully.
'Yes.'
She gazed at him, chewing on her lip. 'I don't suppose you know how to make this tea, do you, Branson?'
Tom nodded slowly. 'I do. As a boy, I used to help her gather her herbs. She's something of a healer, my mother, so she has plenty of uses for plants and herbs. I don't know anywhere near as much as she does, but I've seen her make this tea countless times over the years. As a child, I didn't know what it was for, but as an adult, well, I do.'
'And could you make it?' Mary asked, holding her breath.
'Yes. I'd need a few hours to gather the ingredients, and you'd have to drink it soon. She never gave it to women who'd conceived weeks before. Only those in the first few days after… well, you know.'
Mary stared at him, her unlikely saviour in dark green livery.
'You don't have to if you'd rather not,' he said uncertainly as her silence stretched.
She shook her head. 'No, I want to. I rather think I have no choice. In fact, I was just thinking how lucky I am that you found me today.'
'Well, it may not work. It's not guaranteed, but Mam always tries it with girls in your situation, so,' Tom said, shrugging, brushing awkwardly over her statement. 'And I'd be happy to make it for you rather than not do anything to try to help you.'
Mary continued to gaze at him then stretched her hand across the table, taking his once again. 'Thank you, Branson. You have been most kind to me on a day when I thought I did not deserve kindness.'
'I think today you deserve kindness more than anybody else, milady. After what that… that creature did to you,' Tom answered, vehemently.
'But nobody else has shown me kindness. My mother -' she looked down, blinking back tears again, '- my mother can barely look at me. She thinks I have brought shame on the family. And I have probably lost the respect of my maid, who has been my closest confidante for many years now.'
'Begging your pardon, milady, but how do either of them know about what happened? Did you tell them?' he asked curiously.
Mary flushed, pulling her hand out of his. 'Yes, I had to. I had no choice. I couldn't leave him in my bed otherwise the whole house would have been witness to my shame, but I couldn't move him on my own. He was so heavy. I could barely move him enough to escape from underneath him. So, I went to Anna for help.'
Tom had forgotten about the body being found in the man's own room. Now, he pictured the petite, blonde maid he'd met last week trying to manhandle a body with the slender, young woman sitting at his kitchen table. 'I should imagine it was difficult even with the two of you. You're both so slight.'
Mary nodded. 'We tried, but we couldn't do it. So, I fetched my mother to help us.'
Tom's eyebrows scooted upwards at the thought of the poised, elegant Countess of Grantham helping to carry a dead man across her grand home in the middle of the night. 'Why your mother?'
'Because I knew she would do what she could to save the family from scandal,' Mary said, her shoulders slumping as she sat back in her chair. 'But I doubt she will ever forgive me. To say she's disappointed in me and my behaviour would be an understatement.'
Tom narrowed his eyes, puzzled by that. 'But surely, you told her what you told me. She must know it was not your fault.'
Mary shrugged her thin shoulders, aiming to appear more composed than she felt. 'When she asked me if he forced himself on me, I said no because I did not scream and I did not stop him. So, you see in her eyes, it was my fault.'
Tom gazed at her, wondering what kind of a woman kept her daughters in total ignorance of the facts of life and then blamed her daughter when she was raped.
'If I drink your tea, Branson, then hopefully there will be no child. But I am damaged goods now. Unless we can keep it quiet, no respectable man will want me as his wife,' Mary said, a resigned tone in her voice.
'That's not true,' Tom said, shaking his head.
'It is. I am no longer… pure. If that becomes known, I am finished in polite society.' She looked up at him, her newfound font of knowledge on sexual matters, another question burning inside her. 'Can men tell? When you… lie with a woman, can you tell whether she is a virgin or not?'
Tom felt his face warm again. 'Er, well, sometimes. Some women bleed the first time.'
Mary cocked her head, casting her mind back to last night. 'I don't believe I did. I felt some discomfort at first, but then it was… well… I've already told you that.'
'Not all women bleed. At least, I think that's the case,' he said, awkwardly. 'I'm not exactly an expert on the subject.'
'Have you not… erm, well, you know… done it, then?' Mary asked, curiously.
Tom flushed, embarrassment colouring his face. 'I… well, er, yes, I have.'
'And have you ever been with a… a virgin?'
'Yes, the first time I did it, it was her first time too, and she did bleed. And I felt the barrier too.'
'So, you knew then.'
'Well, yes, but I knew that was the case before we…' Tom trailed off.
'Hmm. And have you done it with a woman who wasn't a virgin?' she asked, her cheeks pink but determined to get an answer to the question consuming her.
Tom blew out a breath, his embarrassment still high. 'Yes, I have.'
'And could you tell?' she asked anxiously, her eyes fixed on his.
He thought about that. 'Well, it was easier to... to do it because there was no barrier. And she didn't bleed, but I already knew that didn't necessarily happen. She didn't have any pain or discomfort either. But I suppose if she hadn't told me I wasn't her first, I wouldn't have known for sure.'
Mary breathed out a hopeful sigh. 'So, he might not be able to tell then, my future husband?'
'Not if you don't tell him.' Tom hesitated, wondering whether to say what he wanted to, then decided with all the awkward conversations they'd had so far today, he might as well. 'But if he's a good man, a decent man, he would not hold it against you anyway.'
Mary gave him a small, sad smile. 'That's kind of you to say so, Branson, but in my world, it matters that a wife is a virgin for her husband.'
'Milady, you had your virginity forcibly taken from you. The only thing any man should care about is how that affected you, not that you are no longer 'pure' for him. If he cares more about being your first lover than about you, you should think carefully about whether he is the type of man you wish to spend your life with,' Tom said, laying it out very clearly as he saw it.
Mary eyed him in surprise. 'Would it not bother you, Branson? That your wife had lain with another man.'
'No, why should it? I would be a hypocrite if I let it bother me. I've lain with other women. Why should I hold her to a higher standard than I hold myself? As long as she is true to me when we are together, that is all I would care about,' he said plainly as she gazed at him, taking in every word.
'Well, I do believe you are more progressive than most of the men of my acquaintance,' Mary said, eventually. 'I don't believe my choice of suitors will be as enlightened or as forgiving as you are.'
'Then perhaps they are not worthy of you, milady,' Tom said firmly, holding her gaze.
For a moment, they simply sat there, staring at each other, and Tom could have sworn he felt something pass between them, a charge that made his heart beat faster. And looking at her, he thought perhaps she felt it too.
In the end, Lady Mary looked away first. She toyed with her teacup, taking a tiny sip of the cooling tea.
'May I ask you something else, Branson?'
'Of course,' he said, bracing himself for what could possibly come next.
'Do you think I killed him?' she asked in a small voice, flicking her eyes up to look fearfully at him.
Tom looked at her in surprise, only now remembering that she'd told him she'd killed a man when she started to unravel at his table.
'No, milady, I don't see how you could have.'
'But he was so young. And he was… his appendage was... was inside me when he… he died. Was it my fault? Do you think that it was something in me that killed him?'
'No,' Tom said, firmly. 'It was not your fault. There must have been something wrong with him.'
'So, men don't… they don't… it's not a common occurrence for them to die when they… ejaculate?'
'No, it's not. In fact, I've never heard of such a thing before. I should think we'd be much less keen on doing it if that were a common side effect,' Tom said, giving her a small smile. 'And, believe me, most men are generally quite keen on ejaculating.'
Despite herself, Mary smiled back at him, quite seeing his point. 'I suppose you must be right.'
'I am right,' Tom said, confidently. 'Look at it this way, every living man with a child has ejaculated at some point. Your own father must have ejaculated at least three times and he's still walking around, hale and hearty.'
Mary pulled a face. 'Well, I'd really rather not think about that, Branson, but I take your point. So, you don't think it was anything I did that killed him?'
'No, milady, you definitely did not kill him, although it serves the bastard right that he's dead after what he did,' Tom said, perhaps a little fiercer than he intended.
Lady Mary tilted her head and smiled at him. 'Goodness, you sound quite impassioned about that.'
'I don't like men who violate women,' Tom said, plainly. 'No punishment is too much for them.'
She reached out to put her hand over his again. 'You're a good man, Branson. You've been so very kind to me. I will not forget this. I can't thank you enough.' She paused, suddenly looking shamefaced. 'I don't… I don't even know your first name.'
'Tom,' he said, turning his hand over, palm to palm with hers. 'It's Tom.'
'Tom,' she repeated, clasping his hand. 'Well, thank you, Tom, for everything you've done for me today.'
'You're very welcome, milady.'
Another charged moment passed between them as they sat there, staring at each other, holding hands.
Tom cleared his throat, pushing aside the dangerous, job-threatening impulse to lean forward and kiss her. 'Well, I should make a start on gathering those plants for the tea.'
'Yes, I suppose so,' she said, pulling her hand back to her lap. 'What should I do? Should I stay here and wait for you?'
Tom thought about that. He'd walked the woods hereabouts several times since he'd been at Downton and had a fair idea where he might find what he'd need, but it may still take him some time. And it would take more time to steep the tea.
'I think perhaps I should take you home if you'll let me. I need time to get everything ready for you.'
Mary bit her lip, an action Tom found both endearing and dangerously attractive. 'I suppose I can't stay away from Downton forever.'
'And I'm sure they'll be wondering where you are by now.'
'And what about the tea? Should I come back here to drink it?'
Tom looked at her, taken aback by that. 'Er, well, I suppose you could if you wanted to, but won't that be difficult for you? You're not supposed to be here. I could put it in a flask for you to drink at the Abbey.'
Mary chewed on her lips some more, giving that some thought. 'How much tea will I have to drink?'
Tom gestured at his teapot. 'I'll make enough to fill the teapot, just to be on the safe side.'
Mary looked speculatively at the teapot. 'Then if it's all right with you, I would rather drink it here. That's quite a lot of tea and I'm not sure how I would manage it at Downton with the number of people milling about the place.'
Tom nodded, uneasy about her returning to his cottage when there was a possibility she might be seen, but not seeing that he had a choice. 'If that's what you'd prefer, milady.'
She leaned forward, speaking earnestly. 'I will be discreet, Tom, I promise. Neither of us has anything to gain by me being caught in your cottage, I know that. And the last thing I want is to get you into trouble.'
Tom nodded.
'How quickly does the tea work?' Mary asked, suddenly. 'Is it instantaneous?'
'No, it takes time for it to work through your system. It might be an hour or so before the cramping starts.'
'May I stay here while it happens?'
Tom hesitated, knowing that was the sensible thing to do but wondering at the appropriateness of it.
'It's only that if I cramp badly, they will ask questions at home and may send for Dr Clarkson. I don't wish for him to examine me or for them to know what I've done to prevent a child,' she said, earnestly.
'Perhaps Dr Clarkson should examine you anyway, given the circumstances,' Tom said, carefully. 'Just to make sure you're all right after what that foul cretin did.'
Mary shook her head firmly. 'No, the fewer people who know what Mr Pamuk did, the better.'
'Don't give him the honour of using his name,' Tom said, a hard, angry lump forming in his chest. 'He doesn't deserve it.'
Mary raised an eyebrow at him. 'I'm beginning to think you are angrier with him than I am, Tom.'
'Men like him, they are scum. He came into your home, accepted your parents' hospitality and then he treated you like an object to satisfy his own base desires. He doesn't deserve any respect or consideration, certainly not from you.'
Mary gazed at him then favoured him with a brilliant smile. 'You are quite an extraordinary man.'
'No, I'm not, milady. I'm a very ordinary man with a decent and honourable set of values,' Tom said simply. 'You've just had the misfortune to come up against the worst type of man recently.'
Mary looked at him, seeming to assess him further before she spoke again. 'So, tomorrow, I will ask for the motor to take me to a fictional appointment and then you can bring me here.'
'That sounds like a sensible plan. It takes both of us out of the vicinity.'
'How long should my appointment be for?'
Tom thought quickly. 'About four hours, just to be sure.'
'York then,' Mary said, decisively. 'I shall tell Mama I am meeting a friend for lunch in the city and will require the motor. Nobody else has booked you, have they?'
'No, not for tomorrow.'
'Then we have a plan. Come for me at 11 o'clock.'
They exchanged another long look. Once again, Mary broke it first. She picked up her hat and gloves from the table and rose to her feet. 'I think you'd better take me home before it gets too dark for you to be foraging in the woods.'
'Yes, that's probably a good idea,' he said, standing up too. He plucked his jacket off the back of his chair and slipped it on, doing up the shiny gold buttons, and then he reached for his cap on the dresser.
Mary turned to go out of the kitchen door, Tom following her, only for him to pull up when she suddenly turned to face him. She looked at him, her big brown eyes full of gratitude.
'Thank you, Tom. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for everything you've done for me today and everything you're going to do.'
'I'm glad I could be of help, milady.'
'You've been more than a help. After today, I suspect you may be my guardian angel.'
He smiled. 'Oh, I don't think I'm anywhere near as grand as that.'
'I do,' she said, softly. 'I think you may have saved me today. In more ways than one.'
Once again, the air between them seemed charged as they gazed at each other.
'Come on, then, I'd better get you home. I've things to be doing, plants to be gathering,' Tom said, gruffly.
Mary nodded, gave him one last lingering look, and turned towards the door.
Author's note: I am neither a medical professional nor a herbalist, so the abortifacient tea in this story and how it works is all just guesswork on my part.