A Scandalous Affair Dublin (2)
Tom Chapter 2
Tom trudged home, rubbing his aching eyes. He walked through the Dublin Streets, towards home, not noticing the hustle and bustle of those around him. It was early May, and the denizens of the city had a spring in their step happy to final entering warm spring days and brighter evenings.
Motors drove up and down Connolly Street, interspersed with horses and carts. Their wheels threw up dust in the road. The smell of burnt fuel and horses mingle. Friends and lovers great each other, yet Tom passes them all barely notices it, the world seems grey to his eyes. He doesn't see the smiling faces around him.
All those years in Downton he was working on Lord Grantham's motors, driving the family and Guests around Yorkshire. He always had his notebook tucked away in the motor and with all the waiting around he was free to write what he wanted. Travel down any path that caught his intellectual curiosity. The evenings were filled with writing poems, short stories, and articles. Where he would daydream about being a reporter and persuading Sybil to marry him.
His dreams crumbled away with his foolish impetuous actions. He achieved his dream to be a real journalist, writing for a respected newspaper and married, to the wrong Crawley sister. Tom hated it, in fact he felt trapped.
Surprisingly it wasn't being married to Mary that was driving the difficulties that Tom was having. Mary was just as she was in Downton, a practical, intelligent woman. Tom had promised Anna that he would treat his wife with respect and yet only the other week he shouted at her. He made her cry. Tom felt ashamed of his actions. He felt dreadfully guilty for putting Mary in this position. He could tell that she was as desperately unhappy as he was. She seemed more listless here in Dublin, while at Downton, she was so dynamic, a force to be reckoned with.
This bought the barest smile to Tom's lips, honestly, he was always a bit intimidated of his now wife.
No, it wasn't Tom's marriage that was leading to Tom's depression. It was his job, he hated it. Tom had worked for over ten years as a freelance writer, going wherever the fancy took him. He loved writing, being able to express all the ideas and emotions in his head. But reporting wasn't what he expected at all. The daily deadlines, the assignments that he didn't choose. Tom had never had to write about subjects that he had no interest in before. Tom had never suffered writers block, now he sweated over some of the articles he had to write. He had to write a 500-word report on a dog theft last week. The pampered pet had belonged to a wealthy family, who alleged the dog had been stollen, Tom suspected that the pooch had just escaped the family grounds.
Tom was so happy at first to be back in his home country, but his fellow reporters were not as welcoming as he had expected. When they found out he was married to Lady Mary Crawley, one half seemed to think that he was some gold digger who married his wife for a pampered life of luxury. While the other half seemed to think him a political hypocrite, only a show Republican, while secretly a, a ROYALIST!
Tom didn't know what to do. He couldn't quit and go back to the motors. Lady Mary could not be married to a working-class man. But he was so drained every day after work he didn't have the energy or mental capacity to work on his own projects. His publisher wants to know about the illustrations for his short story anthology. But he can't think of it now.
Tom was walking pass the flower sellers on Grafton Street, calling out to passers-by to come look at their wares. Their bright coloured stalls caught Tom's attention. Tom sighed, he should apologise to Mary for his behaviour, he shouldn't be taking his frustration out on his wife, who had done nothing to earn his ire. Maybe he should start by buying some flowers for Mary. Tom drifted over to one of the flower sellers. Tom liked flowers, they were always so cheerful and gay. He picked the most colourful flowers with a pleasant scent.
As Tom is paying the seller and taking his flowers, he thinks maybe it's time to talk to Mary. A proper talk where Tom actually reveals his thoughts and feelings to his wife, and they discuss their future together.
With his decision made, Tom's steps pick up, some of the weight has been lifted. He will talk to Mary and together hopefully they will come up with some sort of solution, or at least a way to handle Tom's workload.
Tom climbs the stairs to their third story flat with more energy than he has had in weeks. Entering their flat the smell of furniture polish envelops Tom. Tom closes the front door and hangs up his coat in the closet. Bracing himself against the door, his hand resting on the warm wooden frame, just breathing and calming his thoughts. Tom exhales, with closed eyes as he tries to get his thoughts in order. To find the words to explain to his wife the tumultuous feelings he has been having.
Taking another deep breath, he pushes himself away from the door and starts walking towards the sitting room. This is where he usually finds Mary when he comes home from work. Tom feels another stab of guilt, thinking how lonely Mary must be in this new city with no friends or family to spend time with, while he works.
Quietly entering the room, Mary was immersed in her world of creativity, oblivious to his presence. Tom took a moment to silently admire her. Bathed in the soft glow of early evening light filtering through French windows, Mary was bent over her sketch pad. The dance of her pencil reflected concentration, and a few stray tendrils of hair escaped her carefully styled coiffure, framing the elegance of her profile. He had watched Mary thoughtfully sketching many an evening since they had been married.
A hushed breath escaped Tom as an unexpected surge of attraction coursed through him. In that moment, he saw not just his wife but a beautiful woman who deserved more than the weight of his unspoken troubles. It solidified his resolve — tonight, they would have that conversation.
Wanting to avoid startling Mary and disrupting her drawing, Tom purposefully made his presence known as he walked around the room. The soft shuffle of his footsteps was an intentional prelude to their conversation.
Pausing her creative pursuits, Mary looked up, a cautious smile gracing her features. "Tom!" she greeted, the hesitation in her voice revealing the impact of his recent moods. The realisation hit Tom, deepening his guilt. He approached her with an apologetic smile, a peace offering in hand.
"I picked you up some flowers," Tom announced, extending the bouquet toward her. Mary's smile warmed as she accepted the colourful blooms, bringing them close to savour their fragrance. "Thank you," she said quietly.
Looking up at Tom, she noticed his nervous fidgeting, the hopeful and hesitant look on his face. She realised that this might be his way of apologising for his out of sorts behaviour over the last few weeks. "These are lovely. I will call Mrs Murphy to put them in water," extending the olive branch. Tom seemed to breath a sigh of relief. "No, I will do it," Tom says, hands extended to receive the bouquet, eager to perform this small task for Mary.
Taking the flowers, he swiftly walks to the door separating their living quarters to Mrs Murphy's domain. "Mrs Murphy, can you put these flowers in a vase for Lady Mary?" he asks their competent housekeeper. "Ooo! These are lovely," she coos over the flowers, smiling indulgently at Mr Branson, as she removes them from his hands and bustles about her business. "Erm, Lady Mary and I will be talking for a while. We will call you if we need anything," He informs the woman. "Very well sir, dinner will be served at 7:30, Mr Branson" Mrs Murphy said as she walked away to find a vase for the flowers. Tom flushing uncomfortable at being called sir.
Returning to Mary, who patiently awaited him, Tom found the room bathed in the soft glow of the evening. Shadows played on the familiar contours of their sitting room. A nervous energy enveloped him as he grappled with how to start this important dialogue. He sat down, stood up, paced the room — physical manifestations of the turmoil within him. The silence lingered, pregnant with unspoken words, waiting for the right moment to be born.
The French doors, standing tall and grand, opened onto a Juliette balcony, offering a glimpse of the Dublin streets below. The evening breeze carried in the sounds of the city, a distant hum of life beyond the confines of their intimate space.
A well-chosen settee, draped in a luxurious fabric, stood as the centrepiece of the room. Its design spoke of both comfort and style, inviting anyone to sink into its plush cushions. Accompanying it were chairs with intricate details, a testimony to Mary's keen eye for elegance. Tom had taken her to a house sale, the first Mary had ever been too. At first, she had been scandalised at the thought of going through someone else's home, pawing through formerly beloved possessions. But soon Mary's competitiveness shone through when it came to the auction. She was soon swept up in the excitement and action of a fevered auction. Her keen eye identifying many quality items that would suit their new home.
Tom smiled at the memory, remembering Mary's flushed face and bright eyes. Tom couldn't help but notice the admiring glances Mary gained. Making Tom feel proud to be her with this beautiful, animated woman. It was a happy memory that they could both share. Sitting on the furniture that Mary had purchased that day.
Mary was looking at her husband with a frown, starting to feel anxious with her husband's strange behaviour. Finally, her patience broke. "Tom, please just come and sit beside me," Mary instructed her husband with a firm voice. Broking no refusal. Tom walked dejectedly over to the settee that Mary was sitting on and slumped beside her. Leaning forward, head in his hands and elbows resting on his knees.
Turning his head to look at Mary, "What were you drawing?" Tom asked. Mary was startled by this question. "I've been writing to Lavinia since being in Dublin and sending her sketches of our lives here," Mary starts her explanation, reaching for the sketch book she had been working on. "I was trying a basic sketch of a Dawson Street, with you and I as the focus of the sketch. I am not happy with the likeness though," says Mary as she flicks to the sketch. She offers the page to Tom for review. He takes the sketch pad from her warm hands and tilts the page to capture the last of the evenings light. "I don't know, I think it gets across the vibrancy of Dawson Street. The likeness might not be exact, but the essence of us is there," Tom encourages Mary, smiling warmly at his wife.
In this room, surrounded by art, comfort, and each other, they navigated the intricacies of their relationship.
Mary gently takes her sketch pad back from Tom and sets it on the side table by the settee. Her eyes lingered on Tom, who wore his well-tailored navy suit. The suit, perfectly fitted to his frame, accentuated his strong shoulders and lean physique. Tom always looked particularly handsome in this suit, a fact that Mary never failed to appreciate.
Turning her attention back to her husband, she took in the details that marked the passage of time and the burdens he carried. His usually neatly cropped hair had grown a bit longer since their marriage. Dark circles underscored his eyes, evidence of the sleepless nights spent wrestling with the challenges of his new life. His once vibrant complexion had paled, reflecting the toll of stress and uncertainty.
"Now, you didn't want to talk about my sketches?" Mary queried, her voice soft with concern. Tom, looking at her with a mix of vulnerability and uncertainty, shook his head slowly. "I don't know where to start," he replied in an equally hushed tone.
Mary, sitting beside him on the settee, leaned back, her emerald-green dress subtly adorned with lace trim. The French doors cast a gentle glow across the room, illuminating the flocked green wallpaper that adorned their haven. Paintings, carefully selected by Mary, adorned the walls, each a testament to the life they were building together.
"Being from my family is probably a lot different from yours. There was a scheduled period each day to see our parents. Though my mother being American would often ignore this," Mary confided with a tender expression of remembrance. Tom was listening to her intently, his green eyes pensive. "One of the things that is so clear in my memory, was whenever I or one of my sisters were out of sorts, my mother would get us to lay down with our head in her lap. She would stroke our hair and we would tell her all our woes," Mary smiles fondly at the memory of her mother's love.
Tom smiles tentatively at Mary, happy that his wife was willing to share these intimate memories of her family life. His own mother wasn't the soft mothering sort. Tom realised as an adult this was mainly because his mother had to work so hard, especially after his father died. She diligently cared for all three of her surviving children. His mother didn't have the luxury of time that Lady Grantham had. Yet Tom smiled in reminiscence of the apple pies his mother would make for him whenever he was struggling with his childhood woes and tribulations.
"So come here and lay down," Mary instructed, Tom looked at his wife in surprise and uncertainty. Gently pulling on his shoulders Mary encouraged Tom to lay down and rest his head in her lap. Mary silently caught her breath, as she looked down at her husband and realised this was the most intimate, she had ever been with a man. She didn't include the disastrous liaison with Mr Pamuk. She had been sharing her husband's bed ever since she moved in to their flat. But so far all they had done was sleep. With Tom often retiring long after Mary had turned in.
With warm fingers she started to stroke Tom's hair. She was surprised at how soft his hair was. "So, tell me Tom, what has been on your mind," Mary asks with some trepidation not knowing what has Tom so down.
Taking a deep breath, Tom began his story. "For years, while working at Downton, I worked on my writings. I wrote a book of poetry, submitted articles and short stories to various papers and magazines, and I dreamed of my future," Tom softly confided, the words carrying the weight of unspoken desires. Mary's hand, which had been rhythmically stroking his hair, momentarily paused when Tom mentioned his dreams. A flicker of concern crossed her face as she worried about the direction this conversation might take.
"I dreamt of saving money, enough to ask Sybil to marry me," Tom continued, shifting in Mary's lap to face her. His eyes met hers with an apologetic look, acknowledging the mention of her sister Sybil—the one who he had loved him from afar at first and then finally she returned his regard. "I dreamt of our life and what it would be like to live in Dublin again. I would get a job at a paper and be a full-time writer. Dashing about the place, investigating news stories. The camaraderie with the other reporters, who I could talk to about my interests, and they would be interested too, not just humouring me or disapproving of my interests because they thought I was above myself."
Tom's voice grew quieter, the words almost a whisper, prompting Mary to lean forward to catch every nuance of his confession. He turned his face away, gazing into the empty fireplace, gathering his chaotic thoughts. Mary, sensing the depth of his vulnerability, continued to gently stroke his soft fair hair. She studied his profile, the play of shadows from the approaching night accentuating the handsome features etched with growing anxiety. The living room, bathed in the warm glow of lamps, became a cocoon for the revelation of Tom's dreams and the weight of unfulfilled aspirations.
"Oh Mary! I hate it," Tom confessed, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the room. Mary, instantly alert, felt her heart quicken its pace. "Hate what?" she cautiously asked, bracing herself for whatever revelation her husband was about to make.
"My job," Tom finally said, turning to face Mary again, his eyes revealing a deep anguish. "It's not what I thought it would be. The stories I am asked to write are mind-numbing stories about dogs or, or flower shows. It's an absolute grind to get article after article written. I only have enough time to do the barest research. No in-depth pieces, just the most cursory brush of the subject," Tom exclaimed, his frustration pouring out.
"I thought I would have the camaraderie of my fellow reporters, but it seems to be all back-biting snide comments, everyone jostling for the best stories. They scoff if I offer up a political opinion. Not because they are not of the same mind, but because they think I am a hypocrite," Tom's words rushed out like a torrent, everything he had been holding inside for months finally breaking free. He had kept these frustrations to himself, especially not sharing them with Mary. After all, it was his impetuous actions that had landed her in the position of having to marry him to save her reputation.
Bringing his hands to his face, Tom pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, a desperate attempt to hold back any tears. He couldn't bear to shed tears in front of his wife; it felt like an admission of failure, a vulnerability he was not ready to expose. The living room, adorned with green flocked wallpaper and the soft glow of lamps, became witness to the unspoken struggles of Tom's newfound life in Dublin.
Mary felt a flood of relief, realising that it wasn't her making him unhappy. "I thought you loved writing?" she tentatively asked, her fingers continuing her gently stroking of Tom's fingers, a silent encouragement for him to uncover his face.
Finally taking his hands away, Tom looked earnestly at Mary. "I do. Or I did, at least. Aah!" Tom exclaimed, frustration evident in his voice. "I used to find such pleasure in my writing, such freedom of expression. I had so many things I wanted to say to the world. I have never struggled to write before this job. I can't sleep. It always seems to take me three times as long to write something now, when it used to be so easy. The words used to flow from my pen," Tom lamented.
"It's so bad now I can't even work on my book for my publisher," he said with sadness. Mary continued to stroke Tom's hair, a thoughtful look on her face. Tom glanced at her guiltily, "I feel so despondent I have been avoiding my publisher. Not returning any of her calls or messages," he confessed.
Mary, unused to providing comfort or counsel beyond matters of fashion or flower arranging, contemplated Tom's words. It seemed to her that Tom's major complaint was time. "Didn't you have to work to a schedule when you were writing your book of poems or your articles?" she asked, attempting to understand what was different for Tom working at the newspaper compared to his previous life as a freelance writer.
Tom sighed warily, closed his eyes briefly, and then looked at Mary, attempting to articulate the nuances that made his current situation so different from his previous endeavours. "It's different. I would either write speculatively, where I would write something I was personally interested in and then try to find a newspaper or magazine to buy my story or article," Tom patiently explained. "Or I would be contacted by a publisher for a commissioned piece. We would negotiate the subject of the piece, fee, and timeline up front. I was always free to refuse the commission if I wanted to."
After Tom unburdened his woes to his wife, silence descended on the living room. The walls, themselves, seemed to absorb the weight of Tom's struggles. Closing his eyes, Tom felt lighter after sharing his feelings. Mary continued to run her fingers through Tom's hair, processing all that Tom had told her about his struggles.
Time ticked by. The room was getting darker as nightfall quickly approached. Mary leaned over from her position to turn on a beautiful glass lamp on a nearby table. The multi-coloured lampshade cast lovely, coloured shadows across the room, creating a soothing atmosphere in their sitting room. The French doors, leading to a Juliette balcony, was slightly ajar, allowing a gentle breeze to rustle the curtains.
After some quiet contemplation, Mary suggested, "Why don't you stop working at the newspaper?" Tom opened his eyes to look at his wife, grimacing, "and do what?" Tom asked. The soft glow of the lamp illuminated Mary's face as she pondered a solution. "I can't go back to working on motors," Tom stated. He had already ruled out this possibility. It wouldn't be appropriate for a man married to a woman like Mary to be working in a garage.
The dim light highlighted the furrow in Tom's brow as he awaited Mary's response.
"Why can't you write full time as a freelance writer?" Mary inquired with a puzzled look, her eyebrows drawn together in a slight frown, trying to understand the issue from Tom's point of view. The gentle lamplight cast a warm glow on the green flocked walls, creating a comforting ambiance in the room, perfect for this intimate conversation.
Tom looked at Mary in surprise, his eyebrows raised. Pulling himself up to a seated position, he turned towards his wife, and they were face to face. "I mean, my father pays for this flat and Mrs. Murphy's wages. I have a dress allowance and pin money. We don't need your money to live here," Mary calmly stated. The multi-coloured shadows from the lamp danced on her elegant green dress, adding a touch of sophistication to her presence.
Tom's brows furrowed deeply, his lips pursed, showing his displeasure at this thought. "I can't live off of my wife," Tom said. Society held the deepest contempt for men who lived off their wives, especially working-class men. Tom had never contemplated the idea of living off his wife's money, fearing it would brand him as the worst type of gold digger.
"What would your father think of me if I were to do such a thing?" Tom said, starting to fidget at the thought, revealing to Mary how uncomfortable he was with the idea. "If my father had an opinion on the matter, then my father would be a hypocrite," Mary stated firmly, surprising Tom with her frank response. The green flocked walls seemed to absorb the weight of this revelation as Mary continued, "The only reason my father married my mother was that she had an absolutely obscene settlement from my grandfather." The paintings on the walls almost appeared to nod in agreement with Mary's words, adding a sense of history to the room.
Tom's mouth formed an "oh" of surprise. The room seemed to buzz with a newfound energy as Mary passionately outlined her proposal. "Men from my circle nearly always marry for money or connections, or preferably both. Besides, you have your £800 savings. Your royalties from your poetry. You must have been making money with your writing if you managed to amass that amount of savings," Mary continued, her voice carrying the enthusiasm that was beginning to spark within her.
"Your new book is completed, you just need an illustrator to go with your short stories, so you can negotiate a deal with your publisher?" Mary encouraged, her eyes shining with determination. Tom's face lit up with a happy smile, realising that she had been paying attention to all the talk of his writing prospects. He felt an uptick of excitement at Mary's ideas.
"Did you have plans on what you wanted to work on next?" Mary asked, the excited spark in her eyes reflecting the satisfaction of having come up with a solution to some of Tom's problems with his work. Tom looked at Mary, noticing the slight flush to her cheeks, the excited gleam in her eyes. The soft-coloured light played off her features, enhancing her beauty and giving her appearance an ethereal quality. The room, adorned with Mary's carefully chosen paintings, became a backdrop to this moment of shared excitement and possibility.
"Well, I was speaking with my mother when I first arrived in Dublin, she was trying to persuade me to write a detective novel. She was telling me of how she and her friends were avid readers of such novels. She even recommended a couple to me. Though they were all set in America," Tom confided, a glimmer of excitement building in his eyes. The idea of a detective novel had taken root in his mind, growing like a seed in fertile soil. He knew in literary circles the only way to make good money was in novels or plays.
"A detective novel, what is that about?" Mary asked with curiosity, her elegant features expressing genuine interest. "You know, like Sherlock Holmes, investigating murders and mysteries," Tom explained, watching Mary's reaction. Mary hmmed, thinking back; she did seem to distantly remember Edith going on about Sherlock Holmes stories, but truthfully, she never really paid attention to Edith and her interests.
As Tom continued to elaborate on his idea, the room filled with the rich hues of the evening lamp, casting a warm glow on the green flocked wallpaper and Mary's tastefully chosen paintings. The detective novel concept unfolded like a plotline, and Tom's passion for the idea became increasingly evident. Together, in that room adorned with the trappings of their life, they explored the possibility of a new chapter in Tom's literary career.
Tom's manner suddenly dimmed as the weight of reality settled in his mind. "I can't just quit; I have only had my job for two months," Tom said, his voice reflecting the dilemma he faced. Mary, always the pragmatic thinker, leaned back in her seat, contemplating potential solutions.
"Oh!" Mary said softly, her eyes alight with a new idea. "Could you tell them you need more time to work on your book? They know you are a published author," she suggested, her mind already ticking through possibilities.
"Mmmm!" Tom pondered the suggestion, running scenarios in his mind. His editor was a gruff man, direct in his manner, but not entirely unreasonable. "I could offer to work by commission instead," Tom mused out loud. Mary's face brightened with a hopeful smile, sensing that they might be onto a workable solution.
Tom considered the possibilities. If he could negotiate a shift in his work structure, perhaps working on articles that aligned with his interests, it might alleviate the stress he was feeling. The idea began to crystallise, and in that room filled with the warmth of the lamp light, Tom and Mary found themselves exploring a potential turning point in Tom's professional journey.
"So, how does your publisher work? How do you find an illustrator?" Mary asked, her curiosity piqued by the intricacies of the publishing process. She wanted to get back to the most pressing issue that she saw with Tom's career.
"Well, if I can arrange my own illustrations, I can negotiate an advance. This is the upfront payment I receive for my work, and then negotiate the royalties for the first run of books. I have been getting 13%. This is a very good rate for a new author," Tom explained with enthusiasm, a glint of renewed excitement over his project in his eyes.
As Tom spoke, he felt a shared bond with Mary for only the second time since her arrival in Dublin. He couldn't help but admire how pretty she looked in the soft lamplight, a genuine smile gracing her face. His eyes drifted around the room, the comfortable home that Mary had carefully arranged for them. His gaze paused on the sketchbook she had been working on earlier.
Understanding the loneliness and boredom Mary must feel being cut off from her family and friends, Tom regarded her speculatively, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.
Suddenly, he blurted out, "Why don't you do the illustrations for my book?" The idea caught Tom's imagination, and he looked at Mary with a spark of inspiration, wondering how she would respond to this unexpected proposition.
Mary looked startled at Tom. "You can't be serious; I am not a professional," she said, her uncertainty evident.
"No, I am serious. Let me look at your sketches again?" Tom asked, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes, his breaths quickened. Mary hesitated for a moment but then reluctantly handed over her sketchbook. Tom eagerly took the book, fingers delicately flicking through the pages until he found the painting of the fairies inspired by the wallpaper in the spare room.
"See, look here!" Tom exclaimed excitedly, presenting the page to Mary. "Like this, this style would be perfect for the short stories," he told her enthusiastically.
Mary still looked uncertain. "What would I have to do as the illustrator?" she asked cautiously, seeking more information before committing to anything.
"Generally, each story will require an illustration that represents a scene from the story. There are twelve in total in my anthology. Depending on what the publisher suggests, there might be cover art as well," Tom explained, gauging Mary's reaction.
"Just twelve?" Mary reiterated.
"Yes, just twelve. We would have to read each story and agree between us what scene would be best to represent it," he told her, studying Mary's face for any signs of willingness. "You would, of course, be paid for your work," Tom continued, revealing a detail that widened Mary's eyes in surprise. The concept of working and earning her own money had never occurred to her before.
"We would have to go to my publisher to negotiate your illustration fee. Obviously, you would be credited for your work too," Tom explained, hoping this additional information would inspire Mary to agree.
"Why don't I leave the stories with you tomorrow while I am at work, and you can look through them to see if inspiration hits you," Tom suggested with a hopeful look. Mary, unsure whether Tom was in his right mind to entrust a novice with illustrating his book, pondered the idea. What did she know about professional illustrators or publishing?
Nevertheless, her curiosity outweighed her doubts. Bored and lonely in Dublin, the prospect of working with her husband sounded appealing, and it might open up her social circle.
"Okay, I am not promising anything, but I will read through your stories tomorrow and see if I can come up with some sketches," Mary said tentatively. Tom grinned broadly, confident that she would do a great job and that he could talk her around.
The delicate golden carriage clock on the mantle chimed, indicating that it was 7:30 pm, time for dinner. Tom stood from his seat, offering his hand to Mary. "Let's go in for dinner. We can discuss what I can say to my editor at the paper tomorrow," Tom suggested. Smiling up at her husband, Mary took Tom's offered hand, and together, they walked into the dining room. Mary felt hopeful that this turn of events would bring more promise to their marriage, reminiscent of the hopeful days during their walks around the grounds at Downton.