Once it has become quite clear that Lavinia isn't going to die, Mary sets a date with Richard Carlisle. They marry at the beginning of June, before anyone quite has time to protest it; the ceremony is Lavinia's first great outing. She cannot quite savor her release from the sickbed -- not here, sitting at Matthew's side, very carefully not looking at his face. (She knows what she will find there, and would rather not see it.) She watches Mary instead -- Mary in white, smiling with perfect elegance and no joy. It makes Lavinia's heart ache. Sir Richard's face is full of true pleasure. It seems right, somehow, that he is the only one of them triumphant enough to let real feeling onto his face. As they are joined under the eyes of God, Mary's own eyes wander, briefly, to Lavinia. For a dizzy, daft split-second, Lavinia feels sure this will be enough to stop her heart.
"Oh, Matthew," Lavinia murmurs, once the celebrations have come to a close and they are on their way out to the car.
He pays her the respect of not pretending nothing is wrong, for once. Instead, he says, in quiet words meant only for her (for he does trust her like he doesn't quite trust anyone else -- not even Mary -- especially not Mary), "I only wish it could have been someone better. Better than him."
"If anyone can withstand him, it's Mary."
"She shouldn't have to withstand him."
"Perhaps it won't always be that way." She loops her arm through his. He pats her hand absently, as if they've been married fifty years already. "Feelings change."
"God, I hope so." They pause a moment, as if they've made some silent pact to enjoy the evening air. "She did this for us," he says then.
"I know it," Lavinia answers. "And I intend to spend my life making it up to her as best I can."
"Darling," Matthew says, as if this is any sort of answer -- it will serve, with his voice soft and fond and faintly surprised like that. He kisses her cheek, and his closeness leaves her oddly calm. She is struck by that feeling again, that fifty-years-married feeling, and wonders if she has grown out of him without realizing. Her thoughts wander back to Mary; they became quite good friends during Lavinia's Orphean journey out of death. Lavinia knows very well that it was mostly guilt at first that spurred Mary's attentiveness -- guilt about the kiss she was never meant to see, and the sickness that trailed so neatly after it. But does it really matter where friendships begin, once true life has been breathed into them?
Once it has become quite clear that Lavinia isn't going to die, Mary sets a date with Richard Carlisle. They marry at the beginning of June, before anyone quite has time to protest it; the ceremony is Lavinia's first great outing. She cannot quite savor her release from the sickbed -- not here, sitting at Matthew's side, very carefully not looking at his face. (She knows what she will find there, and would rather not see it.) She watches Mary instead -- Mary in white, smiling with perfect elegance and no joy. It makes Lavinia's heart ache. Sir Richard's face is full of true pleasure. It seems right, somehow, that he is the only one of them triumphant enough to let real feeling onto his face. As they are joined under the eyes of God, Mary's own eyes wander, briefly, to Lavinia. For a dizzy, daft split-second, Lavinia feels sure this will be enough to stop her heart.
"Oh, Matthew," Lavinia murmurs, once the celebrations have come to a close and they are on their way out to the car.
He pays her the respect of not pretending nothing is wrong, for once. Instead, he says, in quiet words meant only for her (for he does trust her like he doesn't quite trust anyone else -- not even Mary -- especially not Mary), "I only wish it could have been someone better. Better than him."
"If anyone can withstand him, it's Mary."
"She shouldn't have to withstand him."
"Perhaps it won't always be that way." She loops her arm through his. He pats her hand absently, as if they've been married fifty years already. "Feelings change."
"God, I hope so." They pause a moment, as if they've made some silent pact to enjoy the evening air. "She did this for us," he says then.
"I know it," Lavinia answers. "And I intend to spend my life making it up to her as best I can."
"Darling," Matthew says, as if this is any sort of answer -- it will serve, with his voice soft and fond and faintly surprised like that. He kisses her cheek, and his closeness leaves her oddly calm. She is struck by that feeling again, that fifty-years-married feeling, and wonders if she has grown out of him without realizing. Her thoughts wander back to Mary; they became quite good friends during Lavinia's Orphean journey out of death. Lavinia knows very well that it was mostly guilt at first that spurred Mary's attentiveness -- guilt about the kiss she was never meant to see, and the sickness that trailed so neatly after it. But does it really matter where friendships begin, once true life has been breathed into them?
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