By the time she and Matthew have married, Mary is expecting. Lavinia reels at the news; Matthew spends the morning unrelentingly broody. Lavinia had never paused to imagine Mary as a mother, and has no idea at all what to make of the fact. When she joins Mary for tea at Haxby, just the two of them, she finds that her eyes keep wandering to Mary's abdomen, as if expecting some hello from the unborn -- and, at this point, thoroughly undetectable -- child.
"I'm sorry," Lavinia says, when Mary catches her and punishes her with one of those wry, you dear fool smiles. "It's just -- I'm still a bit shocked, is all."
They've fallen into the habit of being quite frank with each other; Lavinia has always suspected it is to make up for the years they spent tiptoeing around the idea of one another, never being quite honest enough.
"Believe me, you aren't the only one," Mary says, sitting down opposite her. "I spent my entire life being carefully groomed for the sacred twin duties of wifedom and motherhood, and I still hadn't entertained the possibility."
"You'll be a brilliant mother."
"You'll be a brilliant mother." Mary presses a hand to Lavinia's cheek, loose and sisterly in its affection. (Well, perhaps not sisterly, Lavinia amends, considering Edith.) "And you'd best get around to it soon, because I fully intend to mimic whatever you do."
"And -- is Sir Richard happy?"
"Sir Richard is ecstatic. He's not infected with the degree of heir fever that the Crawley men suffer, of course, but he's clearly caught a bit of it. Besides, I think he quite looks forward to having a child to spoil with all that hard-earned money. He tries his best with me, but I'm not nearly easy enough to please." Lavinia laughs a little, mostly because it relieves her to witness how Mary has softened when she speaks of her husband. Not much, but a little. Enough. "What did Matthew think?" Mary's face goes grim and old. Sometimes Lavinia wonders whether perhaps it was for the best, that Mary and Matthew could never quite find their way together. They always seem to make each other so tired.
"Not much," Lavinia says, "but he was rather stormy of countenance all morning."
"Ah." Mary grimaces. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. A baby is joyous news, and he'll admit to it very soon, I'm sure. It's not his place, but I think he takes it quite to heart, whenever he's reminded that you and Sir Richard are -- man and wife."
Mary lifts her eyebrows. "Well, tell him he needn't worry on that count."
"I certainly will not," Lavinia says, quite zealously prim (perhaps she draws upon the Dowager Countess for inspiration, just a bit); she feigns a gasp that gets a true laugh out of Mary. Lavinia feels a little rush of proud delight, the way she always does when she can tell she's made Mary happy, truly happy. "So you--" She feels herself blushing, which is foolish; they're both married women, and what's more, they've turned their backs on polite silence; "--you don't mind all of that, then?"
"Mind? Quite the contrary. It's the only time we really get along."
At least Sir Richard is good for something, when it comes to Mary's happiness. Lavinia means to think only this and move on, but as she looks at Mary now -- stylishly dressed, glossy dark hair pulled back perfectly, face wry and smart and so lovely it hurts a little -- she cannot help but imagine, just for a flash, just for a second, what she might look like in Sir Richard's embrace. How she might move, and sound, and touch--
"Do you want more?" Mary says.
"What?" Lavinia says -- well, gasps a little, really. She feels inconveniently as if she's just been set on fire.
"Tea," Mary says, seeming to notice nothing. But her fingers do drum, unMaryish, against the teapot. "You're nearly out, and God forbid I neglect my duties as mistress of Haxby. What a pall it would cast upon the illustrious family name."
Oh god, Lavinia and her goodness with that temptation that Mary presents, oh so perfect. I like in the first half with the idea of Lavinia already having grown out of Matthew, and the second part reeks of sexual tension, seriously I will now fall asleep with the idea of drawing room sex because of that. Like maybe Richard dies early and Lavinia goes on extended vacations to Haxby to keep Mary "company."
I especially loved the line "Orphean journey out of death" as it seems such an expression of your brilliance in terms of using classical culture (god knows you can use pop culture, you really are a fantastic writer). I do honestly feel like the whole second comment I want to draw hearts around, the first one might hurt me slightly too much, but the second one has such this bitter cavity inducing sweet quality that is beautiful and half fulfilled and thus so tempting to follow in the paths of the mind.
By the time she and Matthew have married, Mary is expecting. Lavinia reels at the news; Matthew spends the morning unrelentingly broody. Lavinia had never paused to imagine Mary as a mother, and has no idea at all what to make of the fact. When she joins Mary for tea at Haxby, just the two of them, she finds that her eyes keep wandering to Mary's abdomen, as if expecting some hello from the unborn -- and, at this point, thoroughly undetectable -- child.
"I'm sorry," Lavinia says, when Mary catches her and punishes her with one of those wry, you dear fool smiles. "It's just -- I'm still a bit shocked, is all."
They've fallen into the habit of being quite frank with each other; Lavinia has always suspected it is to make up for the years they spent tiptoeing around the idea of one another, never being quite honest enough.
"Believe me, you aren't the only one," Mary says, sitting down opposite her. "I spent my entire life being carefully groomed for the sacred twin duties of wifedom and motherhood, and I still hadn't entertained the possibility."
"You'll be a brilliant mother."
"You'll be a brilliant mother." Mary presses a hand to Lavinia's cheek, loose and sisterly in its affection. (Well, perhaps not sisterly, Lavinia amends, considering Edith.) "And you'd best get around to it soon, because I fully intend to mimic whatever you do."
"And -- is Sir Richard happy?"
"Sir Richard is ecstatic. He's not infected with the degree of heir fever that the Crawley men suffer, of course, but he's clearly caught a bit of it. Besides, I think he quite looks forward to having a child to spoil with all that hard-earned money. He tries his best with me, but I'm not nearly easy enough to please." Lavinia laughs a little, mostly because it relieves her to witness how Mary has softened when she speaks of her husband. Not much, but a little. Enough. "What did Matthew think?" Mary's face goes grim and old. Sometimes Lavinia wonders whether perhaps it was for the best, that Mary and Matthew could never quite find their way together. They always seem to make each other so tired.
"Not much," Lavinia says, "but he was rather stormy of countenance all morning."
"Ah." Mary grimaces. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. A baby is joyous news, and he'll admit to it very soon, I'm sure. It's not his place, but I think he takes it quite to heart, whenever he's reminded that you and Sir Richard are -- man and wife."
Mary lifts her eyebrows. "Well, tell him he needn't worry on that count."
"I certainly will not," Lavinia says, quite zealously prim (perhaps she draws upon the Dowager Countess for inspiration, just a bit); she feigns a gasp that gets a true laugh out of Mary. Lavinia feels a little rush of proud delight, the way she always does when she can tell she's made Mary happy, truly happy. "So you--" She feels herself blushing, which is foolish; they're both married women, and what's more, they've turned their backs on polite silence; "--you don't mind all of that, then?"
"Mind? Quite the contrary. It's the only time we really get along."
At least Sir Richard is good for something, when it comes to Mary's happiness. Lavinia means to think only this and move on, but as she looks at Mary now -- stylishly dressed, glossy dark hair pulled back perfectly, face wry and smart and so lovely it hurts a little -- she cannot help but imagine, just for a flash, just for a second, what she might look like in Sir Richard's embrace. How she might move, and sound, and touch--
"Do you want more?" Mary says.
"What?" Lavinia says -- well, gasps a little, really. She feels inconveniently as if she's just been set on fire.
"Tea," Mary says, seeming to notice nothing. But her fingers do drum, unMaryish, against the teapot. "You're nearly out, and God forbid I neglect my duties as mistress of Haxby. What a pall it would cast upon the illustrious family name."
Lavinia nods faintly. "Yes. Please."
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Oh god, Lavinia and her goodness with that temptation that Mary presents, oh so perfect. I like in the first half with the idea of Lavinia already having grown out of Matthew, and the second part reeks of sexual tension, seriously I will now fall asleep with the idea of drawing room sex because of that. Like maybe Richard dies early and Lavinia goes on extended vacations to Haxby to keep Mary "company."
I especially loved the line "Orphean journey out of death" as it seems such an expression of your brilliance in terms of using classical culture (god knows you can use pop culture, you really are a fantastic writer). I do honestly feel like the whole second comment I want to draw hearts around, the first one might hurt me slightly too much, but the second one has such this bitter cavity inducing sweet quality that is beautiful and half fulfilled and thus so tempting to follow in the paths of the mind.
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