Fanfic: Climate Change
And now for some fluffi-smut (or smuti-fluff, if you'd rather!)
Disclaimer: My lawyer is hotter than your lawyer. (tm ariadneo )
Timeline: Post-ep 7 AU, where eps 6 & 7 don't exist (and I might've managed to drop ep 3, as well). I call it the River Song-iverse. ;p
Rating: K+/T(ish).
A/N: I did five minutes of research on this. Any inaccuracies, please attribute to the space-time continuum (wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey, etc.)
Climate Change
***
It started as she was making her way back from the village. The sky, previously blue and sunny with not a cloud to be seen, suddenly became dark and forboding, and within minutes, the heavens seemed to have opened, dumping all matter of precipitation on her with an almost biblical force.
If she didn't know better (and believed in that sort of thing. Which she didn't) she'd think she was being punished for something. Punished to walk home alone in the rain (if it even was rain -- it had only just turned autumn, and some of the raindrops seemed awfully icy, as they clung to her eyelashes, obscuring her vision).
She had no choice but to keep walking, of course -- she'd taken the trip accompanied by no one but her own thoughts, as was becoming the case more and more these days. Her sisters still delighted in car trips, but Mary was finding she preferred to be alone, thinking of everything and nothing...war, peace, love, hate, life, death, and now the weather.
So, it shouldn't have been very much of a surprise when she discovered her path had taken her past Crawley House. But indeed, she could see the light on -- a beacon in this sudden stormy darkness. Well, she certainly wasn't going to just wait along the path until one of the servants (or Branson with the car) was sent to fetch her. She'd be liable to be drowned if she waited any longer as it was.
Holding a hand to her hat to at least attempt to shield her face from the rain, she approached the door -- hoping one of the servants might see her. Sure enough, Moseley's half-attempting to be welcoming, half- overly concerned expression appeared as the door was swung wide open. "Lady Mary!" he exclaimed. "What has happened? Are you quite all right?"
"Thank you, Moseley." She practically had to shout to be heard over the inclement weather. "Everyone is fine. I was on my way home from the village when...this happened." Shifting from one foot to the other, she wondered if she was going to have to ask for an invitation into a home her father technically owned.
Luckily, Moseley was not as inattentive as he initially appeared, for he quickly ushered her inside, the wind slamming the door behind both of them. "Let me get you some tea, Lady Mary. I'm afraid--"
His explanation was interrupted by the most horrible sounding noise -- a loud ringing that startled them both. For a moment, it sounded as if there was something wrong with one of the clock chimes, causing it to sound unnecessarily harsh and amplified...before she realized what it was.
Trying to pretend as if she was not at all phased by the sound, she ventured, coolly, "I was unaware my father had a telephone installed here." She was never exactly a frequent visitor to Crawley House, but she could not even remember the last time she had set foot in it. Indeed, it had been...quite a while.
The noise interrupted them once more before Moseley responded, "Oh yes, m'lady....shortly after war was declared. We have had it for some time now, though I can't remember the last time it went off like that." With a brief nod, he murmured, "If you'll excuse me..."
"Of course." It appeared Mary had little choice but to stand there in the corridor, dripping wet while Moseley attended to that blasted telephone. She was beginning to understand why her father kept it in one of the more remote rooms, and why she had practically forgotten it had existed in her own home. Obviously, that was not exactly an option in a considerably smaller house such as this. No, it was very good she had not been here more often...that would have irritated her considerably!
Moseley appeared again in the doorway, looking somewhere between unsure and terrified -- with a good dose of the latter, for it appeared he had lost the ability to speak.
His nerves were contagious, as she felt her own anxiety start to rise. "What is it, Moseley?" she wondered.
"I do apologize, m'lady...but Mr. Crawley has telephoned, wishing to speak with his mother. Unfortunately, she is still at the hospital."
"Is everything all right?" Mary asked almost immediately -- this information doing nothing to quell the anxiety that felt as if it had risen into her throat.
"Oh yes, Lady Mary -- yes, nothing to worry over..." He paused, as if gauging what to say next. "...I know it is not my place to say such things, m'lady, but I do believe Mr. Crawley is due to depart for London tomorrow, having completed his training. And with his mother unavailable...well..." Smiling pitifully, he concluded, "It is not as if he would wish to speak to me before such an occasion."
The man seemed incapable of plain speech, but obviously Mary could decipher his words. Clearing her throat, she offered, "...I suppose I could be an acceptable substitute for--" too many words were the wrong ones-- "for cousin Isobel. Where-- where is your telephone?"
A look of grateful relief spread over Moseley's face as he responded with a "Thank you, m'lady," accompanied by a solemn nod. He then led her through the corridor and into what appeared to be some kind of office...Matthew's office, no doubt: there was a desk and chair, books on shelves and...a telephone on the table. It was all so proper and formal, but it was also the most removed room of the house. Perhaps her cousin Isobel had the same idea about the intrusiveness of the telephone as her own father had.
For a moment, she stared at the device...the receiver was off the hook and lying atop the table. She did not want to appear as if she had no idea how to operate it (surely, it was simple enough!) but she had never had reason to do so.
She hoped her hands weren't shaking (from the cold or nerves, it was difficult to say) when she reached for the receiver and took hold of the telephone base. Likewise, she hoped her voice did not shake in a similar fashion as she spoke directly into the mouthpiece on the frame, as she had observed other gentlemen doing before: "...Hello." Panicking, she realized that she had no way of knowing who would be on the other end of the telephone -- some kind of switchboard operator or... So, she quickly added, "This is Lady Mary Crawley. To whom am I speaking?"
There was a brief period of silence, and she was about to put the receiver down and call for Moseley when... "Good evening, Lady Mary. You'll forgive me if I dispense with introductions, as my time may be rather limited."
It was fortunate that she happened to be seated, for otherwise the receiver might have fallen from her hand. She had not heard his voice since the evening of the sendoff dinner, and it was not as if they'd had a chance (or inclination) to speak at length. And yet, here he was...speaking into her ear. If she closed her eyes...no, she would not (could not) do that. It would be entirely inappropriate! "Of course," she replied, trying to keep the slight tremor from her voice. "I was just saying to Moseley I was not aware Crawley House had a telephone."
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Mary wondered (worried) for a second if they had lost the connection. Finally, he responded, "Yes, well...apparently we have entered the twentieth century."
She had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. This was ridiculous. If there was anything she and Matthew could do, it was carry on a conversation -- even if it wasn't a civil one! She had so many questions, so many things she wished and wanted to hear from him, but which she'd lost all rights to ask. Was there nothing they could discuss now, except...
Adjusting her position by the table, she noticed the water dripping off her sleeve, pooling into a small puddle at her wrist. "Quite the weather we've been having!" she exclaimed, suddenly.
At least the pause between responses was smaller this time. "Indeed, it was rather rainy today." After a moment, he added, "Or at least it was when I walked over here."
"I experienced something similar," she stated, feeling slightly more at ease. "I was coming back from the village when it started. It forced me to stop in here." Her brow furrowed at that last remark, thinking perhaps it was something to which he might take offense. Attempting to explain herself further, she added, "Really, I would not have come at all except I was positively drenched from the rain! You should see me now -- I am quite the sight, I assure you!"
Again, he did not speak immediately, but...there was something different this time. It was almost as if she could...hear him drawing in a breath. "Well, I...I am sure you have since...adjusted back to being inside. I am sure Moseley has seen to that, I would expect no less."
There was something so stilted and awkward about his remarks, but she ignored them, instead replying breezily, "Oh no, he's barely had the chance! I'm afraid I've rather made a mess of your office, dripping water everywhere!"
For a second time, she heard his breathing shift in an odd manner. When next he spoke, it was softer, and but a single word: "...Where?"
Now it was her turn to seem stilted and awkward: "What do you mean 'where?'"
She heard him clear his throat slightly as he asked, "Where did you...drip water...in my office?"
The question itself should have sounded accusatory, but his tone indicated something quite different. She glanced at the water pooling by her wrist, suddenly feeling slightly shy. "On...your table, with the telephone..." she explained. "--where my arm was resting," she felt compelled to add.
"I see." His voice went up slightly on the last word. "And...anywhere...else?"
Once again, he could have been quite cross with her, at that -- especially if she was ruining his office furniture. Yet...he did not sound that way at all. Her eyes traveled to the base of the chair. "Your floor...from my-- my shoes, and there is some from--" she hesitated a moment before boldly pressing ahead, "--from my-- from my skirts as well." Her heart was beating strangely as she began to realize exactly what she was sharing with him, for indeed he could not see her. Yet with his voice in her ear...it was almost as if he could.
As she drew in another shaky breath, she listened as he seemed to be doing the same. This was an utterly nonsensical conversation! It was not as if she would ever have an occasion to write him any sort of letter about this, and if he saw how she looked, there would be no need for additional comment. The...speaking without seeing, the...need for more elaborate...description.
"I trust you are...seated in my chair." The words reached through the receiver, and she felt them traveling from her ear all throughout her body. "The-- the back of it is rather detailed, I've had it since university."
She found herself glaring at the receiver, uninterested in stupid details such as this.
"I don't care to see it ruined, so if you wouldn't mind--" he stopped, before continuing again, his voice lower and firmer than before: "If you...would kindly...remove your hat. That is-- if you have not already done so," was his hasty post-script.
Her eyebrows raised in challenge, her hand barely grazing the brim, feeling the water pooled there. She had half a mind to empty it onto his chair after he'd...addressed her in such a manner. "I assure you, your chair is in no such danger from my hat! And I'll not be seen by anyone with my hair such as it is." Unconsciously, she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear when she was struck with a sudden flurry of...inspiration. "However I may look, I am sure it's a good sight better than you. Did you not say you had to walk to use the telephone? I can only imagine the condition of your hat in this weather!"
"As can I, thankfully, as I was not wearing one."
Now it was her turn to stifle a gasp. In spite of herself, she could feel her eyelids fluttering slightly. She could see it...in her mind, she could see him coming in from the storm, his hair soaked and...looking rather unkempt, perhaps even--
Shaking her head, she brought herself out of her reverie. "Well, that was foolish of you," she chided, trying to sound more disgusted than intrigued. "Whatever were you thinking? Did you forgo your coat as well?"
"Seeing as I came from the barracks, I would say that would be accurate, yes."
From the... she shut her eyes in earnest now, sucking in a breath as she imagined him in his uniform. A picture formed, unbidden, in her head of him quite drenched from the rain...his shirt clinging to his chest, his hair wet from precipitation-- Shivering, she blinked rapidly, trying to reacclimate herself, but mostly failing.
"Well I..." she started, practically straining to speak. "I suppose there is no sense in ruining a perfectly good chair, so... Perhaps I shall remove my hat, after all." Her voice (and resolve) faltered slightly.
She thought she could hear his breathing become a bit more rapid, but she could barely hear it now over the sound of her own rapid breath, her heart pounding as she set the receiver down on the table while she reached up and lifted off her hat, setting it on the floor beside her chair. "There," she said, simply, when the task had been completed. Her fingers prodded along the nape of her neck, trying to assess the condition of her hair. "...Not so undone as I'd suspected," she informed him, softly -- though she could not say for sure if she still talking about her hair. All her thoughts seemed to blur together.
"I am...pleased to hear it," he breathed. His reply made no sense, but neither had anything she had said. Still, it caused her to quietly exhale. Every word he said now seemed intoxicating -- the effect of his voice in her ear was clearly a potent one.
Closing her eyes once more, she ran a hand through her hair, and for an instant, she wondered...what if it was not her hand at all? A soft sigh involuntarily escaped her lips (which she heard echoed in the receiver). "And you, Matthew?" she ventured, daringly -- getting quite carried away now.
She heard his breath hitch at her tone, and she reveled in the sensation. "And...I?"
"Are you so undone as I suspect?"
The words seemed to leave her lips by instinct, and she blinked in horror as she actually heard them aloud. Yet, the rush of blood to her head, his breathing...his voice in her ear that seemed to envelop her seemed to have clouded her ability to think clearly. She knew she should say something else -- take it back, deflect it, do something, but she remained silent. This ridiculous device seemed to have utterly bewitched her...
"...Lady Mary?"
Her eyes flew open as she realized Moseley was addressing her...and standing in the doorway, holding a folded blanket. She froze, realizing how she must have looked: leaning on the table, somehow idly rubbing her own arm, with her feet tucked under her skirts, and her hat on the floor. Her cheeks burned furiously with embarrassment, the receiver falling from her hand, limply hanging from the base of the phone.
The ability to speak in coherent sentences was far too trying a task, and all she could do was cover her abject terror by glowering at Moseley, silently communicating in no uncertain terms that he worked for her father, and she could (and would) have him dismissed at any time if he breathed a word of this to anyone.
Her silent message seemed to have been successfully received, for Moseley merely handed her the blanket and then with a brief nod of deference, disappeared as quickly as he'd materialized.
She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders (only now noticing how cold she had been) and picked up the receiver in slight trepidation.
"...Mary, are you there?" Matthew asked, hesitantly, and she realized he had no idea what had just happened.
Desperately, she tried to salvage the mood by coyly responding, "Where else would I be?" but the words now sounded hollow and uncomfortable.
"What did Moseley want?" Once more, his tone seemed slightly off. He was not upset or annoyed (as she had been), but...curious. Interested. Almost...nostalgic.
"...Nothing, really." There was an awkwardness to her speech now -- her confidence, her boldness had become a distant memory. After a moment, she added, "He brought me a blanket" in an attempt at normal conversation.
"Oh, of course -- my office hasn't had a fire lit in months!"
It was as if she suddenly realized where she was: a place so familiar to him, a place where he would have rather been instead of where he was. A place she had never had any desire to visit, where she'd only stopped in because it was absolutely necessary, and was only there because the person he really wished to speak with was not.
In spite of herself, she ran her hand along the edge of his desk. "It's a rather nice office," she commented. "A bit dark, but...quiet. Peaceful." Glancing around the room, she commented, "You can hear the rain."
She thought she could almost hear him smiling as he responded, "Yes, well at least it looks much better outside than it did before."
"Oh, you're near a window," she marveled, almost to herself. It was the first detail he'd shared about his location, and she latched onto it...trying now to imagine the room where he was -- and the officer who had no doubt known her father, who had kindly let her father's heir use the telephone to speak to his mother the night before he was scheduled to depart.
"So are you." His voice was softer now, but instead of setting her nerves afire it rather soothed them...settling upon her like the blanket around her shoulders. "To the right of my desk..."
Turning around in her chair towards the window, she couldn't help a small grin from forming. It was as if he could see where she was, but she could not see him. He was a voice in her ear, some invisible presence...but at this moment, it did seem as though he was in the room with her.
She gazed out the window, at the rain which indeed looked a lot lighter than before. "I wonder how the weather will be in London," she breathed, thinking of course to places far beyond London which she dared not articulate.
But she could not dwell upon that now. For now, they were both near a window where the rain was letting up. For once, they were both seeing the same thing. Her hand rose almost involuntarily to touch the pane of glass, and somehow she knew he was doing the same. She could hear it...and she could feel it.
The door behind her opened, and she turned to see Moseley once more and her cousin Isobel -- the woman's face a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. She wondered if her cousin had ever used the telephone before.
"Your mother is here," Mary stated, and before he could respond, she had handed the receiver to cousin Isobel, and rose from the chair. Picking up her hat, she headed towards the door as she heard Isobel start to speak into the telephone. There would not be (could not be, must not be) any goodbyes today, and she could only hope (trust, pray) it would be enough for the future.
"Oh...Mary?"
Her cousin was calling to her, with her hand over the mouthpiece. "Matthew wanted me to tell you he thinks the storm won't last long, and should be over soon, but he would like to remain apprised of its progress on this front."
She allowed herself to show a fraction of the warmth practically bursting from her chest, murmuring a sincere "Thank you" as she left the room.
It rained again three days later, but Mary stayed home that day, and began composing her first letter to Matthew about the weather.
The End.
Disclaimer: My lawyer is hotter than your lawyer. (tm ariadneo )
Timeline: Post-ep 7 AU, where eps 6 & 7 don't exist (and I might've managed to drop ep 3, as well). I call it the River Song-iverse. ;p
Rating: K+/T(ish).
A/N: I did five minutes of research on this. Any inaccuracies, please attribute to the space-time continuum (wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey, etc.)
Climate Change
***
It started as she was making her way back from the village. The sky, previously blue and sunny with not a cloud to be seen, suddenly became dark and forboding, and within minutes, the heavens seemed to have opened, dumping all matter of precipitation on her with an almost biblical force.
If she didn't know better (and believed in that sort of thing. Which she didn't) she'd think she was being punished for something. Punished to walk home alone in the rain (if it even was rain -- it had only just turned autumn, and some of the raindrops seemed awfully icy, as they clung to her eyelashes, obscuring her vision).
She had no choice but to keep walking, of course -- she'd taken the trip accompanied by no one but her own thoughts, as was becoming the case more and more these days. Her sisters still delighted in car trips, but Mary was finding she preferred to be alone, thinking of everything and nothing...war, peace, love, hate, life, death, and now the weather.
So, it shouldn't have been very much of a surprise when she discovered her path had taken her past Crawley House. But indeed, she could see the light on -- a beacon in this sudden stormy darkness. Well, she certainly wasn't going to just wait along the path until one of the servants (or Branson with the car) was sent to fetch her. She'd be liable to be drowned if she waited any longer as it was.
Holding a hand to her hat to at least attempt to shield her face from the rain, she approached the door -- hoping one of the servants might see her. Sure enough, Moseley's half-attempting to be welcoming, half- overly concerned expression appeared as the door was swung wide open. "Lady Mary!" he exclaimed. "What has happened? Are you quite all right?"
"Thank you, Moseley." She practically had to shout to be heard over the inclement weather. "Everyone is fine. I was on my way home from the village when...this happened." Shifting from one foot to the other, she wondered if she was going to have to ask for an invitation into a home her father technically owned.
Luckily, Moseley was not as inattentive as he initially appeared, for he quickly ushered her inside, the wind slamming the door behind both of them. "Let me get you some tea, Lady Mary. I'm afraid--"
His explanation was interrupted by the most horrible sounding noise -- a loud ringing that startled them both. For a moment, it sounded as if there was something wrong with one of the clock chimes, causing it to sound unnecessarily harsh and amplified...before she realized what it was.
Trying to pretend as if she was not at all phased by the sound, she ventured, coolly, "I was unaware my father had a telephone installed here." She was never exactly a frequent visitor to Crawley House, but she could not even remember the last time she had set foot in it. Indeed, it had been...quite a while.
The noise interrupted them once more before Moseley responded, "Oh yes, m'lady....shortly after war was declared. We have had it for some time now, though I can't remember the last time it went off like that." With a brief nod, he murmured, "If you'll excuse me..."
"Of course." It appeared Mary had little choice but to stand there in the corridor, dripping wet while Moseley attended to that blasted telephone. She was beginning to understand why her father kept it in one of the more remote rooms, and why she had practically forgotten it had existed in her own home. Obviously, that was not exactly an option in a considerably smaller house such as this. No, it was very good she had not been here more often...that would have irritated her considerably!
Moseley appeared again in the doorway, looking somewhere between unsure and terrified -- with a good dose of the latter, for it appeared he had lost the ability to speak.
His nerves were contagious, as she felt her own anxiety start to rise. "What is it, Moseley?" she wondered.
"I do apologize, m'lady...but Mr. Crawley has telephoned, wishing to speak with his mother. Unfortunately, she is still at the hospital."
"Is everything all right?" Mary asked almost immediately -- this information doing nothing to quell the anxiety that felt as if it had risen into her throat.
"Oh yes, Lady Mary -- yes, nothing to worry over..." He paused, as if gauging what to say next. "...I know it is not my place to say such things, m'lady, but I do believe Mr. Crawley is due to depart for London tomorrow, having completed his training. And with his mother unavailable...well..." Smiling pitifully, he concluded, "It is not as if he would wish to speak to me before such an occasion."
The man seemed incapable of plain speech, but obviously Mary could decipher his words. Clearing her throat, she offered, "...I suppose I could be an acceptable substitute for--" too many words were the wrong ones-- "for cousin Isobel. Where-- where is your telephone?"
A look of grateful relief spread over Moseley's face as he responded with a "Thank you, m'lady," accompanied by a solemn nod. He then led her through the corridor and into what appeared to be some kind of office...Matthew's office, no doubt: there was a desk and chair, books on shelves and...a telephone on the table. It was all so proper and formal, but it was also the most removed room of the house. Perhaps her cousin Isobel had the same idea about the intrusiveness of the telephone as her own father had.
For a moment, she stared at the device...the receiver was off the hook and lying atop the table. She did not want to appear as if she had no idea how to operate it (surely, it was simple enough!) but she had never had reason to do so.
She hoped her hands weren't shaking (from the cold or nerves, it was difficult to say) when she reached for the receiver and took hold of the telephone base. Likewise, she hoped her voice did not shake in a similar fashion as she spoke directly into the mouthpiece on the frame, as she had observed other gentlemen doing before: "...Hello." Panicking, she realized that she had no way of knowing who would be on the other end of the telephone -- some kind of switchboard operator or... So, she quickly added, "This is Lady Mary Crawley. To whom am I speaking?"
There was a brief period of silence, and she was about to put the receiver down and call for Moseley when... "Good evening, Lady Mary. You'll forgive me if I dispense with introductions, as my time may be rather limited."
It was fortunate that she happened to be seated, for otherwise the receiver might have fallen from her hand. She had not heard his voice since the evening of the sendoff dinner, and it was not as if they'd had a chance (or inclination) to speak at length. And yet, here he was...speaking into her ear. If she closed her eyes...no, she would not (could not) do that. It would be entirely inappropriate! "Of course," she replied, trying to keep the slight tremor from her voice. "I was just saying to Moseley I was not aware Crawley House had a telephone."
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Mary wondered (worried) for a second if they had lost the connection. Finally, he responded, "Yes, well...apparently we have entered the twentieth century."
She had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. This was ridiculous. If there was anything she and Matthew could do, it was carry on a conversation -- even if it wasn't a civil one! She had so many questions, so many things she wished and wanted to hear from him, but which she'd lost all rights to ask. Was there nothing they could discuss now, except...
Adjusting her position by the table, she noticed the water dripping off her sleeve, pooling into a small puddle at her wrist. "Quite the weather we've been having!" she exclaimed, suddenly.
At least the pause between responses was smaller this time. "Indeed, it was rather rainy today." After a moment, he added, "Or at least it was when I walked over here."
"I experienced something similar," she stated, feeling slightly more at ease. "I was coming back from the village when it started. It forced me to stop in here." Her brow furrowed at that last remark, thinking perhaps it was something to which he might take offense. Attempting to explain herself further, she added, "Really, I would not have come at all except I was positively drenched from the rain! You should see me now -- I am quite the sight, I assure you!"
Again, he did not speak immediately, but...there was something different this time. It was almost as if she could...hear him drawing in a breath. "Well, I...I am sure you have since...adjusted back to being inside. I am sure Moseley has seen to that, I would expect no less."
There was something so stilted and awkward about his remarks, but she ignored them, instead replying breezily, "Oh no, he's barely had the chance! I'm afraid I've rather made a mess of your office, dripping water everywhere!"
For a second time, she heard his breathing shift in an odd manner. When next he spoke, it was softer, and but a single word: "...Where?"
Now it was her turn to seem stilted and awkward: "What do you mean 'where?'"
She heard him clear his throat slightly as he asked, "Where did you...drip water...in my office?"
The question itself should have sounded accusatory, but his tone indicated something quite different. She glanced at the water pooling by her wrist, suddenly feeling slightly shy. "On...your table, with the telephone..." she explained. "--where my arm was resting," she felt compelled to add.
"I see." His voice went up slightly on the last word. "And...anywhere...else?"
Once again, he could have been quite cross with her, at that -- especially if she was ruining his office furniture. Yet...he did not sound that way at all. Her eyes traveled to the base of the chair. "Your floor...from my-- my shoes, and there is some from--" she hesitated a moment before boldly pressing ahead, "--from my-- from my skirts as well." Her heart was beating strangely as she began to realize exactly what she was sharing with him, for indeed he could not see her. Yet with his voice in her ear...it was almost as if he could.
As she drew in another shaky breath, she listened as he seemed to be doing the same. This was an utterly nonsensical conversation! It was not as if she would ever have an occasion to write him any sort of letter about this, and if he saw how she looked, there would be no need for additional comment. The...speaking without seeing, the...need for more elaborate...description.
"I trust you are...seated in my chair." The words reached through the receiver, and she felt them traveling from her ear all throughout her body. "The-- the back of it is rather detailed, I've had it since university."
She found herself glaring at the receiver, uninterested in stupid details such as this.
"I don't care to see it ruined, so if you wouldn't mind--" he stopped, before continuing again, his voice lower and firmer than before: "If you...would kindly...remove your hat. That is-- if you have not already done so," was his hasty post-script.
Her eyebrows raised in challenge, her hand barely grazing the brim, feeling the water pooled there. She had half a mind to empty it onto his chair after he'd...addressed her in such a manner. "I assure you, your chair is in no such danger from my hat! And I'll not be seen by anyone with my hair such as it is." Unconsciously, she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear when she was struck with a sudden flurry of...inspiration. "However I may look, I am sure it's a good sight better than you. Did you not say you had to walk to use the telephone? I can only imagine the condition of your hat in this weather!"
"As can I, thankfully, as I was not wearing one."
Now it was her turn to stifle a gasp. In spite of herself, she could feel her eyelids fluttering slightly. She could see it...in her mind, she could see him coming in from the storm, his hair soaked and...looking rather unkempt, perhaps even--
Shaking her head, she brought herself out of her reverie. "Well, that was foolish of you," she chided, trying to sound more disgusted than intrigued. "Whatever were you thinking? Did you forgo your coat as well?"
"Seeing as I came from the barracks, I would say that would be accurate, yes."
From the... she shut her eyes in earnest now, sucking in a breath as she imagined him in his uniform. A picture formed, unbidden, in her head of him quite drenched from the rain...his shirt clinging to his chest, his hair wet from precipitation-- Shivering, she blinked rapidly, trying to reacclimate herself, but mostly failing.
"Well I..." she started, practically straining to speak. "I suppose there is no sense in ruining a perfectly good chair, so... Perhaps I shall remove my hat, after all." Her voice (and resolve) faltered slightly.
She thought she could hear his breathing become a bit more rapid, but she could barely hear it now over the sound of her own rapid breath, her heart pounding as she set the receiver down on the table while she reached up and lifted off her hat, setting it on the floor beside her chair. "There," she said, simply, when the task had been completed. Her fingers prodded along the nape of her neck, trying to assess the condition of her hair. "...Not so undone as I'd suspected," she informed him, softly -- though she could not say for sure if she still talking about her hair. All her thoughts seemed to blur together.
"I am...pleased to hear it," he breathed. His reply made no sense, but neither had anything she had said. Still, it caused her to quietly exhale. Every word he said now seemed intoxicating -- the effect of his voice in her ear was clearly a potent one.
Closing her eyes once more, she ran a hand through her hair, and for an instant, she wondered...what if it was not her hand at all? A soft sigh involuntarily escaped her lips (which she heard echoed in the receiver). "And you, Matthew?" she ventured, daringly -- getting quite carried away now.
She heard his breath hitch at her tone, and she reveled in the sensation. "And...I?"
"Are you so undone as I suspect?"
The words seemed to leave her lips by instinct, and she blinked in horror as she actually heard them aloud. Yet, the rush of blood to her head, his breathing...his voice in her ear that seemed to envelop her seemed to have clouded her ability to think clearly. She knew she should say something else -- take it back, deflect it, do something, but she remained silent. This ridiculous device seemed to have utterly bewitched her...
"...Lady Mary?"
Her eyes flew open as she realized Moseley was addressing her...and standing in the doorway, holding a folded blanket. She froze, realizing how she must have looked: leaning on the table, somehow idly rubbing her own arm, with her feet tucked under her skirts, and her hat on the floor. Her cheeks burned furiously with embarrassment, the receiver falling from her hand, limply hanging from the base of the phone.
The ability to speak in coherent sentences was far too trying a task, and all she could do was cover her abject terror by glowering at Moseley, silently communicating in no uncertain terms that he worked for her father, and she could (and would) have him dismissed at any time if he breathed a word of this to anyone.
Her silent message seemed to have been successfully received, for Moseley merely handed her the blanket and then with a brief nod of deference, disappeared as quickly as he'd materialized.
She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders (only now noticing how cold she had been) and picked up the receiver in slight trepidation.
"...Mary, are you there?" Matthew asked, hesitantly, and she realized he had no idea what had just happened.
Desperately, she tried to salvage the mood by coyly responding, "Where else would I be?" but the words now sounded hollow and uncomfortable.
"What did Moseley want?" Once more, his tone seemed slightly off. He was not upset or annoyed (as she had been), but...curious. Interested. Almost...nostalgic.
"...Nothing, really." There was an awkwardness to her speech now -- her confidence, her boldness had become a distant memory. After a moment, she added, "He brought me a blanket" in an attempt at normal conversation.
"Oh, of course -- my office hasn't had a fire lit in months!"
It was as if she suddenly realized where she was: a place so familiar to him, a place where he would have rather been instead of where he was. A place she had never had any desire to visit, where she'd only stopped in because it was absolutely necessary, and was only there because the person he really wished to speak with was not.
In spite of herself, she ran her hand along the edge of his desk. "It's a rather nice office," she commented. "A bit dark, but...quiet. Peaceful." Glancing around the room, she commented, "You can hear the rain."
She thought she could almost hear him smiling as he responded, "Yes, well at least it looks much better outside than it did before."
"Oh, you're near a window," she marveled, almost to herself. It was the first detail he'd shared about his location, and she latched onto it...trying now to imagine the room where he was -- and the officer who had no doubt known her father, who had kindly let her father's heir use the telephone to speak to his mother the night before he was scheduled to depart.
"So are you." His voice was softer now, but instead of setting her nerves afire it rather soothed them...settling upon her like the blanket around her shoulders. "To the right of my desk..."
Turning around in her chair towards the window, she couldn't help a small grin from forming. It was as if he could see where she was, but she could not see him. He was a voice in her ear, some invisible presence...but at this moment, it did seem as though he was in the room with her.
She gazed out the window, at the rain which indeed looked a lot lighter than before. "I wonder how the weather will be in London," she breathed, thinking of course to places far beyond London which she dared not articulate.
But she could not dwell upon that now. For now, they were both near a window where the rain was letting up. For once, they were both seeing the same thing. Her hand rose almost involuntarily to touch the pane of glass, and somehow she knew he was doing the same. She could hear it...and she could feel it.
The door behind her opened, and she turned to see Moseley once more and her cousin Isobel -- the woman's face a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. She wondered if her cousin had ever used the telephone before.
"Your mother is here," Mary stated, and before he could respond, she had handed the receiver to cousin Isobel, and rose from the chair. Picking up her hat, she headed towards the door as she heard Isobel start to speak into the telephone. There would not be (could not be, must not be) any goodbyes today, and she could only hope (trust, pray) it would be enough for the future.
"Oh...Mary?"
Her cousin was calling to her, with her hand over the mouthpiece. "Matthew wanted me to tell you he thinks the storm won't last long, and should be over soon, but he would like to remain apprised of its progress on this front."
She allowed herself to show a fraction of the warmth practically bursting from her chest, murmuring a sincere "Thank you" as she left the room.
It rained again three days later, but Mary stayed home that day, and began composing her first letter to Matthew about the weather.
The End.