Fic: A Girl in Black (5/?)
Title: A Girl in Black (5/?)
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle
Chapter Word Count: 4182
Summary: An aptly named nightclub takes Mary even deeper into Richard Carlisle's world.
Author's Notes: The previous chapter introduced real-life Edwardian socialite Diana Manners, who you'll be seeing again this week in London's very first nightclub, The Cave of the Golden Calf, which was opened in 1912 by Frida Uhl--who was every bit the character Lady Diana was--and frequented by Raymond Asquith, both of whom appear in this chapter. But mostly the chapter is about Richard and Mary breaking with social convention. ;) Just for a bonus, the tango featured is Ángel Villoldo's El Choclo Tango, which he wrote in 1903 and was popularized in European cabarets in the 1910s. There are a lot of versions of it on YouTube, but the one linked is closest to the instrumentation I imagined for this chapter. As always, thanks to ju_dou, loyal minion beta reader and research assistant ;) and of course to all my readers and commenters, who make this story such a treat to share.
Previous Chapters |
5. The Club
Richard's fear that Diana Manners will monopolise Raymond Asquith at the Cave of the Golden Calf proves quite unfounded. On the contrary, it is he who corners the prime minister's son--in quite a literal sense.
"There he is," Richard says almost the moment they descend into the basement-level nightclub.
Mary wonders how he can see anything at all, flashes of light from the photographer's camera outside still passing before her eyes no matter how many times she blinks, and the room wreathed in so much smoke that she's surprised the fire department has not been called. Squinting, she follows the sweep of his top hat as he removes it and sees a figure standing alone at the front of the dining room, sipping a cocktail and watching the pianist's fingers dance across the keys to a ragtime tune. Without a word Richard leaves her side to approach the younger man, and as Asquith turns to shake hands Mary sees that he wears a polka-dot ascot instead of a white evening bowtie, reminiscent of the white-clothed round tables scattered around the darkened room.
Alone, she scans the ever-shifting arrangement of mingling guests for any likely person to assist with her wrap and take it to a cloakroom, but the only staff that seem to be present are the waiters bearing trays of hors d'œuvre and drinks. She darts her eyes once more in Richard's direction, as he was keen enough to help her on with it at Aunt Rosamund's and the theatre, but his body turns almost fully away from her as he leans in to talk to Mr Asquith. With a huff, Mary raises her hands to her throat to work the clasps of her wrap herself.
"Typical Richard," says Diana Manners, sidling up seemingly out of nowhere. She looms, no longer barefoot but augmenting her not inconsequential natural height with a pair of shoes whose heels could double as weapons. Which, given some of the stories Mary has read about the younger woman's encounters with her male admirers, could be useful. "Not even I can turn his head when he gets like that. Cocktail?"
Diana fishes an olive from her empty glass with her gloved fingertips, popping it into her mouth and chewing with a sound of carnal pleasure most suited to a club named as this one is, then plonks the glass on a waiter's passing tray whilst snatching up two more, sloshing their contents on her gown.
"No, thank you," Mary says, eying the unfamiliar drink in the angular glass which Diana thrusts at her, keeping the fuller glass for herself. "I don't believe I shall." She does, however, accept the waiter's offer to take her wrap and bag to the cloakroom.
"You've never had a cocktail before, have you? Darling, that's tragic, a social injustice I simply won't tolerate! I'm a great champion of mending social ills, you know!"
Mary has no choice but to take the cocktail from Diana, lest the giggling girl splash it all over her dress. She raises the glass to her lips and takes a tentative sip, glad when the bitter liquid burns her throat that Diana managed to spill most of it.
"Richard's wild about cocktails," Diana goes on, and Mary can't help but feel a little triumphant when she looks across the room at her escort to find him so intent upon his discussion with Raymond Asquith that he remains oblivious to the cocktail waiter who approaches him.
Nor can she stop herself taking the opportunity to observe him at work, even though doing so reminds her that Diana is correct, and she does not hold his attention. He captivates hers, however, his eyes pale with intensity beneath his heavy brow, the muscles of his neck stretched taut above his collar as he bends his head, physically asserting his dominance over the conversation--as if his voice, low but focused so that it carries above the tinkling of the piano, were not commanding enough. The movement of his hands, stripped of his gloves now, catches her eye as he gestures animatedly, almost as if his very fingers draw the information he seeks from his associate.
Remembering his light touch at her back, his fingers curled around hers, Mary raises her glass to her lips to take a steadying drink. She requires another when he abruptly glances over his shoulder at her, either having caught her movement in his periphery, or aware of her watching him, the intensely drawn lines of his face relaxing into a slow smile.
"Richard, Raymond, darlings!" Diana calls out, waving to them. "Over here!"
But Richard only gives Diana a polite nod of acknowledgment and beckons to Mary, who can't resist glancing back at the other woman and saying, "It seems one of us can turn his head when he's like that, after all." She ought to have taken him at his word when he'd told her so at the start of the evening.
"Lady Mary," he says, drawing her into the conversation with his hand in the small of her back, "Raymond's been asking to meet you."
"Mr Asquith," she says as he squeezes her fingertips. "What a pleasure."
"It's all mine," replies the prime minister's son in wistful tones that match the expression in his dreamy eyes. But his smile fades and his brows knit together as he covers her hand with his other one. "Though I hope you won't mind if I also offer my sincerest condolences for your cousin. Sir Richard tells me he was one of the unfortunates who perished on the Titanic. Please assure your family that we are doing everything we can to inquire into how this awful tragedy occurred, and to compensate in whatever way we can. Of course we know that there can be no recompense for the loss of your beloved cousin's life."
"Reforming inheritance law would be a start," Mary hears herself say, her lips and tongue having formed the words without her brain giving them permission.
Nor was she aware that she's drunk more of her cocktail until she notices she's holding her glass quite near her face. Slowly, she lowers it--though ironically she feels she could stand another drink now more than ever in which to drown her embarrassment--as Richard takes two canapés from a passing tray, and hands one to her.
Luckily, Mr Asquith gives her a sympathetic smile. "Yes, there have been several instances of lines of succession being disrupted by the accident. Even before it I approached my father on a number of occasions about changing these antiquated, paternalistic notions that only persons who wear trousers should inherit estates and titles, but to no avail."
"Your case is hardly pled with people like that Leigh woman throwing axes at his carriage on his way home from the theatre," Richard remarks.
"No," Mr Asquith agrees, paling. "Needless to say, that was one of the more horrifying incidents our family has endured during his time in office."
As he sips his cocktail, Mary pops the last bit of her canapé into her mouth to assure she won't repeat what Granny had said when she read the story: What sort of Amazons are these suffragettes, that they are capable of heaving axes into carriages? She makes a note to tell Richard, later. No doubt he'll appreciate the part where Granny mused that perhaps they trained by participating in the axe-throwing competition in the Highland Games.
"But fodder for your tabloids," says Mr Asquith, his drink bringing the colour back to his face. "1912's been a good year for you, hasn't she, Carlisle? Sinking ocean liners, assassination attempts..."
"Corruption in the government," Richard adds, raising his glass to his lips.
"I still want to know where you got your Marconi scoop, old boy," Mr Asquith says, clapping Richard's shoulder. "Lady Mary, can you charm the truth out of him?"
"If any woman could, it would be her," says Richard, "but I'm afraid even Lady Mary would find that I'm quite as good at keeping secrets as I am at finding them out."
"I'd best leave the pair of you to it, before you deprive me of all mine," says Mr Asquith and, turning to see Diana Manners waving for him to join her and five other men and one woman squeezed around a dining table set for half as many.
A sudden squeeze on her fingertips tangling at her side draws her attention from the other club patrons to her escort.
"Forgive me," says Richard, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks down at her, "I've been inattentive, and you must be famished."
"Well--I don't know how much longer one canapé will stay the effects of that cocktail," Mary allows, and falls into step with him in search of a table.
Most of the ones in close proximity to the stage have been occupied since their arrival, groups of four or six--or larger, in Diana's case--almost shouting to be heard over the driving music of the slightly out of tune piano. Some further back contain empty seats, and Mary clings to Richard's hand and pretends not to notice, for fear that someone will flag them over to join one of the parties. When they find a table laid out for two with room for not even one more, in a relatively quiet corner, no less, she lets out her breath and lets go of his hand.
"Talking of secrets," she says, picking up their earlier thread of conversation as Richard draws out a chair; she tilts her head up at him as he seats her. "How did you find out I was going to be in town?"
"Oh..." His hands linger for a moment on the back of her chair, and his eyes dart away from hers, his grin tilting in an expression she thinks might be sheepish. But as he takes his seat across from her he admits, quite unabashedly, "I obtained that information through means not dissimilar to the ones by which I acquired evidence about the Marconi scandal. Which you will no doubt find unsavoury."
"You couldn't pick a more suitable venue than the Cave of the Golden Calf," Mary says, her attention having been caught by a commotion on the dance floor at the centre of all the dining tables, where Diana hoists the train of her gown almost to her knees, her uncorseted figure jiggling as she dances a one-step to a rag with a young man almost as dishevelled as herself.
Richard chuckles and dips his spoon into the steaming bowl of bouillon a waiter has just served each of them, but Mary is quite in earnest.
"I was honest with you," she says. "Oughtn't we to continue in that spirit?"
Though Richard still looks amused, he lays down his spoon and raises his champagne flute. "To the spirit of honesty…and equality." He takes a drink, then meets her gaze levelly. "You don't need to be Sherlock Holmes to suss how I did it, Mary. Only think for a moment. Who might I have recruited to pass along any information as to when you planned to be in town?"
Mary considers their mutual acquaintance over her bouillon, but only one name comes to mind. "Agnes Belcher?"
"I wasn't certain she would be apprised of all your travel plans."
After another brief moment's thought, Mary guesses, "Not Aunt Rosamund's chauffeur?" It's so absurd that she laughs even as she says it, but Richard leans back in his chair and nods.
"Right on the money."
"You asked him to notify you of when he was to collect me from the station, and he agreed?" After a drink of champagne, she says, "That was bold, Sir Richard, but not entirely unsavoury."
"For a price."
That causes her to swallow so quickly that she narrowly avoids choking, but even so she is not as scandalised as he clearly expects her to be. As she probably ought to be.
"It speaks more of what sort of man he is than against your character, Sir Richard. Though I should perhaps tell Rosamund she should consider a more discrete chauffeur."
The waiter returns to the table then; he collects their empty bowls, replacing them with trout a la meunière and pouring the white wine. After he has gone, they do not immediately resume talking, Richard tucking into the fish with concentration, whilst Mary picks at hers as she tries to dissect her feelings about the lengths to which he'd gone to see her again after they met last May. She can no longer deny that he is courting her, as she had when Rosamund accused him of such the day of their newspaper tour. Nor, she realises as she slowly chews, does she want to. No man has ever gone to such effort before. Not that any man she ever would have considered was in the position Richard is to do so.
At length, she lays down her fork and asks, "Am I to assume you bribed your way to the Marconi scoop, as well?"
"Richard Carlisle," a female voice says as he opens his mouth in answer, low, heavily-accented. German, Mary judges from the guttural pronunciation. They look up as a woman about Mama's age with bobbed dark hair approaches their table, gesturing with mannish hands for Richard not to stand in politeness. "You should have told me you were finally coming to the Cave. I would have reserved you a better table for your first time. Closer to the music."
"We can actually hear each other speak back here, Frida," says Richard.
Mary raises her eyebrows at him. "I didn't realise this was your first visit to the Cave."
Shrugging his shoulders slightly, he says, "Lady Mary, this is Frida Uhl. The owner. Frida, may I introduce Lady Mary Crawley. The Earl of Grantham's eldest daughter. She's staying with her aunt, Lady Rosamund Painswick."
"Charmed, Lady Mary, I am sure. I have been after your Sir Richard since we opened to come so he can give the Cave his endorsement. But he is as all these newspaper men are--my father was one, editor of the Wiener Zeitung in Austria--all work and no play."
Her thin painted lips press together in a smirk, but, apparently disappointed when Richard's only response is to look bored as he drinks his wine, she turns her attention to Mary, studying her from under her heavy lids, one of which droops lazily.
"And no girlfriends, either," she adds.
"Oh no, Miss Uhl," Mary cries, flushing at the slang term being applied to her, and by a stranger, though not five minutes ago she consciously accepted the idea of Richard as her suitor, "I'm not--"
"Frida, just Frida, and you will just be Mary, ja?" She waves a dismissive hand at Mary as she turns away again, but says, "Richard, she is simply lovely. And she must be a remarkable woman to get you out of that stuffy newspaper office of yours."
Richard's gaze rests gently on Mary as he replies, "At last, Frida, a subject we quite agree on. Lady Mary, that is," he adds, in mock-stern tones. "Not my office."
"I hope you will enjoy the Cave, Mary," Frida says, "and you will have to make Richard dance with you. I tease him that this is why he does not come before, because he does not dance. But he insists he is light-footed." She shrugs. "I do not believe what I do not see."
The waiter arrives with the veal and red wine, and Frida slinks off without another word.
"She's nice," Mary offers.
"She has her moments," says Richard cutting his veal, "when you'd never guess she fled Vienna after a scandal that involved her firing a gun at a party at which Prince Fugger-Babenhausen was present."
"Heavens."
Richard chews, then washes down the bite with his claret. "It may or may not have been a suicide attempt. She had written notes before. But she's a bit..." He waves his fork airily as he searches for the appropriate word. "...dramatic."
Mary glances at Diana Manners, who at that moment returns to her table from the dance floor and flops down upon her chair, her tongue hanging out from her grinning mouth like a dog's after a run about the park. "A common trait among this lot."
After his low chuckle fades into the baseline of the piano and the rumble of dinner conversations all around them, no sound passes between them until after the waiter brings the salad. Perhaps Richard does not find the silence as companionable as she, because he asks, "Are you enjoying yourself? I know it's a world away from the parties you must attend at home. Or in London, for that matter."
She wanted another world, when she fled Downton, but she says, "I don't often have the pleasure of French food at home."
The legs of Richard's chair scrape against the floor as he pushes suddenly back from the table. He stands and extends his hand across the table to Mary. "And what about American dancing?"
Mary eyes his upturned palm, the pale calluses barely visible on the pads of his fingertips, faded spots of ink in the creases of his skin. "I'm afraid I've never danced to a rag."
He smiles reassuringly. "It's a simple one-step. You'll catch on in no time, if you'll just follow my lead."
"I have all evening," says Mary, placing his hand in his. "Why not carry on?"
Hand in hand he leads her out onto the dance floor, which is so packed with couples that she wonders how they will manage a dance without colliding into anybody. Without warning Richard twirls her about before drawing her into his arms to fall into step with the music. To her relief it is an easy enough dance to pick up without practice, though the bouncing footwork and swinging movements of their clasped hands necessitated by the rollicking tempo make her feel foolish and common; she dances the one-step more stiffly with Richard than she has ever waltzed with far less desirable partners.
For some reason entirely unknown to her, this train of thought takes her to Cousin Matthew. Has he ever participated in this sort of dance after a day of work in Manchester? she wonders, the answer to her own question presenting itself almost immediately as she considers the news Edith's letter brought of him today. No--any man whose idea of a fun Saturday afternoon includes touring country churches with Edith would be too tightly wound for ragtime.
Richard, however, moves with a limber fluidity she never would have associated with him that night he commanded her gaze across a ballroom. He makes her feel there might be a sort of elegance to be found in this style of dancing, after all, for its very lack of it, and she relaxes into his assured leading arm and allows herself to enjoy this new world. She doesn't even mind when Frida steals him for the next set and allows Raymond Asquith to spin her about the floor. It can't be so very common to dance ragtime with a newspaper magnate and the prime minister's son, can it?
They return to their table when a woman stands up to sing, giggling over their Crème Margot and Madeira at her slinky dress and the songs she sings in French and an even slinkier voice. The laughter and the late hour and the rich food and drink are all beginning to go to Mary's head, so that she is almost relieved when the waiter brings steaming black Turkish coffee so strong it hardly needs a cup. But after only a sip or two the music starts up again, a flutist and a violinist and a moustachioed man with an accordion joining the pianist on stage, while Diana Manners joins them at their table.
"Richard darling! Now that you've proved you really can dance, won't you dance the Argentine tango with me?"
Mary grinds her teeth when Richard stands, but he brushes past her without so much as a glance.
"You'll have to forgive me, Lady Diana, if I prefer to reserve that dance for the lady I escorted here tonight." His eyebrows arch in evident surprise when Mary doesn't hesitate to take his hand and let him lead her to where other dancers are partnering up at either end of the floor. "I imagine this is rather an unsavoury dance for an earl's daughter." His voice lilts upward at the end of the sentence, as if to ask whether she is certain she wants this.
"Actually I have danced the tango," Mary tells him, placing her hand just below his shoulder and clasping his leading hand.
"Have you?" He settles his other hand about her waist just in time to begin the first four-step sequence across the floor.
"Sybil seems to have your talent for getting hold of things she oughtn't. Once it was a book of modern dances, and she begged me to learn it with her after everyone went to bed."
They make their turn, then Richard says, "Your parents are going to wake one morning to find that their daughters have turned into proper suffragettes, throwing axes at carriages. It's a slippery slope from dancing the tango together in a locked bedroom."
Mary remembers to relate Granny's choice remarks about the assassination attempt, but she scarcely hears her own voice for the distraction of how different this tango is to the ones she danced with Sybil...The span and the masculine weight of his hand at her back...the roughness of his fingers against her skin contrasted with the lightness of his touch, his thumb stroking hers as he holds her hand high...the mingled scents of smoke and spice from cigars and cologne and even his pomade...the resonance of his laugh when his chest brushes against her breasts when they lean into each other at the turning...the power of his gaze from beneath his brow to make her breaths come quicker and shallower as he spins her at the end.
When it's over, he twirls her with an extra flourish, then holds her close for a moment longer than every other couple, his hips brushing against hers, only to release her just as abruptly.
"I'd best get you home before my Silver Ghost turns into a pumpkin."
~*~
For all his urgency at the Cave of the Golden Calf, by the time Richard pulls the Rolls Royce alongside the curb in front of Aunt Rosamund's, he seems to be in no hurry as he shuts off the engine, running his hand over the bonnet and side mirrors as he comes around to Mary's side to let her out. His careful ascent of the front steps is probably a wise choice, she muses, given how much they had to drink, but as they pause under the glow of the porch light, he leaning back with his hands gripping the wrought iron railing that separates Rosamund's front steps from the neighbours', she looks up into his eyes and sees no indication that he is not perfectly sober. He is reluctant to say goodnight.
"I hope you won't think me cloyingly sentimental," he says, the depth of his rasping voice the only indication that he may be feel the effects of the nightclub, "but tonight, and these past few days, have been the most enjoyable I've had since...."
He glances down as if considering when his previous most enjoyable day occurred, his face shadowed by his top hat.
Mary waits patiently for several moments for him to conclude the thought, but when he does not, she says, "Enjoyable--I think I might be ill from so much sentiment."
"Frida wasn't joking about the balance of my life tilting quite decidedly toward work." He snaps his head up. "I go everywhere and know everyone, but it's always work."
"The news doesn't stop," Mary says. "How could you?"
"I could," he says, pushing off the railing, the soles of his shoes scraping the pavement as he closes the distance between them. "If I met someone worth stopping for."
He leans in, and, his fingertips just curling around her elbow, brushes his lips across her cheek.
For a heartbeat he doesn't move, his warm breath the ghost of his kiss on her skin. When he does at last draw away, he doesn't release her arm, nor does he break their gaze with so much as a blink. Mary glances down at his lips, thinking he means to kiss her again, properly. She's never known a man's kiss before, nor wanted one, until now. But no sooner has she thought it than Richard releases her, and takes a step backward from her.
She arches an eyebrow at him. "Only a kiss on the cheek, Sir Richard, after we danced a tango?"
"Dancing a tango with you is precisely the reason I only kissed your cheek."
Read Chapter 6
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle
Chapter Word Count: 4182
Summary: An aptly named nightclub takes Mary even deeper into Richard Carlisle's world.
Author's Notes: The previous chapter introduced real-life Edwardian socialite Diana Manners, who you'll be seeing again this week in London's very first nightclub, The Cave of the Golden Calf, which was opened in 1912 by Frida Uhl--who was every bit the character Lady Diana was--and frequented by Raymond Asquith, both of whom appear in this chapter. But mostly the chapter is about Richard and Mary breaking with social convention. ;) Just for a bonus, the tango featured is Ángel Villoldo's El Choclo Tango, which he wrote in 1903 and was popularized in European cabarets in the 1910s. There are a lot of versions of it on YouTube, but the one linked is closest to the instrumentation I imagined for this chapter. As always, thanks to ju_dou, loyal minion beta reader and research assistant ;) and of course to all my readers and commenters, who make this story such a treat to share.
Previous Chapters |
5. The Club
Richard's fear that Diana Manners will monopolise Raymond Asquith at the Cave of the Golden Calf proves quite unfounded. On the contrary, it is he who corners the prime minister's son--in quite a literal sense.
"There he is," Richard says almost the moment they descend into the basement-level nightclub.
Mary wonders how he can see anything at all, flashes of light from the photographer's camera outside still passing before her eyes no matter how many times she blinks, and the room wreathed in so much smoke that she's surprised the fire department has not been called. Squinting, she follows the sweep of his top hat as he removes it and sees a figure standing alone at the front of the dining room, sipping a cocktail and watching the pianist's fingers dance across the keys to a ragtime tune. Without a word Richard leaves her side to approach the younger man, and as Asquith turns to shake hands Mary sees that he wears a polka-dot ascot instead of a white evening bowtie, reminiscent of the white-clothed round tables scattered around the darkened room.
Alone, she scans the ever-shifting arrangement of mingling guests for any likely person to assist with her wrap and take it to a cloakroom, but the only staff that seem to be present are the waiters bearing trays of hors d'œuvre and drinks. She darts her eyes once more in Richard's direction, as he was keen enough to help her on with it at Aunt Rosamund's and the theatre, but his body turns almost fully away from her as he leans in to talk to Mr Asquith. With a huff, Mary raises her hands to her throat to work the clasps of her wrap herself.
"Typical Richard," says Diana Manners, sidling up seemingly out of nowhere. She looms, no longer barefoot but augmenting her not inconsequential natural height with a pair of shoes whose heels could double as weapons. Which, given some of the stories Mary has read about the younger woman's encounters with her male admirers, could be useful. "Not even I can turn his head when he gets like that. Cocktail?"
Diana fishes an olive from her empty glass with her gloved fingertips, popping it into her mouth and chewing with a sound of carnal pleasure most suited to a club named as this one is, then plonks the glass on a waiter's passing tray whilst snatching up two more, sloshing their contents on her gown.
"No, thank you," Mary says, eying the unfamiliar drink in the angular glass which Diana thrusts at her, keeping the fuller glass for herself. "I don't believe I shall." She does, however, accept the waiter's offer to take her wrap and bag to the cloakroom.
"You've never had a cocktail before, have you? Darling, that's tragic, a social injustice I simply won't tolerate! I'm a great champion of mending social ills, you know!"
Mary has no choice but to take the cocktail from Diana, lest the giggling girl splash it all over her dress. She raises the glass to her lips and takes a tentative sip, glad when the bitter liquid burns her throat that Diana managed to spill most of it.
"Richard's wild about cocktails," Diana goes on, and Mary can't help but feel a little triumphant when she looks across the room at her escort to find him so intent upon his discussion with Raymond Asquith that he remains oblivious to the cocktail waiter who approaches him.
Nor can she stop herself taking the opportunity to observe him at work, even though doing so reminds her that Diana is correct, and she does not hold his attention. He captivates hers, however, his eyes pale with intensity beneath his heavy brow, the muscles of his neck stretched taut above his collar as he bends his head, physically asserting his dominance over the conversation--as if his voice, low but focused so that it carries above the tinkling of the piano, were not commanding enough. The movement of his hands, stripped of his gloves now, catches her eye as he gestures animatedly, almost as if his very fingers draw the information he seeks from his associate.
Remembering his light touch at her back, his fingers curled around hers, Mary raises her glass to her lips to take a steadying drink. She requires another when he abruptly glances over his shoulder at her, either having caught her movement in his periphery, or aware of her watching him, the intensely drawn lines of his face relaxing into a slow smile.
"Richard, Raymond, darlings!" Diana calls out, waving to them. "Over here!"
But Richard only gives Diana a polite nod of acknowledgment and beckons to Mary, who can't resist glancing back at the other woman and saying, "It seems one of us can turn his head when he's like that, after all." She ought to have taken him at his word when he'd told her so at the start of the evening.
"Lady Mary," he says, drawing her into the conversation with his hand in the small of her back, "Raymond's been asking to meet you."
"Mr Asquith," she says as he squeezes her fingertips. "What a pleasure."
"It's all mine," replies the prime minister's son in wistful tones that match the expression in his dreamy eyes. But his smile fades and his brows knit together as he covers her hand with his other one. "Though I hope you won't mind if I also offer my sincerest condolences for your cousin. Sir Richard tells me he was one of the unfortunates who perished on the Titanic. Please assure your family that we are doing everything we can to inquire into how this awful tragedy occurred, and to compensate in whatever way we can. Of course we know that there can be no recompense for the loss of your beloved cousin's life."
"Reforming inheritance law would be a start," Mary hears herself say, her lips and tongue having formed the words without her brain giving them permission.
Nor was she aware that she's drunk more of her cocktail until she notices she's holding her glass quite near her face. Slowly, she lowers it--though ironically she feels she could stand another drink now more than ever in which to drown her embarrassment--as Richard takes two canapés from a passing tray, and hands one to her.
Luckily, Mr Asquith gives her a sympathetic smile. "Yes, there have been several instances of lines of succession being disrupted by the accident. Even before it I approached my father on a number of occasions about changing these antiquated, paternalistic notions that only persons who wear trousers should inherit estates and titles, but to no avail."
"Your case is hardly pled with people like that Leigh woman throwing axes at his carriage on his way home from the theatre," Richard remarks.
"No," Mr Asquith agrees, paling. "Needless to say, that was one of the more horrifying incidents our family has endured during his time in office."
As he sips his cocktail, Mary pops the last bit of her canapé into her mouth to assure she won't repeat what Granny had said when she read the story: What sort of Amazons are these suffragettes, that they are capable of heaving axes into carriages? She makes a note to tell Richard, later. No doubt he'll appreciate the part where Granny mused that perhaps they trained by participating in the axe-throwing competition in the Highland Games.
"But fodder for your tabloids," says Mr Asquith, his drink bringing the colour back to his face. "1912's been a good year for you, hasn't she, Carlisle? Sinking ocean liners, assassination attempts..."
"Corruption in the government," Richard adds, raising his glass to his lips.
"I still want to know where you got your Marconi scoop, old boy," Mr Asquith says, clapping Richard's shoulder. "Lady Mary, can you charm the truth out of him?"
"If any woman could, it would be her," says Richard, "but I'm afraid even Lady Mary would find that I'm quite as good at keeping secrets as I am at finding them out."
"I'd best leave the pair of you to it, before you deprive me of all mine," says Mr Asquith and, turning to see Diana Manners waving for him to join her and five other men and one woman squeezed around a dining table set for half as many.
A sudden squeeze on her fingertips tangling at her side draws her attention from the other club patrons to her escort.
"Forgive me," says Richard, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks down at her, "I've been inattentive, and you must be famished."
"Well--I don't know how much longer one canapé will stay the effects of that cocktail," Mary allows, and falls into step with him in search of a table.
Most of the ones in close proximity to the stage have been occupied since their arrival, groups of four or six--or larger, in Diana's case--almost shouting to be heard over the driving music of the slightly out of tune piano. Some further back contain empty seats, and Mary clings to Richard's hand and pretends not to notice, for fear that someone will flag them over to join one of the parties. When they find a table laid out for two with room for not even one more, in a relatively quiet corner, no less, she lets out her breath and lets go of his hand.
"Talking of secrets," she says, picking up their earlier thread of conversation as Richard draws out a chair; she tilts her head up at him as he seats her. "How did you find out I was going to be in town?"
"Oh..." His hands linger for a moment on the back of her chair, and his eyes dart away from hers, his grin tilting in an expression she thinks might be sheepish. But as he takes his seat across from her he admits, quite unabashedly, "I obtained that information through means not dissimilar to the ones by which I acquired evidence about the Marconi scandal. Which you will no doubt find unsavoury."
"You couldn't pick a more suitable venue than the Cave of the Golden Calf," Mary says, her attention having been caught by a commotion on the dance floor at the centre of all the dining tables, where Diana hoists the train of her gown almost to her knees, her uncorseted figure jiggling as she dances a one-step to a rag with a young man almost as dishevelled as herself.
Richard chuckles and dips his spoon into the steaming bowl of bouillon a waiter has just served each of them, but Mary is quite in earnest.
"I was honest with you," she says. "Oughtn't we to continue in that spirit?"
Though Richard still looks amused, he lays down his spoon and raises his champagne flute. "To the spirit of honesty…and equality." He takes a drink, then meets her gaze levelly. "You don't need to be Sherlock Holmes to suss how I did it, Mary. Only think for a moment. Who might I have recruited to pass along any information as to when you planned to be in town?"
Mary considers their mutual acquaintance over her bouillon, but only one name comes to mind. "Agnes Belcher?"
"I wasn't certain she would be apprised of all your travel plans."
After another brief moment's thought, Mary guesses, "Not Aunt Rosamund's chauffeur?" It's so absurd that she laughs even as she says it, but Richard leans back in his chair and nods.
"Right on the money."
"You asked him to notify you of when he was to collect me from the station, and he agreed?" After a drink of champagne, she says, "That was bold, Sir Richard, but not entirely unsavoury."
"For a price."
That causes her to swallow so quickly that she narrowly avoids choking, but even so she is not as scandalised as he clearly expects her to be. As she probably ought to be.
"It speaks more of what sort of man he is than against your character, Sir Richard. Though I should perhaps tell Rosamund she should consider a more discrete chauffeur."
The waiter returns to the table then; he collects their empty bowls, replacing them with trout a la meunière and pouring the white wine. After he has gone, they do not immediately resume talking, Richard tucking into the fish with concentration, whilst Mary picks at hers as she tries to dissect her feelings about the lengths to which he'd gone to see her again after they met last May. She can no longer deny that he is courting her, as she had when Rosamund accused him of such the day of their newspaper tour. Nor, she realises as she slowly chews, does she want to. No man has ever gone to such effort before. Not that any man she ever would have considered was in the position Richard is to do so.
At length, she lays down her fork and asks, "Am I to assume you bribed your way to the Marconi scoop, as well?"
"Richard Carlisle," a female voice says as he opens his mouth in answer, low, heavily-accented. German, Mary judges from the guttural pronunciation. They look up as a woman about Mama's age with bobbed dark hair approaches their table, gesturing with mannish hands for Richard not to stand in politeness. "You should have told me you were finally coming to the Cave. I would have reserved you a better table for your first time. Closer to the music."
"We can actually hear each other speak back here, Frida," says Richard.
Mary raises her eyebrows at him. "I didn't realise this was your first visit to the Cave."
Shrugging his shoulders slightly, he says, "Lady Mary, this is Frida Uhl. The owner. Frida, may I introduce Lady Mary Crawley. The Earl of Grantham's eldest daughter. She's staying with her aunt, Lady Rosamund Painswick."
"Charmed, Lady Mary, I am sure. I have been after your Sir Richard since we opened to come so he can give the Cave his endorsement. But he is as all these newspaper men are--my father was one, editor of the Wiener Zeitung in Austria--all work and no play."
Her thin painted lips press together in a smirk, but, apparently disappointed when Richard's only response is to look bored as he drinks his wine, she turns her attention to Mary, studying her from under her heavy lids, one of which droops lazily.
"And no girlfriends, either," she adds.
"Oh no, Miss Uhl," Mary cries, flushing at the slang term being applied to her, and by a stranger, though not five minutes ago she consciously accepted the idea of Richard as her suitor, "I'm not--"
"Frida, just Frida, and you will just be Mary, ja?" She waves a dismissive hand at Mary as she turns away again, but says, "Richard, she is simply lovely. And she must be a remarkable woman to get you out of that stuffy newspaper office of yours."
Richard's gaze rests gently on Mary as he replies, "At last, Frida, a subject we quite agree on. Lady Mary, that is," he adds, in mock-stern tones. "Not my office."
"I hope you will enjoy the Cave, Mary," Frida says, "and you will have to make Richard dance with you. I tease him that this is why he does not come before, because he does not dance. But he insists he is light-footed." She shrugs. "I do not believe what I do not see."
The waiter arrives with the veal and red wine, and Frida slinks off without another word.
"She's nice," Mary offers.
"She has her moments," says Richard cutting his veal, "when you'd never guess she fled Vienna after a scandal that involved her firing a gun at a party at which Prince Fugger-Babenhausen was present."
"Heavens."
Richard chews, then washes down the bite with his claret. "It may or may not have been a suicide attempt. She had written notes before. But she's a bit..." He waves his fork airily as he searches for the appropriate word. "...dramatic."
Mary glances at Diana Manners, who at that moment returns to her table from the dance floor and flops down upon her chair, her tongue hanging out from her grinning mouth like a dog's after a run about the park. "A common trait among this lot."
After his low chuckle fades into the baseline of the piano and the rumble of dinner conversations all around them, no sound passes between them until after the waiter brings the salad. Perhaps Richard does not find the silence as companionable as she, because he asks, "Are you enjoying yourself? I know it's a world away from the parties you must attend at home. Or in London, for that matter."
She wanted another world, when she fled Downton, but she says, "I don't often have the pleasure of French food at home."
The legs of Richard's chair scrape against the floor as he pushes suddenly back from the table. He stands and extends his hand across the table to Mary. "And what about American dancing?"
Mary eyes his upturned palm, the pale calluses barely visible on the pads of his fingertips, faded spots of ink in the creases of his skin. "I'm afraid I've never danced to a rag."
He smiles reassuringly. "It's a simple one-step. You'll catch on in no time, if you'll just follow my lead."
"I have all evening," says Mary, placing his hand in his. "Why not carry on?"
Hand in hand he leads her out onto the dance floor, which is so packed with couples that she wonders how they will manage a dance without colliding into anybody. Without warning Richard twirls her about before drawing her into his arms to fall into step with the music. To her relief it is an easy enough dance to pick up without practice, though the bouncing footwork and swinging movements of their clasped hands necessitated by the rollicking tempo make her feel foolish and common; she dances the one-step more stiffly with Richard than she has ever waltzed with far less desirable partners.
For some reason entirely unknown to her, this train of thought takes her to Cousin Matthew. Has he ever participated in this sort of dance after a day of work in Manchester? she wonders, the answer to her own question presenting itself almost immediately as she considers the news Edith's letter brought of him today. No--any man whose idea of a fun Saturday afternoon includes touring country churches with Edith would be too tightly wound for ragtime.
Richard, however, moves with a limber fluidity she never would have associated with him that night he commanded her gaze across a ballroom. He makes her feel there might be a sort of elegance to be found in this style of dancing, after all, for its very lack of it, and she relaxes into his assured leading arm and allows herself to enjoy this new world. She doesn't even mind when Frida steals him for the next set and allows Raymond Asquith to spin her about the floor. It can't be so very common to dance ragtime with a newspaper magnate and the prime minister's son, can it?
They return to their table when a woman stands up to sing, giggling over their Crème Margot and Madeira at her slinky dress and the songs she sings in French and an even slinkier voice. The laughter and the late hour and the rich food and drink are all beginning to go to Mary's head, so that she is almost relieved when the waiter brings steaming black Turkish coffee so strong it hardly needs a cup. But after only a sip or two the music starts up again, a flutist and a violinist and a moustachioed man with an accordion joining the pianist on stage, while Diana Manners joins them at their table.
"Richard darling! Now that you've proved you really can dance, won't you dance the Argentine tango with me?"
Mary grinds her teeth when Richard stands, but he brushes past her without so much as a glance.
"You'll have to forgive me, Lady Diana, if I prefer to reserve that dance for the lady I escorted here tonight." His eyebrows arch in evident surprise when Mary doesn't hesitate to take his hand and let him lead her to where other dancers are partnering up at either end of the floor. "I imagine this is rather an unsavoury dance for an earl's daughter." His voice lilts upward at the end of the sentence, as if to ask whether she is certain she wants this.
"Actually I have danced the tango," Mary tells him, placing her hand just below his shoulder and clasping his leading hand.
"Have you?" He settles his other hand about her waist just in time to begin the first four-step sequence across the floor.
"Sybil seems to have your talent for getting hold of things she oughtn't. Once it was a book of modern dances, and she begged me to learn it with her after everyone went to bed."
They make their turn, then Richard says, "Your parents are going to wake one morning to find that their daughters have turned into proper suffragettes, throwing axes at carriages. It's a slippery slope from dancing the tango together in a locked bedroom."
Mary remembers to relate Granny's choice remarks about the assassination attempt, but she scarcely hears her own voice for the distraction of how different this tango is to the ones she danced with Sybil...The span and the masculine weight of his hand at her back...the roughness of his fingers against her skin contrasted with the lightness of his touch, his thumb stroking hers as he holds her hand high...the mingled scents of smoke and spice from cigars and cologne and even his pomade...the resonance of his laugh when his chest brushes against her breasts when they lean into each other at the turning...the power of his gaze from beneath his brow to make her breaths come quicker and shallower as he spins her at the end.
When it's over, he twirls her with an extra flourish, then holds her close for a moment longer than every other couple, his hips brushing against hers, only to release her just as abruptly.
"I'd best get you home before my Silver Ghost turns into a pumpkin."
~*~
For all his urgency at the Cave of the Golden Calf, by the time Richard pulls the Rolls Royce alongside the curb in front of Aunt Rosamund's, he seems to be in no hurry as he shuts off the engine, running his hand over the bonnet and side mirrors as he comes around to Mary's side to let her out. His careful ascent of the front steps is probably a wise choice, she muses, given how much they had to drink, but as they pause under the glow of the porch light, he leaning back with his hands gripping the wrought iron railing that separates Rosamund's front steps from the neighbours', she looks up into his eyes and sees no indication that he is not perfectly sober. He is reluctant to say goodnight.
"I hope you won't think me cloyingly sentimental," he says, the depth of his rasping voice the only indication that he may be feel the effects of the nightclub, "but tonight, and these past few days, have been the most enjoyable I've had since...."
He glances down as if considering when his previous most enjoyable day occurred, his face shadowed by his top hat.
Mary waits patiently for several moments for him to conclude the thought, but when he does not, she says, "Enjoyable--I think I might be ill from so much sentiment."
"Frida wasn't joking about the balance of my life tilting quite decidedly toward work." He snaps his head up. "I go everywhere and know everyone, but it's always work."
"The news doesn't stop," Mary says. "How could you?"
"I could," he says, pushing off the railing, the soles of his shoes scraping the pavement as he closes the distance between them. "If I met someone worth stopping for."
He leans in, and, his fingertips just curling around her elbow, brushes his lips across her cheek.
For a heartbeat he doesn't move, his warm breath the ghost of his kiss on her skin. When he does at last draw away, he doesn't release her arm, nor does he break their gaze with so much as a blink. Mary glances down at his lips, thinking he means to kiss her again, properly. She's never known a man's kiss before, nor wanted one, until now. But no sooner has she thought it than Richard releases her, and takes a step backward from her.
She arches an eyebrow at him. "Only a kiss on the cheek, Sir Richard, after we danced a tango?"
"Dancing a tango with you is precisely the reason I only kissed your cheek."
Read Chapter 6