Fic: Something Worth Having (7/?)
Title: Something Worth Having (7/?)
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle, Isobel Crawley, George Crawley, Tom Branson
Rating & Warnings: M for references to power dynamics in relationships; adultery; PTSD; terminal illness; widowhood; sex (in future chapters); spoilers for S3
Summary: When Mary moves to London to escape painful memories of Matthew at Downton, she must face more than grief as former suitors and her estranged sister come back into her life.
Chapter Word Count: 3301 words
Chapter Summary: Mary and Richard give teamwork a second chance, and a heart-to-heart with her sister's widower encourages her to rebuild her life in whatever way she can. But does Isobel approve?
Author's Note: Only a week between updates! Thank you all so much for your continued enthusiasm about this story, which hugely inspired me to write this chapter. As did gilpin25, vladnyrki, and littlemei, without whom I never would have figured out the business of modernizing failing English estates.
Previous Chapters |
7. Choosing Teams
"These are your land agent's most recent accounts?" Mary looked up from the ledgers spread across the carved walnut desk to Richard, who sat across from her in Papa's London study. "Not the ones from when you bought Haxby from the Russells?"
"Last month's," Richard replied as hunched forward in his chair and leaned across the desk to tap his index finger on the page in question. "The date's right there at the top." His voice deepened, along with the lines of his face in a scowl. "March, 1922."
Though Mary's temper flared, she did her best to retain her air of composure--Cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley. The entire point of conducting this interview in her own home was to place herself on slightly more even terms with Richard by eliminating the advantage he always seemed to have on his own turf. She refused to be intimidated by him here, sitting at her father's desk.
She sat up straighter, arching her eyebrows at him. "Don't be cross at me. Be cross at Mr Crouch. He's the one who's been charging your tenants such low rents, and not always collecting them in full." Returning her gaze to the account books, she added, "Or at all."
"No wonder the Russells couldn't afford to keep Haxby." With a huff, Richard leaned against the back of his chair and started to rake his fingers through his hair, only to catch himself and smooth it back into place. He exhaled again, loudly, through his nostrils. "And no wonder I can't afford to get rid of it."
"Surely that's a relative term, for a man of your means?"
"I won't sell Haxby at a loss."
Mary shrugged. "Then you'll have to make the farms generate income, as well as rent. One doesn't have to read far into the accounts to see that the farmers are eking out livings for themselves with minimal benefit to you, the landowner."
The problem had appeared so obvious to her that at first she'd thought she must be viewing Haxby through the lens of Downton. It did not seem possible that Richard could be in nearly identical straits as Papa. Equally impossible was that she could misunderstand what was written so plainly in the ledgers.
"It must please you," Richard's brittle tones drew her gaze upward as he stood, "to see how spectacularly I've failed to be a country gentleman."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You were always so eager--you and your family--to point out that I was not, nor never would be, one of your kind of people. I knew it the moment you set eyes on me in that damned tweed suit."
He began to pace the room--prowling, catlike, as he had that other day in his office, but today Mary was no mouse.
Getting to her feet, she said, "We were quite agreed, weren't we, Sir Richard, not to discuss my family? If you can't hold up your end of the bargain, I'm afraid I cannot discuss farming with you."
She had run her fingers along the edge of the ledger as she spoke, and now slipped them beneath the cover to flip it shut. Richard stopped pacing, standing behind his chair, lips parted slightly as if to speak. He didn't, not even to make an apology. But he didn't argue, either. Mary would take what she could get.
Assured of her command of him, she said, more quietly, "Do you think I'd be helping you right now if I wasn't sorry you got stuck with a country house and twelve thousand acres you bought for me and never wanted yourself?"
Richard looked even more contrite, his gaze dropping to his hand on the back of the chair. Smothering a smirk, Mary resumed her place behind the desk.
"Then take a seat, and let me help you, "she said in what she hoped was a tone of brusque professionalism, and smoothed the creases from the front of her black skirt. "It's what you always wanted, isn't it? For me to help you learn to do things properly?"
He worked his jaw in that characteristic mannerism of vexation, but his husky tone belied a more raw emotion. "This isn't precisely the scenario I envisioned."
"Welcome to the club."
For a moment their gazes held, each acknowledging the disappointing trajectories the other's lives had taken, the tension between them breaking only when Richard lowered himself into his chair again, once more at eye level with her across the expanse of the desk.
"So," he said, curling his long fingers over the ends of the armrests, his authoritative posture juxtaposed with his next words, "how do you advise I save myself from Haxby?"
"I should think the obvious solution is to raise the rents."
"Doesn't that obvious solution come with an obvious problem? How will tenant farmers who struggle to pay the current rents take having them raised--and by an absent landlord, no less? I deal with enough disgruntled senses of entitlement from my own employees."
"Alternatively, you could buy them out."
"Pay for what I already own?"
"It would be cheaper than losing money off land not being farmed properly. Buy out the tenants, raze the cottages, lease the land to be farmed properly. For profit. Why are you smiling?" Mary interrupted herself, noticing that Richard had relaxed against the back his chair, his chin tilting slightly upward, as did the corners of his mouth.
"Forgive me." He fidgeted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and she released the breath she'd been holding as his gaze flickered away--only to catch it again when his blue eyes snapped back to hers. "Only listen to yourself. You've a knack for business."
I think very highly of you, Richard had said, looking at her exactly like that, once upon a time when he proposed to her. Then, she had found it quite the let-down, indifferent and inspiring in her no wish to spend the next thirty years of her life as this man's wife, as Matthew's impulsive and impassioned proposal following their kiss in the dining room had. Now, she drew slow deep breaths to rein in the increasing tempo of her heart, but in vain. When heat prickled up from the collar of her black blouse along her jawline toward her cheeks, she glanced away.
"Or I've simply eavesdropped on men who do."
"How do you think the son of a Morningside printer and laundress learned how to become a millionaire? And I'll wager you're cleverer than any of those businessmen."
"You flatter me."
"Not at all. You know my opinion of--" Richard caught himself, even before Mary gave him a sharp look. "Of flattery."
His hand went back to tug at the curling ends of his hair above his collar, and Mary's smile sneaked through her pursed lips.
"This all sounds sensible to me," said Richard, sweeping his hand to indicate the account books as he sat forward in his chair again, "but of course my knowledge of farming is…scant. Where would I even begin?"
"By sacking your land agent. You have no scruples about that practice, I should think?"
Richard grinned. "If I do the firing, will you do the hiring? Unless of course you'd like to embark on a career yourself."
"Why do I have the impression you're not entirely joking?"
"Come now--do you want to be the only Crawley sister without a career?"
"If you know me at all, then you must realise how much I enjoy standing out."
Once that had been a good deal truer than it was now. Standing apart in her grief had driven her from Downton and village life. Even now, she felt conspicuous dressed in drab mourning garb--though less so in the company of Richard in his black pinstriped business suit than she did in other settings.
The clock in the hall chimed, and as Richard bent his head to check the silver watch draped across his waistcoat, murmuring that he must be getting back to the office, Mary thought an hour had not elapsed so quickly since last September. Perhaps there was something to having an occupation, after all.
"Talking of Lady Edith," Richard said as together they packed the ledgers into his briefcase, "I've been following her column."
"You subscribe to the Sketch?"
The brass closures of the briefcase snapped shut, and he regarded her incredulously. "I don't make a habit of subscribing to my competitors' publications. Josephine takes it."
Mary twitched her thumbs against the sides of her forefingers, unsure whether her annoyance was directed at Richard for mentioning his lady friend, or at herself for being annoyed at the mention of the jazz singer.
"I'm surprised you don't hold the women you court to your same standard."
"I courted you. At Downton, the Times is held as reverentially as the Bible. Anyway," Richard added, "I'm not precisely courting Josephine."
Mary didn't trouble herself to stop an eye roll, though she wished she had as she glimpsed the smug flash of a dimple as Richard turned to quit the study.
"You were saying about Edith?" she asked, sweeping past hum into the hall as he held the door for her. From the drawing room came muted sounds of Isobel and George imitating train whistles. "Or did you merely wish me to pass along your compliments? I'll warn you, we're not on the easiest of terms."
"Sibling rivalries--the one thing guaranteed in life never to change, no matter what tragedies life hurls our way?"
Mary winced, chastised, though not by Richard's words, which his thoughtful gaze indicated had not been uttered with the intent of wounding--or at least not of chiding her conscience. He could not know that on the morning Sybil died that Edith had asked whether they might live each other as sisters, only for Mary to rebuff her.
"Is your sister happy with her career?" asked Richard, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat which Molesley scurried to bring. "Does she have plans for more ambitious work than writing for a ladies' journal, or is she content to work for Gregson?"
"I couldn't say. Do you have something in mind?"
"I might. Let her know, if terms improve, that I'd be happy to speak with her should she have any such aspirations."
She assured him she would try, but added, "It might be better coming directly from you. Edith's predisposed to think I'm passing judgment on her personal life."
At that moment, Isobel emerged from the drawing room, the brief falter of her cheerful greeting indicating she'd overheard Mary's words.
"Mrs Crawley." Richard said, and removed the trilby he'd just donned; in his grandmother's arms, George lunged for it. Chuckling, Richard placed it on the boy's head, and they all, Molesley included, laughed at the image of George, obscured to his slobbery chin in trilby, turning his head back and forth in owlish, silent confusion.
"Won't you stay for luncheon, Sir Richard?" Isobel asked. "You can see how much Georgie enjoys the train you so thoughtfully sent. Perhaps he'll reproduce the trick he learnt last night. Did Mary tell you he scooted on his tummy to try and catch the engine?"
"She did not."
Mary flushed at being found so remiss, though she'd always thought parents who boasted about their children's accomplishments as if every other baby in the course of human history had not achieved them were tiresome. Luckily Richard was preoccupied with rescuing his trilby as George yanked it off his head with both hands and pulled the felt brim toward his mouth.
"Clever lad," he said, without any indication that he thought the proud grandmother tiresome. "Although I'm afraid catching trains is hardly a necessary skill, given the perpetual lateness of the English railway. But I shall soon be tardy for an appointment myself, without the excuse of a late train," he added as the clock chimed the quarter-hour. "Thank you, Mrs Crawley, but I hope you'll extend a rain cheque."
Isobel nodded dubiously, and retreated with George to the drawing room, where she rang for Nanny Philips.
Molesley got the front door and Richard stepped through, but he turned back on the doorstep, running his fingers along the edge of the trilby he still had not put on, as though he were reluctant to go despite the looming engagement. And as his warm, callused fingers curled gently around hers to shake her hand, Mary discovered that she, too, was loath to say goodbye.
"So I can look forward to hearing from you when you've found me a suitable land agent?"
"You're looking forward to hearing from me? Some things do change."
~*~
Yes, some things did change--but for a man whose life's purpose and current career were to bring it about, Tom Branson seemed unduly surprised when Mary rang him later that day, soliciting his advice about estate modernisation. He tried to hide it with teasing, but the pitch of curiosity beneath his lilting brogue carried across the two hundred miles of telephone lines between them as clearly as if they were in the same study together.
"Why do you want land agent recommendations? Has Lord Grantham asked you to look into replacing me?"
"As a matter of fact I'm doing exactly that for…a friend."
Instantly she regretted her slight hesitation over how to refer to Richard--were they friends?---as Tom, who never missed a detail nor resisted the lure of his inquisitiveness for long, seized on it.
"Not Mr Napier?"
Tom knew about Evelyn from her letters, both to him and the ones Mama no doubt shared with everyone in the family over tea, but she had omitted Richard even from her account of the dinner party. But she could not very well do so now, if they were to have a potential business connection, no matter how distant.
She cleared her throat and drew back her shoulders, imagining her brother-in-law standing in front of the desk, and dealt the truth to him as plainly and unapologetically as she had confronted him before about Sybil. "Sir Richard Carlisle."
A lengthy pause ensued before Tom said, "Your former fiancé?" He sounded nearly as surprised as he had by the initial inquiry which sparked her call.
"It isn't like that. And please keep your voice down." Mary scarcely spoke above a whisper herself as she cast a furtive glance at the study door, even though she knew perfectly well it was firmly shut. "He isn't exactly a favourite with Mama and Papa. Or Carson."
Tom chuckled. "Don't worry. There's no one about. And I don't know much about your family's opinions of Sir Richard. Though generally I find that if Lord Grantham dislikes a person, I ought to give them a chance."
Mary rolled her eyes at the dig at Papa; perhaps if she was going to be dealing often with her brother-in-law, she ought to hold him to the same promises as Richard. "Sybil didn't think much of him."
"That's because she thought you were marrying Sir Richard for his money and position. Her opinion improved slightly when he escorted you and Edith to Dublin for the wedding."
She'd never said, Mary thought. Never said so many things…Though on the subject of Richard, by the time she'd seen her little sister again, it had been the eve of her own wedding to Matthew. Her resentment of those months of separation roiled anew… The years of separation from Matthew…
"What about your opinion?" she asked, abruptly returning to the matter at hand.
"Mine had been pretty well formed by a few interesting political exchanges as I drove Sir Richard to and from the train station."
Mary was glad not only for the distraction from her grief, but that Tom could not see her boggled expression at this bit of information. Richard had actually emerged from behind his newspapers to converse with the chauffeur? He hadn't even done that when he took the train down from London with Aunt Rosamund the first time. Then again, one could hardly blame a man for that.
"By interesting I can only presume you mean intense, given your diametrically opposing views."
"On economics, yes. But I've nothing against a man earning his wealth. We quite agree on matters of being born into money and power, and of course there's the journalism connection. We both objected to the War--albeit for different reasons. And," he added after a pause, in a tone that perfectly conveyed to Mary that he was grinning on the other end of the line; she could almost see his blue eyes twinkling in that mischievous way she was sure must have appealed to Sybil's rebellious streak, "there was that personal opinion we held in common, that the other would be the son-in-law Lord Grantham would dislike the most."
"The basis of a solid friendship," said Mary with a laugh.
"We'd might have been bosom pals if we'd only been able to overcome our differences about the superiority of whisky over Scotch. By Sir Richard recognising whisky's superiority, of course."
"You never know…He and I seem to be overcoming our differences about a great many matters." Such as blackmail.
Of course Richard had always believed they were more alike than Mary would own to. Was he right? And if he was, could that possibly be a good thing?
"Please, Tom," she spoke low into the receiver, cupping the earpiece hard against the side of her head, "don't mention a word of any of this to Mama and Papa. They wouldn't understand why I'm doing it. I'm not entirely sure I do."
When had she regressed to the time in her life when she conspired against her parents? She wasn't thirteen anymore…In fact, next month she would be thirty, she realised with some surprise.
"Does Matthew's mother understand?" asked Tom.
Why he couldn’t have called her Mrs Crawley instead of referring to her as Matthew's mother made Mary's stomach coil tight as the knot she had not realized she was twisting in the telephone cord. Was his wording intentional? If so, it may have been for the best, reminding her that her choices did not affect her alone, but she clenched her jaw.
"Isobel accepts that I must have an occupation."
Though she remembered the anxiety with which Isobel had asked whether Richard was courting her, and the appearance of relief when he could not accept this morning's impromptu luncheon invitation.
"You'll get no judgment from me," Tom said. "After all I'm an Irish Republican now managing the ancient seat of an English earl." He must have spat the words, because the earpiece crackled with static, but he went on in a gentler tone. "We've lost the people we love most in the world, apart from Sybbie and George. We've got lives to rebuild, and we've got to start somewhere."
Mary wished she could speak aloud how immense was her gratitude that Tom understood what she felt, what she needed, but all she could manage was a nod, which he of course could not see, as she set the microphone on the corner of the desk and clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. Though her comfort was that Tom must also know that without her having to say--most ironically, given the new thoughts that had begun to plague her nights.
"Though if Carlisle ever makes you uncomfortable," Tom said, the spirit coming back into his voice, "remember I've got rough friends."
Laughing as she wiped away her tears, Mary took up the mouthpiece once again. "The question, Tom," she said, "is whether you've got any fellow land agents who are rough enough to suit Sir Richard?"
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle, Isobel Crawley, George Crawley, Tom Branson
Rating & Warnings: M for references to power dynamics in relationships; adultery; PTSD; terminal illness; widowhood; sex (in future chapters); spoilers for S3
Summary: When Mary moves to London to escape painful memories of Matthew at Downton, she must face more than grief as former suitors and her estranged sister come back into her life.
Chapter Word Count: 3301 words
Chapter Summary: Mary and Richard give teamwork a second chance, and a heart-to-heart with her sister's widower encourages her to rebuild her life in whatever way she can. But does Isobel approve?
Author's Note: Only a week between updates! Thank you all so much for your continued enthusiasm about this story, which hugely inspired me to write this chapter. As did gilpin25, vladnyrki, and littlemei, without whom I never would have figured out the business of modernizing failing English estates.
Previous Chapters |
7. Choosing Teams
"These are your land agent's most recent accounts?" Mary looked up from the ledgers spread across the carved walnut desk to Richard, who sat across from her in Papa's London study. "Not the ones from when you bought Haxby from the Russells?"
"Last month's," Richard replied as hunched forward in his chair and leaned across the desk to tap his index finger on the page in question. "The date's right there at the top." His voice deepened, along with the lines of his face in a scowl. "March, 1922."
Though Mary's temper flared, she did her best to retain her air of composure--Cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley. The entire point of conducting this interview in her own home was to place herself on slightly more even terms with Richard by eliminating the advantage he always seemed to have on his own turf. She refused to be intimidated by him here, sitting at her father's desk.
She sat up straighter, arching her eyebrows at him. "Don't be cross at me. Be cross at Mr Crouch. He's the one who's been charging your tenants such low rents, and not always collecting them in full." Returning her gaze to the account books, she added, "Or at all."
"No wonder the Russells couldn't afford to keep Haxby." With a huff, Richard leaned against the back of his chair and started to rake his fingers through his hair, only to catch himself and smooth it back into place. He exhaled again, loudly, through his nostrils. "And no wonder I can't afford to get rid of it."
"Surely that's a relative term, for a man of your means?"
"I won't sell Haxby at a loss."
Mary shrugged. "Then you'll have to make the farms generate income, as well as rent. One doesn't have to read far into the accounts to see that the farmers are eking out livings for themselves with minimal benefit to you, the landowner."
The problem had appeared so obvious to her that at first she'd thought she must be viewing Haxby through the lens of Downton. It did not seem possible that Richard could be in nearly identical straits as Papa. Equally impossible was that she could misunderstand what was written so plainly in the ledgers.
"It must please you," Richard's brittle tones drew her gaze upward as he stood, "to see how spectacularly I've failed to be a country gentleman."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You were always so eager--you and your family--to point out that I was not, nor never would be, one of your kind of people. I knew it the moment you set eyes on me in that damned tweed suit."
He began to pace the room--prowling, catlike, as he had that other day in his office, but today Mary was no mouse.
Getting to her feet, she said, "We were quite agreed, weren't we, Sir Richard, not to discuss my family? If you can't hold up your end of the bargain, I'm afraid I cannot discuss farming with you."
She had run her fingers along the edge of the ledger as she spoke, and now slipped them beneath the cover to flip it shut. Richard stopped pacing, standing behind his chair, lips parted slightly as if to speak. He didn't, not even to make an apology. But he didn't argue, either. Mary would take what she could get.
Assured of her command of him, she said, more quietly, "Do you think I'd be helping you right now if I wasn't sorry you got stuck with a country house and twelve thousand acres you bought for me and never wanted yourself?"
Richard looked even more contrite, his gaze dropping to his hand on the back of the chair. Smothering a smirk, Mary resumed her place behind the desk.
"Then take a seat, and let me help you, "she said in what she hoped was a tone of brusque professionalism, and smoothed the creases from the front of her black skirt. "It's what you always wanted, isn't it? For me to help you learn to do things properly?"
He worked his jaw in that characteristic mannerism of vexation, but his husky tone belied a more raw emotion. "This isn't precisely the scenario I envisioned."
"Welcome to the club."
For a moment their gazes held, each acknowledging the disappointing trajectories the other's lives had taken, the tension between them breaking only when Richard lowered himself into his chair again, once more at eye level with her across the expanse of the desk.
"So," he said, curling his long fingers over the ends of the armrests, his authoritative posture juxtaposed with his next words, "how do you advise I save myself from Haxby?"
"I should think the obvious solution is to raise the rents."
"Doesn't that obvious solution come with an obvious problem? How will tenant farmers who struggle to pay the current rents take having them raised--and by an absent landlord, no less? I deal with enough disgruntled senses of entitlement from my own employees."
"Alternatively, you could buy them out."
"Pay for what I already own?"
"It would be cheaper than losing money off land not being farmed properly. Buy out the tenants, raze the cottages, lease the land to be farmed properly. For profit. Why are you smiling?" Mary interrupted herself, noticing that Richard had relaxed against the back his chair, his chin tilting slightly upward, as did the corners of his mouth.
"Forgive me." He fidgeted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and she released the breath she'd been holding as his gaze flickered away--only to catch it again when his blue eyes snapped back to hers. "Only listen to yourself. You've a knack for business."
I think very highly of you, Richard had said, looking at her exactly like that, once upon a time when he proposed to her. Then, she had found it quite the let-down, indifferent and inspiring in her no wish to spend the next thirty years of her life as this man's wife, as Matthew's impulsive and impassioned proposal following their kiss in the dining room had. Now, she drew slow deep breaths to rein in the increasing tempo of her heart, but in vain. When heat prickled up from the collar of her black blouse along her jawline toward her cheeks, she glanced away.
"Or I've simply eavesdropped on men who do."
"How do you think the son of a Morningside printer and laundress learned how to become a millionaire? And I'll wager you're cleverer than any of those businessmen."
"You flatter me."
"Not at all. You know my opinion of--" Richard caught himself, even before Mary gave him a sharp look. "Of flattery."
His hand went back to tug at the curling ends of his hair above his collar, and Mary's smile sneaked through her pursed lips.
"This all sounds sensible to me," said Richard, sweeping his hand to indicate the account books as he sat forward in his chair again, "but of course my knowledge of farming is…scant. Where would I even begin?"
"By sacking your land agent. You have no scruples about that practice, I should think?"
Richard grinned. "If I do the firing, will you do the hiring? Unless of course you'd like to embark on a career yourself."
"Why do I have the impression you're not entirely joking?"
"Come now--do you want to be the only Crawley sister without a career?"
"If you know me at all, then you must realise how much I enjoy standing out."
Once that had been a good deal truer than it was now. Standing apart in her grief had driven her from Downton and village life. Even now, she felt conspicuous dressed in drab mourning garb--though less so in the company of Richard in his black pinstriped business suit than she did in other settings.
The clock in the hall chimed, and as Richard bent his head to check the silver watch draped across his waistcoat, murmuring that he must be getting back to the office, Mary thought an hour had not elapsed so quickly since last September. Perhaps there was something to having an occupation, after all.
"Talking of Lady Edith," Richard said as together they packed the ledgers into his briefcase, "I've been following her column."
"You subscribe to the Sketch?"
The brass closures of the briefcase snapped shut, and he regarded her incredulously. "I don't make a habit of subscribing to my competitors' publications. Josephine takes it."
Mary twitched her thumbs against the sides of her forefingers, unsure whether her annoyance was directed at Richard for mentioning his lady friend, or at herself for being annoyed at the mention of the jazz singer.
"I'm surprised you don't hold the women you court to your same standard."
"I courted you. At Downton, the Times is held as reverentially as the Bible. Anyway," Richard added, "I'm not precisely courting Josephine."
Mary didn't trouble herself to stop an eye roll, though she wished she had as she glimpsed the smug flash of a dimple as Richard turned to quit the study.
"You were saying about Edith?" she asked, sweeping past hum into the hall as he held the door for her. From the drawing room came muted sounds of Isobel and George imitating train whistles. "Or did you merely wish me to pass along your compliments? I'll warn you, we're not on the easiest of terms."
"Sibling rivalries--the one thing guaranteed in life never to change, no matter what tragedies life hurls our way?"
Mary winced, chastised, though not by Richard's words, which his thoughtful gaze indicated had not been uttered with the intent of wounding--or at least not of chiding her conscience. He could not know that on the morning Sybil died that Edith had asked whether they might live each other as sisters, only for Mary to rebuff her.
"Is your sister happy with her career?" asked Richard, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat which Molesley scurried to bring. "Does she have plans for more ambitious work than writing for a ladies' journal, or is she content to work for Gregson?"
"I couldn't say. Do you have something in mind?"
"I might. Let her know, if terms improve, that I'd be happy to speak with her should she have any such aspirations."
She assured him she would try, but added, "It might be better coming directly from you. Edith's predisposed to think I'm passing judgment on her personal life."
At that moment, Isobel emerged from the drawing room, the brief falter of her cheerful greeting indicating she'd overheard Mary's words.
"Mrs Crawley." Richard said, and removed the trilby he'd just donned; in his grandmother's arms, George lunged for it. Chuckling, Richard placed it on the boy's head, and they all, Molesley included, laughed at the image of George, obscured to his slobbery chin in trilby, turning his head back and forth in owlish, silent confusion.
"Won't you stay for luncheon, Sir Richard?" Isobel asked. "You can see how much Georgie enjoys the train you so thoughtfully sent. Perhaps he'll reproduce the trick he learnt last night. Did Mary tell you he scooted on his tummy to try and catch the engine?"
"She did not."
Mary flushed at being found so remiss, though she'd always thought parents who boasted about their children's accomplishments as if every other baby in the course of human history had not achieved them were tiresome. Luckily Richard was preoccupied with rescuing his trilby as George yanked it off his head with both hands and pulled the felt brim toward his mouth.
"Clever lad," he said, without any indication that he thought the proud grandmother tiresome. "Although I'm afraid catching trains is hardly a necessary skill, given the perpetual lateness of the English railway. But I shall soon be tardy for an appointment myself, without the excuse of a late train," he added as the clock chimed the quarter-hour. "Thank you, Mrs Crawley, but I hope you'll extend a rain cheque."
Isobel nodded dubiously, and retreated with George to the drawing room, where she rang for Nanny Philips.
Molesley got the front door and Richard stepped through, but he turned back on the doorstep, running his fingers along the edge of the trilby he still had not put on, as though he were reluctant to go despite the looming engagement. And as his warm, callused fingers curled gently around hers to shake her hand, Mary discovered that she, too, was loath to say goodbye.
"So I can look forward to hearing from you when you've found me a suitable land agent?"
"You're looking forward to hearing from me? Some things do change."
~*~
Yes, some things did change--but for a man whose life's purpose and current career were to bring it about, Tom Branson seemed unduly surprised when Mary rang him later that day, soliciting his advice about estate modernisation. He tried to hide it with teasing, but the pitch of curiosity beneath his lilting brogue carried across the two hundred miles of telephone lines between them as clearly as if they were in the same study together.
"Why do you want land agent recommendations? Has Lord Grantham asked you to look into replacing me?"
"As a matter of fact I'm doing exactly that for…a friend."
Instantly she regretted her slight hesitation over how to refer to Richard--were they friends?---as Tom, who never missed a detail nor resisted the lure of his inquisitiveness for long, seized on it.
"Not Mr Napier?"
Tom knew about Evelyn from her letters, both to him and the ones Mama no doubt shared with everyone in the family over tea, but she had omitted Richard even from her account of the dinner party. But she could not very well do so now, if they were to have a potential business connection, no matter how distant.
She cleared her throat and drew back her shoulders, imagining her brother-in-law standing in front of the desk, and dealt the truth to him as plainly and unapologetically as she had confronted him before about Sybil. "Sir Richard Carlisle."
A lengthy pause ensued before Tom said, "Your former fiancé?" He sounded nearly as surprised as he had by the initial inquiry which sparked her call.
"It isn't like that. And please keep your voice down." Mary scarcely spoke above a whisper herself as she cast a furtive glance at the study door, even though she knew perfectly well it was firmly shut. "He isn't exactly a favourite with Mama and Papa. Or Carson."
Tom chuckled. "Don't worry. There's no one about. And I don't know much about your family's opinions of Sir Richard. Though generally I find that if Lord Grantham dislikes a person, I ought to give them a chance."
Mary rolled her eyes at the dig at Papa; perhaps if she was going to be dealing often with her brother-in-law, she ought to hold him to the same promises as Richard. "Sybil didn't think much of him."
"That's because she thought you were marrying Sir Richard for his money and position. Her opinion improved slightly when he escorted you and Edith to Dublin for the wedding."
She'd never said, Mary thought. Never said so many things…Though on the subject of Richard, by the time she'd seen her little sister again, it had been the eve of her own wedding to Matthew. Her resentment of those months of separation roiled anew… The years of separation from Matthew…
"What about your opinion?" she asked, abruptly returning to the matter at hand.
"Mine had been pretty well formed by a few interesting political exchanges as I drove Sir Richard to and from the train station."
Mary was glad not only for the distraction from her grief, but that Tom could not see her boggled expression at this bit of information. Richard had actually emerged from behind his newspapers to converse with the chauffeur? He hadn't even done that when he took the train down from London with Aunt Rosamund the first time. Then again, one could hardly blame a man for that.
"By interesting I can only presume you mean intense, given your diametrically opposing views."
"On economics, yes. But I've nothing against a man earning his wealth. We quite agree on matters of being born into money and power, and of course there's the journalism connection. We both objected to the War--albeit for different reasons. And," he added after a pause, in a tone that perfectly conveyed to Mary that he was grinning on the other end of the line; she could almost see his blue eyes twinkling in that mischievous way she was sure must have appealed to Sybil's rebellious streak, "there was that personal opinion we held in common, that the other would be the son-in-law Lord Grantham would dislike the most."
"The basis of a solid friendship," said Mary with a laugh.
"We'd might have been bosom pals if we'd only been able to overcome our differences about the superiority of whisky over Scotch. By Sir Richard recognising whisky's superiority, of course."
"You never know…He and I seem to be overcoming our differences about a great many matters." Such as blackmail.
Of course Richard had always believed they were more alike than Mary would own to. Was he right? And if he was, could that possibly be a good thing?
"Please, Tom," she spoke low into the receiver, cupping the earpiece hard against the side of her head, "don't mention a word of any of this to Mama and Papa. They wouldn't understand why I'm doing it. I'm not entirely sure I do."
When had she regressed to the time in her life when she conspired against her parents? She wasn't thirteen anymore…In fact, next month she would be thirty, she realised with some surprise.
"Does Matthew's mother understand?" asked Tom.
Why he couldn’t have called her Mrs Crawley instead of referring to her as Matthew's mother made Mary's stomach coil tight as the knot she had not realized she was twisting in the telephone cord. Was his wording intentional? If so, it may have been for the best, reminding her that her choices did not affect her alone, but she clenched her jaw.
"Isobel accepts that I must have an occupation."
Though she remembered the anxiety with which Isobel had asked whether Richard was courting her, and the appearance of relief when he could not accept this morning's impromptu luncheon invitation.
"You'll get no judgment from me," Tom said. "After all I'm an Irish Republican now managing the ancient seat of an English earl." He must have spat the words, because the earpiece crackled with static, but he went on in a gentler tone. "We've lost the people we love most in the world, apart from Sybbie and George. We've got lives to rebuild, and we've got to start somewhere."
Mary wished she could speak aloud how immense was her gratitude that Tom understood what she felt, what she needed, but all she could manage was a nod, which he of course could not see, as she set the microphone on the corner of the desk and clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. Though her comfort was that Tom must also know that without her having to say--most ironically, given the new thoughts that had begun to plague her nights.
"Though if Carlisle ever makes you uncomfortable," Tom said, the spirit coming back into his voice, "remember I've got rough friends."
Laughing as she wiped away her tears, Mary took up the mouthpiece once again. "The question, Tom," she said, "is whether you've got any fellow land agents who are rough enough to suit Sir Richard?"