Consolation Prize, Chapter Nineteen
Title: Consolation Prize
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Author: Silvestria
Rating: 12/PG-13
Summary: AU S01 epic set after the flower show. Following an explosive argument with Matthew, Violet takes Mary abroad for adventures of discovery and romance in Europe while back at home Sybil finds herself torn between two men and her independence.
Genre: Drama/Romance
Read Chapter Eighteen here!
Chapter Nineteen: The Castle on the Rock
It was just another breakfast time in the glittering dining room of the Hotel Vittorio Emmanuele Napoli. Coffee, rolls, and croissants were laid out on the table along with the morning papers in all the major European languages. Mary had her guidebook open at the table and was reading up on Herculaneum, the destination for today, when the post was brought in.
“Oh, a letter from my sister!” announced Mrs. Bowen. As she often received letters from one or other of her sisters this produced little reaction and her two companions continued their breakfast without much curiosity.
The silence continued for several minutes and might have continued for longer if Mary had not looked up from her book to signal to the footman to bring her more coffee and caught sight of Mrs. Bowen's expression. The hand that was not holding the letter was pressed to her breast and she looked quite distressed.
“Good heavens,” cried Mary in concern, “I hope you have not received bad news.”
She quickly looked up and folded the letter away, shoving it under her plate. She avoided meeting Mary's eyes.
“No, no, not bad news. Thank you,” she replied with a worried and distracted look that did nothing to dispel Mary's anxiety.
Her daughter looked between the two. “Who's it from and what does she say?”
“Aunt Agatha sends her love to you, sweetheart, as always. She hopes you enjoyed hearing that violinist last week. She says that she heard him on the London part of his tour and liked him very much.”
“Oh yes!” replied Hettie. “It was quite the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. I shall write to her directly we get back this afternoon. When is Count Sciarpa coming for us, Mary?”
“At ten,” said Mary, still eyeing Mrs. Bowen.
After breakfast was over, they all retired to their own rooms to get ready for the outing. Mary had almost finished arranging what she needed for the day when a knock at the door announced Mrs. Bowen.
“May I talk to you?” she asked coming into the room.
Mary turned round on her stool. “Of course.”
Mrs. Bowen sat down and for a few moments was at a loss what to say. Eventually she sighed and explained, “I really don't know how to say this, Lady Mary. Perhaps you should just read the letter.”
She held it out but Mary hesitated before taking it. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes. Just the - the second paragraph on the second page. You don't need to worry about the rest.”
She took it with a quick frown and bent her head to read it. Written the morning after the Russian embassy dinner in London, the paragraphs in question told of the prodigious gossip that was all around London concerning a certain Lady Mary Crawley, an adventuress and seductress, who had killed a member of the Turkish embassy in the most shocking and intimate way, who concealed her depravity and impurity under a cover of gentility and finally who had been sent abroad to hide her shame. The section concluded with asking whether this woman was or was not the young woman currently travelling with her darling niece, Henrietta.
“Is it true?” said Mrs. Bowen.
For a moment Mary could not speak. She felt faint and sick at the same time. There was a roaring in her ears and it felt for a moment as if she was drowning in stifling air. The words swam before her eyes, meaningless dark marks twisting on the page in front of her.
Depravity
Impurity
Shame
Then with a shaky breath she blinked and her vision cleared and it was just a piece of paper with words on it and Mrs. Bowen sitting in front of her with her lips pressed into a thin line.
“I wouldn't have expressed it in quite that way myself,” Mary found herself saying, her voice seeming to come from a long way away, “but in essentials I suppose it is true.”
“I see.” Mrs. Bowen was quiet but in a contained, tense way. Then she burst out, still reigning herself in as if it were a great effort to keep her voice at its normal pitch and volume, “And how would you express it then? That - that poor man was your lover and he died in the most ignoble way it is possible to die in the arms of-”
Mary held up her hand and interrupted though her voice trembled, “When you put it like that I see there is no other way to express it.”
“Lord, child, I don't know about where you come from but we have morals in America - and religion! I don't know how you manage to show your face in society, I really don't, after what you've done.” She shook her head, her fingers restlessly tapping on the chair arm.
At this Mary raised her head. “Oh, perhaps you'd prefer it if I had been introduced to you wearing a scarlet A on my coat so you knew from the beginning what kind of person you were dealing with.”
Her riposte went ignored. “This puts me in a difficult situation, you must see that, in terms of my daughter.”
“Of course,” murmured Mary, lowering her head again. She was not sure she could see anything at all.
“Henrietta is a nicely and properly brought up girl. She is an innocent!” She paused to give added emphasis to her statement. It missed its mark, however, for Mary did not react, so she continued, “And I cannot have her exposed to- to corruption and bad influences. I want her to make a good marriage when she goes to London, associate with the right sort of people; you see what I am saying.”
“That I am not the right sort of person any more, if I ever was.”
Mrs. Bowen emitted a little, hysterical laugh and immediately squashed it. “Oh, I shall make very sure not to associate with anybody of the name of Crawley!”
Mary stood up suddenly. “Why wait until London?” she exclaimed with cold frivolity. “Precious Miss Bowen must not be exposed to such pollution any longer. I do hope that she will recover from any unintentional contagion to which she has already been exposed.” She held out her hand towards the door. “You will not be bothered by me from now on.”
Mrs. Bowen opened her mouth but was powerless in the face of such icy authority and shut it again. She stood up.
“I suppose,” continued Mary as her companion reached the door, “that you will not be joining us today? Such a shame; Herculaneum may not be as extensive as Pompeii but I understand the remains are quite extraordinary.”
“Yes; yes, we shall not be joining you,” Mrs. Bowen managed to say faintly before leaving.
Left alone, Mary found she was breathing hard as if she undergone some great exertion, but there was no time to wallow in self-pity. In fact, she realised with some surprise, she felt more excited than upset. Now that the initial shock had worn off she felt as if in some way she had been waiting for this moment since she had clamped her hand over Anna's mouth all those months ago. Defences stripped bare, nothing remained but the truth and Mary felt as if there was a reserve of desperate strength within her stored up for just such a moment.
She pulled on the bell and summoned Gwen.
“Pack everything up!” she ordered, her eyes bright and almost feverish as she surveyed the apartment. “We'll be leaving soon.”
“My lady?”
“We'll be leaving this evening.”
Then she swept from the apartment to keep her appointment with Count Sciarpa.
*
The Count expressed no surprise at Mary's flat explanation that Mrs. and Miss Bowen were both ill and would not be accompanying them that day. In fact, he seemed pleased. Kissing her hand, he smiled at her and said, “But they are only in the way anyway, duchessa. Now I shall have no distractions from you at all.”
Mary forced a smile and for the duration of the journey responded as best she could to his stream of pleasantries and commentary on the neighbourhoods they were passing through, which looked increasingly unsavoury the further from the centre they got. It was something to think about anyway.
Herculaneum as an archaeological site was tiny compared to Pompeii which they had visited only a few days previously, but the awe of walking down streets on which the ancients had walked remained. There were still the grooves from ancient wagons, steps with a hollowed centre from the repeated tread of ancient footsteps, and some truly spectacular mosaics and paintings on display.
“What Ercolano is truly famous for,” explained Sciarpa after they had been wandering around and poking their noses in houses and bath complexes for about half an hour, “is its wood.”
Mary looked up from aimlessly sticking her foot into the remains of a lead drainage pipe. “The wood?”
“As you will know, when the volcano erupted, Pompeii was buried in ash, but the same was not quite true for Ercolano. It was a thick mud that covered this city and what does mud do?”
Mary stared and shook her head.
“Mud preserves!” He smiled at her as if this was a great discovery. “Duchessa, the wooden timbers of these houses were buried in mud and they are still here. Vieni, guarda!”
He took her arm and led her towards a door frame and pointed. Against the stone was a thin strand of dusty brown wood.
“That, duchessa,” he said in a hushed, reverential voice, “is almost two thousand years old. Can you conceive of it?”
Even considering her mental and emotional abstraction, Mary was struck by this. She reached out a hand and touched the wood with her finger. Her glove came away with an orangey stain on it. She stared at it.
“How incredible,” she whispered. “Two thousand years old and it has endured all this time.” She brushed her hands together to get rid of the dust, suddenly uncomfortable in the presence of such silent antiquity.
Sciarpa had perched on a low wall. He observed her with his head tilted to the side, the smile gone. “Mia duchessa, I know what they are saying about you.”
Mary's eyes flew to his, startled. “What are they saying? Where? Who do you mean?”
“I think you know what they are saying; as for the where and who, there is an embassy in every country and, magari, diplomats talk as much as any other person.”
Mary nodded in near stupefaction. Notorious not only in London but all over Europe as well, it seemed! The adrenalin of earlier, for that was all it had been, was wearing off now and leaving her feeling terribly empty and quite unable to reply. She leaned back against an ancient wall and felt for the gaps in the stones with her fingers, digging them in until it was almost painful. Nothing in her life felt real.
“Then it's all over for me,” she reflected out loud, raising her eyebrows to the floor. She had not been able to think clearly before, but now it seemed that her directions to Gwen had been premature. She was not sure if she had meant to conceal the rumours from Sciarpa until he had married her if she could have done but since he already knew them, rescue from that quarter seemed impossible. Nobody but nobody would marry her now in any city of any country. A wave of frustration washed through her at how fatuous it all was - didn't people have anything better to do than destroy her reputation? But the anger was muffled by growing despair. How much money did she have left? Not much to be sure for she had hardly tried to save - why should she have done? Her only hope, she thought, would be to try to get to her grandmother in Tuscany by some means. But what if Granny had heard? What if- She did not want to think what would happen if her grandmother rejected her. She could be sure of nothing.
The Count's voice cut through her thoughts. “I think not, duchessa. A reputation is... only a temporary impediment. You will enjoy yourself very well without one.”
“No, I don't think so,” said Mary. “I'm not that sort of person. Sometimes I like to pretend I am, but in the event it turns out I'm not so brave.”
“Are you sure?” Suddenly he was very close to her and his finger touched her cheek, forcing her to look down at him. Her eyes widened. “I hope very greatly that you will still be my sister's guest on Proschia.”
Mary's eyes flashed across his face, unsure whether to suspect a trap or not, but she could not read anything in his expression. “I-” she began, rather unsure. Then with a sudden, cold, heavy feeling, she realised that nobody was going to make the decision for her. She was on her own.
“Of course I will be,” she said and lowered her eyes in some embarrassment that she could not explain. “If you still want me, that is. I'll understand if you don't.”
Nobody else did.
He chuckled and shook his head at her. “Duchessa, duchessa! Do not underestimate your fascino, your - your fascination.”
For some reason this reassurance failed in its objective and she drew back warily though she did not break eye contact. “In that case,” she said rather breathlessly, thinking him far too close to her, “may I come to you today?”
He smiled and caressed her cheek. “I was hoping you would.”
Then he leaned forwards and pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes, which had been wide and staring, closed anxiously for a second in an automatic response to being kissed, but she felt nothing, nothing at all. As he stepped away from her she could not help wondering if she would ever feel anything again. He offered her his arm in silence and she took it in equal silence as they left the empty ruins.
By the time they reached the hotel again Gwen had packed all of their trunks and with the help of Sciarpa and several porters they were conveyed down to the port and put on his boat. Mary's anger against Mrs. Bowen had softened into a sad resignation by this point and she knocked on her door to say goodbye but received no answer. She suppressed a sigh of regret and had turned away to go downstairs when the adjacent door opened a crack and Hettie peered round.
“Mary!” She beckoned her closer and continued in a whisper. “Mama says I'm not allowed to talk to you but I want you to know that I don't care two straws about what people say. I think you're completely splendid!”
Mary blinked and touched her arm through the door. “You're a darling, Hettie, but you mustn't think that. Please.”
“But I do!” continued the girl earnestly. “You've been such a good friend to me and - and I think Mama's wrong about you and about everything.”
Mary shook her head but could not reply. She felt suddenly terribly guilty for how she had patronised Miss Bowen since the beginning of their acquaintance. At this moment a warm heart and genuine, well-meant sympathy was worth more than any amount of cleverness and sophistication could ever be.
“Where will you go?”
“To the island,” she managed to say after a moment, glad to be speaking of practicalities. “Count Sciarpa has been very- very kind.”
Hettie's face cleared. “Oh, I'm glad of that, at any rate. See, you will be a countess yet and when you are I'm sure Mama will come round.”
Mary only smiled sadly.
“Is there anything I can do? I know there probably isn't, but if you write to my maid then she can get a letter to me without Mama finding out.”
It was on the tip of Mary's tongue to reply that if Hettie really wanted to be useful she could intercede with her mother but she knew it was useless. It took a special kind of courage to stand up to a domineering parent and she did not think Miss Bowen possessed it nor would she wish family discord on anybody else.
“No, I don't think there is, but I'm very touched that you asked.”
“Well then, I guess we'll meet in London then,” finished Henrietta, after a pause in which Mary had squeezed her arm in gratitude.
“Oh, my dear, I don't think I shall be returning to England soon,” she replied. “Goodbye, Hettie.”
“Goodbye,” she whispered.
The door closed behind her and Mary was left alone in the hallway. This meeting had overwhelmed her in its simplicity and she covered her mouth with her hand, swallowing down tears that had no place in a hotel corridor. For a few moments she remained there trembling and wondering if she would be able to hold herself together. Then she succeeded, as she always did, and she dropped her hand, raised her chin, and continued out to join the Count.
The sea that afternoon was calm and Mary could not help contrasting her feelings to the previous occasion. How differently had she approached the island then! She felt envious of herself from only a week previously, even then with her feelings of regret over losing Matthew. Good God, Matthew! She had not thought of him once yet that day and now she felt an even greater sinking feeling. He would know the truth by now. He would probably be congratulating himself on having picked the right sister to marry. Oh, but she was glad he was engaged to Sybil. Her marriage prospects would be materially affected by the scandal and to know that she was already engaged and to such a good man as Matthew provided the only source of comfort she had felt all day. Moreover, she knew Matthew's sense of morality and honour and while she hoped his reaction would not have been articulated as Mrs. Bowen's had been she could not pretend that she imagined it to have been materially different. She was glad she had not been there to witness it; she was not sure she could have born it.
Would she have told him eventually if things - if things had been different? She could not say and anyway they never would have been different. She was not fit to be the wife of such a man as Matthew and she had not been from the moment she had failed to scream when Kemal Pamuk had entered her bedroom. She could never have accepted him even if she had realised the extent of her feelings earlier.
With such thoughts as these the boat trip seemed to last a remarkably short time and before she knew it she was alighting at Proschia harbour in the dusk. Fishermen were rounded up from the nearby houses to carry the luggage and Sciarpa and Mary headed the procession through the village to the castle. In the gloom of the evening that deadened the cheerful colours of the houses and made the faces of the villagers who came to their doorways to see what was going on appear ghostly and pale, Mary felt as if she was entering a strange kind of spirit world, something that was not quite real. The sea lapped against the causeway as they crossed it, a high tide, and in front of them loomed the castle, a hulking, darker mass of antique masonry against the dark sky.
Her arrival was a surprise. The servants eyed her askance as they were sent into recesses and down passageways to prepare her room and deal with her belongings. Lady Alessandra holding aloft a candle appeared when summoned. She seemed more nervous than she had been previously and there was little in her hurried, Italian greeting of Mary to make her feel particularly welcome. Dinner was immediately ordered. It was an uncomfortable meal held in an uncomfortable, draughty, great hall lit only by firelight and candles, for electricity had not yet made its way to the castle on the island. When she was mistress, Mary decided, proper lighting would be her first change to bring it into the twentieth century.
By the time dinner was over, her room was prepared and it being late after a very long day nothing more was said and she retired immediately for the night. Her room was in a tower at the furthest corner of the courtyard, up a steep and narrow spiral staircase. From what she could tell in the dim candlelight it was a good sized room kept warm by tapestries and containing a large collection of art works and cumbersome chests. It was not a homely room but the bed was large and comfortable looking at least and Mary's one desire was now to forget as best she could in sleep.
As Gwen undressed her, Mary broke the silence eventually.
“Well, you haven't deserted me yet,” she commented drily.
“No, my lady.”
“It's only a matter of time,” she continued in a deceptively light tone. “Do you think you could give me a day's warning for when you do intend to leave?”
Gwen handed her her nightdress. “I don't intend to leave you, my lady, not unless you want me to.” She paused. “It seems to me that it's none of my business what you did or didn't do in the past. An' I'm far too sensible to give up a good job if I don't have a better one to go to.”
Mary laughed with a sob. “Oh, Gwen, I fear you've been rather overlooked. Pragmatic and kind too! No wonder Sybil's so fond of you.”
“I suppose we all have our secrets an' I - I think they should be respected, whatever they are.”
“How right you are.”
They were both silent for a few moments. Then Mary spoke again. “Well then, what do you make of this place?”
Gwen hesitated. “Honestly, it's rather gloomy for me, my lady.”
“Mm, I agree.” She caught her maid's eye and her lip twitched but she sighed immediately, suddenly feeling dreadfully tired. “Anyway, never mind that. At least it's something.”
A gust of wind whistled round the tower and through the cracks in the shuttered windows. Gwen shivered and then grinned ruefully. “Very true. I better be getting off to my own room now unless you want anything else; it might take me the whole night to find it!”
“No, thank you. Goodnight. And - and thank you.”
After Gwen had left, Mary padded across the floor wincing as her bare feet touched the cold stone in the places not covered by rugs and slowly turned the large, heavy key in its lock. The door was solid wood and she laid her hand on it, feeling oddly reassured, before making her way to her bed.
*
Mary slept badly, disturbed not just by the rising wind and the rain and the usual creaks and little noises that accompanied sleeping in a castle, but by her recurring nightmares of Pamuk. They were extended and developed and changed from what she was used to. Sometimes it was no longer Pamuk with her but Sciarpa and even once, disturbingly, Matthew. Sometimes she was unable to pull herself out of the dream before its inevitable conclusion, leaving her sweaty, tangled in her sheets and with a heart pounding from fear. She had not been sufficiently prepared to have a glass of water with her that night either so she was forced to try to calm herself without one.
She finally woke later than her usual time to get up to discover miserable, grey light sneaking through the slats in the shutters. It had to be mid-morning if not lunchtime already. Her head ached and her limbs felt heavy as she dragged herself out of bed, feeling completely unrefreshed. It was now possible to take in more of her surroundings, however. It was a curious room, round as the tower, and seeming to be half guest bedroom and half junk room for storing those priceless antiquities for which there wasn't space anywhere else. Opposite the bed was a statue of one of the later Roman emperors, Mary could not identify which, missing half an arm. Propped up against the wall was a large mosaic of a pair of doves. Finally, on almost every free surface were beautiful red and black figure vases, almost certainly of incomparable value. Still blinking away her sleep, Mary trailed from one to the next, studying them; it was preferable to concentrate on that than on anything more personal.
Some athletes competing for a prize on one, Ulysses tied up and resisting the sirens on another, something that might have been the abduction of Proserpina on a third, Orpheus charming Cerberus on his rescue mission of Eurydice on the next... Myths surrounded her like ghosts on all sides as she made her way in a full circle of the room. Having satisfied her curiosity here she padded over to the window. Throwing open a pair of long shutters she found herself looking out onto a balcony. The key was in the lock and she opened the doors and stepped out.
It was bitterly cold that day and drizzling with rain and all she could see in all directions was the grey, wintry sea. Her tower was on the furthest corner of the keep and so she could see nothing of either the rest of the island or the mainland in the distance. Peering down and leaning as far over the parapet of the balcony as she dared, she followed the sheer, stone walls down to the rocks at the bottom; they were sharp and irregular and surrounded the castle on the sea side. Waves crashed and hissed against them. Nobody, she thought, in times gone by, would have attacked the castle from this angle. At any rate, the view was uninspiring and, surrounded by the expanse of grey sky and grey sea, she only felt more alone than she did anyway. She might have been the only person in the world with nothing but a solitary seagull or two for company. The wind over the sea was blowing her hair into her face and her white nightdress round her legs. Shivering, she retreated into her bedroom and closed the balcony doors.
There was no bell to be found anywhere. How on earth was she to summon Gwen? She unlocked her door and peered down the staircase but did not dare go down dressed as she was. “Hello?” she called into the emptiness, then, “C'è qualcuno?” She received no reply to either plea and eventually went back to bed, utterly defeated.
Her situation was dire and this place was detestable, but it was her only way out. Count Sciarpa was the only person who seemed to care what became of her but she was miserable enough to almost wish he didn't. A countess she could be but to be mistress of such a place as this...! Anything seemed preferable. Of course, anything wasn't preferable and it was this thought that forced her out of bed once more to attempt her own toilette without Gwen. She could not spend the entire day in bed! It was so difficult... Every movement, every time she lifted her arms to add another item of clothing felt an effort. There seemed so little point to it all if she was just going to waste away her life shunned by society in this prison without bars on a rock in the middle of the sea.
She had managed to dress herself simply but had not had a chance to do anything to her hair when there was a knock on the door. Her heart pounded and she hesitated a moment before calling, “Come in!”
It was the Count. Her heart sank but he seemed pleased to see her and asked how she had slept. She lied but had the uncomfortable feeling, as she often had with him, that he knew it.
“I must say though,” she added, trying to assert some limited authority over her situation, “that it would have been rather easier to manage last night if there had been more light. Perhaps you would consider installing electricity?”
He smiled. “Cara duchessa, can you imagine the difficulties of doing that in a building such as this? It would be quite impossible! And don't you think it would ruin the atmosphere? Romantic, is it not?”
“I would take a hot bath and a lack of draughts over romance any day!” she snapped back and immediately regretted it. She sank down onto a musty couch situated under the watchful eye of the Roman emperor.
“A thousand pardons,” said the Count and seated himself by her. “We must find a way of keeping you warm in that case.”
“I'm sure,” she replied, drawing back a little, “that it should be possible to fix it eventually.”
He caught that instantly and fixed a bright, intense gaze on her. “Eventually? How long are you intending to stay here then?”
She searched his face and frowned. “I-” She swallowed. “I was under the impression that you liked me, signor conte.”
“Di sicuro, yes, I like you.” His arm was resting on the back of the couch and his fingers now took hold of a piece of her loose hair and began to play with it casually.
“Well then.” She continued to look at him warily. “It seems you are the only one now. And I thought that, this being the case, you might...”
It was very hard to balance pride with desperation; Mary felt she was doing neither emotion justice, especially since a prickly fear had now been added. She did not like being so very alone in this high turret with nobody but Count Sciarpa. She had a feeling that if she cried out her voice would simply be carried away by the winds.
“I might what, duchessa?” he replied, raising his eyebrows.
She was suddenly very tired of this silly game. They were both adults and should behave as such. She turned her head away, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “That you might marry me. Why else do you think I am here?”
“Marry you? Marry you?” The hand in her hair tightened a little. “One does not take your sort for a wife!”
“My sort!” she cried and jerked backwards, feeling the tug on her hair and wincing.
“You please me, Maria, I don't deny it,” he repeated, pulling her back towards him and speaking in a hot whisper, “because you are smart and beautiful and passionate too-” She jerked away from his hand which caressed her side; she found his touch increasingly disgusting. “But, Santo Cielo, you must be more jejune than is possible, to think that you are qualified to be a wife to anybody let alone il Conte Sciarpa!”
“Your behaviour to me,” she replied in breathless, hopeless outrage, squirming away from him on the couch, “gave me leave to expect - what was I to suppose you wanted if not to marry me? Back in England I am sure that-”
He followed her, clasping her round the waist. “Don't make play that you are the Madonna with these big eyes and convincing surprise; you belong with the other Maria and you know it!” With one hand on her waist and the other in her hair, moving to her neck, she could not stop him from kissing her, but she twisted her head and pulled away. “And I will have you!”
Something in her snapped at his last words and that forceful, unwanted kiss. With the energy of anger and desperation, she pulled herself out of his arms and stumbled to her feet. Only at the moment when she had no longer anything to fight for did fighting become a possibility.
“You think that I am a whore and a slut and a - a - I don't even know the words in your language, but I'm not,” she cried, rage making her stand up straighter and taller even though she trembled to do so. She took a breath. “Yes, I took a lover - once - and he died in my bed! Do you think that was pleasant for me? Do you think this is what I wanted, Count, what any woman wants? I know full well that no man will marry me now but you are mistaken, you are very much mistaken if you think that gives you any right to treat me in this way. I am not some plaything you can have your way with and then dispose of when you are tired of it, because I see now that this is your intention. I have done nothing wrong - nothing - to justify this breach of hospitality. Oh? That touches you, does it? Good, because I had learned that the Italian race was a hospitable one, something they inherited from their ancient ancestors and until today I thought it true, certainly more true than of my own countrymen.” She flung her arms out. “I am punished by the world and I accept it; why must you add to it? I don't deserve that, not from you, not from anybody so completely unconnected to me!”
She was free! Free at last from the burden of society and the expectations that had dogged her all her life to say what she thought even if it was to someone who probably did not care and would not listen. That did not matter; what mattered was that it was said, that she could say it at all. The words, the truth, her truth - it was all out there in the open, swirling and echoing around the turret of the castle on the rock in the sea and immediately the dreadful weight on her heart lifted and her spirit soared free. He jumped from the couch, pulled her to him and forced her back down, pressing her back on moth-eaten cushions, but she continued to talk all the time, irrepressible.
“Maybe I won't marry, maybe I'll never move in polite society again,” she cried as he stroked his hand along her neck. “Maybe I'll never go back to England,” she mumbled against his lips, turning her head from one way to the other. “Maybe I'll never have any money-”
“Ma basta! Will you not be quiet!” he muttered angrily at her as he pulled her hands apart and pressed them down at an awkward angle on the couch causing her to cry out in sudden pain. But even that cry felt like a triumph to her.
“None of that is important,” she finished, glaring proudly at him, “because I have a life, Sciarpa, and I intend to live it! And that is something nobody, certainly not a pathetic, desperate, little man like you, can take away from- Ah!”
Words were powerful weapons but he was a powerful man in the prime of life and he had pinned her legs in such a way that she could not kick him as she wanted to. Her outburst over she was forced to concentrate on the pressure on her legs, of his body, of his face too close to hers, of the grip of his hands on her wrists and she was overcome with sudden, panicky fear.
“No! No, I don't want this,” she cried, but opening her mouth again only gave him an opportunity to kiss her more forcefully and deeply and she was at too much of a disadvantage to resist successfully.
Then there was a sudden thump below as if a door had slammed. Sciarpa raised his head. Clearly this was unexpected. Mary took the opportunity to make a face and try to wipe her mouth on her shoulder.
“Caspita, che cosa c'è?” he muttered, as footsteps were clearly heard on the staircase below them and Mary's heart began to pound. If it was only a maid it would be enough to distract him - he wouldn't dare continue - if it was Gwen better still, though they sounded too heavy for hers - and she could get out. She would run, she would swim to the mainland if need be, she would do anything -
These thoughts passed through her mind in the space of a second and that was all the time she had. Taking advantage of his one moment of distraction and a slight loosening of his grip, she cried out as loudly as she could, “Here! Per piacere, entrate, please!” and freeing her hands she pushed him with a strength she had not known she possessed. The door was flung open with such force that it slammed against the wall and ricocheted back as Sciarpa overbalanced and rolled inelegantly off the couch and Mary leapt to her feet, only then able to turn round to see who it was.
Standing in the doorway, brandishing an ordinary, black umbrella before him as if it were a sword, was Matthew Crawley.
Read Chapter Twenty here!
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Author: Silvestria
Rating: 12/PG-13
Summary: AU S01 epic set after the flower show. Following an explosive argument with Matthew, Violet takes Mary abroad for adventures of discovery and romance in Europe while back at home Sybil finds herself torn between two men and her independence.
Genre: Drama/Romance
Read Chapter Eighteen here!
Chapter Nineteen: The Castle on the Rock
It was just another breakfast time in the glittering dining room of the Hotel Vittorio Emmanuele Napoli. Coffee, rolls, and croissants were laid out on the table along with the morning papers in all the major European languages. Mary had her guidebook open at the table and was reading up on Herculaneum, the destination for today, when the post was brought in.
“Oh, a letter from my sister!” announced Mrs. Bowen. As she often received letters from one or other of her sisters this produced little reaction and her two companions continued their breakfast without much curiosity.
The silence continued for several minutes and might have continued for longer if Mary had not looked up from her book to signal to the footman to bring her more coffee and caught sight of Mrs. Bowen's expression. The hand that was not holding the letter was pressed to her breast and she looked quite distressed.
“Good heavens,” cried Mary in concern, “I hope you have not received bad news.”
She quickly looked up and folded the letter away, shoving it under her plate. She avoided meeting Mary's eyes.
“No, no, not bad news. Thank you,” she replied with a worried and distracted look that did nothing to dispel Mary's anxiety.
Her daughter looked between the two. “Who's it from and what does she say?”
“Aunt Agatha sends her love to you, sweetheart, as always. She hopes you enjoyed hearing that violinist last week. She says that she heard him on the London part of his tour and liked him very much.”
“Oh yes!” replied Hettie. “It was quite the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. I shall write to her directly we get back this afternoon. When is Count Sciarpa coming for us, Mary?”
“At ten,” said Mary, still eyeing Mrs. Bowen.
After breakfast was over, they all retired to their own rooms to get ready for the outing. Mary had almost finished arranging what she needed for the day when a knock at the door announced Mrs. Bowen.
“May I talk to you?” she asked coming into the room.
Mary turned round on her stool. “Of course.”
Mrs. Bowen sat down and for a few moments was at a loss what to say. Eventually she sighed and explained, “I really don't know how to say this, Lady Mary. Perhaps you should just read the letter.”
She held it out but Mary hesitated before taking it. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes. Just the - the second paragraph on the second page. You don't need to worry about the rest.”
She took it with a quick frown and bent her head to read it. Written the morning after the Russian embassy dinner in London, the paragraphs in question told of the prodigious gossip that was all around London concerning a certain Lady Mary Crawley, an adventuress and seductress, who had killed a member of the Turkish embassy in the most shocking and intimate way, who concealed her depravity and impurity under a cover of gentility and finally who had been sent abroad to hide her shame. The section concluded with asking whether this woman was or was not the young woman currently travelling with her darling niece, Henrietta.
“Is it true?” said Mrs. Bowen.
For a moment Mary could not speak. She felt faint and sick at the same time. There was a roaring in her ears and it felt for a moment as if she was drowning in stifling air. The words swam before her eyes, meaningless dark marks twisting on the page in front of her.
Depravity
Impurity
Shame
Then with a shaky breath she blinked and her vision cleared and it was just a piece of paper with words on it and Mrs. Bowen sitting in front of her with her lips pressed into a thin line.
“I wouldn't have expressed it in quite that way myself,” Mary found herself saying, her voice seeming to come from a long way away, “but in essentials I suppose it is true.”
“I see.” Mrs. Bowen was quiet but in a contained, tense way. Then she burst out, still reigning herself in as if it were a great effort to keep her voice at its normal pitch and volume, “And how would you express it then? That - that poor man was your lover and he died in the most ignoble way it is possible to die in the arms of-”
Mary held up her hand and interrupted though her voice trembled, “When you put it like that I see there is no other way to express it.”
“Lord, child, I don't know about where you come from but we have morals in America - and religion! I don't know how you manage to show your face in society, I really don't, after what you've done.” She shook her head, her fingers restlessly tapping on the chair arm.
At this Mary raised her head. “Oh, perhaps you'd prefer it if I had been introduced to you wearing a scarlet A on my coat so you knew from the beginning what kind of person you were dealing with.”
Her riposte went ignored. “This puts me in a difficult situation, you must see that, in terms of my daughter.”
“Of course,” murmured Mary, lowering her head again. She was not sure she could see anything at all.
“Henrietta is a nicely and properly brought up girl. She is an innocent!” She paused to give added emphasis to her statement. It missed its mark, however, for Mary did not react, so she continued, “And I cannot have her exposed to- to corruption and bad influences. I want her to make a good marriage when she goes to London, associate with the right sort of people; you see what I am saying.”
“That I am not the right sort of person any more, if I ever was.”
Mrs. Bowen emitted a little, hysterical laugh and immediately squashed it. “Oh, I shall make very sure not to associate with anybody of the name of Crawley!”
Mary stood up suddenly. “Why wait until London?” she exclaimed with cold frivolity. “Precious Miss Bowen must not be exposed to such pollution any longer. I do hope that she will recover from any unintentional contagion to which she has already been exposed.” She held out her hand towards the door. “You will not be bothered by me from now on.”
Mrs. Bowen opened her mouth but was powerless in the face of such icy authority and shut it again. She stood up.
“I suppose,” continued Mary as her companion reached the door, “that you will not be joining us today? Such a shame; Herculaneum may not be as extensive as Pompeii but I understand the remains are quite extraordinary.”
“Yes; yes, we shall not be joining you,” Mrs. Bowen managed to say faintly before leaving.
Left alone, Mary found she was breathing hard as if she undergone some great exertion, but there was no time to wallow in self-pity. In fact, she realised with some surprise, she felt more excited than upset. Now that the initial shock had worn off she felt as if in some way she had been waiting for this moment since she had clamped her hand over Anna's mouth all those months ago. Defences stripped bare, nothing remained but the truth and Mary felt as if there was a reserve of desperate strength within her stored up for just such a moment.
She pulled on the bell and summoned Gwen.
“Pack everything up!” she ordered, her eyes bright and almost feverish as she surveyed the apartment. “We'll be leaving soon.”
“My lady?”
“We'll be leaving this evening.”
Then she swept from the apartment to keep her appointment with Count Sciarpa.
*
The Count expressed no surprise at Mary's flat explanation that Mrs. and Miss Bowen were both ill and would not be accompanying them that day. In fact, he seemed pleased. Kissing her hand, he smiled at her and said, “But they are only in the way anyway, duchessa. Now I shall have no distractions from you at all.”
Mary forced a smile and for the duration of the journey responded as best she could to his stream of pleasantries and commentary on the neighbourhoods they were passing through, which looked increasingly unsavoury the further from the centre they got. It was something to think about anyway.
Herculaneum as an archaeological site was tiny compared to Pompeii which they had visited only a few days previously, but the awe of walking down streets on which the ancients had walked remained. There were still the grooves from ancient wagons, steps with a hollowed centre from the repeated tread of ancient footsteps, and some truly spectacular mosaics and paintings on display.
“What Ercolano is truly famous for,” explained Sciarpa after they had been wandering around and poking their noses in houses and bath complexes for about half an hour, “is its wood.”
Mary looked up from aimlessly sticking her foot into the remains of a lead drainage pipe. “The wood?”
“As you will know, when the volcano erupted, Pompeii was buried in ash, but the same was not quite true for Ercolano. It was a thick mud that covered this city and what does mud do?”
Mary stared and shook her head.
“Mud preserves!” He smiled at her as if this was a great discovery. “Duchessa, the wooden timbers of these houses were buried in mud and they are still here. Vieni, guarda!”
He took her arm and led her towards a door frame and pointed. Against the stone was a thin strand of dusty brown wood.
“That, duchessa,” he said in a hushed, reverential voice, “is almost two thousand years old. Can you conceive of it?”
Even considering her mental and emotional abstraction, Mary was struck by this. She reached out a hand and touched the wood with her finger. Her glove came away with an orangey stain on it. She stared at it.
“How incredible,” she whispered. “Two thousand years old and it has endured all this time.” She brushed her hands together to get rid of the dust, suddenly uncomfortable in the presence of such silent antiquity.
Sciarpa had perched on a low wall. He observed her with his head tilted to the side, the smile gone. “Mia duchessa, I know what they are saying about you.”
Mary's eyes flew to his, startled. “What are they saying? Where? Who do you mean?”
“I think you know what they are saying; as for the where and who, there is an embassy in every country and, magari, diplomats talk as much as any other person.”
Mary nodded in near stupefaction. Notorious not only in London but all over Europe as well, it seemed! The adrenalin of earlier, for that was all it had been, was wearing off now and leaving her feeling terribly empty and quite unable to reply. She leaned back against an ancient wall and felt for the gaps in the stones with her fingers, digging them in until it was almost painful. Nothing in her life felt real.
“Then it's all over for me,” she reflected out loud, raising her eyebrows to the floor. She had not been able to think clearly before, but now it seemed that her directions to Gwen had been premature. She was not sure if she had meant to conceal the rumours from Sciarpa until he had married her if she could have done but since he already knew them, rescue from that quarter seemed impossible. Nobody but nobody would marry her now in any city of any country. A wave of frustration washed through her at how fatuous it all was - didn't people have anything better to do than destroy her reputation? But the anger was muffled by growing despair. How much money did she have left? Not much to be sure for she had hardly tried to save - why should she have done? Her only hope, she thought, would be to try to get to her grandmother in Tuscany by some means. But what if Granny had heard? What if- She did not want to think what would happen if her grandmother rejected her. She could be sure of nothing.
The Count's voice cut through her thoughts. “I think not, duchessa. A reputation is... only a temporary impediment. You will enjoy yourself very well without one.”
“No, I don't think so,” said Mary. “I'm not that sort of person. Sometimes I like to pretend I am, but in the event it turns out I'm not so brave.”
“Are you sure?” Suddenly he was very close to her and his finger touched her cheek, forcing her to look down at him. Her eyes widened. “I hope very greatly that you will still be my sister's guest on Proschia.”
Mary's eyes flashed across his face, unsure whether to suspect a trap or not, but she could not read anything in his expression. “I-” she began, rather unsure. Then with a sudden, cold, heavy feeling, she realised that nobody was going to make the decision for her. She was on her own.
“Of course I will be,” she said and lowered her eyes in some embarrassment that she could not explain. “If you still want me, that is. I'll understand if you don't.”
Nobody else did.
He chuckled and shook his head at her. “Duchessa, duchessa! Do not underestimate your fascino, your - your fascination.”
For some reason this reassurance failed in its objective and she drew back warily though she did not break eye contact. “In that case,” she said rather breathlessly, thinking him far too close to her, “may I come to you today?”
He smiled and caressed her cheek. “I was hoping you would.”
Then he leaned forwards and pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes, which had been wide and staring, closed anxiously for a second in an automatic response to being kissed, but she felt nothing, nothing at all. As he stepped away from her she could not help wondering if she would ever feel anything again. He offered her his arm in silence and she took it in equal silence as they left the empty ruins.
By the time they reached the hotel again Gwen had packed all of their trunks and with the help of Sciarpa and several porters they were conveyed down to the port and put on his boat. Mary's anger against Mrs. Bowen had softened into a sad resignation by this point and she knocked on her door to say goodbye but received no answer. She suppressed a sigh of regret and had turned away to go downstairs when the adjacent door opened a crack and Hettie peered round.
“Mary!” She beckoned her closer and continued in a whisper. “Mama says I'm not allowed to talk to you but I want you to know that I don't care two straws about what people say. I think you're completely splendid!”
Mary blinked and touched her arm through the door. “You're a darling, Hettie, but you mustn't think that. Please.”
“But I do!” continued the girl earnestly. “You've been such a good friend to me and - and I think Mama's wrong about you and about everything.”
Mary shook her head but could not reply. She felt suddenly terribly guilty for how she had patronised Miss Bowen since the beginning of their acquaintance. At this moment a warm heart and genuine, well-meant sympathy was worth more than any amount of cleverness and sophistication could ever be.
“Where will you go?”
“To the island,” she managed to say after a moment, glad to be speaking of practicalities. “Count Sciarpa has been very- very kind.”
Hettie's face cleared. “Oh, I'm glad of that, at any rate. See, you will be a countess yet and when you are I'm sure Mama will come round.”
Mary only smiled sadly.
“Is there anything I can do? I know there probably isn't, but if you write to my maid then she can get a letter to me without Mama finding out.”
It was on the tip of Mary's tongue to reply that if Hettie really wanted to be useful she could intercede with her mother but she knew it was useless. It took a special kind of courage to stand up to a domineering parent and she did not think Miss Bowen possessed it nor would she wish family discord on anybody else.
“No, I don't think there is, but I'm very touched that you asked.”
“Well then, I guess we'll meet in London then,” finished Henrietta, after a pause in which Mary had squeezed her arm in gratitude.
“Oh, my dear, I don't think I shall be returning to England soon,” she replied. “Goodbye, Hettie.”
“Goodbye,” she whispered.
The door closed behind her and Mary was left alone in the hallway. This meeting had overwhelmed her in its simplicity and she covered her mouth with her hand, swallowing down tears that had no place in a hotel corridor. For a few moments she remained there trembling and wondering if she would be able to hold herself together. Then she succeeded, as she always did, and she dropped her hand, raised her chin, and continued out to join the Count.
The sea that afternoon was calm and Mary could not help contrasting her feelings to the previous occasion. How differently had she approached the island then! She felt envious of herself from only a week previously, even then with her feelings of regret over losing Matthew. Good God, Matthew! She had not thought of him once yet that day and now she felt an even greater sinking feeling. He would know the truth by now. He would probably be congratulating himself on having picked the right sister to marry. Oh, but she was glad he was engaged to Sybil. Her marriage prospects would be materially affected by the scandal and to know that she was already engaged and to such a good man as Matthew provided the only source of comfort she had felt all day. Moreover, she knew Matthew's sense of morality and honour and while she hoped his reaction would not have been articulated as Mrs. Bowen's had been she could not pretend that she imagined it to have been materially different. She was glad she had not been there to witness it; she was not sure she could have born it.
Would she have told him eventually if things - if things had been different? She could not say and anyway they never would have been different. She was not fit to be the wife of such a man as Matthew and she had not been from the moment she had failed to scream when Kemal Pamuk had entered her bedroom. She could never have accepted him even if she had realised the extent of her feelings earlier.
With such thoughts as these the boat trip seemed to last a remarkably short time and before she knew it she was alighting at Proschia harbour in the dusk. Fishermen were rounded up from the nearby houses to carry the luggage and Sciarpa and Mary headed the procession through the village to the castle. In the gloom of the evening that deadened the cheerful colours of the houses and made the faces of the villagers who came to their doorways to see what was going on appear ghostly and pale, Mary felt as if she was entering a strange kind of spirit world, something that was not quite real. The sea lapped against the causeway as they crossed it, a high tide, and in front of them loomed the castle, a hulking, darker mass of antique masonry against the dark sky.
Her arrival was a surprise. The servants eyed her askance as they were sent into recesses and down passageways to prepare her room and deal with her belongings. Lady Alessandra holding aloft a candle appeared when summoned. She seemed more nervous than she had been previously and there was little in her hurried, Italian greeting of Mary to make her feel particularly welcome. Dinner was immediately ordered. It was an uncomfortable meal held in an uncomfortable, draughty, great hall lit only by firelight and candles, for electricity had not yet made its way to the castle on the island. When she was mistress, Mary decided, proper lighting would be her first change to bring it into the twentieth century.
By the time dinner was over, her room was prepared and it being late after a very long day nothing more was said and she retired immediately for the night. Her room was in a tower at the furthest corner of the courtyard, up a steep and narrow spiral staircase. From what she could tell in the dim candlelight it was a good sized room kept warm by tapestries and containing a large collection of art works and cumbersome chests. It was not a homely room but the bed was large and comfortable looking at least and Mary's one desire was now to forget as best she could in sleep.
As Gwen undressed her, Mary broke the silence eventually.
“Well, you haven't deserted me yet,” she commented drily.
“No, my lady.”
“It's only a matter of time,” she continued in a deceptively light tone. “Do you think you could give me a day's warning for when you do intend to leave?”
Gwen handed her her nightdress. “I don't intend to leave you, my lady, not unless you want me to.” She paused. “It seems to me that it's none of my business what you did or didn't do in the past. An' I'm far too sensible to give up a good job if I don't have a better one to go to.”
Mary laughed with a sob. “Oh, Gwen, I fear you've been rather overlooked. Pragmatic and kind too! No wonder Sybil's so fond of you.”
“I suppose we all have our secrets an' I - I think they should be respected, whatever they are.”
“How right you are.”
They were both silent for a few moments. Then Mary spoke again. “Well then, what do you make of this place?”
Gwen hesitated. “Honestly, it's rather gloomy for me, my lady.”
“Mm, I agree.” She caught her maid's eye and her lip twitched but she sighed immediately, suddenly feeling dreadfully tired. “Anyway, never mind that. At least it's something.”
A gust of wind whistled round the tower and through the cracks in the shuttered windows. Gwen shivered and then grinned ruefully. “Very true. I better be getting off to my own room now unless you want anything else; it might take me the whole night to find it!”
“No, thank you. Goodnight. And - and thank you.”
After Gwen had left, Mary padded across the floor wincing as her bare feet touched the cold stone in the places not covered by rugs and slowly turned the large, heavy key in its lock. The door was solid wood and she laid her hand on it, feeling oddly reassured, before making her way to her bed.
*
Mary slept badly, disturbed not just by the rising wind and the rain and the usual creaks and little noises that accompanied sleeping in a castle, but by her recurring nightmares of Pamuk. They were extended and developed and changed from what she was used to. Sometimes it was no longer Pamuk with her but Sciarpa and even once, disturbingly, Matthew. Sometimes she was unable to pull herself out of the dream before its inevitable conclusion, leaving her sweaty, tangled in her sheets and with a heart pounding from fear. She had not been sufficiently prepared to have a glass of water with her that night either so she was forced to try to calm herself without one.
She finally woke later than her usual time to get up to discover miserable, grey light sneaking through the slats in the shutters. It had to be mid-morning if not lunchtime already. Her head ached and her limbs felt heavy as she dragged herself out of bed, feeling completely unrefreshed. It was now possible to take in more of her surroundings, however. It was a curious room, round as the tower, and seeming to be half guest bedroom and half junk room for storing those priceless antiquities for which there wasn't space anywhere else. Opposite the bed was a statue of one of the later Roman emperors, Mary could not identify which, missing half an arm. Propped up against the wall was a large mosaic of a pair of doves. Finally, on almost every free surface were beautiful red and black figure vases, almost certainly of incomparable value. Still blinking away her sleep, Mary trailed from one to the next, studying them; it was preferable to concentrate on that than on anything more personal.
Some athletes competing for a prize on one, Ulysses tied up and resisting the sirens on another, something that might have been the abduction of Proserpina on a third, Orpheus charming Cerberus on his rescue mission of Eurydice on the next... Myths surrounded her like ghosts on all sides as she made her way in a full circle of the room. Having satisfied her curiosity here she padded over to the window. Throwing open a pair of long shutters she found herself looking out onto a balcony. The key was in the lock and she opened the doors and stepped out.
It was bitterly cold that day and drizzling with rain and all she could see in all directions was the grey, wintry sea. Her tower was on the furthest corner of the keep and so she could see nothing of either the rest of the island or the mainland in the distance. Peering down and leaning as far over the parapet of the balcony as she dared, she followed the sheer, stone walls down to the rocks at the bottom; they were sharp and irregular and surrounded the castle on the sea side. Waves crashed and hissed against them. Nobody, she thought, in times gone by, would have attacked the castle from this angle. At any rate, the view was uninspiring and, surrounded by the expanse of grey sky and grey sea, she only felt more alone than she did anyway. She might have been the only person in the world with nothing but a solitary seagull or two for company. The wind over the sea was blowing her hair into her face and her white nightdress round her legs. Shivering, she retreated into her bedroom and closed the balcony doors.
There was no bell to be found anywhere. How on earth was she to summon Gwen? She unlocked her door and peered down the staircase but did not dare go down dressed as she was. “Hello?” she called into the emptiness, then, “C'è qualcuno?” She received no reply to either plea and eventually went back to bed, utterly defeated.
Her situation was dire and this place was detestable, but it was her only way out. Count Sciarpa was the only person who seemed to care what became of her but she was miserable enough to almost wish he didn't. A countess she could be but to be mistress of such a place as this...! Anything seemed preferable. Of course, anything wasn't preferable and it was this thought that forced her out of bed once more to attempt her own toilette without Gwen. She could not spend the entire day in bed! It was so difficult... Every movement, every time she lifted her arms to add another item of clothing felt an effort. There seemed so little point to it all if she was just going to waste away her life shunned by society in this prison without bars on a rock in the middle of the sea.
She had managed to dress herself simply but had not had a chance to do anything to her hair when there was a knock on the door. Her heart pounded and she hesitated a moment before calling, “Come in!”
It was the Count. Her heart sank but he seemed pleased to see her and asked how she had slept. She lied but had the uncomfortable feeling, as she often had with him, that he knew it.
“I must say though,” she added, trying to assert some limited authority over her situation, “that it would have been rather easier to manage last night if there had been more light. Perhaps you would consider installing electricity?”
He smiled. “Cara duchessa, can you imagine the difficulties of doing that in a building such as this? It would be quite impossible! And don't you think it would ruin the atmosphere? Romantic, is it not?”
“I would take a hot bath and a lack of draughts over romance any day!” she snapped back and immediately regretted it. She sank down onto a musty couch situated under the watchful eye of the Roman emperor.
“A thousand pardons,” said the Count and seated himself by her. “We must find a way of keeping you warm in that case.”
“I'm sure,” she replied, drawing back a little, “that it should be possible to fix it eventually.”
He caught that instantly and fixed a bright, intense gaze on her. “Eventually? How long are you intending to stay here then?”
She searched his face and frowned. “I-” She swallowed. “I was under the impression that you liked me, signor conte.”
“Di sicuro, yes, I like you.” His arm was resting on the back of the couch and his fingers now took hold of a piece of her loose hair and began to play with it casually.
“Well then.” She continued to look at him warily. “It seems you are the only one now. And I thought that, this being the case, you might...”
It was very hard to balance pride with desperation; Mary felt she was doing neither emotion justice, especially since a prickly fear had now been added. She did not like being so very alone in this high turret with nobody but Count Sciarpa. She had a feeling that if she cried out her voice would simply be carried away by the winds.
“I might what, duchessa?” he replied, raising his eyebrows.
She was suddenly very tired of this silly game. They were both adults and should behave as such. She turned her head away, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “That you might marry me. Why else do you think I am here?”
“Marry you? Marry you?” The hand in her hair tightened a little. “One does not take your sort for a wife!”
“My sort!” she cried and jerked backwards, feeling the tug on her hair and wincing.
“You please me, Maria, I don't deny it,” he repeated, pulling her back towards him and speaking in a hot whisper, “because you are smart and beautiful and passionate too-” She jerked away from his hand which caressed her side; she found his touch increasingly disgusting. “But, Santo Cielo, you must be more jejune than is possible, to think that you are qualified to be a wife to anybody let alone il Conte Sciarpa!”
“Your behaviour to me,” she replied in breathless, hopeless outrage, squirming away from him on the couch, “gave me leave to expect - what was I to suppose you wanted if not to marry me? Back in England I am sure that-”
He followed her, clasping her round the waist. “Don't make play that you are the Madonna with these big eyes and convincing surprise; you belong with the other Maria and you know it!” With one hand on her waist and the other in her hair, moving to her neck, she could not stop him from kissing her, but she twisted her head and pulled away. “And I will have you!”
Something in her snapped at his last words and that forceful, unwanted kiss. With the energy of anger and desperation, she pulled herself out of his arms and stumbled to her feet. Only at the moment when she had no longer anything to fight for did fighting become a possibility.
“You think that I am a whore and a slut and a - a - I don't even know the words in your language, but I'm not,” she cried, rage making her stand up straighter and taller even though she trembled to do so. She took a breath. “Yes, I took a lover - once - and he died in my bed! Do you think that was pleasant for me? Do you think this is what I wanted, Count, what any woman wants? I know full well that no man will marry me now but you are mistaken, you are very much mistaken if you think that gives you any right to treat me in this way. I am not some plaything you can have your way with and then dispose of when you are tired of it, because I see now that this is your intention. I have done nothing wrong - nothing - to justify this breach of hospitality. Oh? That touches you, does it? Good, because I had learned that the Italian race was a hospitable one, something they inherited from their ancient ancestors and until today I thought it true, certainly more true than of my own countrymen.” She flung her arms out. “I am punished by the world and I accept it; why must you add to it? I don't deserve that, not from you, not from anybody so completely unconnected to me!”
She was free! Free at last from the burden of society and the expectations that had dogged her all her life to say what she thought even if it was to someone who probably did not care and would not listen. That did not matter; what mattered was that it was said, that she could say it at all. The words, the truth, her truth - it was all out there in the open, swirling and echoing around the turret of the castle on the rock in the sea and immediately the dreadful weight on her heart lifted and her spirit soared free. He jumped from the couch, pulled her to him and forced her back down, pressing her back on moth-eaten cushions, but she continued to talk all the time, irrepressible.
“Maybe I won't marry, maybe I'll never move in polite society again,” she cried as he stroked his hand along her neck. “Maybe I'll never go back to England,” she mumbled against his lips, turning her head from one way to the other. “Maybe I'll never have any money-”
“Ma basta! Will you not be quiet!” he muttered angrily at her as he pulled her hands apart and pressed them down at an awkward angle on the couch causing her to cry out in sudden pain. But even that cry felt like a triumph to her.
“None of that is important,” she finished, glaring proudly at him, “because I have a life, Sciarpa, and I intend to live it! And that is something nobody, certainly not a pathetic, desperate, little man like you, can take away from- Ah!”
Words were powerful weapons but he was a powerful man in the prime of life and he had pinned her legs in such a way that she could not kick him as she wanted to. Her outburst over she was forced to concentrate on the pressure on her legs, of his body, of his face too close to hers, of the grip of his hands on her wrists and she was overcome with sudden, panicky fear.
“No! No, I don't want this,” she cried, but opening her mouth again only gave him an opportunity to kiss her more forcefully and deeply and she was at too much of a disadvantage to resist successfully.
Then there was a sudden thump below as if a door had slammed. Sciarpa raised his head. Clearly this was unexpected. Mary took the opportunity to make a face and try to wipe her mouth on her shoulder.
“Caspita, che cosa c'è?” he muttered, as footsteps were clearly heard on the staircase below them and Mary's heart began to pound. If it was only a maid it would be enough to distract him - he wouldn't dare continue - if it was Gwen better still, though they sounded too heavy for hers - and she could get out. She would run, she would swim to the mainland if need be, she would do anything -
These thoughts passed through her mind in the space of a second and that was all the time she had. Taking advantage of his one moment of distraction and a slight loosening of his grip, she cried out as loudly as she could, “Here! Per piacere, entrate, please!” and freeing her hands she pushed him with a strength she had not known she possessed. The door was flung open with such force that it slammed against the wall and ricocheted back as Sciarpa overbalanced and rolled inelegantly off the couch and Mary leapt to her feet, only then able to turn round to see who it was.
Standing in the doorway, brandishing an ordinary, black umbrella before him as if it were a sword, was Matthew Crawley.
Read Chapter Twenty here!