The healing process - Chapter seven
Title: The healing process
Author: vladnyrki
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle
The aftermath of a difficult decision and its meaning for Mary and Richard.
Beated by the wonderful mrstater
AN: There are two extracts from Kipling’s The jungle book in this chapter, from “Toomai of the Elephants” and from “The white seal”
FIRST INTERLUDE: Sad night and bittersweet morning
London, May 15th, 1919
Half past midnight.
For once, the house was silent, or almost. No rushed footsteps on the carpets, no hushed pressing instructions, no hurriedly opening and closing doors betrayed the occurrence of a new bout of feverish pain or a new crisis of suffocation.
As promised, Sowerby had sent the nurse home, arguing that she looked dreadful and needed to get some rest. The poor woman had made the task much easier than they had initially thought. The days and nights of near constant vigil had taken their toll and she had almost killed her patient when she had handed Sowerby a syringe with a bubble of air. When she had protested, more as an habit of work ethic than anything, the physician pointed out in his most chilling tone that she was in no shape to do her work properly and was bound to make a mistake sooner or later. She needed to get some sleep and come back in the morning, well rested and efficient once again. She had not needed to be told twice and she had left the house at the end of the afternoon, unable to hide her relief as she made her escape.
Anna had replaced the nurse and teamed up with the old doctor. It had been decided they would keep vigil until one o’clock, then would be replaced by Mary and Richard. This way, everybody would be able to rest a little, hopefully. To ease the patient, Sowerby had changed the sedative: it was not as efficient against the pain but it had the merit to knock Michael out for a few hours.
The other merit of this sedative was that its association with the content of the phial Richard had in his possession would prove fatal for the patient heart. Sowerby had taken great pains to warn everybody in the house against the dangers of such a combination with morphine, covertly giving his instructions to Richard at the same time.
“The damned old fox,” Mary heard Richard mutter. “He knew all along about the phial.”
A quick search in Michael’s room had confirmed a sudden suspicion: Sowerby had heard Michael’s plea the night before and had decided to take his responsibilities as well.
But he could not do it alone. Decades of taboo paralyzed him, and the idea of killing his last student, his last spiritual son, must have been unbearable.
Richard had not been able either, and Mary had completed the trio.
Willingly.
Decidedly.
Mary stroked Richard’s stomach through the crumpled shirt and lift her head from his shoulder where it was resting to consider him.
“I regret my earlier criticism. I misjudged the man,” she answered before settling again on his chest.
“You barely knew him, and the same was true for him. You don’t talk about this with a stranger.”
“Indeed,” she whispered.
Tense silence filled Mary’s room, to which they had retreated, once again.
“Richard?”
“Yes?”
“What are you going to do with the syringe? Afterwards, I mean...” If she had to be an accomplice, she would be entirely, and she was well decided to make certain Richard or Sowerby would never suffer any consequences for an act of humanity.
Mary sat up to observe his reaction.
“Honestly, I haven’t thought about it. I’ll find a way…” The confusion in his voice clearly showed his lack of plan.
Mary had one.
“You’ll give me the syringe and the phial. I’ll forget my handkerchief in my room and I’ll have to come back to retrieve it. Tomorrow, I’ll pay another visit to Aunt Rosamund and get rid of everything on my way.” This was less than ideal, but it was something, at least.
A mix of admiration and dread and something else lit his eyes as he sat up as well.
“You would be an active accomplice…” He did not need to go further.
“I won’t let you shoulder this burden alone. I’ve made my decision, Richard.”
There would be no coming back. They were in this together.
For better for worse.
In sickness and in health.
No vows pronounced out loud in front of a crowded church would bind them together more than the future events of the night.
They were a team.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half past one.
As decided earlier in the afternoon, Mary and Richard had replaced Anna and Sowerby at the patient’s bedside.
So far, the sedative had been efficient, and Michael lay still in his bed. Only the sound of his ragged, shallow breathing betrayed the poor state of his lungs. For the first time in days, his face was not contorted by a pained grimace, and the once healthy young man looked almost peaceful.
Almost.
Instinctively, Richard searched for Mary’s eyes across the room. She had settled on the sofa by the window to give him some space. Whatever book she was reading did not captivate her attention since, as soon as he turned back to face her, he saw a pair of brown eyes assessing calmly. Wordlessly, she gestured him to join her on the sofa.
He was getting cold feet, and she had felt it.
“If I understood correctly, your purpose is to avoid more suffering, isn’t it?” she whispered as soon as he sat down heavily next to her.
“Yes.”
“The longer you wait, the greater chance for another fit of suffocation,” she stated the cold, hard facts.
The cold and careful Mary Crawley.
She had changed so much since Lavinia’s funeral. He had walked a devastated girl back home, and now, a woman sat by his side. He was one lucky bastard.
“You’re right. Of course you’re right, my darling. It’s just that…” His emotions were getting the better of him. “Mickey’s asleep, and if I do as planned, the last thing I would have ever heard from him is a plea to end his suffering.” To his own ears, his whispering sounded as if he was shouting the words.
“It’s not about you. It’s about him, Richard,” she snapped back. “At least, you’re here, by his side. Not many soldiers had this chance. Not many parents either.”
Mary was right, of course. It was high time to say goodbye.
A warm hand stroked the growing stubble on his cheeks, comforting him, giving him the strength he needed so desperately.
“All right.”
Richard took a deep breath, the kind he had taken as a youngster before starting his first winter ascension in the Alps, the kind he had taken before opening his editor’s office door to tell him his management was rubbish, and he got up.
With measured steps, careful not to make the wooden floor creak, he walked back to his stool by the bed. On his way, he reached for the syringe and the phial in his pocket. With practiced gestures, albeit a bit rusty, he filled up the syringe with the dose of morphine - the knowledge of basic first aid often made the difference between life and death in a mountain incident. Mechanically, he searched for a compress and the bottle of alcohol, to avoid infection.
“D’you r’ly think it’s necessary?” A mirthless laugh escaped Michael’s lips, followed by a fit of coughing. A trail of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, a sure sign of another episode of suffocation.
It was high time, indeed.
“Habit,” Richard simply commented. He did not trust his voice anymore.
Suppressing the trembling of his hands, he put the tourniquet around the scrawny arm and searched for a vein.
Then he plunged the needle.
Michael grimaced at his lack of bedside manner.
“Sorry, kiddo.”
More coughing, and more blood. Michael’s breathing was getting more labored by the minute.
High time.
With a feeble gesture of the head, he motioned to the bed table, his stare clearly expecting something more from Richard.
The book, of course.
Richard let Mary retrieve the syringe and phial that he had abandoned on the bed and reached for the drawer. Clearing his throat, he began to read.
“I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chain - I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs.
I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane: I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.
I will go out until the day, until the morning break - Out to the wind's untainted kiss, the water's clean caress;
I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket stake. I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!”
Rudyard Kipling’s words danced before his eyes. Fortunately, he knew the book by heart.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half past two.
Mary had walked back to her room then gone back in Michael’s one, and Richard was still reading the story of Toomai.
In spite of his emotion, he was able to read steadily, his deep voice lulling his nephew to sleep for the very last time. Mary took a vacant stool, joined Richard at Michael’s bedside, and listened. Once he reached the end of the chapter, he took the young man’s arm and checked for a pulse.
The coughing was gone now, and the breathing barely audible.
And Richard began another chapter, the story of Kotick, the white seal.
“Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us
At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Where billow meets billow, then soft be thy pillow,
Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas!”
At the end of the chapter, Richard repeated the routine. This time all the color drained from his face and Mary feared he might faint on the spot.
“You should go fetch Sowerby,” he stated simply, his voice blank.
Glad for the occasion to escape the room and compose herself again - the sight of Michael in his bed had evoked unwanted memories - Mary got up and gave Richard the space he needed for the moment.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half past three.
Sowerby had confirmed the death and noted the hour, without comment. As he put his things back into his bag with an automaton’s movements, he had not uttered a single word. Silently, he had walked to the door in Richard’s company. Only when they had reached the door, the physician had managed a few, strangled words.
“All my condolences to your family, Richard,” he stuttered while they were shaking hands. Then he added in a whisper: “You did the right thing.”
Then he was out, leaving Richard standing in the vestibule, alone with his ghosts, unable to move a limb. He wanted to shout, to cry, to break something, to punch someone, to do anything that would stay the unstoppable wave of anger and disgust that submerged him.
What had he done?
Intellectually, he understood he had made the right decision. Instinctively, he knew deep down he had been right. But no rationalization, no matter how valid it was, was enough to stop the rapidly growing nausea.
Richard barely made it to the bathroom, staggering along the corridor like a drunk, before he emptied the content of his stomach. Here he was, the powerful Sir Richard Carlisle, on his knees, bending over the edge of the toilet, heaving and spitting even well after his stomach had been emptied.
A pitiful sight, for sure.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Four o’clock.
Richard had walked Sowerby down, and when half an hour passed without his having come back up, Mary worried.
She was back in her own room, her own sanctuary right now, and she passively let Anna do her hair for the night. Mary had protested feebly, arguing Anna needed her sleep, that she could do without pampering for once.
“Sleeping in your day clothes will only bring back bad memories and keep you awake, m’lady. You need to be well rested tomorrow.” Anna was right, the next would be hellish: making the arrangements for the funeral, making it possible for Richard’s family to travel to London in such a short notice, organizing the wake… “And I don’t mind the occupation,” the maid went on, her eyes downcast.
“Michael grew up on us, didn’t he?” What a difference a single month could make.
“Yes, m’lady,” Anna answered, a light quivering in her voice.
“I told him all about Pamuk, you know,” Mary went on, trying to replace the last image she had of the young man by the memory of his giggling silhouette under the spring sun.
“What did he say?”
“He laughed, and laughed some until there were tears in his eyes.”
I wish I had known him sooner.
A discrete rasp on the door interrupted her nostalgic trail of thoughts, fortunately. Now was not the time for regrets.
The door opened to reveal a rather haggard Richard. He was pale, almost greenish, and his tousled hair was wet with the water he must have splashed on his face, if the droplets on his shirt were any indication. Having noticed Anna’s presence, he stood frozen by the door, uncertain of what to do next, unable to utter a word in his own house.
He was utterly lost.
Mary got up to greet him, to reach him.
“Thank you Anna, that’ll be all for tonight. Try to get some rest, if you can,” she dismissed her maid as gently as she could. It had been Mary’s idea to bring her London to help forget her own nightmares about Bates’ fate, only to plunge her confident into another nightmare. It was not fair to her.
“Yes, m’lady.” Anna turned to the man still standing motionless by the door. “All my condolences, Sir Richard.”
Then she was gone, leaving them alone. Some chaperon she was.
Mary strode to the grieving man and took his hand, repeating the invitation of the night before. Silently, obediently, he followed her to bed.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half past four
Richard was unable to close his eyes, despite how exhausted he was. Whenever he tried, unstoppable images of the events of the night assaulted his mind in whirlwind of distorted emotions.
By his side, Mary seemed to sleep rather peacefully, as much as such a thing was possible in the current situation. Her breathing was regular, reassuring, almost, and no tossing and turning seemed to betray any nightmare.
Mindful not to wake her, he curled around her and took her in his arms once again, taking comfort in the smell of her hair, in her very presence in his life.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five o´clock
Big dead brown eyes were staring at her, following her wherever she went. No matter how fast she ran along Downton corridors, they were right behind her. When she reached her childhood hiding place next to Carson’s office, they were still there. She was frantic, drawing the curtains closed, and when it was not enough, closing the shutters. Her room was pitch black, and she could feel the presence of their dead stare.
Then, she was suffocating. A weight was pinning her to the mattress. She tried to call for help but no sound came out of her constricted throat. She kicked and pushed, and the body would not move.
Mary
A hand was trying to block her arm, twisting it, maintaining her in a defenseless, helpless position. She struggled against it with all her might.
Mary!
The bed was shaking now, there was a storm…
“Mary darling, wake up! You’re having a nightmare.”
Her eyes snapped wide open and, for a few seconds, she felt disorientated. Then, her heartbeats went back to normal. She finally recognized the man in her bed.
Not a dead Pamuk. A living, and worried, Richard.
“God, I’m sorry, I just…”
He cupped her cheek, drawing her closer.“It was Pamuk, wasn’t it?”
“So obvious?”
He answered by kissing her lips lightly, chastely almost, to soothe her, calm her.
And the dam broke.
She teased his lips open, hungry for his touch, the feel of his tongue dancing with hers. Acting on their own, her hands divested him of his shirt and undershirt, breaking the kissing just long enough to undress him.
Meanwhile, Richard rid himself of his trousers and underpants, then pulled her nightgown up. His hands were everywhere, on her thigh, on her breast, between her legs.
It was messy, chaotic, raw, purely instinctive, and would be over far too soon.
It was a bad idea.
However, when he entered her, she joined his movements hungrily, relieved to feel his living body, to caress the warm skin of his back, to kiss his face, happy to be alive.
However, when Richard collapsed on the mattress next to her, sweaty and out of breath, when he buried his face into the crook of her neck and let out ragged sobs at last, she was certain this was the best decision she had ever made in her whole life.
For better for worse.
For richer for poorer.
In sickness and in health.
She already was Lady Mary Carlisle.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Six o’clock
The song of the nightingale roused Richard from his sleep. Rolling on his other side, he tried to check his alarm-clock, only to remember he was not in his bedroom. He reached for his watch on the bed table, and collapsed again on his pillow.
He could do with a several more hours’ of sleep, and so could Mary. In the darkness of the room, he could only imagine her naked silhouette under the covers. His movements had caused her hand to fall from his chest where it rested, as if to make sure he was still warm and alive, and it was now moving, as if searching for him.
Pamuk was a stubborn ghost, really.
Richard knew he should be ashamed of his behavior, of his lack of restraint, considering Mary’s difficult history. Instead, he felt deeply grateful - for her help, for her understanding, for her strength.
Taking her hand and placing it back on his chest, he closed his eyes, letting her guard him against the nightmares and difficulties the next day would bring.
They were a good team.
He had known it all along.
Author: vladnyrki
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle
The aftermath of a difficult decision and its meaning for Mary and Richard.
Beated by the wonderful mrstater
AN: There are two extracts from Kipling’s The jungle book in this chapter, from “Toomai of the Elephants” and from “The white seal”
FIRST INTERLUDE: Sad night and bittersweet morning
London, May 15th, 1919
Half past midnight.
For once, the house was silent, or almost. No rushed footsteps on the carpets, no hushed pressing instructions, no hurriedly opening and closing doors betrayed the occurrence of a new bout of feverish pain or a new crisis of suffocation.
As promised, Sowerby had sent the nurse home, arguing that she looked dreadful and needed to get some rest. The poor woman had made the task much easier than they had initially thought. The days and nights of near constant vigil had taken their toll and she had almost killed her patient when she had handed Sowerby a syringe with a bubble of air. When she had protested, more as an habit of work ethic than anything, the physician pointed out in his most chilling tone that she was in no shape to do her work properly and was bound to make a mistake sooner or later. She needed to get some sleep and come back in the morning, well rested and efficient once again. She had not needed to be told twice and she had left the house at the end of the afternoon, unable to hide her relief as she made her escape.
Anna had replaced the nurse and teamed up with the old doctor. It had been decided they would keep vigil until one o’clock, then would be replaced by Mary and Richard. This way, everybody would be able to rest a little, hopefully. To ease the patient, Sowerby had changed the sedative: it was not as efficient against the pain but it had the merit to knock Michael out for a few hours.
The other merit of this sedative was that its association with the content of the phial Richard had in his possession would prove fatal for the patient heart. Sowerby had taken great pains to warn everybody in the house against the dangers of such a combination with morphine, covertly giving his instructions to Richard at the same time.
“The damned old fox,” Mary heard Richard mutter. “He knew all along about the phial.”
A quick search in Michael’s room had confirmed a sudden suspicion: Sowerby had heard Michael’s plea the night before and had decided to take his responsibilities as well.
But he could not do it alone. Decades of taboo paralyzed him, and the idea of killing his last student, his last spiritual son, must have been unbearable.
Richard had not been able either, and Mary had completed the trio.
Willingly.
Decidedly.
Mary stroked Richard’s stomach through the crumpled shirt and lift her head from his shoulder where it was resting to consider him.
“I regret my earlier criticism. I misjudged the man,” she answered before settling again on his chest.
“You barely knew him, and the same was true for him. You don’t talk about this with a stranger.”
“Indeed,” she whispered.
Tense silence filled Mary’s room, to which they had retreated, once again.
“Richard?”
“Yes?”
“What are you going to do with the syringe? Afterwards, I mean...” If she had to be an accomplice, she would be entirely, and she was well decided to make certain Richard or Sowerby would never suffer any consequences for an act of humanity.
Mary sat up to observe his reaction.
“Honestly, I haven’t thought about it. I’ll find a way…” The confusion in his voice clearly showed his lack of plan.
Mary had one.
“You’ll give me the syringe and the phial. I’ll forget my handkerchief in my room and I’ll have to come back to retrieve it. Tomorrow, I’ll pay another visit to Aunt Rosamund and get rid of everything on my way.” This was less than ideal, but it was something, at least.
A mix of admiration and dread and something else lit his eyes as he sat up as well.
“You would be an active accomplice…” He did not need to go further.
“I won’t let you shoulder this burden alone. I’ve made my decision, Richard.”
There would be no coming back. They were in this together.
For better for worse.
In sickness and in health.
No vows pronounced out loud in front of a crowded church would bind them together more than the future events of the night.
They were a team.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half past one.
As decided earlier in the afternoon, Mary and Richard had replaced Anna and Sowerby at the patient’s bedside.
So far, the sedative had been efficient, and Michael lay still in his bed. Only the sound of his ragged, shallow breathing betrayed the poor state of his lungs. For the first time in days, his face was not contorted by a pained grimace, and the once healthy young man looked almost peaceful.
Almost.
Instinctively, Richard searched for Mary’s eyes across the room. She had settled on the sofa by the window to give him some space. Whatever book she was reading did not captivate her attention since, as soon as he turned back to face her, he saw a pair of brown eyes assessing calmly. Wordlessly, she gestured him to join her on the sofa.
He was getting cold feet, and she had felt it.
“If I understood correctly, your purpose is to avoid more suffering, isn’t it?” she whispered as soon as he sat down heavily next to her.
“Yes.”
“The longer you wait, the greater chance for another fit of suffocation,” she stated the cold, hard facts.
The cold and careful Mary Crawley.
She had changed so much since Lavinia’s funeral. He had walked a devastated girl back home, and now, a woman sat by his side. He was one lucky bastard.
“You’re right. Of course you’re right, my darling. It’s just that…” His emotions were getting the better of him. “Mickey’s asleep, and if I do as planned, the last thing I would have ever heard from him is a plea to end his suffering.” To his own ears, his whispering sounded as if he was shouting the words.
“It’s not about you. It’s about him, Richard,” she snapped back. “At least, you’re here, by his side. Not many soldiers had this chance. Not many parents either.”
Mary was right, of course. It was high time to say goodbye.
A warm hand stroked the growing stubble on his cheeks, comforting him, giving him the strength he needed so desperately.
“All right.”
Richard took a deep breath, the kind he had taken as a youngster before starting his first winter ascension in the Alps, the kind he had taken before opening his editor’s office door to tell him his management was rubbish, and he got up.
With measured steps, careful not to make the wooden floor creak, he walked back to his stool by the bed. On his way, he reached for the syringe and the phial in his pocket. With practiced gestures, albeit a bit rusty, he filled up the syringe with the dose of morphine - the knowledge of basic first aid often made the difference between life and death in a mountain incident. Mechanically, he searched for a compress and the bottle of alcohol, to avoid infection.
“D’you r’ly think it’s necessary?” A mirthless laugh escaped Michael’s lips, followed by a fit of coughing. A trail of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, a sure sign of another episode of suffocation.
It was high time, indeed.
“Habit,” Richard simply commented. He did not trust his voice anymore.
Suppressing the trembling of his hands, he put the tourniquet around the scrawny arm and searched for a vein.
Then he plunged the needle.
Michael grimaced at his lack of bedside manner.
“Sorry, kiddo.”
More coughing, and more blood. Michael’s breathing was getting more labored by the minute.
High time.
With a feeble gesture of the head, he motioned to the bed table, his stare clearly expecting something more from Richard.
The book, of course.
Richard let Mary retrieve the syringe and phial that he had abandoned on the bed and reached for the drawer. Clearing his throat, he began to read.
“I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chain - I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs.
I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane: I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.
I will go out until the day, until the morning break - Out to the wind's untainted kiss, the water's clean caress;
I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket stake. I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!”
Rudyard Kipling’s words danced before his eyes. Fortunately, he knew the book by heart.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half past two.
Mary had walked back to her room then gone back in Michael’s one, and Richard was still reading the story of Toomai.
In spite of his emotion, he was able to read steadily, his deep voice lulling his nephew to sleep for the very last time. Mary took a vacant stool, joined Richard at Michael’s bedside, and listened. Once he reached the end of the chapter, he took the young man’s arm and checked for a pulse.
The coughing was gone now, and the breathing barely audible.
And Richard began another chapter, the story of Kotick, the white seal.
“Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us
At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Where billow meets billow, then soft be thy pillow,
Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas!”
At the end of the chapter, Richard repeated the routine. This time all the color drained from his face and Mary feared he might faint on the spot.
“You should go fetch Sowerby,” he stated simply, his voice blank.
Glad for the occasion to escape the room and compose herself again - the sight of Michael in his bed had evoked unwanted memories - Mary got up and gave Richard the space he needed for the moment.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half past three.
Sowerby had confirmed the death and noted the hour, without comment. As he put his things back into his bag with an automaton’s movements, he had not uttered a single word. Silently, he had walked to the door in Richard’s company. Only when they had reached the door, the physician had managed a few, strangled words.
“All my condolences to your family, Richard,” he stuttered while they were shaking hands. Then he added in a whisper: “You did the right thing.”
Then he was out, leaving Richard standing in the vestibule, alone with his ghosts, unable to move a limb. He wanted to shout, to cry, to break something, to punch someone, to do anything that would stay the unstoppable wave of anger and disgust that submerged him.
What had he done?
Intellectually, he understood he had made the right decision. Instinctively, he knew deep down he had been right. But no rationalization, no matter how valid it was, was enough to stop the rapidly growing nausea.
Richard barely made it to the bathroom, staggering along the corridor like a drunk, before he emptied the content of his stomach. Here he was, the powerful Sir Richard Carlisle, on his knees, bending over the edge of the toilet, heaving and spitting even well after his stomach had been emptied.
A pitiful sight, for sure.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Four o’clock.
Richard had walked Sowerby down, and when half an hour passed without his having come back up, Mary worried.
She was back in her own room, her own sanctuary right now, and she passively let Anna do her hair for the night. Mary had protested feebly, arguing Anna needed her sleep, that she could do without pampering for once.
“Sleeping in your day clothes will only bring back bad memories and keep you awake, m’lady. You need to be well rested tomorrow.” Anna was right, the next would be hellish: making the arrangements for the funeral, making it possible for Richard’s family to travel to London in such a short notice, organizing the wake… “And I don’t mind the occupation,” the maid went on, her eyes downcast.
“Michael grew up on us, didn’t he?” What a difference a single month could make.
“Yes, m’lady,” Anna answered, a light quivering in her voice.
“I told him all about Pamuk, you know,” Mary went on, trying to replace the last image she had of the young man by the memory of his giggling silhouette under the spring sun.
“What did he say?”
“He laughed, and laughed some until there were tears in his eyes.”
I wish I had known him sooner.
A discrete rasp on the door interrupted her nostalgic trail of thoughts, fortunately. Now was not the time for regrets.
The door opened to reveal a rather haggard Richard. He was pale, almost greenish, and his tousled hair was wet with the water he must have splashed on his face, if the droplets on his shirt were any indication. Having noticed Anna’s presence, he stood frozen by the door, uncertain of what to do next, unable to utter a word in his own house.
He was utterly lost.
Mary got up to greet him, to reach him.
“Thank you Anna, that’ll be all for tonight. Try to get some rest, if you can,” she dismissed her maid as gently as she could. It had been Mary’s idea to bring her London to help forget her own nightmares about Bates’ fate, only to plunge her confident into another nightmare. It was not fair to her.
“Yes, m’lady.” Anna turned to the man still standing motionless by the door. “All my condolences, Sir Richard.”
Then she was gone, leaving them alone. Some chaperon she was.
Mary strode to the grieving man and took his hand, repeating the invitation of the night before. Silently, obediently, he followed her to bed.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half past four
Richard was unable to close his eyes, despite how exhausted he was. Whenever he tried, unstoppable images of the events of the night assaulted his mind in whirlwind of distorted emotions.
By his side, Mary seemed to sleep rather peacefully, as much as such a thing was possible in the current situation. Her breathing was regular, reassuring, almost, and no tossing and turning seemed to betray any nightmare.
Mindful not to wake her, he curled around her and took her in his arms once again, taking comfort in the smell of her hair, in her very presence in his life.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five o´clock
Big dead brown eyes were staring at her, following her wherever she went. No matter how fast she ran along Downton corridors, they were right behind her. When she reached her childhood hiding place next to Carson’s office, they were still there. She was frantic, drawing the curtains closed, and when it was not enough, closing the shutters. Her room was pitch black, and she could feel the presence of their dead stare.
Then, she was suffocating. A weight was pinning her to the mattress. She tried to call for help but no sound came out of her constricted throat. She kicked and pushed, and the body would not move.
Mary
A hand was trying to block her arm, twisting it, maintaining her in a defenseless, helpless position. She struggled against it with all her might.
Mary!
The bed was shaking now, there was a storm…
“Mary darling, wake up! You’re having a nightmare.”
Her eyes snapped wide open and, for a few seconds, she felt disorientated. Then, her heartbeats went back to normal. She finally recognized the man in her bed.
Not a dead Pamuk. A living, and worried, Richard.
“God, I’m sorry, I just…”
He cupped her cheek, drawing her closer.“It was Pamuk, wasn’t it?”
“So obvious?”
He answered by kissing her lips lightly, chastely almost, to soothe her, calm her.
And the dam broke.
She teased his lips open, hungry for his touch, the feel of his tongue dancing with hers. Acting on their own, her hands divested him of his shirt and undershirt, breaking the kissing just long enough to undress him.
Meanwhile, Richard rid himself of his trousers and underpants, then pulled her nightgown up. His hands were everywhere, on her thigh, on her breast, between her legs.
It was messy, chaotic, raw, purely instinctive, and would be over far too soon.
It was a bad idea.
However, when he entered her, she joined his movements hungrily, relieved to feel his living body, to caress the warm skin of his back, to kiss his face, happy to be alive.
However, when Richard collapsed on the mattress next to her, sweaty and out of breath, when he buried his face into the crook of her neck and let out ragged sobs at last, she was certain this was the best decision she had ever made in her whole life.
For better for worse.
For richer for poorer.
In sickness and in health.
She already was Lady Mary Carlisle.
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Six o’clock
The song of the nightingale roused Richard from his sleep. Rolling on his other side, he tried to check his alarm-clock, only to remember he was not in his bedroom. He reached for his watch on the bed table, and collapsed again on his pillow.
He could do with a several more hours’ of sleep, and so could Mary. In the darkness of the room, he could only imagine her naked silhouette under the covers. His movements had caused her hand to fall from his chest where it rested, as if to make sure he was still warm and alive, and it was now moving, as if searching for him.
Pamuk was a stubborn ghost, really.
Richard knew he should be ashamed of his behavior, of his lack of restraint, considering Mary’s difficult history. Instead, he felt deeply grateful - for her help, for her understanding, for her strength.
Taking her hand and placing it back on his chest, he closed his eyes, letting her guard him against the nightmares and difficulties the next day would bring.
They were a good team.
He had known it all along.