Chance encounters
Title: Chance encounters
Author:vladnyrki
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle
"This happiness should have been hers" The dissolution of their engagement allowed Mary to live her dreams at last whereas Richard left Downton defeated. Eighteen months later, he enjoys everything life has to offer to a single millionaire whereas she struggles against financial difficulties and a shaky marriage. A collection of snapshots about their chance encounters.
After the Bates' appeal debacle, Mary decides to follow Violet's advice and travel out of England for a while in order to set things right in her marriage while Richard followed his father's advice not to wait to proceed with his planned trip to New York.
Thank you tomrstater!!
1
“Our lot does not divorce, Mary. Step back as much as you need in order to make this marriage work. Travel out of England for some time.”
The Dowager’s voice still rang in Mary’s ears as she managed to escape at last from Lady Harrington’s endless babble about how much safer transatlantic crossing had become since, quote, this horrible tragedy ten years ago, end of quote.
As soon as the Syracuse had left port earlier this morning, leaving the cheering crowds of Liverpool further and further behind in the horizon, the over-enthusiastic living porcelain doll had decided that she and Mary would be friends for the duration of the cruise, claiming they were the only young women in First Class possessing the free use of their movements. Indeed, a quick glance around at her fellow passengers enjoying the sun and the salty air, parading in their brand new spring clothes obviously designed especially for this journey or lounging comfortably settled on one of the numerous chairs aligned on the deck revealed formal businessmen and matriarchs guiding their unmarried daughters to the dreamed marital life and strategic marriage they had been deprived of by the war in Europe. In the middle of this crowd, Lady Harrington - the exuberant widow of a war profiteer who had made his fortune and gained his title thanks to his involvement in the war effort - and Mary - a married woman travelling on her own - stood out dramatically, and the temporary alliance the widow offered had seemed a good idea to Mary.
In the beginning.
A few hours later, listening to a single anecdote more narrated in her high-pitched tone looked like an impossible prowess. Bearing with the young woman for a whole week was totally unimaginable, and Mary wondered if, before the end of the crossing, the Atlantic waters would engulf another drowning Crawley, with the exception she would be the only one jumping from the ship in order to escape from the oblivious torture that was Lady Harrington. Furthermore, even if the allusion to the Titanic was totally innocent - if the big, rounded, slightly tearful eyes were any indication - being directly reminded of the past heir who had been her fiancé, and indirectly of the current heir who was her husband was the last thing Mary needed at the moment.
“Why leave England? My dear, do you think I didn’t see the way Sir Richard gazed at you in York? Do you believe I didn’t notice how guilty you looked when you came back from Glasgow last autumn? Considering the precarious state of your marriage, I advise you not to try and revisit old history. Nothing good will come out of it.”
Actually, any reminder of the absurd chain of events that had ultimately lead Mary to the Syracuse was unbearable. Outside the lavish dining room, the wind, now deprived of the warm influence of a sunny afternoon, had become plain chilly and the crowded deck was deserted.
Mary sighed as she adjusted her silk scarf around her shoulders and leaned on the rail. Below, the faint lights coming from the portholes of the cabins reflected on the dark water and made it possible to guess the regular and mesmerizing movements caused by the progression of the boat. After a fashion, the noises from the dining room and the music from the ball were totally forgotten, and the sounds of the waves and the machines became the only ones Mary paid attention to. If you did not count the short journeys to Ireland for Sybil’s wedding or to France for her honeymoon with Matthew, this was the first time that Mary had traveled so far, and the whole experience was fascinating.
Meeting new people.
Realizing that you would not see land again before a week.
Getting used to the permanent humming of the machines or the cracking of the metallic structure.
Feeling the thrill of discovering unknown places very soon grew more acute by the hour.
Maybe her Granny was right. Maybe this little adventure would help her to find some balance once more. Discovering that her secret regrets were not that much of a secret had been a harsh realization. So Mary had agreed, but not for the sake of her marriage - the memory of Matthew’s accusation was too fresh and would not fade that easily. If Mary had accepted the Dowager’s impromptu idea of a visit to her Grandmama in New York, it was because she could not drag Richard into her own endless drama once more. On that point, she agreed totally with her grandmother. Nothing good would come out of it, and hurting the newspaperman again was the last thing she wanted to do.
The Dowager was willing to send her granddaughter to the country she despised so much in order to preserve the family from the man’s wrath should the former romantic entanglement resurface.
Mary was willing to play the game in order to preserve the man from an inevitable heartbreak. She had made her choice; she had married Matthew, for better or for worse, and nothing would change that, not even the fact that it had been Richard’s words that had helped her to accept the fate of her baby, not her husband’s.
Mary had protested, but in the end, she had relented, not without calling her grandmother on her continuous interferences in the others’ lives, for the best, and sometimes for the worst. If the family in general and the Dowager in particular had not acted as if Lavinia and Richard were little more than inconvenient obstacles to her love story with Matthew, maybe Mary would not have felt the need to escape to America after only two years of a rather rocky marriage.
“My dear Mary, our opposition did not stop Sybil from marrying the chauffeur. Do you really think I would have done what I did if you had not given us the impression that, at that time, marrying Matthew was your only way to happiness?”
Mary had made her decision, and now she had to live with it.
“Until death do us part,” she whispered sadly to the dark waves.
-/-
Around his fifteenth birthday, Richard had managed to find and steal the key to the locked bookcase where his father used to hide the books he deemed unsuitable for his children’s young minds. The bookcase had been totally out of reach until his tenth birthday, and then a few volumes had found their way out of the piece of furniture to liven up a daily routine made of Daniel Dafoe, Walter Scott and translations of Alexandre Dumas. Little by little, Dr. Frankenstein’s tortuous adventures, Poe’s ghosts or Dickens’ prose substituted his old heroes in his former pantheon, soon to be rejoined by models from the other side of the Channel - his father had always been a convinced Francophile - and especially Voltaire’s biting irony. However, many books remained hidden so Richard had decided he was old enough to forgo his old man’s permission to choose his own readings.
Observing the man’s routines had been the easiest part. Determining the right moment had been quite easy as well. But slipping unnoticed into the forbidden study had been no small feat: his mother’s sense of hearing was unnatural, and his little sister possessed a special talent that consisted of finding him and alerting the whole house if not the neighborhood whenever he wanted to be discreet, walk in without showing his latest school results or slip out to go and play with his friends in spite of being grounded in his room. Fortunately, this day, he had been able to feel Abby’s presence behind him and buy her temporary cooperation with a handful of sweets he had purchased for that very purpose.
Finding the key had been quite difficult not because of his father’s talent at hiding something but because of the man’s frightening lack of order. No wonder his mother refused to set a foot in the room. He had lost so much time searching for the damn key he had almost run out of time and he had to settle for the first book with the seemingly most intriguing title before rushing up the stairs to his room.
From that day, Diderot’s Letter on the blind had become his favorite book, his own personal Bible, revealing to the fifteen-year-old boy he was then the liberating hypothesis of the relativity of moral systems, making him revisit all the absolute truths he had been forced to accept without question at school or during catechism. Since then, he had built his own system of beliefs, which had helped him to reach the place in society he occupied now. In the end, he had become a rather adaptable man, able to travel all around the world and make friends in distant places with few difficulties.
Actually, his utter inability to understand the Crawleys’ own twisted system of values had been his most spectacular failure to adapt to an unknown situation. Too emotionally involved, he had let the situation gnaw at him little by little, fruitless visit after frustrating visit. From that point of view, Christmas 1919 had been a rather frightening case of dual personality as he heard himself sputter idiocy after idiocy about the servants, the traditional Boxing Day hunt without being able to stop himself. The events that had transpired two weeks ago in York had revealed that the Crawleys still possessed the ability to crawl under his skin like nobody else. As soon as he had hung up, terminating effectively his more and more personal conversation with Mary, Richard had decided that his father’s advice was a good one.
And here he was, crossing the Atlantic one more time, horribly blasé about the whole thing, barricaded in his cabin with Diderot, fleeing from his fellow businessmen’s boring company. A rapid glance at the passenger manifesto had shown him that nothing interesting would come out of prolonged discussions with the owner of the richest mines in Wales or the director of some uninteresting textile factory in Birmingham. One of his editors followed Lady Harrington’s extravagances closely, and routinely complained about horrible headaches after an evening spent in her orbit, an experience Richard did not want to imitate during this week-long journey. Only the discreet owner of a weapons factory in Glasgow who had suffered from the socialist movement back in 1919 was worth a little extra work.
But not on the first day at sea.
Richard had an entire week to get to know the man and earn his trust so that he could be persuaded to talk to his papers. Having determined his occupation for the next few days, the newspaperman had not bothered to read the manifesto in its entirety, paid the clerk for his troubles and retreated to his cabin.
Engrossed by his reading, and rather inelegantly sprawled on the comfortable sofa that adorned his study, Richard had forgotten diner time. However, the insistent grumbling in his stomach finally reminded him that one cannot feed on printed words - concretely in fact, because he was a living proof that it was more than possible metaphorically - and he decided that immediate survival - a meal - was more important than the hundredth reread of Diderot’s Letter. A glance at the clock on the mantel of the artificial fireplace showed him it was too late to join the guests in the dining room. At this hour, the nightly ball had already begun. He could always ask the crew to bring something to eat to his cabin, which he was more and more accustomed to. However, the warm weather of the afternoon had morphed into a nice, fresh evening, and it was impossible to tell how long such conditions would last. Clouds and heavy rain could make their appearance the very next day and follow the Syracuse to its destination, forcing the passengers to stay indoors.
Richard reached for his shoes and socks he had methodically placed by the sofa - on that point, he was his mother’s son, not his father’s - before getting his cigarettes and his coat. Having a sandwich or two along with a bottle of wine on the deserted deck seemed a more and more attractive idea by the second.
-/-
The sounds of footsteps on the deck alerted Mary that she was not alone anymore. Not desiring to abandon her post by the railing anytime soon - the experience of salty wind on her face was a delightful one - but, at the same time, not wanting to be bothered by a stranger’s innocent curiosity, Mary stepped back into the darkness, under a flight of metal stairs nearby, waiting for the intruder to leave her ephemeral kingdom of shadows and rhythmic waves. Fortunately, the stranger seemed more interested by the bright activity in the ballroom - bursts of jazz music and laughter reached her ears whenever the door was opened and closed - and stepped in quickly to join the dancing crowds.
Good for them.
Mary was in no mood for company, even a distant one. Furthermore, ever since her childhood, she had always enjoyed quietness in the most selfish way. She needed to create her own world to retreat into once a day or more, and growing up on an estate like Downton had not helped her to get used to crowded places and ever-present company. In that sense, getting used to Crawley house had been quite an effort for her, so much more than she had let Matthew and his mother notice.
It was also her deep attachment to her selfish need of quiet solitude that had made her waver in her engagement to Richard. How would he have been able to understand such a visceral need to disappear for a few hours in the afternoon with the only company of a book when his life was nothing but noisy activity and rushed conversations? Unfortunately, it was only a few months ago - a good three years too late - that Mary had discovered that he would have been able to understand much more than she had originally thought: a man who used to retreat in a glass-house to work or simply to daydream would have accepted her need for privacy and reverie.
The door to the ballroom opened and closed again, and Mary retreated further into her hiding place as if it were a long-learnt habit and not a routine she had only acquired for the last hour. However, instead of disappearing in the background of the humming machines and the crashing waves against the hull, the footsteps came closer and finally stopped, two meters from her.
It was too dark to recognize anyone but she could make out a male silhouette, in a coat with a turned up collar. Oblivious to her presence - Mary always had been good at hiding, which used to drive Edith and Sybil mad, especially Edith - the man bent to put down a bottle and a glass by his feet and straightened up to lean on the railway.
Just my luck.
Another passenger seemed to share Mary’s taste for solitary contemplation, which displeased her greatly. She was in a dire need of another hiding place very soon if she wanted to survive Lady Harrington’s over-enthusiastic company until the end of the journey, and more urgently, she needed to slip out of her current refuge without being noticed by the stranger in front of her.
In the dark, Mary could not make out the man’s features, and did not wish to if it could be avoided. However, when one of his hands left the railing and reached for his pocket in a strangely familiar fashion, she stood glued to her spot, suddenly unable to move.
Impossible.
The man turned so that his back protected his hands from the wind before striking a match and bringing the flame closer to his face to light his cigarette.
At the definitely familiar vision, Mary had to repress a nervous giggle, for one of the reasons why her granny had advised to travel out of England was standing in front of her. The irony of the situation was really hilarious, and, at the same time, Richard’s unexpected presence on the Syracuse was most comforting, more than she would have cared to admit out loud.
“Good evening, Richard,” she greeted in spite of herself while stepping out of her hiding place, suddenly no longer minding the idea of sharing her refuge.
His surprised expression and widened eyes when he jumped back to face her was almost comical and Mary felt as if she had stepped into one of those films the downstairs staff enjoyed so much during their nights off. Gone was the burning cigarette, probably thrown into the waves in surprise, but the bottle remained intact.
“M… Mary?”
The incredulity in his voice was obvious. Her presence on this very boat was probably the last thing he expected. However, Sir Richard Carlisle was nothing if not a resourceful man, able to turn any situation to his advantage: Mary clearly remembered that the bargaining had followed his stunned silence after only a handful of seconds when she had traveled to London in order to obtain his help against Vera Bates’ scheming.
“Good evening, Mary. Isn’t it a surprise?” he answered, hiding the last remain of discomfort behind a cocky smile and his extended, still bandaged, right hand.
She shook the offered hand, glad to see he did not flinch at the contact, a sign he was probably healing properly. Back home, Matthew’s jaw was on the mend, most likely…
“I didn’t see you at dinner,” she went on to push the unwanted thoughts and concerns away.
“I was reading,” he offered as an explanation. “I just came above deck to get something to eat and drink.” As he talked, he gestured to the bottle at his feet and revealed the sandwich cradled in his left hand. “Care to join me? This vintage is a rarity, and once we arrive in New York, we will have to get used to infusions and sodas.”
At this allusion, Mary raised an interrogative eyebrow.
“Are you sure you have family in America?”
“I’m traveling to visit them,” she answered back with a pointed stare before clarifying sheepishly, “for the first time.”
“So they didn’t tell you about the Volstead Act, did they?” he commented as he poured a glass of wine for her, in a gesture quite reminiscent of their little adventure in Glasgow. The only difference was that she was not pregnant anymore, and that red wine replaced warm tea.
“I’m afraid that, if my Grandmama did, I didn’t catch her meaning,” she replied, accepting the offered glass. Of course, she could not remember much from her American grandmother’s visit because all Mary cared about at the time was her imminent marriage to Matthew, and the fate of Downton.
“Long story short, no alcohol for us until we leave New York behind, at least publicly,” Richard summarized with a shrug of his shoulders. “That’s more or less the same story in New Zealand, actually.”
Mary brought the glass to her lips to taste the wine, savor its texture and strong aroma. Indeed, it was the kind of vintage that his father jealously kept in the depth of his cellar and that he asked Carson to present at dinner only for special occasions, like her engagement to Matthew.
“I guess we have to enjoy the Syracuse’s collection as long as we can, have we?”
“Suppose so…”
With a movement of his head, Richard invited her to join him by the railing, reclaiming his glass and offering her his coat which she accepted gladly. The chilly wind was not enjoyable anymore and her slightly shivering shoulders betrayed her growing discomfort.
Once she settled back by the railing, sheltered from the wind by Richard’s frame and his warm coat, comfortable silence settled between them. Routinely, he reached for the bottle and poured a glass of wine they shared while gazing at the movements of the waves. Mary only took a few sips from time to time while Richard enjoyed the vintage more thoroughly, probably in an attempt to hide his own discomfort at the unexpected encounter. On the contrary, Mary took delight in the situation, the warm pressure of his arm against hers, the smell of tobacco on his coat. Richard was a good companion for silent reverie, actually.
Finally, an hour or so later, even his coat did not stop her from shivering.
“You’re cold.”
There was no denying it, especially when she had a hard time to stop the clicking of her teeth.
“Can I walk you back to your cabin?” he asked almost shyly, in a way that reminded Mary of Lavinia’s funeral. Now and then, the expression on his face was a bit hesitant and attentive to her well-being at the same time, in the most discreet way. Richard was spectacular in his anger but shy in his attentions.
She nodded her acceptance, and as before, took the arm he offered casually, clinging to his warmth.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“No,” he shook his head with an amused smile. “That’s a nice summer night in Inverness.”
Mary let out a snort. Of course, Richard had to mention Scotland before the end of their conversation.
Following her lead, they walked silently along narrow corridors before stopping in front of her door.
“Nice,” he commented mischievously. “We’re almost neighbors.”
“Do you want a tour?” she asked with an audacity she did not know she possessed.
Richard shook his head. “I’d like my coat back.”
They stepped into the cabin and Richard leaned against the door, waiting for her to give him his coat back, curiously scanning his surroundings. For the first time since their encounter by the railing, she could see him in bright light. The wind had freed his blond curls from the pomade. His face had been reddened by the cold, which made his blue eyes and days-growth of beard stand out even more. His whole posture against the door betrayed a rarely seen nonchalance that suited him better than the rigid attitude she had witnessed him display during his visits to Downton.
It was Glasgow all over again.
He was so appealing and, suddenly, she wanted him.
Now.
-/-
Without any more warning than her darkening stare, Richard felt Mary grab his already loosened collar and push him against the door of her cabin.
This was absolutely not what he had been thinking about when he had offered to walk her back to her cabin.
Not at all.
The door-knob dug in the small of his back but Mary’s insistent kiss provided a heady distraction. A little inebriated by the bottle of red wine they had opened on the deck - Mary had only sipped two glasses, leaving the rest to him - Richard had a hard time resisting a chain of events he knew would end in disaster. The caress of her lips, the fragrance of her perfume only contributed to enhance his state of inebriation, and he could feel himself harden as Mary’s tongue brushed insistently against his already slightly parted lips to deepen the kiss.
This was Glasgow all over again, only ten times worse, with no family members within a thousand miles radius and the prospect of traveling in the same boat for ten more days or so.
Bad idea.
For the first time since their first encounter in 1916, they were truly alone, with no interference from a disapproving grandmother, a critical father or an overprotective and jealous cousin who happened to be a former fiancé. Furthermore, Mary was the one taking the initiative, as she had done in Glasgow a few months back. Her fingers were on his tie now and relieved him from the garment before working on the first buttons of his shirt.
She wanted him. It was a dream come true, only it was a good three years too late.
Very bad idea.
He protested feebly, but the sound was swallowed by another kiss that left him breathless, only wanting more. Worse, his hands began acting on their own, one instinctively reaching for Mary’s waist, playing with the button of her skirt, while the other settled on her breast.
The worst idea in the decade.
How often he had dreamed of doing this in Downton or in Haxby, without ever being able to find the right moment or the right mood! He had wanted kisses and caresses, endless talks about their future, and the only thing he had ever gained from his regular visits to Yorkshire had been more anger and frustration. Instead of kissing the once adored lips, his mouth had proffered threats whereas his hand had grabbed the arms he desired to caress. Endless quarrells had replaced planning their life together. This was all in the past, deep buried and he did not need to revisit the whole debacle. Richard did not want to be blinded by anger once more.
His shirt was now completely open and Mary’s cold fingers slipped under his undershirt, grazing his belly with her nails ever so slightly, eliciting a moan from him. He had managed to resist back in Glasgow, and the urge to lean into her kiss had been as powerful as now. Why could he not resist this time?
Bad, bad, bad idea.
His hands settled on her shoulders and pushed her away gently while he answered the disappointed stare with a tender smile before gathering her in his arms - she was as light as a feather, almost so light he could not help but worry a little - and carrying her in long few strides to the bed.
The hell with it.
To be honest, back in Glasgow, he had not witnessed how unhappy Mary was with her marriage and she had not shared her deepest secret over the phone in the middle of the night yet.
In Glasgow, Mary had not invited herself back into his dreams yet.
In Glasgow, he had not accepted the idea that he wanted her in his life and in his arms on any term yet.
Richard put Mary back on her feet and stepped back to remove his clothes, his eyes never quitting hers, searching for the most fugitive sign of hesitation. Such a moment never came as she followed his lead and began to undress, a mischievous smile on her lips, a pair of brown eyes gazing right back at him. Yet, her newfound confidence seemed to falter as she removed her last garment and she self-consciously crossed her arms in a vain attempt to hide herself from his aroused scrutiny. Gently, he brushed away a wayward strand of hair that had escaped from her new boyish cut.
“Mary?”
Revealing herself in such a way to a man who was not her husband must have been quite overwhelming, and for a second, Richard feared she might run to the bathroom, blurting it was all a very bad idea, leaving him to gather his clothes, no coming out of her shelter before she would have heard the door of her cabin shutting close behind him.
“If you want…”
He never finished his half-formed thought because her arms flew to his neck while her lips claimed his own in another heady kiss, and he was more than happy to let her drag him to the bed and respond to her anxious, breathless command.
“Make love to me, Richard.”
Indeed, he loved her, whether he wanted or not.
Author:vladnyrki
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle
"This happiness should have been hers" The dissolution of their engagement allowed Mary to live her dreams at last whereas Richard left Downton defeated. Eighteen months later, he enjoys everything life has to offer to a single millionaire whereas she struggles against financial difficulties and a shaky marriage. A collection of snapshots about their chance encounters.
After the Bates' appeal debacle, Mary decides to follow Violet's advice and travel out of England for a while in order to set things right in her marriage while Richard followed his father's advice not to wait to proceed with his planned trip to New York.
Thank you tomrstater!!
1
“Our lot does not divorce, Mary. Step back as much as you need in order to make this marriage work. Travel out of England for some time.”
The Dowager’s voice still rang in Mary’s ears as she managed to escape at last from Lady Harrington’s endless babble about how much safer transatlantic crossing had become since, quote, this horrible tragedy ten years ago, end of quote.
As soon as the Syracuse had left port earlier this morning, leaving the cheering crowds of Liverpool further and further behind in the horizon, the over-enthusiastic living porcelain doll had decided that she and Mary would be friends for the duration of the cruise, claiming they were the only young women in First Class possessing the free use of their movements. Indeed, a quick glance around at her fellow passengers enjoying the sun and the salty air, parading in their brand new spring clothes obviously designed especially for this journey or lounging comfortably settled on one of the numerous chairs aligned on the deck revealed formal businessmen and matriarchs guiding their unmarried daughters to the dreamed marital life and strategic marriage they had been deprived of by the war in Europe. In the middle of this crowd, Lady Harrington - the exuberant widow of a war profiteer who had made his fortune and gained his title thanks to his involvement in the war effort - and Mary - a married woman travelling on her own - stood out dramatically, and the temporary alliance the widow offered had seemed a good idea to Mary.
In the beginning.
A few hours later, listening to a single anecdote more narrated in her high-pitched tone looked like an impossible prowess. Bearing with the young woman for a whole week was totally unimaginable, and Mary wondered if, before the end of the crossing, the Atlantic waters would engulf another drowning Crawley, with the exception she would be the only one jumping from the ship in order to escape from the oblivious torture that was Lady Harrington. Furthermore, even if the allusion to the Titanic was totally innocent - if the big, rounded, slightly tearful eyes were any indication - being directly reminded of the past heir who had been her fiancé, and indirectly of the current heir who was her husband was the last thing Mary needed at the moment.
“Why leave England? My dear, do you think I didn’t see the way Sir Richard gazed at you in York? Do you believe I didn’t notice how guilty you looked when you came back from Glasgow last autumn? Considering the precarious state of your marriage, I advise you not to try and revisit old history. Nothing good will come out of it.”
Actually, any reminder of the absurd chain of events that had ultimately lead Mary to the Syracuse was unbearable. Outside the lavish dining room, the wind, now deprived of the warm influence of a sunny afternoon, had become plain chilly and the crowded deck was deserted.
Mary sighed as she adjusted her silk scarf around her shoulders and leaned on the rail. Below, the faint lights coming from the portholes of the cabins reflected on the dark water and made it possible to guess the regular and mesmerizing movements caused by the progression of the boat. After a fashion, the noises from the dining room and the music from the ball were totally forgotten, and the sounds of the waves and the machines became the only ones Mary paid attention to. If you did not count the short journeys to Ireland for Sybil’s wedding or to France for her honeymoon with Matthew, this was the first time that Mary had traveled so far, and the whole experience was fascinating.
Meeting new people.
Realizing that you would not see land again before a week.
Getting used to the permanent humming of the machines or the cracking of the metallic structure.
Feeling the thrill of discovering unknown places very soon grew more acute by the hour.
Maybe her Granny was right. Maybe this little adventure would help her to find some balance once more. Discovering that her secret regrets were not that much of a secret had been a harsh realization. So Mary had agreed, but not for the sake of her marriage - the memory of Matthew’s accusation was too fresh and would not fade that easily. If Mary had accepted the Dowager’s impromptu idea of a visit to her Grandmama in New York, it was because she could not drag Richard into her own endless drama once more. On that point, she agreed totally with her grandmother. Nothing good would come out of it, and hurting the newspaperman again was the last thing she wanted to do.
The Dowager was willing to send her granddaughter to the country she despised so much in order to preserve the family from the man’s wrath should the former romantic entanglement resurface.
Mary was willing to play the game in order to preserve the man from an inevitable heartbreak. She had made her choice; she had married Matthew, for better or for worse, and nothing would change that, not even the fact that it had been Richard’s words that had helped her to accept the fate of her baby, not her husband’s.
Mary had protested, but in the end, she had relented, not without calling her grandmother on her continuous interferences in the others’ lives, for the best, and sometimes for the worst. If the family in general and the Dowager in particular had not acted as if Lavinia and Richard were little more than inconvenient obstacles to her love story with Matthew, maybe Mary would not have felt the need to escape to America after only two years of a rather rocky marriage.
“My dear Mary, our opposition did not stop Sybil from marrying the chauffeur. Do you really think I would have done what I did if you had not given us the impression that, at that time, marrying Matthew was your only way to happiness?”
Mary had made her decision, and now she had to live with it.
“Until death do us part,” she whispered sadly to the dark waves.
-/-
Around his fifteenth birthday, Richard had managed to find and steal the key to the locked bookcase where his father used to hide the books he deemed unsuitable for his children’s young minds. The bookcase had been totally out of reach until his tenth birthday, and then a few volumes had found their way out of the piece of furniture to liven up a daily routine made of Daniel Dafoe, Walter Scott and translations of Alexandre Dumas. Little by little, Dr. Frankenstein’s tortuous adventures, Poe’s ghosts or Dickens’ prose substituted his old heroes in his former pantheon, soon to be rejoined by models from the other side of the Channel - his father had always been a convinced Francophile - and especially Voltaire’s biting irony. However, many books remained hidden so Richard had decided he was old enough to forgo his old man’s permission to choose his own readings.
Observing the man’s routines had been the easiest part. Determining the right moment had been quite easy as well. But slipping unnoticed into the forbidden study had been no small feat: his mother’s sense of hearing was unnatural, and his little sister possessed a special talent that consisted of finding him and alerting the whole house if not the neighborhood whenever he wanted to be discreet, walk in without showing his latest school results or slip out to go and play with his friends in spite of being grounded in his room. Fortunately, this day, he had been able to feel Abby’s presence behind him and buy her temporary cooperation with a handful of sweets he had purchased for that very purpose.
Finding the key had been quite difficult not because of his father’s talent at hiding something but because of the man’s frightening lack of order. No wonder his mother refused to set a foot in the room. He had lost so much time searching for the damn key he had almost run out of time and he had to settle for the first book with the seemingly most intriguing title before rushing up the stairs to his room.
From that day, Diderot’s Letter on the blind had become his favorite book, his own personal Bible, revealing to the fifteen-year-old boy he was then the liberating hypothesis of the relativity of moral systems, making him revisit all the absolute truths he had been forced to accept without question at school or during catechism. Since then, he had built his own system of beliefs, which had helped him to reach the place in society he occupied now. In the end, he had become a rather adaptable man, able to travel all around the world and make friends in distant places with few difficulties.
Actually, his utter inability to understand the Crawleys’ own twisted system of values had been his most spectacular failure to adapt to an unknown situation. Too emotionally involved, he had let the situation gnaw at him little by little, fruitless visit after frustrating visit. From that point of view, Christmas 1919 had been a rather frightening case of dual personality as he heard himself sputter idiocy after idiocy about the servants, the traditional Boxing Day hunt without being able to stop himself. The events that had transpired two weeks ago in York had revealed that the Crawleys still possessed the ability to crawl under his skin like nobody else. As soon as he had hung up, terminating effectively his more and more personal conversation with Mary, Richard had decided that his father’s advice was a good one.
And here he was, crossing the Atlantic one more time, horribly blasé about the whole thing, barricaded in his cabin with Diderot, fleeing from his fellow businessmen’s boring company. A rapid glance at the passenger manifesto had shown him that nothing interesting would come out of prolonged discussions with the owner of the richest mines in Wales or the director of some uninteresting textile factory in Birmingham. One of his editors followed Lady Harrington’s extravagances closely, and routinely complained about horrible headaches after an evening spent in her orbit, an experience Richard did not want to imitate during this week-long journey. Only the discreet owner of a weapons factory in Glasgow who had suffered from the socialist movement back in 1919 was worth a little extra work.
But not on the first day at sea.
Richard had an entire week to get to know the man and earn his trust so that he could be persuaded to talk to his papers. Having determined his occupation for the next few days, the newspaperman had not bothered to read the manifesto in its entirety, paid the clerk for his troubles and retreated to his cabin.
Engrossed by his reading, and rather inelegantly sprawled on the comfortable sofa that adorned his study, Richard had forgotten diner time. However, the insistent grumbling in his stomach finally reminded him that one cannot feed on printed words - concretely in fact, because he was a living proof that it was more than possible metaphorically - and he decided that immediate survival - a meal - was more important than the hundredth reread of Diderot’s Letter. A glance at the clock on the mantel of the artificial fireplace showed him it was too late to join the guests in the dining room. At this hour, the nightly ball had already begun. He could always ask the crew to bring something to eat to his cabin, which he was more and more accustomed to. However, the warm weather of the afternoon had morphed into a nice, fresh evening, and it was impossible to tell how long such conditions would last. Clouds and heavy rain could make their appearance the very next day and follow the Syracuse to its destination, forcing the passengers to stay indoors.
Richard reached for his shoes and socks he had methodically placed by the sofa - on that point, he was his mother’s son, not his father’s - before getting his cigarettes and his coat. Having a sandwich or two along with a bottle of wine on the deserted deck seemed a more and more attractive idea by the second.
-/-
The sounds of footsteps on the deck alerted Mary that she was not alone anymore. Not desiring to abandon her post by the railing anytime soon - the experience of salty wind on her face was a delightful one - but, at the same time, not wanting to be bothered by a stranger’s innocent curiosity, Mary stepped back into the darkness, under a flight of metal stairs nearby, waiting for the intruder to leave her ephemeral kingdom of shadows and rhythmic waves. Fortunately, the stranger seemed more interested by the bright activity in the ballroom - bursts of jazz music and laughter reached her ears whenever the door was opened and closed - and stepped in quickly to join the dancing crowds.
Good for them.
Mary was in no mood for company, even a distant one. Furthermore, ever since her childhood, she had always enjoyed quietness in the most selfish way. She needed to create her own world to retreat into once a day or more, and growing up on an estate like Downton had not helped her to get used to crowded places and ever-present company. In that sense, getting used to Crawley house had been quite an effort for her, so much more than she had let Matthew and his mother notice.
It was also her deep attachment to her selfish need of quiet solitude that had made her waver in her engagement to Richard. How would he have been able to understand such a visceral need to disappear for a few hours in the afternoon with the only company of a book when his life was nothing but noisy activity and rushed conversations? Unfortunately, it was only a few months ago - a good three years too late - that Mary had discovered that he would have been able to understand much more than she had originally thought: a man who used to retreat in a glass-house to work or simply to daydream would have accepted her need for privacy and reverie.
The door to the ballroom opened and closed again, and Mary retreated further into her hiding place as if it were a long-learnt habit and not a routine she had only acquired for the last hour. However, instead of disappearing in the background of the humming machines and the crashing waves against the hull, the footsteps came closer and finally stopped, two meters from her.
It was too dark to recognize anyone but she could make out a male silhouette, in a coat with a turned up collar. Oblivious to her presence - Mary always had been good at hiding, which used to drive Edith and Sybil mad, especially Edith - the man bent to put down a bottle and a glass by his feet and straightened up to lean on the railway.
Just my luck.
Another passenger seemed to share Mary’s taste for solitary contemplation, which displeased her greatly. She was in a dire need of another hiding place very soon if she wanted to survive Lady Harrington’s over-enthusiastic company until the end of the journey, and more urgently, she needed to slip out of her current refuge without being noticed by the stranger in front of her.
In the dark, Mary could not make out the man’s features, and did not wish to if it could be avoided. However, when one of his hands left the railing and reached for his pocket in a strangely familiar fashion, she stood glued to her spot, suddenly unable to move.
Impossible.
The man turned so that his back protected his hands from the wind before striking a match and bringing the flame closer to his face to light his cigarette.
At the definitely familiar vision, Mary had to repress a nervous giggle, for one of the reasons why her granny had advised to travel out of England was standing in front of her. The irony of the situation was really hilarious, and, at the same time, Richard’s unexpected presence on the Syracuse was most comforting, more than she would have cared to admit out loud.
“Good evening, Richard,” she greeted in spite of herself while stepping out of her hiding place, suddenly no longer minding the idea of sharing her refuge.
His surprised expression and widened eyes when he jumped back to face her was almost comical and Mary felt as if she had stepped into one of those films the downstairs staff enjoyed so much during their nights off. Gone was the burning cigarette, probably thrown into the waves in surprise, but the bottle remained intact.
“M… Mary?”
The incredulity in his voice was obvious. Her presence on this very boat was probably the last thing he expected. However, Sir Richard Carlisle was nothing if not a resourceful man, able to turn any situation to his advantage: Mary clearly remembered that the bargaining had followed his stunned silence after only a handful of seconds when she had traveled to London in order to obtain his help against Vera Bates’ scheming.
“Good evening, Mary. Isn’t it a surprise?” he answered, hiding the last remain of discomfort behind a cocky smile and his extended, still bandaged, right hand.
She shook the offered hand, glad to see he did not flinch at the contact, a sign he was probably healing properly. Back home, Matthew’s jaw was on the mend, most likely…
“I didn’t see you at dinner,” she went on to push the unwanted thoughts and concerns away.
“I was reading,” he offered as an explanation. “I just came above deck to get something to eat and drink.” As he talked, he gestured to the bottle at his feet and revealed the sandwich cradled in his left hand. “Care to join me? This vintage is a rarity, and once we arrive in New York, we will have to get used to infusions and sodas.”
At this allusion, Mary raised an interrogative eyebrow.
“Are you sure you have family in America?”
“I’m traveling to visit them,” she answered back with a pointed stare before clarifying sheepishly, “for the first time.”
“So they didn’t tell you about the Volstead Act, did they?” he commented as he poured a glass of wine for her, in a gesture quite reminiscent of their little adventure in Glasgow. The only difference was that she was not pregnant anymore, and that red wine replaced warm tea.
“I’m afraid that, if my Grandmama did, I didn’t catch her meaning,” she replied, accepting the offered glass. Of course, she could not remember much from her American grandmother’s visit because all Mary cared about at the time was her imminent marriage to Matthew, and the fate of Downton.
“Long story short, no alcohol for us until we leave New York behind, at least publicly,” Richard summarized with a shrug of his shoulders. “That’s more or less the same story in New Zealand, actually.”
Mary brought the glass to her lips to taste the wine, savor its texture and strong aroma. Indeed, it was the kind of vintage that his father jealously kept in the depth of his cellar and that he asked Carson to present at dinner only for special occasions, like her engagement to Matthew.
“I guess we have to enjoy the Syracuse’s collection as long as we can, have we?”
“Suppose so…”
With a movement of his head, Richard invited her to join him by the railing, reclaiming his glass and offering her his coat which she accepted gladly. The chilly wind was not enjoyable anymore and her slightly shivering shoulders betrayed her growing discomfort.
Once she settled back by the railing, sheltered from the wind by Richard’s frame and his warm coat, comfortable silence settled between them. Routinely, he reached for the bottle and poured a glass of wine they shared while gazing at the movements of the waves. Mary only took a few sips from time to time while Richard enjoyed the vintage more thoroughly, probably in an attempt to hide his own discomfort at the unexpected encounter. On the contrary, Mary took delight in the situation, the warm pressure of his arm against hers, the smell of tobacco on his coat. Richard was a good companion for silent reverie, actually.
Finally, an hour or so later, even his coat did not stop her from shivering.
“You’re cold.”
There was no denying it, especially when she had a hard time to stop the clicking of her teeth.
“Can I walk you back to your cabin?” he asked almost shyly, in a way that reminded Mary of Lavinia’s funeral. Now and then, the expression on his face was a bit hesitant and attentive to her well-being at the same time, in the most discreet way. Richard was spectacular in his anger but shy in his attentions.
She nodded her acceptance, and as before, took the arm he offered casually, clinging to his warmth.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“No,” he shook his head with an amused smile. “That’s a nice summer night in Inverness.”
Mary let out a snort. Of course, Richard had to mention Scotland before the end of their conversation.
Following her lead, they walked silently along narrow corridors before stopping in front of her door.
“Nice,” he commented mischievously. “We’re almost neighbors.”
“Do you want a tour?” she asked with an audacity she did not know she possessed.
Richard shook his head. “I’d like my coat back.”
They stepped into the cabin and Richard leaned against the door, waiting for her to give him his coat back, curiously scanning his surroundings. For the first time since their encounter by the railing, she could see him in bright light. The wind had freed his blond curls from the pomade. His face had been reddened by the cold, which made his blue eyes and days-growth of beard stand out even more. His whole posture against the door betrayed a rarely seen nonchalance that suited him better than the rigid attitude she had witnessed him display during his visits to Downton.
It was Glasgow all over again.
He was so appealing and, suddenly, she wanted him.
Now.
-/-
Without any more warning than her darkening stare, Richard felt Mary grab his already loosened collar and push him against the door of her cabin.
This was absolutely not what he had been thinking about when he had offered to walk her back to her cabin.
Not at all.
The door-knob dug in the small of his back but Mary’s insistent kiss provided a heady distraction. A little inebriated by the bottle of red wine they had opened on the deck - Mary had only sipped two glasses, leaving the rest to him - Richard had a hard time resisting a chain of events he knew would end in disaster. The caress of her lips, the fragrance of her perfume only contributed to enhance his state of inebriation, and he could feel himself harden as Mary’s tongue brushed insistently against his already slightly parted lips to deepen the kiss.
This was Glasgow all over again, only ten times worse, with no family members within a thousand miles radius and the prospect of traveling in the same boat for ten more days or so.
Bad idea.
For the first time since their first encounter in 1916, they were truly alone, with no interference from a disapproving grandmother, a critical father or an overprotective and jealous cousin who happened to be a former fiancé. Furthermore, Mary was the one taking the initiative, as she had done in Glasgow a few months back. Her fingers were on his tie now and relieved him from the garment before working on the first buttons of his shirt.
She wanted him. It was a dream come true, only it was a good three years too late.
Very bad idea.
He protested feebly, but the sound was swallowed by another kiss that left him breathless, only wanting more. Worse, his hands began acting on their own, one instinctively reaching for Mary’s waist, playing with the button of her skirt, while the other settled on her breast.
The worst idea in the decade.
How often he had dreamed of doing this in Downton or in Haxby, without ever being able to find the right moment or the right mood! He had wanted kisses and caresses, endless talks about their future, and the only thing he had ever gained from his regular visits to Yorkshire had been more anger and frustration. Instead of kissing the once adored lips, his mouth had proffered threats whereas his hand had grabbed the arms he desired to caress. Endless quarrells had replaced planning their life together. This was all in the past, deep buried and he did not need to revisit the whole debacle. Richard did not want to be blinded by anger once more.
His shirt was now completely open and Mary’s cold fingers slipped under his undershirt, grazing his belly with her nails ever so slightly, eliciting a moan from him. He had managed to resist back in Glasgow, and the urge to lean into her kiss had been as powerful as now. Why could he not resist this time?
Bad, bad, bad idea.
His hands settled on her shoulders and pushed her away gently while he answered the disappointed stare with a tender smile before gathering her in his arms - she was as light as a feather, almost so light he could not help but worry a little - and carrying her in long few strides to the bed.
The hell with it.
To be honest, back in Glasgow, he had not witnessed how unhappy Mary was with her marriage and she had not shared her deepest secret over the phone in the middle of the night yet.
In Glasgow, Mary had not invited herself back into his dreams yet.
In Glasgow, he had not accepted the idea that he wanted her in his life and in his arms on any term yet.
Richard put Mary back on her feet and stepped back to remove his clothes, his eyes never quitting hers, searching for the most fugitive sign of hesitation. Such a moment never came as she followed his lead and began to undress, a mischievous smile on her lips, a pair of brown eyes gazing right back at him. Yet, her newfound confidence seemed to falter as she removed her last garment and she self-consciously crossed her arms in a vain attempt to hide herself from his aroused scrutiny. Gently, he brushed away a wayward strand of hair that had escaped from her new boyish cut.
“Mary?”
Revealing herself in such a way to a man who was not her husband must have been quite overwhelming, and for a second, Richard feared she might run to the bathroom, blurting it was all a very bad idea, leaving him to gather his clothes, no coming out of her shelter before she would have heard the door of her cabin shutting close behind him.
“If you want…”
He never finished his half-formed thought because her arms flew to his neck while her lips claimed his own in another heady kiss, and he was more than happy to let her drag him to the bed and respond to her anxious, breathless command.
“Make love to me, Richard.”
Indeed, he loved her, whether he wanted or not.