Fic: Another Chapter (5/5)
Title: Another Chapter (5/5)
Author: MrsTater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle, Matthew Crawley, Lord Robert, Earl of Grantham; Lady Cora, Countess of Grantham; Lady Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham; Carson
Ratings & Warnings: rated R for sex
Format & Word Count: WIP, 4161 words in chapter 5
Summary: When Mary agrees to write another chapter in the book of Haxby Park, she unexpectedly writes a new start to her story with Sir Richard. [2x06 AU]
Author's Notes: Finally, the fic that was meant to be a smutty one-shot gets around to being smutty. For all of you who were waiting for it, I appreciate your patience. ;) Seriously, it has been such a pleasure to write this fic, knowing that I had such thoughtful and enthusiastic readers to share it with. I hope you all enjoy the conclusion, and I really do appreciate every lovely review I've received for this story--and the nominations for the highclereawards! Special thanks to just_a_dram for giving me a crash course today in Edwardian underpinnings--until you've written Edwardian sex, you just have no idea how pesky underwear can be! And without further ado, I give you the final chapter of Another Chapter.
One | Two | Three | Four |
Five
"Sir Richard still hasn't turned up, I see?" says Papa when he and Matthew come through to the drawing room.
Mary draws in a breath through her nostrils, holding it in for a moment--along with a protest that if her fiancé had arrived while the men were at their port, he wouldn't be found here, hungry and in his travelling clothes, because her fiancé is Richard Carlisle, and it's exactly the sort of etiquette he'd eschew--before releasing it, slowly.
"My, Papa. That's the third time this evening you've asked about Richard. You sound almost excited for his arrival. He'll be so pleased when I tell him. Usually he has the impression you'd rather he not be here at all."
"I suppose being a keen observer of other people's moods is a skill Sir Richard honed in the newspaper business," Granny says.
Papa thanks Carson for a cup of coffee with a smile that falls as he addresses Mary again. "He'll say the train is late, of course. I don't think it's possible that the train should always be late whenever Carlisle comes up. More likely he worked late."
Granny makes a sound of disgust. "At that ghastly job."
"You do all remember that I have a job, too, don't you?" says Matthew. "One at which I've even, on occasion, been known to work late?"
He shoots Mary a smile from across the room which, though it doesn't make his eyes twinkle as they would have in the old days, in the height of their flirtation, encourages her that she at least has one ally against this axis of disapproving family members. Though she can't decide whether his approval of her marrying another man hurts her more than it helps.
"The law, at least," says Granny, "is a respectable profession."
"That's a different tune than the one you sang when we first learned the future Earl of Grantham was a solicitor in Manchester."
Mary finishes her coffee, then stands and hands her empty cup and saucer off to Carson, whose indomitable eyebrows join in the furrowed centre of his forehead as he struggles to interpret the look she gives him, which begs him to forgive her what she's going to say next.
"There was something I had intended to discuss with you in private, Papa," she begins as she picks her way around the sofa to join beside the fireplace, "but since you've already decided a public flogging is in order for Richard, I'll just come out with it. He's offered Carson a position at Haxby."
"The butler position?"
For perhaps the first time in her life, Mary silently blesses her mother's goggling incredulity, which provides a welcome distraction from Carson's embarrassment. She turns to find her perched like a statue at the edge of her chair, her coffee hovering before her mouth, open in an o as round as her eyes.
"No, Mama, the groom. And since I'm so fond of Carson, I haven't told Richard to withdraw the offer."
Turning back to Papa, she finds that her armour of sarcasm fails to shield her from the coldness of his blue eyes as his gaze touches her.
"Sometimes, Mary," he says, quietly, "I feel as though you are quite a stranger to me. This is one of those times."
She wants to look away, but finds she cannot anymore than if she'd been frozen. It is the way she fears him looking at her if he ever learns how and where Kemal Pamuk died, and the reason she'd entrusted her shameful secret to Richard's safekeeping.
"You know," Papa goes on, setting his coffee on the mantel; he clasps his hands behind his back and strides away from Mary to stand beside Matthew's chair, "I had hoped that your engagement would inspire Sir Richard to be more diligent in learning our ways. Instead it seems you've learnt his."
"Robert," Mama chides, but Mary cannot be grateful for her mother's attempt at support, because her tone would hardly inspire repentance from an errant dog.
And Granny contributes to the conversation with her usual talent for observing trivialities. "I suppose, Carson, that this means you will have to learn Sir Richard's ways of before-dinner...what does he call those newfangled mixed drinks?"
"Cocktails, Lady Grantham," Carson intones, looking for a moment as if he'd just had one of the bitter concoctions forcibly poured down his throat. "Though I suppose it's never too late for an old butler to learn a few new tricks."
His gaze touches Mary's, and the warmth of it colours his sonorous baritone, too. That, and the knowledge that one of her favourite characters of her former life's story will play a prominent role in the chapters yet to come, thaws the part of her that has stood here in frosty silence.
"You talk of Richard's ways as if you knew him so very well, Papa," the words leap from her tongue like stray sparks as the crackling logs settle in the fireplace, and she almost smiles as Richard's voice slides through her mind, calling her cold and careful. "Then it should come as no surprise to hear that Richard's ways are to wait more than a year for me to give him an answer to his proposal, and then, having secured it, to wait even longer until he could find and refurbish a suitable house for me. He could have spirited me away to London, but he thought I'd want to be near my family, and to be kept in the manner to which I am accustomed."
It's the first time she's enumerated all the good Richard has done for her, and even she can't deny it's quite the impressive prospectus for a husband-to-be. In fact, it might even be enough to put her in danger of feeling as strongly, and perhaps even as deeply as he claims to feel about her...
...if only he hadn't blackmailed her into the engagement.
Papa, on the other hand, knows nothing of Richard's underhanded schemes, at least as far as she is concerned, and yet remains unmoved from his prejudice.
"My dear girl," he says, "there is more to the manner to which you are accustomed than simply having a grand old house. And frankly the fate of Haxby Park hits rather too close to home. Thirty years ago it might have been Downton...made a casualty of this war as much as our fighting boys, emptied of all our family relics, sold to an interloper who can have no respect for these old country estates which represent hundreds of years of history and family, and thus will take no care to preserve the dynasty."
"The Russells ought to have considered that before they destroyed their dynasty," comes Mary's reply, perhaps as cold as Richard accused her of being, after all. Though certainly not careful. "And you might consider that Haxby Park, and every penny that bought it, is Richard's, and his children--my children--"
She must pause to draw in a steadying breath, so quickly does her heart flutter in her chest, and as she does so she cannot help but dart her eyes at Matthew, and give him a tiny smile she hopes he will understand to be an apology. For not accepting him before the war as she ought to have done, when she had no certainty that he would ever be anything more than a country solicitor practicing a law which Granny may or may not have found respectable. For not bearing his children while he could still produce them. For not having the strength to stand by him now. She blinks, and her blurred vision gives way to the clear form of Papa, who stands there talking to her as if she were a child of seven clutching a blank new copybook instead of a woman of twenty-seven whose story fills volumes he has never bothered to read.
Cold and careful, she repeats in her mind, exhaling long, her heart slowing in her chest as she draws back her shoulders. Yes, she can be very careful, indeed, when aiming for the jugular.
"Our children will stand to inherit twelve thousand acres, a very large house, and every stick of furniture we buy tomorrow at auction. Even if they do have the misfortune of being born female."
If any sound comes from Papa's gaping mouth, it's swallowed up by the click of Mary's heels as she steps off the carpet and onto the gleaming wood planks and hastily exits the drawing room. And by Matthew's voice, calling her name until she must stop in the middle of the saloon and turn back to see him laboriously pushing the wheels of his chair with his own hands. She would go back, but she doesn't wish to embarrass him, and so waits until he has drawn near enough to her to be out of earshot of the family.
"I just want to say," he tells her, eyes turned upward, but not quite meeting hers, "that Sir Richard is a most fortunate man to have a woman who'll stick up for him the way you did in there. And I hope he knows it."
"I do," says Richard, stepping out from the shadow of the columned archway nearest the drawing room, still in his greatcoat and gloves, hat in hand.
Without pausing to consider whether it's more humiliating that he overheard the disparaging things her father said about him, or that he was privy to her defence of him, she goes to him. Silently. Automatically. And allows him to put the hand holding his hat on her waist, the fingers of the other curling around her elbow as he brushes his lips over her cheekbone. By all appearances a properly chaste kiss, even for the watchful eyes of her family, though the lingering warmth of his breath on her skin and the increasing pressure of his fingers on her elbow and hip speak to her of the more intimate moments they'd shared in the empty halls of Haxby, and the promise of more such moments to come.
"Shall I have supper sent up for you?" she asks, inanely, when Richard draws back, her elbow still cupped in his palm. Though what else there is to say, she hasn't the slightest idea. She has said more tonight than she ever thought to say.
"I ate on the train," he replies. "I think I'll just poke my head in the drawing room to say goodnight to your parents."
Mary opens her mouth to tell him no, he's not dressed, that's not how it's done, he can see everyone in the morning, at breakfast, but she sees in his eyes that's exactly why he wants to do it. And, in light of what he overheard, she can hardly blame him for wanting to shame them by flouting their superficial notions of polite behaviour. Worse, she wants him to.
"I hope you don't mind if I leave you to face the wolves alone?" she asks. "I need to be well-rested if I'm to endure an auction tomorrow."
Richard lifts his eyebrows. "You still intend to go with me?"
"I have to now, don't I? Because they don't want me to?"
His hold tightens on her elbow, and he draws her so close against him that she can feel the tension in his body, and the quick rhythm of his heart beneath the layers of his clothing. She thinks for a moment that he will kiss her--properly by his standards--right there in front of Matthew who is till lingering awkwardly outside the entrance to the saloon. But Richard he only embraces her and drops a kiss upon her hair before he lets go of her completely and turns to shake Matthew's hand before retreating into the drawing room.
Leaving Mary to ascend the staircase and think that if she is a stranger to Papa, then the halls of Downton Abbey are a dark and twisting path through which her feet have never carried her before.
~*~
There are nearly a hundred rooms in Haxby; though Mary has yet to see them all, she walks the corridors with sure steps, as if guided along by the brilliant light that pours through the windows, unobscured by draperies, reflecting off the plaster and gilt-panelled walls. She doesn't see room upon empty room, but instead navigates through the house as if it already is what it will be: familiar to its mistress and furnished to her taste.
And the furnishings purchased today at auction are, undoubtedly, to her taste even if the means of obtaining them isn't. Richard, on the other hand, is not half so pleased with the style of the furniture as with its having formerly belonged to a Rothschild who died with no nearer heir than a nephew who did not find it to his taste and sold it for a fraction of its worth. Not exactly what Mary imagined when Richard told her he thought they could make a good team, but it's something. Enough to make her slide her hand down from the crook of his arm to weave her fingers through his.
Richard had been giving her an overview of the renovation plans he'd finalised during the week, but suddenly falls silent and glances down at their joined hands before looking back up at her.
"I hope you don't share your father's view of en suite bathrooms?" he asks.
The mere mention of Papa, even in mockery, rubs a raw place in Mary's heart. Instinct prompts her to open her mouth in stinging retort, only for her to notice at the last moment that though Richard is smiling at her, a crease has formed between his eyebrows that she has learnt is a sign of genuine insecurity. Swallowing her sarcasm, she gives his hand a squeeze.
"No, actually," she says. "It must be the American in me--much as it pains me to own to it. And I quite look forward to having them to stay with us so I can force Papa to endure a little modern comfort."
Richard's low chuckle accompanies them to a set of double doors with intricately carved gold leaf mouldings, which leads the largest and grandest of the family rooms. He releases her hand and tugs the doors open, then gallantly stands aside for her to pass through.
"Ours shall be the ultimate in luxury, of course." The rumble of the doors as they shut underscores his voice. "I thought we'd use the whole of the room beyond this for our bathroom."
Mary follows the sweep of his long fingers through a doorway to the adjoining room, which is fitted out with a dark masculine wallpaper much like that in Papa's dressing room at Downton, and then looks back at Richard.
"But then where will you sleep? Have you ordered an extra long bathtub?"
"In here with you. Presumably."
That ought to make her blush, Mary thinks, as her heartbeat accelerates not with embarrassment, but with exhilaration. She ought not to be here, alone, with Richard at all. She is a lady, but this behaviour--along with that last week, when she responded so willingly to his advances-- no-- offered herself to him--is so appallingly middle-class. Papa is right; she has learnt more of Richard's ways than he's learnt of hers, and--
No. After having Kemal Pamuk die in her bed, there is simply nothing left to blush about.
"Forgive me for being vulgar and bringing money into the discussion--"
"On the contrary," says Richard, slipping his arms about her waist and drawing her body firmly against his so that she must look up to him. "I never think talk of money vulgar."
You wouldn't. Aloud, Mary says, "Husbands and wives only sleep together if they can't afford not to."
"Lord and Lady Grantham sleep apart, then?"
He can't know that the truth is quite to the contrary--though honestly, she wouldn't be surprised if he did. "If you don't mind, 'd rather not discuss the sleeping habits of my parents."
Richard's eyes glimmer with amusement--and something else that makes Mary catch her breath.
"Then we'll discuss ours." He leans in, his clean-shaven cheek smooth against hers, and his warm breath tickles her ear as he murmurs, "You needn't worry about sharing a bed with me, Mary. I don't snore."
"What if I do?"
His chuckle rumbles all through her, setting off a wave of shivers along with his hand as it roams upward from her waist; his thumb just skims her breast en route to her arm, sliding up along her sleeve and over her shoulder before finally cradling her neck in his strong, callused fingertips and tilting her face up to his.
"I'll wake you and make you stop."
Presumably by kissing her, Mary has just time enough to think before Richard covers her mouth with his own, at which point all coherent thought is dispelled by the press of his lips and of his hips as the hand at the small of her back slides down lower, his fingers gently squeezing her backside to draw her even closer against him so as to leave her in no doubt of what he wants. Of what he intends.
She knows why he brought her here, and it has nothing to do with their plans for filling Haxby with furniture.
His teeth rake over her bottom lip as she pulls back, straining a little against the insistent hand at her neck, to break free from his kiss. Undaunted, Richard bends at the waist and dips his head, Mary's hands threading through his thinning hair, fingernails raking over his scalp, eliciting a low sound from his throat as he kisses a downward path along her jaw and neck toward the open collar of her blue coat.
"I thought you wanted to delay this chapter until after the wedding chapter," she says.
"I can't wait any longer," comes his rasping reply. "Not after hearing what you said last night."
The growth of stubble on Richard's chin, yet too new to be seen, prickles against the sensitive skin of her chest as he stops his ministrations to look up at her. A shudder coursing down her spine, Mary realises how very cold the house is, shut up like this, none of the fires having been lit in months; the central heating he wants to have put in is an even better idea than the en suite baths. She slips her arms beneath the lapels of his jacket, the warmth of his body radiating through his waistcoat.
Of course he is warm, she thinks, her hand at his left side pulsing with his rapid breath and the hammering of his heart beneath his ribs. Richard never stops, an engine perpetually careening ahead at full speed, fuelled by his own intensity and ambition, until he arrives at his destination. Now, her.
"Nobody's ever fought for me, Mary," he goes on. "I've only ever fought for myself and…" She watches his Adam's apple roll down his throat as he swallows. "You've given me the thing I wanted most from you. Well…" His gaze drops to her chest again, darkening, and his hands curl over her breasts through her clothing. "Except for this. Why would you fight for me if you don't want to be with me?"
Because I had to fight against Papa. But Mary dismisses the thought with a gasp as Richard unfastens the two buttons beneath her breasts that clasp her coat snugly around her. He helps her out of it, letting it fall to the floor as he leans in to kiss her again. His fingers fumble at the buttons of her blouse, and she pulls away from him, slipping her hands out of his jacket. His brow furrows in confusion. Mary grasps his lapels, tugging the suit coat off his shoulders.
"Evening the playing field?" Richard asks with a smirk as he shrugs out of it, allowing it to crumple atop hers on the carpet.
"Does that sound like anything I'd ever do?"
Richard laughs low as Mary begins to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. "In this one instance, I'll gladly let you get ahead," he says, and raises his hands to loosen the knot of his necktie.
If he is surprised by her boldness, he doesn't show it; Mary is, a little, for despite the earlier thoughts about her own sexual experience, she had laid passive beneath Kemal, content to receive pleasure as he was to give it--until he had died, anyway. In a way she feels even more ignorant now than she did then, when she had been aware of the mechanics of the act if not the joy of it, not at all sure how Richard intends to see it done in this setting, a vast room devoid of furniture, both of them with a full set of day clothes to contend with, where she and her Turkish lover had the ease of a bed and being dressed only in dressing gown and nightdress.
Yet for all that, it feels just as natural, if not more so--to undress together, bantering as they do so. It's a headier foreplay than Kemal's practiced caresses, more intimate. For Richard knows her--which Kemal never did--even more than Matthew knows her.
Divested of his waistcoat, Richard begins unbuttoning his shirt. Mary follows his lead and sets to work on the top button of her own blouse, only for him to catch her hands and push them away so he can perform the task himself.
"You know just because I've had a ladies' maid all my life doesn't mean I don't know how to remove my own clothes," she says as her sleeves slide down her shoulders in a whisper of silk. The blouse pools at her feet; she kicks it aside.
"A useless talent," Richard mutters, pulling apart the hooks of her corset, freeing her small breasts from the garment that binds them almost flat in a concession to the current boyish fashion.
For a moment, Mary stands shivering and feeling slightly ridiculous with only her lace-trimmed chemise on top but fully dressed from the waist down, her nipples hardened to peaks and plainly visible beneath the thin cotton. But then Richard's mouth is on hers once more, the brass knob of the door cold and hard in the small of her back as he presses her against it, and there is nothing at all ridiculous about the situation--except that after all this they still have on too many clothes.
As if they are of one mind, Richard's fingers tug her chemise free from the top of her skirt and slip beneath it to cup her breasts in his bare palms. In another moment the chemise has joined the pile of discarded clothing, and Richard is peeling off his undershirt and shucking it aside, as well, and then the whole big emptiness of Haxby contracts into a world that consists of nothing but the warm press of Richard's firm chest against her breasts, the trail of hair that runs the length of his stomach and disappears into his trousers pleasantly coarse upon her skin.
"More," Mary murmurs between kisses and gasps for breath, "Richard--"
He requires no further encouragement to hitch up her skirt around her waist and help her out of her bloomers. As he unfastens his trousers and undershorts, she hooks one leg around his thigh. Out the corner of her eye she sees his palm splayed against the door beside her head, and she focuses on the ripple of his arm muscles beneath his skin, biting her lip against a cry of pain, though she does not manage to stop the sound entirely.
Richard whispers no reassurances that intercourse will not always be a discomfort, nor even kisses her by way of apology. Mary is glad. Even more so when he proves himself a considerate lover, but does not treat her as if she were a delicate thing that might break in his grasp. The door thunders on its hinges with their movements against it. She is strong and sharp, as he is.
They come together on equal terms...
...and begin to build something worth having.
~*~
When they return to Downton that evening, they meet Lavinia Swire standing in the saloon. Beside Matthew.
Who is also standing.
Standing supported by Miss Swire, but nevertheless, bearing his weight on his own two feet. As Dr Clarkson had said he would never do again.
Mary had never thought he would smile as he used to ever again, either, but he's doing that as well. Her hand goes slack in Richard's, but he grasps it again, tight as a vice, and leans close to speak low in her ear.
"Remember, my dear: we've written our chapter in indelible ink."
The End
Author: MrsTater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle, Matthew Crawley, Lord Robert, Earl of Grantham; Lady Cora, Countess of Grantham; Lady Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham; Carson
Ratings & Warnings: rated R for sex
Format & Word Count: WIP, 4161 words in chapter 5
Summary: When Mary agrees to write another chapter in the book of Haxby Park, she unexpectedly writes a new start to her story with Sir Richard. [2x06 AU]
Author's Notes: Finally, the fic that was meant to be a smutty one-shot gets around to being smutty. For all of you who were waiting for it, I appreciate your patience. ;) Seriously, it has been such a pleasure to write this fic, knowing that I had such thoughtful and enthusiastic readers to share it with. I hope you all enjoy the conclusion, and I really do appreciate every lovely review I've received for this story--and the nominations for the highclereawards! Special thanks to just_a_dram for giving me a crash course today in Edwardian underpinnings--until you've written Edwardian sex, you just have no idea how pesky underwear can be! And without further ado, I give you the final chapter of Another Chapter.
One | Two | Three | Four |
Five
"Sir Richard still hasn't turned up, I see?" says Papa when he and Matthew come through to the drawing room.
Mary draws in a breath through her nostrils, holding it in for a moment--along with a protest that if her fiancé had arrived while the men were at their port, he wouldn't be found here, hungry and in his travelling clothes, because her fiancé is Richard Carlisle, and it's exactly the sort of etiquette he'd eschew--before releasing it, slowly.
"My, Papa. That's the third time this evening you've asked about Richard. You sound almost excited for his arrival. He'll be so pleased when I tell him. Usually he has the impression you'd rather he not be here at all."
"I suppose being a keen observer of other people's moods is a skill Sir Richard honed in the newspaper business," Granny says.
Papa thanks Carson for a cup of coffee with a smile that falls as he addresses Mary again. "He'll say the train is late, of course. I don't think it's possible that the train should always be late whenever Carlisle comes up. More likely he worked late."
Granny makes a sound of disgust. "At that ghastly job."
"You do all remember that I have a job, too, don't you?" says Matthew. "One at which I've even, on occasion, been known to work late?"
He shoots Mary a smile from across the room which, though it doesn't make his eyes twinkle as they would have in the old days, in the height of their flirtation, encourages her that she at least has one ally against this axis of disapproving family members. Though she can't decide whether his approval of her marrying another man hurts her more than it helps.
"The law, at least," says Granny, "is a respectable profession."
"That's a different tune than the one you sang when we first learned the future Earl of Grantham was a solicitor in Manchester."
Mary finishes her coffee, then stands and hands her empty cup and saucer off to Carson, whose indomitable eyebrows join in the furrowed centre of his forehead as he struggles to interpret the look she gives him, which begs him to forgive her what she's going to say next.
"There was something I had intended to discuss with you in private, Papa," she begins as she picks her way around the sofa to join beside the fireplace, "but since you've already decided a public flogging is in order for Richard, I'll just come out with it. He's offered Carson a position at Haxby."
"The butler position?"
For perhaps the first time in her life, Mary silently blesses her mother's goggling incredulity, which provides a welcome distraction from Carson's embarrassment. She turns to find her perched like a statue at the edge of her chair, her coffee hovering before her mouth, open in an o as round as her eyes.
"No, Mama, the groom. And since I'm so fond of Carson, I haven't told Richard to withdraw the offer."
Turning back to Papa, she finds that her armour of sarcasm fails to shield her from the coldness of his blue eyes as his gaze touches her.
"Sometimes, Mary," he says, quietly, "I feel as though you are quite a stranger to me. This is one of those times."
She wants to look away, but finds she cannot anymore than if she'd been frozen. It is the way she fears him looking at her if he ever learns how and where Kemal Pamuk died, and the reason she'd entrusted her shameful secret to Richard's safekeeping.
"You know," Papa goes on, setting his coffee on the mantel; he clasps his hands behind his back and strides away from Mary to stand beside Matthew's chair, "I had hoped that your engagement would inspire Sir Richard to be more diligent in learning our ways. Instead it seems you've learnt his."
"Robert," Mama chides, but Mary cannot be grateful for her mother's attempt at support, because her tone would hardly inspire repentance from an errant dog.
And Granny contributes to the conversation with her usual talent for observing trivialities. "I suppose, Carson, that this means you will have to learn Sir Richard's ways of before-dinner...what does he call those newfangled mixed drinks?"
"Cocktails, Lady Grantham," Carson intones, looking for a moment as if he'd just had one of the bitter concoctions forcibly poured down his throat. "Though I suppose it's never too late for an old butler to learn a few new tricks."
His gaze touches Mary's, and the warmth of it colours his sonorous baritone, too. That, and the knowledge that one of her favourite characters of her former life's story will play a prominent role in the chapters yet to come, thaws the part of her that has stood here in frosty silence.
"You talk of Richard's ways as if you knew him so very well, Papa," the words leap from her tongue like stray sparks as the crackling logs settle in the fireplace, and she almost smiles as Richard's voice slides through her mind, calling her cold and careful. "Then it should come as no surprise to hear that Richard's ways are to wait more than a year for me to give him an answer to his proposal, and then, having secured it, to wait even longer until he could find and refurbish a suitable house for me. He could have spirited me away to London, but he thought I'd want to be near my family, and to be kept in the manner to which I am accustomed."
It's the first time she's enumerated all the good Richard has done for her, and even she can't deny it's quite the impressive prospectus for a husband-to-be. In fact, it might even be enough to put her in danger of feeling as strongly, and perhaps even as deeply as he claims to feel about her...
...if only he hadn't blackmailed her into the engagement.
Papa, on the other hand, knows nothing of Richard's underhanded schemes, at least as far as she is concerned, and yet remains unmoved from his prejudice.
"My dear girl," he says, "there is more to the manner to which you are accustomed than simply having a grand old house. And frankly the fate of Haxby Park hits rather too close to home. Thirty years ago it might have been Downton...made a casualty of this war as much as our fighting boys, emptied of all our family relics, sold to an interloper who can have no respect for these old country estates which represent hundreds of years of history and family, and thus will take no care to preserve the dynasty."
"The Russells ought to have considered that before they destroyed their dynasty," comes Mary's reply, perhaps as cold as Richard accused her of being, after all. Though certainly not careful. "And you might consider that Haxby Park, and every penny that bought it, is Richard's, and his children--my children--"
She must pause to draw in a steadying breath, so quickly does her heart flutter in her chest, and as she does so she cannot help but dart her eyes at Matthew, and give him a tiny smile she hopes he will understand to be an apology. For not accepting him before the war as she ought to have done, when she had no certainty that he would ever be anything more than a country solicitor practicing a law which Granny may or may not have found respectable. For not bearing his children while he could still produce them. For not having the strength to stand by him now. She blinks, and her blurred vision gives way to the clear form of Papa, who stands there talking to her as if she were a child of seven clutching a blank new copybook instead of a woman of twenty-seven whose story fills volumes he has never bothered to read.
Cold and careful, she repeats in her mind, exhaling long, her heart slowing in her chest as she draws back her shoulders. Yes, she can be very careful, indeed, when aiming for the jugular.
"Our children will stand to inherit twelve thousand acres, a very large house, and every stick of furniture we buy tomorrow at auction. Even if they do have the misfortune of being born female."
If any sound comes from Papa's gaping mouth, it's swallowed up by the click of Mary's heels as she steps off the carpet and onto the gleaming wood planks and hastily exits the drawing room. And by Matthew's voice, calling her name until she must stop in the middle of the saloon and turn back to see him laboriously pushing the wheels of his chair with his own hands. She would go back, but she doesn't wish to embarrass him, and so waits until he has drawn near enough to her to be out of earshot of the family.
"I just want to say," he tells her, eyes turned upward, but not quite meeting hers, "that Sir Richard is a most fortunate man to have a woman who'll stick up for him the way you did in there. And I hope he knows it."
"I do," says Richard, stepping out from the shadow of the columned archway nearest the drawing room, still in his greatcoat and gloves, hat in hand.
Without pausing to consider whether it's more humiliating that he overheard the disparaging things her father said about him, or that he was privy to her defence of him, she goes to him. Silently. Automatically. And allows him to put the hand holding his hat on her waist, the fingers of the other curling around her elbow as he brushes his lips over her cheekbone. By all appearances a properly chaste kiss, even for the watchful eyes of her family, though the lingering warmth of his breath on her skin and the increasing pressure of his fingers on her elbow and hip speak to her of the more intimate moments they'd shared in the empty halls of Haxby, and the promise of more such moments to come.
"Shall I have supper sent up for you?" she asks, inanely, when Richard draws back, her elbow still cupped in his palm. Though what else there is to say, she hasn't the slightest idea. She has said more tonight than she ever thought to say.
"I ate on the train," he replies. "I think I'll just poke my head in the drawing room to say goodnight to your parents."
Mary opens her mouth to tell him no, he's not dressed, that's not how it's done, he can see everyone in the morning, at breakfast, but she sees in his eyes that's exactly why he wants to do it. And, in light of what he overheard, she can hardly blame him for wanting to shame them by flouting their superficial notions of polite behaviour. Worse, she wants him to.
"I hope you don't mind if I leave you to face the wolves alone?" she asks. "I need to be well-rested if I'm to endure an auction tomorrow."
Richard lifts his eyebrows. "You still intend to go with me?"
"I have to now, don't I? Because they don't want me to?"
His hold tightens on her elbow, and he draws her so close against him that she can feel the tension in his body, and the quick rhythm of his heart beneath the layers of his clothing. She thinks for a moment that he will kiss her--properly by his standards--right there in front of Matthew who is till lingering awkwardly outside the entrance to the saloon. But Richard he only embraces her and drops a kiss upon her hair before he lets go of her completely and turns to shake Matthew's hand before retreating into the drawing room.
Leaving Mary to ascend the staircase and think that if she is a stranger to Papa, then the halls of Downton Abbey are a dark and twisting path through which her feet have never carried her before.
~*~
There are nearly a hundred rooms in Haxby; though Mary has yet to see them all, she walks the corridors with sure steps, as if guided along by the brilliant light that pours through the windows, unobscured by draperies, reflecting off the plaster and gilt-panelled walls. She doesn't see room upon empty room, but instead navigates through the house as if it already is what it will be: familiar to its mistress and furnished to her taste.
And the furnishings purchased today at auction are, undoubtedly, to her taste even if the means of obtaining them isn't. Richard, on the other hand, is not half so pleased with the style of the furniture as with its having formerly belonged to a Rothschild who died with no nearer heir than a nephew who did not find it to his taste and sold it for a fraction of its worth. Not exactly what Mary imagined when Richard told her he thought they could make a good team, but it's something. Enough to make her slide her hand down from the crook of his arm to weave her fingers through his.
Richard had been giving her an overview of the renovation plans he'd finalised during the week, but suddenly falls silent and glances down at their joined hands before looking back up at her.
"I hope you don't share your father's view of en suite bathrooms?" he asks.
The mere mention of Papa, even in mockery, rubs a raw place in Mary's heart. Instinct prompts her to open her mouth in stinging retort, only for her to notice at the last moment that though Richard is smiling at her, a crease has formed between his eyebrows that she has learnt is a sign of genuine insecurity. Swallowing her sarcasm, she gives his hand a squeeze.
"No, actually," she says. "It must be the American in me--much as it pains me to own to it. And I quite look forward to having them to stay with us so I can force Papa to endure a little modern comfort."
Richard's low chuckle accompanies them to a set of double doors with intricately carved gold leaf mouldings, which leads the largest and grandest of the family rooms. He releases her hand and tugs the doors open, then gallantly stands aside for her to pass through.
"Ours shall be the ultimate in luxury, of course." The rumble of the doors as they shut underscores his voice. "I thought we'd use the whole of the room beyond this for our bathroom."
Mary follows the sweep of his long fingers through a doorway to the adjoining room, which is fitted out with a dark masculine wallpaper much like that in Papa's dressing room at Downton, and then looks back at Richard.
"But then where will you sleep? Have you ordered an extra long bathtub?"
"In here with you. Presumably."
That ought to make her blush, Mary thinks, as her heartbeat accelerates not with embarrassment, but with exhilaration. She ought not to be here, alone, with Richard at all. She is a lady, but this behaviour--along with that last week, when she responded so willingly to his advances-- no-- offered herself to him--is so appallingly middle-class. Papa is right; she has learnt more of Richard's ways than he's learnt of hers, and--
No. After having Kemal Pamuk die in her bed, there is simply nothing left to blush about.
"Forgive me for being vulgar and bringing money into the discussion--"
"On the contrary," says Richard, slipping his arms about her waist and drawing her body firmly against his so that she must look up to him. "I never think talk of money vulgar."
You wouldn't. Aloud, Mary says, "Husbands and wives only sleep together if they can't afford not to."
"Lord and Lady Grantham sleep apart, then?"
He can't know that the truth is quite to the contrary--though honestly, she wouldn't be surprised if he did. "If you don't mind, 'd rather not discuss the sleeping habits of my parents."
Richard's eyes glimmer with amusement--and something else that makes Mary catch her breath.
"Then we'll discuss ours." He leans in, his clean-shaven cheek smooth against hers, and his warm breath tickles her ear as he murmurs, "You needn't worry about sharing a bed with me, Mary. I don't snore."
"What if I do?"
His chuckle rumbles all through her, setting off a wave of shivers along with his hand as it roams upward from her waist; his thumb just skims her breast en route to her arm, sliding up along her sleeve and over her shoulder before finally cradling her neck in his strong, callused fingertips and tilting her face up to his.
"I'll wake you and make you stop."
Presumably by kissing her, Mary has just time enough to think before Richard covers her mouth with his own, at which point all coherent thought is dispelled by the press of his lips and of his hips as the hand at the small of her back slides down lower, his fingers gently squeezing her backside to draw her even closer against him so as to leave her in no doubt of what he wants. Of what he intends.
She knows why he brought her here, and it has nothing to do with their plans for filling Haxby with furniture.
His teeth rake over her bottom lip as she pulls back, straining a little against the insistent hand at her neck, to break free from his kiss. Undaunted, Richard bends at the waist and dips his head, Mary's hands threading through his thinning hair, fingernails raking over his scalp, eliciting a low sound from his throat as he kisses a downward path along her jaw and neck toward the open collar of her blue coat.
"I thought you wanted to delay this chapter until after the wedding chapter," she says.
"I can't wait any longer," comes his rasping reply. "Not after hearing what you said last night."
The growth of stubble on Richard's chin, yet too new to be seen, prickles against the sensitive skin of her chest as he stops his ministrations to look up at her. A shudder coursing down her spine, Mary realises how very cold the house is, shut up like this, none of the fires having been lit in months; the central heating he wants to have put in is an even better idea than the en suite baths. She slips her arms beneath the lapels of his jacket, the warmth of his body radiating through his waistcoat.
Of course he is warm, she thinks, her hand at his left side pulsing with his rapid breath and the hammering of his heart beneath his ribs. Richard never stops, an engine perpetually careening ahead at full speed, fuelled by his own intensity and ambition, until he arrives at his destination. Now, her.
"Nobody's ever fought for me, Mary," he goes on. "I've only ever fought for myself and…" She watches his Adam's apple roll down his throat as he swallows. "You've given me the thing I wanted most from you. Well…" His gaze drops to her chest again, darkening, and his hands curl over her breasts through her clothing. "Except for this. Why would you fight for me if you don't want to be with me?"
Because I had to fight against Papa. But Mary dismisses the thought with a gasp as Richard unfastens the two buttons beneath her breasts that clasp her coat snugly around her. He helps her out of it, letting it fall to the floor as he leans in to kiss her again. His fingers fumble at the buttons of her blouse, and she pulls away from him, slipping her hands out of his jacket. His brow furrows in confusion. Mary grasps his lapels, tugging the suit coat off his shoulders.
"Evening the playing field?" Richard asks with a smirk as he shrugs out of it, allowing it to crumple atop hers on the carpet.
"Does that sound like anything I'd ever do?"
Richard laughs low as Mary begins to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. "In this one instance, I'll gladly let you get ahead," he says, and raises his hands to loosen the knot of his necktie.
If he is surprised by her boldness, he doesn't show it; Mary is, a little, for despite the earlier thoughts about her own sexual experience, she had laid passive beneath Kemal, content to receive pleasure as he was to give it--until he had died, anyway. In a way she feels even more ignorant now than she did then, when she had been aware of the mechanics of the act if not the joy of it, not at all sure how Richard intends to see it done in this setting, a vast room devoid of furniture, both of them with a full set of day clothes to contend with, where she and her Turkish lover had the ease of a bed and being dressed only in dressing gown and nightdress.
Yet for all that, it feels just as natural, if not more so--to undress together, bantering as they do so. It's a headier foreplay than Kemal's practiced caresses, more intimate. For Richard knows her--which Kemal never did--even more than Matthew knows her.
Divested of his waistcoat, Richard begins unbuttoning his shirt. Mary follows his lead and sets to work on the top button of her own blouse, only for him to catch her hands and push them away so he can perform the task himself.
"You know just because I've had a ladies' maid all my life doesn't mean I don't know how to remove my own clothes," she says as her sleeves slide down her shoulders in a whisper of silk. The blouse pools at her feet; she kicks it aside.
"A useless talent," Richard mutters, pulling apart the hooks of her corset, freeing her small breasts from the garment that binds them almost flat in a concession to the current boyish fashion.
For a moment, Mary stands shivering and feeling slightly ridiculous with only her lace-trimmed chemise on top but fully dressed from the waist down, her nipples hardened to peaks and plainly visible beneath the thin cotton. But then Richard's mouth is on hers once more, the brass knob of the door cold and hard in the small of her back as he presses her against it, and there is nothing at all ridiculous about the situation--except that after all this they still have on too many clothes.
As if they are of one mind, Richard's fingers tug her chemise free from the top of her skirt and slip beneath it to cup her breasts in his bare palms. In another moment the chemise has joined the pile of discarded clothing, and Richard is peeling off his undershirt and shucking it aside, as well, and then the whole big emptiness of Haxby contracts into a world that consists of nothing but the warm press of Richard's firm chest against her breasts, the trail of hair that runs the length of his stomach and disappears into his trousers pleasantly coarse upon her skin.
"More," Mary murmurs between kisses and gasps for breath, "Richard--"
He requires no further encouragement to hitch up her skirt around her waist and help her out of her bloomers. As he unfastens his trousers and undershorts, she hooks one leg around his thigh. Out the corner of her eye she sees his palm splayed against the door beside her head, and she focuses on the ripple of his arm muscles beneath his skin, biting her lip against a cry of pain, though she does not manage to stop the sound entirely.
Richard whispers no reassurances that intercourse will not always be a discomfort, nor even kisses her by way of apology. Mary is glad. Even more so when he proves himself a considerate lover, but does not treat her as if she were a delicate thing that might break in his grasp. The door thunders on its hinges with their movements against it. She is strong and sharp, as he is.
They come together on equal terms...
...and begin to build something worth having.
~*~
When they return to Downton that evening, they meet Lavinia Swire standing in the saloon. Beside Matthew.
Who is also standing.
Standing supported by Miss Swire, but nevertheless, bearing his weight on his own two feet. As Dr Clarkson had said he would never do again.
Mary had never thought he would smile as he used to ever again, either, but he's doing that as well. Her hand goes slack in Richard's, but he grasps it again, tight as a vice, and leans close to speak low in her ear.
"Remember, my dear: we've written our chapter in indelible ink."
The End