Fic: A Girl in Black (28/?)
Title: A Girl in Black (28/?)
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle, Cora Crawley, Sybil Crawley, Rosamund Painswick, Diana Manners, Lady Rutland, Raymond Asquith
Chapter Word Count: 6180 words
Chapter Summary: Mary and Richard are properly engaged and making inroads into each other's worlds. But will their past improprieties haunt them as London society has already caught the whiff of scandal?
Author's Notes: Back after the holiday, and hopefully the long chapter will make up for last week's lack of update! As always, thanks to ju-dou for betaing even while in the throes of jet-lag. And if you're curious to see the inspiration for a particular piece of jewelry mentioned in this chapter, look here.
Also! The first part of my interview with the Highclere Awards is posted! Stay tuned for more.
Previous Chapters |
28. The Engagement
Midday sun glares off the frosty London rooftops and the spire of St Paul's beyond Richard's office window. Still battling a lingering headache and slight nausea from the morning's train ride, Mary blinks against it and contemplates drawing the heavy green velvet draperies; Mama, on the other hand, seems unperturbed as she peers down at the street from four storeys up.
"This reminds me so much of my father's office," she says, resting her gloved hands on the window ledge. "Only instead of St Paul's, he had a riverfront view. I used to love to sit at his desk and watch the steamboats coming up and down the Ohio River, trying to guess which ones were bringing products for the store."
Ordinarily such bouts of nostalgia--admittedly infrequent--induce eye rolling from Mary, but today she welcomes Mama's soppiness with something like gratitude. Certainly this attempt at finding common ground with Richard is preferable to Papa's determination to cast him in the role of outsider as well as villain.
When Mama shared their plans for the London trip, in particular that Richard's chauffeur would collect them from King's Cross and drive them to the Telegram office where they would take luncheon, Papa asked, Is that why he took Gwen on as a secretary? To pencil his marriage in to his diary between meetings?
Of course this made Sybil irascible, and Aunt Rosamund, perhaps in part for the simple sake of annoying her brother, took up for men with careers: What Robert fails to see is that all brides fit themselves into their husbands' lives. If more marriages included secretaries, fewer wives would suffer the indignity of a forgotten anniversary. Why, I dare say Miss Thompkins was one of Marmaduke's most appealing attributes.
And Mama ceded that Grandmamma always spoke much the same way of Grandfather's Miss Brown. Only I frequently heard her add, "But thank god she was homely!"
"Your father was a dry goods merchant, I believe?" Richard says.
He gives Mary a quick smile and squeezes her fingertips before he releases her hand--which he took hold of the instant Miss Fields showed them into the office, letting go only so she could shake hands with the investor he was seeing out as they arrived--and leaves her side to join Mama at the window.
"My grandfather was." As Mama turns to him, clearly pleased to discuss her family history, it occurs to Mary how seldom any of their acquaintance inquire about her previous life in America--or if they do regard her as a curiosity--or eccentricity--rather than with the genuine interest Richard shows. "He emigrated to Cincinnati with nothing, but by the time he died he was running a successful shop. Then Father expanded it into a department store."
"The classic American rags to riches story."
"Indeed."
"I find it both admirable and relatable."
His brow furrows as his gaze drifts out the window, and Mary remembers the last time she was here--the first time--when they looked down on the boy selling newspapers on the corner and Richard told her the sight reminded him of where he came from, and where he had yet to go. Where will he go, with her at his side?
He looks up at Mama again, his hand going up in that unconscious gesture to smooth the curling hair above his collar.
"Only please don't tell my mother I said so," he adds. "She was something of a seamstress, and took great pains to see that we were never ragged."
Though Mama's smile doesn't falter, the subtle tilt of her head, the slight dimple between her eyebrows belying the questions that tumble beneath the politely serene veneer. She darts her eyes sideways as if to ask Mary whether she has any answers, but her knowledge of Mrs Mark Carlisle is nearly as piecemeal. In fact, all Richard has said about his mother--apart from the dire warning that she will make a difficult in-law--is that she sews and boils mutton and, presumably, like the family in general, is uncomfortable with his wealth and social position.
Perhaps his silence on the subject of his family should trouble her, but it doesn't. It's telling, she thinks, and strangely reassuring. Surely a lack of attachment from his own world must indicate that he means to fit himself into hers?
In any case, she'll meet the Carlisles soon enough, and see for herself everything Richard hasn't said.
"I'll have to bring my mother here." Mama steps away from the window and, as she moves around the side of the desk runs a hand over the surface, polished to a high oaky gloss. "She'll feel right at home."
"Mrs Levinson will be very welcome," Richard says. "Dad's already asked for a tour. He hasn't seen these particular facilities."
"I'm sure a printer will fully appreciate your Double Octuple Newspaper Presses," says Aunt Rosamund.
"We can make it a tour, with your mother," Richard goes on. "Perhaps she can inspire my brother with tales of Mr Levinson's stores."
"Is he a retailer as well?" asks Mama.
Richard snorts. "George would like to think so. He runs a small shop in Morningside. He does well enough to support his family--if living in a few rooms above the store qualifies. But the business isn't what it could be. He lacks ambition."
Once gain Mama seems unsure how to respond, glancing from Mary to Aunt Rosamund, though her expression indicates a silence borne not from awkwardness, but awaiting eagerly for him to continue. Her interest is piqued--as Mary cannot deny hers is--by his candid criticism of his family. No one of their kind of people would speak so in the company of his future in-laws.
Sybil gives him a sympathetic smile that looks astonishingly like Mama. "Perhaps George finds you a tough act to follow."
For once, her sweetness does not evoke an indulgent glance or soften the edges of his face. Richard doesn't ignore her, precisely, but goes on in the same vein as he began, as if schooling the young girl. Or perhaps schooling all of these sheltered highborn ladies.
"George's wife, Aileen, is a lovely woman, but she has rather...superstitious...notions about wealth. Her Presbyterian upbringing, perhaps. In any case she thinks just getting by is enough, which I find unfathomable in a mother of four." Richard catches Mary's eye and the corner of his mouth pulls upward at the corner, along with the brow above, as of to reassure her that their child shall never want--not that there was ever any question. "She doesn't want George chained to a desk, and he's only too happy to oblige her."
"That's not so unfathomable in a mother of four," Rosamund opines. "Especially one who doesn't have the help of nurses and nannies."
Her gaze is fixed on his hand resting on the edge of his desk; Richard withdraws it, slipping it into his pocket as he makes his way around the end of the desk to return to Mary.
"Oh, believe me, Lady Rosamund," he says, "one of the many credits I give my working class upbringing is knowing the value of a hands-on father. I may have looked on the Telegram as a child of sorts until now, but I know my children will be my most enduring legacy. They should--and shall--have my influence as well as my interest."
The hand not in his pocket goes around Mary's waist as he stands beside her, the heel of his palm resting firm against her hipbone as long fingers sweep over her abdomen in a bold and unapologetic acknowledgment of her condition. Heat prickles up from her belly, streaking colour through her neck and cheeks, though Mary isn't sure whether the reason is embarrassment or excitement at these notions of parenting her fiancé has. She's never heard anything quite like it, and though she's unimpressed enough with Papa's method of leaving child-rearing to women, she is nevertheless surprised at how much more thought Richard has given to the subject than she, when she was the one raised for no other purpose than to bear children. Preferably boys. And now not even that matters. She feels the weight of Richard's hand on her waist, the firmness of his side against hers, and wonders whether she isn't the one being squeezed into his world after all.
"What a modern view," says Sybil.
"Common, I should think," Aunt Rosamund says.
"Then I think I should like to marry a commoner," Sybil retorts.
Mary rolls her eyes, as much at her sister as at Richard's amusement. "Don't romanticise him."
"It must make your parents very proud," Mama interjects, looking rather flustered, "to see you embrace their values though you've moved up in the world."
"I hope it will."
Richard's resonant tones, tinged with bitterness, fill the office, making the space seem less expansive than it is as his low voice rumbles through Mary as well. As intimately as they know each other, much remains to know about him. She has her guesses, of course, but she's learned a hard lesson about assumptions. Before she can give it further thought, he brightens, his hand relaxing about her waist.
"Perhaps Mary and I will visit Cincinnati someday. It's the commercial hub of the Midwest, I believe?"
Clearly he could not have said anything better to her, because Mama looks as delighted with Richard as Mary could hope her to be with any suitor. How many suitors deemed acceptable for an earl's daughter would take an interest in their mother-in-law's family history? Her heart gives a little twinge; the earl's daughters themselves haven't even taken an interest in their own mother.
"I'll go along," says Mama. "I haven't been back since I was married."
Mary glances up at Richard just in time to catch the slight narrowing of his eyes around the gleam that accompanies a wicked thought. Is it anything like the one that has just flickered through her mind, that she supposes Papa wouldn't want to be confronted with the business that generated the new money that propped up his own ancient, dwindling estate?
"My mother mostly keeps to Newport and New York, especially since Harold moved there," Mama's babbling breaks into Mary's musing again. "We could take the baby to see the Reds!"
"Who are the Reds?" asks Sybil. "Levinson family friends?"
"Heavens no!" Mama says, as though this is a grievous gap in her daughter's knowledge. "A professional baseball team. The Cincinnati Red Stockings."
"My child will see cricket matches, thank you very much," Mary says, in spite of her softening attitude towards her American heritage.
Thankfully, Mama seems to have been transported back there and doesn't react to the tweak. Or perhaps she's simply too accustomed to it to notice.
"I used to love those summer afternoons when Daddy would leave the office early to go to the game," she says. "Harold never cared for baseball, so I'd go along instead. I didn't have to dress for dinner and we ate bratwursts and he gave me sips of his beer."
"Why can't we ever do anything like that?" Sybil asks.
"If Mama and Richard really do take this little holiday," Mary tells her, "you can go in my place. I simply refuse to have anything to do with baseball or bratwursts."
"I will," Sybil says with a tilt of her chin. "And you can stay with Granny and pass judgments on Americans while we have a jolly time."
"Perhaps the American invasion for the wedding will warm her up to the idea," Richard says.
"Invasion is the word for it, where Martha and Harold Levinson are concerned," mutters Rosamund.
"Don't pay any attention to Aunt Rosamund," Sybil says. "Grandmamma and Uncle Harold and Aunt Ruby are such tremendous fun. I'm sure the girls are sweet, too. They were babies when we saw them before."
"But don't count on them warming me up to baseball games," Mary scoffs. "And anyway I'm not so like Granny. I'm very warm to the idea of our Parisian honeymoon, and she holds the French in much the same regard as the Americans."
Richard chuckles low, and Mary finds it difficult to feign annoyance as she feels the vibration of it as he draws her against him, bending kiss her hair.
"How many daughters did you say Harold has?" he asks. "I've forgotten your bridesmaid count."
"Three," Mary replies, as Sybil answers, almost on top of her, "Isodora, Ginevra and Virginia."
"Isodora's named for our father, of course," Mama says, "and Ginevra and Virginia are twins. Just two little peas in a pod, from the pictures Ruby sends."
"Peas with hair as red as carrots," Mary adds. "Grandmamma calls them Ginger One and Ginger Two."
"I can't imagine that causes sibling rivalry," Rosamund remarks.
Richard turns to face Mary more fully, regarding her with his head cocked. "Your mother and her brother each had three daughters."
"So they did."
His eyes leave hers to flicker down to her stomach, his thumb stroking over the wool of her coat. "A Levinson trait, would you suppose?" He speaks low, as if they are the only people in the office. "Didn't you dream about having a girl?"
It's not the first time he's brought it up, and Mary is starting to believe he is no longer merely accepting of the possibility of their child being female, but would even prefer it. Perhaps Papa is correct, that luncheons with her husband will be scheduled by secretaries between meetings; but Mary will be very pleased to bit fitted in to Richard's life in this world where sons are not necessary and daughters are wanted.
At the prick of tears evoked by the thought, she lifts an eyebrow. "I dreamt one girl. Not twins." She hastens to add, "Touch wood."
The lines of his face do harden at that, his eyes clouding with the same regret present the night they spent in Ripon, that their road to here, planning their wedding, needn't have taken such a desperately wrong turn. But Richard doesn't dwell on his mistakes--and thankfully not hers--and he moves back around his desk and slides open a drawer.
"As much value as I place on your approval, it's Mary's that counts. I think she expects a token of my romantic desperation slightly more traditional than a Model T. Even if the Ford is practically vintage." Dimpling, he withdraws an object which his long fingers curl easily around, though Mary catches a glimpse of blue velvet before they conceal it. "Miss Fields will take you through to the board room for luncheon, if I may have a moment with Mary."
"Of course." Mama gives Mary a misty smile before she tucks her arm through Sybil's; Rosamund shows no such sentimentality.
"The board room. Now that's a place where I always felt I should belong."
"Invest in my publications, and you can."
When the office door clicks shut behind them--Miss Fields pulls it closed--Richard beckons to Mary, and she approaches, gaze trained on the hand holding the jewellery case with the expectation of seeing his fingers flip open the hinged lid to reveal the gleaming gemstone nestled on the satin pillow within. His hand does move, but the ring box remains clutched in his fist and digs into the small of her back as he puts his arms about her waist and draws her body flush against his, so tight that he lifts her up onto the balls of her feet as he presses his lips to hers. For an instant she toys with pushing him away and telling him she'll kiss him after he gives her the ring, in thanks, but he's stolen her breath. Anyway, wanting this is exactly why she sighed earlier when he pecked her chastely on the cheek in greeting in front of her family, so she traces her fingertips along the smooth line of his jaw and the fine hair swept back from his forehead and opens her mouth for a proper hello from her fiancé. Though even this is not enough to stop another sigh escaping her warm lips when he draws back after some minutes that still seem too few.
Lingering with his forehead against hers, Richard hmms. "If only I'd known that was the traditional token you expected, I wouldn't have gone to the trouble and expense of procuring an engagement ring for you to wear to our party tonight."
Party? When she spoke to him last night on the phone, all he said of tonight's plans was that they were invited to dine with Sir John and Lady Horner.
Without giving the matter further thought, she says, "We are still engaged then? What a relief. I was beginning to worry you were going to throw me over to buy up a chain of department stores and watch baseball with Mama."
"I prefer contact sport."
The rasp of his voice and the gleam of his eyes beneath his slightly dishevelled hair combines with the dimpling of his cheeks to make him look deliciously rakish. He gives her a squeeze, then in a smooth movement steps backward from her, disengaging her from his embrace, and opens the velvet box.
Before Mary can stop herself, her left hand flies up to cover her mouth. She knew he would choose a ring that would be the envy of all ladies of her station and a testament of all he has the means and power to provide for her. Leave it to Richard to not only push the bounds of good taste, but of her imagination, as well; never could she have dreamt an article of jewellery could be so accurate a representation of who he was. Who they were. We are not so very different, you and I. He's known that from the very beginning.
Intricate scrollwork engraved in the gleaming platinum band hints at the romantic, but her eye is drawn from those details by the contrasting right-angled geometry. Tiny diamonds twinkle in perfect lines on either shoulder of the band, even studding the sides and tops of the prongs that clasp the four corners of the large square-cut central diamond. On closer inspection, she sees that the edges are bevelled in a stair-step, reminding her of the infinite reflection of two facing mirrors within each other.
How appropriate, Mary thinks, and swallows a knot in her throat.
"It's three and a half carats," Richard says, sounding husky himself. "In total. There are twenty diamonds. I hope you still think I show good taste in jewellery."
Mary's lips part against her fingertips. She feels the warmth of her own breath against them, though she can't get a word out. She manages a nod, at least, and Richard exhales, standing a little straighter with his renewed confidence.
"It certainly caught my eye. Much like the lady I intend to wear it."
She becomes aware, suddenly, of the callused pads of his fingers stroking the jut of her wrist bone; apparently he drew her hand from her mouth whilst she was still unaware. She quirks an eyebrow at him.
"Are you calling me dazzling and ostentatious?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of strong. And sharp."
"Well then, in that case..."
"Shall I put it on you?"
"Please."
His fingers uncurl from around her wrist to pluck the ring from its silken bed and set the box on the desk beside them, then return, warmer, to take her hand. She feels rather than sees the cool platinum wrap around her fourth finger, her eyes riveted to his face as he slides the ring on, so that she witnesses the smile of satisfaction as it settles there at the base of her knuckle. Only when he remarks that it suits her does she look down at her hand curled around his. She does like the look of it, though it fits a little loosely.
"We can have it sized, of course," Richard tells her. "Frida told me pregnancy can make the hands swell, so you might prefer to wait until--"
Mary cuts him off with a kiss, pulling away briefly to say, "I don't want to talk about being pregnant." She arches up toward him again. "I don't want to talk about anything."
Richard's murmured agreement against her lips brings the conversation to an end--with the exception of a mutter that might be an expletive when she inadvertently bites down on his lip, the momentum of him pulling free from her grasp to cup her face in both hands having pushed her against the edge of the desk. Her hip throbs where the corner bores into it, but she makes no attempt at sidestepping it to find a more comfortable position. Instead, prompted by his fingers slipping into the coils pinned so meticulously at the base of her neck, she hooks her fingers over the knot of his necktie where the backs of her curled fingers press against the tautness of his throat where she can feel the roll of his Adam's apple, the beat of his pulse as she draws the solid masculine planes of him heavier against her.
Before she closes her eyes the new diamond on her finger flashes in the sunlight. All hard edges and sharp lines, which once existed as little more than lumps of coal until the heat and the pressure turned them into these precious glittering unbreakable stones to which men and women aspire. His teeth rake over her lower lip, and she releases the button of his collar so that her fingernails may scratch over the hot hollow of his throat.
They've withstood much to achieve this, and though Mary cannot be sure it's made her a better woman, she has no doubt that she is a stronger one.
And they will shine.
~*~
"I thought this was to be a formal dinner with political friends?" Mary clings a little tighter to Richard's arm as he dips his head to hear her over the jazz music that blares over a phonograph somewhere in the drawing room to which Sir John Horner's butler escorted them.
"So did I," Richard says, darting a glance back over his shoulder into the hall through which they just came, more art gallery than entryway, electric lights strategically placed to beam down on numerous paintings. Pre-Raphaelites, Mary notes, and remembers some titbit stowed away in the recesses of her memory that their hostess, Raymond Asquith's mother-in-law, is an avid collector from a line of patrons of the arts as well as the Liberal party, her own father a Glasgowegian MP. "Lady Horner must have decided to make it more of a party after I asked Sir John if I might bring you along."
He takes a step to enter the drawing room, but Mary falls back, her hand slipping from the crook of his elbow as a heat floods her face that is not caused by the lighting. "You asked?"
"Sir John keeps telling me how keen they are to meet you." Richard spreads his hands open at his sides in a gesture of innocence that doesn't quite match the lines on his forehead which clearly state he doesn't see the problem. "I couldn't imagine how it would put Lady Horner out much to add one to her party."
"Have you forgotten the drama when I invited you to Downton without Mama's knowledge?" Apparently she forgot that there are reasons--however shallow--why her family objected to him as a suitor before they knew about Marconi or the other scandal he brewed in her bedroom. She does have her work cut out for her as his wife.
"It's an extra chair and place setting," says Richard.
The weight of annoyance in his tone increases his volume in the marble-tiled hall. A glance into the drawing room sooths Mary's jolt of alarm that they are creating a scene. She places her hand on Richard's arm again and gives his arm a squeeze to indicate they should join the party, though as they step through the open French doors, she continues the argument through her smile.
"Never add anyone to one of our dinner parties without my consent."
"I'm sure Sir John had Lady Horner's consent," Richard hisses back with a sharp exhale of exasperation.
"She could hardly say No, dear, I won't have Sir Richard's fiancée to dinner,could she? Never put me in such a situation as hostess."
"What if my friends are as ill-bred as you think me and invite themselves over? Will you turn them away? Relegate them to sandwiches in the library?"
He takes a champagne glass from a passing footman's tray and thrusts it at Mary. She doesn't take it, eying it dubiously.
"As much as I'd like to take the edge off the prospect of unexpected future dinner guests, I shouldn't."
"You shouldn't drink it." He presses it into her hand in spite of her protests and takes another for himself. When the footman is out of earshot, he continues in a lower tone, "You should hold it--unless you want to confirm everyone's suspicions about why we're marrying six weeks after announcing our--"
"Engagement ring!"
They both turn their heads, though Mary knows who the shriek belongs to before she catches a glimpse of the figure who can only be described as pirouetting across the drawing room, wearing a poufy shepherdess-style gown of buttery yellow taffeta festooned with crimson netting about the waist and elbow sleeves, looking like nothing so much as a ballerina come to life from a Degas painting--which would not be unsurprising in this house.
"I have to see!" cries Diana Manners, gesturing with a graceful arc of her arm before catching Mary's free hand in both her own.
Mary performs quite the acrobatic feat not to slosh champagne onto her grey-green dress and shoes as Diana tears off her white satin evening glove, and draws her bared hand up close to her glassy near-sighted eyes for inspection.
"Blimey, it's gorgeous! And such a romantic story, what with Richard punching people and commandeering vehicles to fight your disapproving family for you. It ought to be a novel. Oh! Maybe I ought to write it!"
Alarmingly, Mary finds her hand caged against the rosette at Diana's bosom as the younger girl claps it to her chest in glee. She twists to look to Richard for help, but he watches the scene as if he's in the audience of a comical play.
"Though it'd just scandalize the socks off everybody!" Diana's giggle gives away to another squeal as she squeezes Mary's hand tighter to the jiggling swell of her breasts above the neckline of her gown, which has begun to slip down off one shoulder. "And to think I was the one who brought you together!"
"In the novel version?" Richard asks.
"Oh Richard, you darling tease!"
Perturbing as it is to hear Diana calling her fiancé darling tease, Mary forgives it in her relief at her hand being freed from its confinement to the buxom chest as Diana unclasps it suddenly--only to capture Richard's arm instead. That invokes a glower.
"You know perfectly well that if it hadn't been for me inviting you to the Cave, none of this ever would have happened. I saw you fall in love dancing the Argentine tango."
Richard's gaze drifts over Diana's head to meet Mary's, the glint of amusement in his eyes blazing into a look she well remembers, which gives her a sense that the room spins about her as it did that September night when he twirled her with a final flourish and held her a moment too long.
"She wouldn't be wrong about the last bit," he says.
"Don't tell me!" says Diana. "I'll bet Frida's going to throw you an engagement party there. Or your wedding ball!"
"Do tell her, Richard. Is she wrong about that bit?"
As Diana looks up expectantly He quickly glanced around the room, as if he's been scanning the mingling guests for a face all this time, eyebrows lifting in recognition along with a hand in greeting.
"You will excuse me, Diana," he says, extracting himself from her grasp, slackened with disappointment, "but Sir John has something important to discuss with me. Mary will be all too happy to gush with you about our plans."
"Since I've always been prone to gushing," Mary glowers after him as he turns away with a smirk.
"Are you going to drink that, Mary darling?" Diana asks, the pink tip of her tongue darting out between her lips as she eyes the champagne glass. She leans conspiratorially, though doesn't lower her voice accordingly. "Only if you really are expecting, you shouldn't drink."
Mary allows her to prise it out of her hand; Diana has noticed she's not taken a sip, and no one else who might be looking on will think it odd that Diana stole a drink. Her hands free, she tugs her glove back on as her companion tipples and gushes enough for the both of them. Which is probably what Richard meant anyway.
"You don't look pregnant, at all. Though you were so green that day in Liberty, you must have been frightfully ill. Being sick is one way to stay thin. Ugh, the Christmas season has been awful for my figure. I can teach you lots of exercises. I do calisthenics, you now, to stay trim."
"Richard's going to teach me to box."
"What fun! Can he teach me, too?"
Mary blinks, and Diana drinks.
"In any case, Lucile works miracles with corsetry. God himself couldn't do better with foundation garments. No one will know you'll be walking down the aisle for two."
"Unless you tell your maid?"
That Diana hears the pointed remark at all, let alone feels the barbed tone with which it is uttered, comes as the most shocking interaction Mary has had with the girl to date.
"Gosh, Mary, I'm sorry about that. I really didn't mean to blab--ask Edith, when I got her letter, I wrote back that I do not spread damaging gossip. It's the chlorers, you know! When I've done those, I just never know what will come out of my mouth!"
The most ridiculous part is that, as much as Mary would like to say something snide about Diana's drug habit, she can see how sincerely the apology is meant. Before she can get a word in, snide or otherwise, Diana has moved on.
"Lucile is doing your gown, though, isn't she? Or gowns. I expect you'll need two if you're marrying in St Paul's and having a party at the Cave! When's your appointment? That's why you're in town, of course. I'd just love to tag along and help you choose! Oh, please say I may!"
"I'm sure Lady Mary will have enough help from her mother," Lady Rutland says, appearing rather suddenly at her daughter's side. They make quite the pair; the Duchess' evening gown, a drapey concoction of royal purple charmeuse embellished with silk flowers, gold lace and fringe and embroidery, as suited for a stage as Diana's. "Or didn't Cora accompany you to London? I can imagine how very trying the circumstances of your wedding must be to her. I'd probably take to my bed if one of my daughters--"
"Mama is in town, yes," Mary interrupts.
"Well. I suppose no more harm could befall you now. But everyone needn't know that. Especially in light of all those rumours your sister started. Oh, Poor Cora!" Lady Rutland's dramatic tones contain a quaver of vibrato; she actually touches a hand to her upturned forehead. "I really must call on her, and offer some advice about raising daughters."
Mary is, thankfully, spared hearing how the Duchess of Rutland raised Diana and her sisters by the dinner gong, though her discomfort is only temporarily relieved as her brief introduction to Lady Horner--though warmly made--reminds her that she's only here because of Richard's faux pas to begin with. When he offers his arm she takes it stiffly, lifting her chin as she avoids looking at him.
"Tell me," she says, "what was the point in being so uncouth as ask that I be invited to a dinner party so you can show me off, only to abandon me to Diana Manners and her mother?"
"I just thought you needed to know what you're getting into, marrying me."
"One last chance to back out?"
"The ring was insurance against that," Richard replies, reaching across with his left hand to cover hers where it rests on his arm and rub over the bulge of the diamond beneath her glove.
As they make their way around the long dinner table toward their places together at the centre, Mary says, "I can think of one benefit of a short engagement."
"Only one?" Richard murmurs as he leans over to get her chair, his fingertips brushing--and lingering--on her bare shoulders unnecessarily as he seats her.
Mary holds herself rigid against the shiver induced not so much by his touch but by the promise behind the words, but she has less luck restraining the twitch at the corners of her mouth.
"I won't have to endure too many of these awkward discussions about how short the engagement is."
"That reminds me." Richard keeps his voice low as he takes his place at her side. "I saw Reggie Swire today. He offered his congratulations, as well as his regrets that he wouldn't be able to host a party for us."
If it were not for the upward twitch of his eyebrows, and the tinge of a sneer in his tone, Mary would have shrugged off this breech of friendship as the result of Mr Swire's ill health. The significance of the glance, however, sets the gears of her own suspicious mind spinning.
"Surely Lavinia didn't tell him--"
"The little mouse? No." Richard emphasises the point with a shake of his head. "Although it would seem she's not as mousey as we thought. She told Reggie it would be too painful for you to have a party given by the future Earl of Grantham's fiancé."
Though the other dinner guests are filing in, Raymond Asquith, their hosts' son-in-law, occupying the seat next to her, Mary hardly notices the low rumble of conversation around her as the meaning of what Richard has said sinks in. Although on the surface Miss Swire's excuse to her father is in keeping with the meek character Mary observed, her first instinct lines up with Richard's: that the seeming sensitivity is in fact meant to touch Mary's most sensitive place--and, by extension, to strike at him.
"Not painful, exactly. Awkward. Though not as awkward as it will be for her when she receives an invitation to our wedding."
Richard studies her for a moment as the footman reaches around him to fill his wine glass, a smile softly spreading. He lifts the glass to her. "You are my perfect partner."
"You'll be mine--if you'll turn and speak to the guest seated at your right."
She smirks as Richard, mid-sip, turns to find himself looking into the dramatically disgruntled visage of the Duchess of Rutland, and chokes.
"Congratulations on your engagement, you darling man," she says, cutting Richard off when he starts to thank her, speaking low through scarcely moving lips. "But six weeks? You couldn’t have made your fornication more obvious if you’d published it in one of your papers.”
“I could if we’d waited the customary six months.”
Cheeks prickling, Mary turns to Mr Asquith as etiquette demands of her, but as the Prime Minister's son speaks, she scarcely hears what he says for training her ears on Lady Rutland's discreet dressing down of Richard.
"How could you? An unmarried girl…!”
“I suppose you think out of wedlock pregnancies are more virtuous for married women?" Richard rejoins. "At least my child will know who her father is.”
"So did you do it, Lady Mary?" Mr Asquith's wistful tones slip into her consciousness, so that she nearly chokes on her water. "Charm the truth about the Marconi source from Sir Richard," he clarifies.
"As a matter of fact I do know who it was. But I'll never tell."
"Of course not," says Mr Asquith. "How else will you keep him in line?"
“I hope you do have a daughter," Lady Rutland huffs, "so that you’ll understand someday what it is to wish to protect her reputation from cads like you!"
Long, strong fingers clamp around Mary's hand where it rests in her lap beneath the tablecloth, and Mary, feeling their earlier score is settled, gives it a squeeze. In a breech of etiquette--it certainly isn't the most shocking one she's made--she inclines her head toward his to whisper:
"This is so much more exciting than dinner parties in the country."
Read Chapter 29
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle, Cora Crawley, Sybil Crawley, Rosamund Painswick, Diana Manners, Lady Rutland, Raymond Asquith
Chapter Word Count: 6180 words
Chapter Summary: Mary and Richard are properly engaged and making inroads into each other's worlds. But will their past improprieties haunt them as London society has already caught the whiff of scandal?
Author's Notes: Back after the holiday, and hopefully the long chapter will make up for last week's lack of update! As always, thanks to ju-dou for betaing even while in the throes of jet-lag. And if you're curious to see the inspiration for a particular piece of jewelry mentioned in this chapter, look here.
Also! The first part of my interview with the Highclere Awards is posted! Stay tuned for more.
Previous Chapters |
28. The Engagement
Midday sun glares off the frosty London rooftops and the spire of St Paul's beyond Richard's office window. Still battling a lingering headache and slight nausea from the morning's train ride, Mary blinks against it and contemplates drawing the heavy green velvet draperies; Mama, on the other hand, seems unperturbed as she peers down at the street from four storeys up.
"This reminds me so much of my father's office," she says, resting her gloved hands on the window ledge. "Only instead of St Paul's, he had a riverfront view. I used to love to sit at his desk and watch the steamboats coming up and down the Ohio River, trying to guess which ones were bringing products for the store."
Ordinarily such bouts of nostalgia--admittedly infrequent--induce eye rolling from Mary, but today she welcomes Mama's soppiness with something like gratitude. Certainly this attempt at finding common ground with Richard is preferable to Papa's determination to cast him in the role of outsider as well as villain.
When Mama shared their plans for the London trip, in particular that Richard's chauffeur would collect them from King's Cross and drive them to the Telegram office where they would take luncheon, Papa asked, Is that why he took Gwen on as a secretary? To pencil his marriage in to his diary between meetings?
Of course this made Sybil irascible, and Aunt Rosamund, perhaps in part for the simple sake of annoying her brother, took up for men with careers: What Robert fails to see is that all brides fit themselves into their husbands' lives. If more marriages included secretaries, fewer wives would suffer the indignity of a forgotten anniversary. Why, I dare say Miss Thompkins was one of Marmaduke's most appealing attributes.
And Mama ceded that Grandmamma always spoke much the same way of Grandfather's Miss Brown. Only I frequently heard her add, "But thank god she was homely!"
"Your father was a dry goods merchant, I believe?" Richard says.
He gives Mary a quick smile and squeezes her fingertips before he releases her hand--which he took hold of the instant Miss Fields showed them into the office, letting go only so she could shake hands with the investor he was seeing out as they arrived--and leaves her side to join Mama at the window.
"My grandfather was." As Mama turns to him, clearly pleased to discuss her family history, it occurs to Mary how seldom any of their acquaintance inquire about her previous life in America--or if they do regard her as a curiosity--or eccentricity--rather than with the genuine interest Richard shows. "He emigrated to Cincinnati with nothing, but by the time he died he was running a successful shop. Then Father expanded it into a department store."
"The classic American rags to riches story."
"Indeed."
"I find it both admirable and relatable."
His brow furrows as his gaze drifts out the window, and Mary remembers the last time she was here--the first time--when they looked down on the boy selling newspapers on the corner and Richard told her the sight reminded him of where he came from, and where he had yet to go. Where will he go, with her at his side?
He looks up at Mama again, his hand going up in that unconscious gesture to smooth the curling hair above his collar.
"Only please don't tell my mother I said so," he adds. "She was something of a seamstress, and took great pains to see that we were never ragged."
Though Mama's smile doesn't falter, the subtle tilt of her head, the slight dimple between her eyebrows belying the questions that tumble beneath the politely serene veneer. She darts her eyes sideways as if to ask Mary whether she has any answers, but her knowledge of Mrs Mark Carlisle is nearly as piecemeal. In fact, all Richard has said about his mother--apart from the dire warning that she will make a difficult in-law--is that she sews and boils mutton and, presumably, like the family in general, is uncomfortable with his wealth and social position.
Perhaps his silence on the subject of his family should trouble her, but it doesn't. It's telling, she thinks, and strangely reassuring. Surely a lack of attachment from his own world must indicate that he means to fit himself into hers?
In any case, she'll meet the Carlisles soon enough, and see for herself everything Richard hasn't said.
"I'll have to bring my mother here." Mama steps away from the window and, as she moves around the side of the desk runs a hand over the surface, polished to a high oaky gloss. "She'll feel right at home."
"Mrs Levinson will be very welcome," Richard says. "Dad's already asked for a tour. He hasn't seen these particular facilities."
"I'm sure a printer will fully appreciate your Double Octuple Newspaper Presses," says Aunt Rosamund.
"We can make it a tour, with your mother," Richard goes on. "Perhaps she can inspire my brother with tales of Mr Levinson's stores."
"Is he a retailer as well?" asks Mama.
Richard snorts. "George would like to think so. He runs a small shop in Morningside. He does well enough to support his family--if living in a few rooms above the store qualifies. But the business isn't what it could be. He lacks ambition."
Once gain Mama seems unsure how to respond, glancing from Mary to Aunt Rosamund, though her expression indicates a silence borne not from awkwardness, but awaiting eagerly for him to continue. Her interest is piqued--as Mary cannot deny hers is--by his candid criticism of his family. No one of their kind of people would speak so in the company of his future in-laws.
Sybil gives him a sympathetic smile that looks astonishingly like Mama. "Perhaps George finds you a tough act to follow."
For once, her sweetness does not evoke an indulgent glance or soften the edges of his face. Richard doesn't ignore her, precisely, but goes on in the same vein as he began, as if schooling the young girl. Or perhaps schooling all of these sheltered highborn ladies.
"George's wife, Aileen, is a lovely woman, but she has rather...superstitious...notions about wealth. Her Presbyterian upbringing, perhaps. In any case she thinks just getting by is enough, which I find unfathomable in a mother of four." Richard catches Mary's eye and the corner of his mouth pulls upward at the corner, along with the brow above, as of to reassure her that their child shall never want--not that there was ever any question. "She doesn't want George chained to a desk, and he's only too happy to oblige her."
"That's not so unfathomable in a mother of four," Rosamund opines. "Especially one who doesn't have the help of nurses and nannies."
Her gaze is fixed on his hand resting on the edge of his desk; Richard withdraws it, slipping it into his pocket as he makes his way around the end of the desk to return to Mary.
"Oh, believe me, Lady Rosamund," he says, "one of the many credits I give my working class upbringing is knowing the value of a hands-on father. I may have looked on the Telegram as a child of sorts until now, but I know my children will be my most enduring legacy. They should--and shall--have my influence as well as my interest."
The hand not in his pocket goes around Mary's waist as he stands beside her, the heel of his palm resting firm against her hipbone as long fingers sweep over her abdomen in a bold and unapologetic acknowledgment of her condition. Heat prickles up from her belly, streaking colour through her neck and cheeks, though Mary isn't sure whether the reason is embarrassment or excitement at these notions of parenting her fiancé has. She's never heard anything quite like it, and though she's unimpressed enough with Papa's method of leaving child-rearing to women, she is nevertheless surprised at how much more thought Richard has given to the subject than she, when she was the one raised for no other purpose than to bear children. Preferably boys. And now not even that matters. She feels the weight of Richard's hand on her waist, the firmness of his side against hers, and wonders whether she isn't the one being squeezed into his world after all.
"What a modern view," says Sybil.
"Common, I should think," Aunt Rosamund says.
"Then I think I should like to marry a commoner," Sybil retorts.
Mary rolls her eyes, as much at her sister as at Richard's amusement. "Don't romanticise him."
"It must make your parents very proud," Mama interjects, looking rather flustered, "to see you embrace their values though you've moved up in the world."
"I hope it will."
Richard's resonant tones, tinged with bitterness, fill the office, making the space seem less expansive than it is as his low voice rumbles through Mary as well. As intimately as they know each other, much remains to know about him. She has her guesses, of course, but she's learned a hard lesson about assumptions. Before she can give it further thought, he brightens, his hand relaxing about her waist.
"Perhaps Mary and I will visit Cincinnati someday. It's the commercial hub of the Midwest, I believe?"
Clearly he could not have said anything better to her, because Mama looks as delighted with Richard as Mary could hope her to be with any suitor. How many suitors deemed acceptable for an earl's daughter would take an interest in their mother-in-law's family history? Her heart gives a little twinge; the earl's daughters themselves haven't even taken an interest in their own mother.
"I'll go along," says Mama. "I haven't been back since I was married."
Mary glances up at Richard just in time to catch the slight narrowing of his eyes around the gleam that accompanies a wicked thought. Is it anything like the one that has just flickered through her mind, that she supposes Papa wouldn't want to be confronted with the business that generated the new money that propped up his own ancient, dwindling estate?
"My mother mostly keeps to Newport and New York, especially since Harold moved there," Mama's babbling breaks into Mary's musing again. "We could take the baby to see the Reds!"
"Who are the Reds?" asks Sybil. "Levinson family friends?"
"Heavens no!" Mama says, as though this is a grievous gap in her daughter's knowledge. "A professional baseball team. The Cincinnati Red Stockings."
"My child will see cricket matches, thank you very much," Mary says, in spite of her softening attitude towards her American heritage.
Thankfully, Mama seems to have been transported back there and doesn't react to the tweak. Or perhaps she's simply too accustomed to it to notice.
"I used to love those summer afternoons when Daddy would leave the office early to go to the game," she says. "Harold never cared for baseball, so I'd go along instead. I didn't have to dress for dinner and we ate bratwursts and he gave me sips of his beer."
"Why can't we ever do anything like that?" Sybil asks.
"If Mama and Richard really do take this little holiday," Mary tells her, "you can go in my place. I simply refuse to have anything to do with baseball or bratwursts."
"I will," Sybil says with a tilt of her chin. "And you can stay with Granny and pass judgments on Americans while we have a jolly time."
"Perhaps the American invasion for the wedding will warm her up to the idea," Richard says.
"Invasion is the word for it, where Martha and Harold Levinson are concerned," mutters Rosamund.
"Don't pay any attention to Aunt Rosamund," Sybil says. "Grandmamma and Uncle Harold and Aunt Ruby are such tremendous fun. I'm sure the girls are sweet, too. They were babies when we saw them before."
"But don't count on them warming me up to baseball games," Mary scoffs. "And anyway I'm not so like Granny. I'm very warm to the idea of our Parisian honeymoon, and she holds the French in much the same regard as the Americans."
Richard chuckles low, and Mary finds it difficult to feign annoyance as she feels the vibration of it as he draws her against him, bending kiss her hair.
"How many daughters did you say Harold has?" he asks. "I've forgotten your bridesmaid count."
"Three," Mary replies, as Sybil answers, almost on top of her, "Isodora, Ginevra and Virginia."
"Isodora's named for our father, of course," Mama says, "and Ginevra and Virginia are twins. Just two little peas in a pod, from the pictures Ruby sends."
"Peas with hair as red as carrots," Mary adds. "Grandmamma calls them Ginger One and Ginger Two."
"I can't imagine that causes sibling rivalry," Rosamund remarks.
Richard turns to face Mary more fully, regarding her with his head cocked. "Your mother and her brother each had three daughters."
"So they did."
His eyes leave hers to flicker down to her stomach, his thumb stroking over the wool of her coat. "A Levinson trait, would you suppose?" He speaks low, as if they are the only people in the office. "Didn't you dream about having a girl?"
It's not the first time he's brought it up, and Mary is starting to believe he is no longer merely accepting of the possibility of their child being female, but would even prefer it. Perhaps Papa is correct, that luncheons with her husband will be scheduled by secretaries between meetings; but Mary will be very pleased to bit fitted in to Richard's life in this world where sons are not necessary and daughters are wanted.
At the prick of tears evoked by the thought, she lifts an eyebrow. "I dreamt one girl. Not twins." She hastens to add, "Touch wood."
The lines of his face do harden at that, his eyes clouding with the same regret present the night they spent in Ripon, that their road to here, planning their wedding, needn't have taken such a desperately wrong turn. But Richard doesn't dwell on his mistakes--and thankfully not hers--and he moves back around his desk and slides open a drawer.
"As much value as I place on your approval, it's Mary's that counts. I think she expects a token of my romantic desperation slightly more traditional than a Model T. Even if the Ford is practically vintage." Dimpling, he withdraws an object which his long fingers curl easily around, though Mary catches a glimpse of blue velvet before they conceal it. "Miss Fields will take you through to the board room for luncheon, if I may have a moment with Mary."
"Of course." Mama gives Mary a misty smile before she tucks her arm through Sybil's; Rosamund shows no such sentimentality.
"The board room. Now that's a place where I always felt I should belong."
"Invest in my publications, and you can."
When the office door clicks shut behind them--Miss Fields pulls it closed--Richard beckons to Mary, and she approaches, gaze trained on the hand holding the jewellery case with the expectation of seeing his fingers flip open the hinged lid to reveal the gleaming gemstone nestled on the satin pillow within. His hand does move, but the ring box remains clutched in his fist and digs into the small of her back as he puts his arms about her waist and draws her body flush against his, so tight that he lifts her up onto the balls of her feet as he presses his lips to hers. For an instant she toys with pushing him away and telling him she'll kiss him after he gives her the ring, in thanks, but he's stolen her breath. Anyway, wanting this is exactly why she sighed earlier when he pecked her chastely on the cheek in greeting in front of her family, so she traces her fingertips along the smooth line of his jaw and the fine hair swept back from his forehead and opens her mouth for a proper hello from her fiancé. Though even this is not enough to stop another sigh escaping her warm lips when he draws back after some minutes that still seem too few.
Lingering with his forehead against hers, Richard hmms. "If only I'd known that was the traditional token you expected, I wouldn't have gone to the trouble and expense of procuring an engagement ring for you to wear to our party tonight."
Party? When she spoke to him last night on the phone, all he said of tonight's plans was that they were invited to dine with Sir John and Lady Horner.
Without giving the matter further thought, she says, "We are still engaged then? What a relief. I was beginning to worry you were going to throw me over to buy up a chain of department stores and watch baseball with Mama."
"I prefer contact sport."
The rasp of his voice and the gleam of his eyes beneath his slightly dishevelled hair combines with the dimpling of his cheeks to make him look deliciously rakish. He gives her a squeeze, then in a smooth movement steps backward from her, disengaging her from his embrace, and opens the velvet box.
Before Mary can stop herself, her left hand flies up to cover her mouth. She knew he would choose a ring that would be the envy of all ladies of her station and a testament of all he has the means and power to provide for her. Leave it to Richard to not only push the bounds of good taste, but of her imagination, as well; never could she have dreamt an article of jewellery could be so accurate a representation of who he was. Who they were. We are not so very different, you and I. He's known that from the very beginning.
Intricate scrollwork engraved in the gleaming platinum band hints at the romantic, but her eye is drawn from those details by the contrasting right-angled geometry. Tiny diamonds twinkle in perfect lines on either shoulder of the band, even studding the sides and tops of the prongs that clasp the four corners of the large square-cut central diamond. On closer inspection, she sees that the edges are bevelled in a stair-step, reminding her of the infinite reflection of two facing mirrors within each other.
How appropriate, Mary thinks, and swallows a knot in her throat.
"It's three and a half carats," Richard says, sounding husky himself. "In total. There are twenty diamonds. I hope you still think I show good taste in jewellery."
Mary's lips part against her fingertips. She feels the warmth of her own breath against them, though she can't get a word out. She manages a nod, at least, and Richard exhales, standing a little straighter with his renewed confidence.
"It certainly caught my eye. Much like the lady I intend to wear it."
She becomes aware, suddenly, of the callused pads of his fingers stroking the jut of her wrist bone; apparently he drew her hand from her mouth whilst she was still unaware. She quirks an eyebrow at him.
"Are you calling me dazzling and ostentatious?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of strong. And sharp."
"Well then, in that case..."
"Shall I put it on you?"
"Please."
His fingers uncurl from around her wrist to pluck the ring from its silken bed and set the box on the desk beside them, then return, warmer, to take her hand. She feels rather than sees the cool platinum wrap around her fourth finger, her eyes riveted to his face as he slides the ring on, so that she witnesses the smile of satisfaction as it settles there at the base of her knuckle. Only when he remarks that it suits her does she look down at her hand curled around his. She does like the look of it, though it fits a little loosely.
"We can have it sized, of course," Richard tells her. "Frida told me pregnancy can make the hands swell, so you might prefer to wait until--"
Mary cuts him off with a kiss, pulling away briefly to say, "I don't want to talk about being pregnant." She arches up toward him again. "I don't want to talk about anything."
Richard's murmured agreement against her lips brings the conversation to an end--with the exception of a mutter that might be an expletive when she inadvertently bites down on his lip, the momentum of him pulling free from her grasp to cup her face in both hands having pushed her against the edge of the desk. Her hip throbs where the corner bores into it, but she makes no attempt at sidestepping it to find a more comfortable position. Instead, prompted by his fingers slipping into the coils pinned so meticulously at the base of her neck, she hooks her fingers over the knot of his necktie where the backs of her curled fingers press against the tautness of his throat where she can feel the roll of his Adam's apple, the beat of his pulse as she draws the solid masculine planes of him heavier against her.
Before she closes her eyes the new diamond on her finger flashes in the sunlight. All hard edges and sharp lines, which once existed as little more than lumps of coal until the heat and the pressure turned them into these precious glittering unbreakable stones to which men and women aspire. His teeth rake over her lower lip, and she releases the button of his collar so that her fingernails may scratch over the hot hollow of his throat.
They've withstood much to achieve this, and though Mary cannot be sure it's made her a better woman, she has no doubt that she is a stronger one.
And they will shine.
~*~
"I thought this was to be a formal dinner with political friends?" Mary clings a little tighter to Richard's arm as he dips his head to hear her over the jazz music that blares over a phonograph somewhere in the drawing room to which Sir John Horner's butler escorted them.
"So did I," Richard says, darting a glance back over his shoulder into the hall through which they just came, more art gallery than entryway, electric lights strategically placed to beam down on numerous paintings. Pre-Raphaelites, Mary notes, and remembers some titbit stowed away in the recesses of her memory that their hostess, Raymond Asquith's mother-in-law, is an avid collector from a line of patrons of the arts as well as the Liberal party, her own father a Glasgowegian MP. "Lady Horner must have decided to make it more of a party after I asked Sir John if I might bring you along."
He takes a step to enter the drawing room, but Mary falls back, her hand slipping from the crook of his elbow as a heat floods her face that is not caused by the lighting. "You asked?"
"Sir John keeps telling me how keen they are to meet you." Richard spreads his hands open at his sides in a gesture of innocence that doesn't quite match the lines on his forehead which clearly state he doesn't see the problem. "I couldn't imagine how it would put Lady Horner out much to add one to her party."
"Have you forgotten the drama when I invited you to Downton without Mama's knowledge?" Apparently she forgot that there are reasons--however shallow--why her family objected to him as a suitor before they knew about Marconi or the other scandal he brewed in her bedroom. She does have her work cut out for her as his wife.
"It's an extra chair and place setting," says Richard.
The weight of annoyance in his tone increases his volume in the marble-tiled hall. A glance into the drawing room sooths Mary's jolt of alarm that they are creating a scene. She places her hand on Richard's arm again and gives his arm a squeeze to indicate they should join the party, though as they step through the open French doors, she continues the argument through her smile.
"Never add anyone to one of our dinner parties without my consent."
"I'm sure Sir John had Lady Horner's consent," Richard hisses back with a sharp exhale of exasperation.
"She could hardly say No, dear, I won't have Sir Richard's fiancée to dinner,could she? Never put me in such a situation as hostess."
"What if my friends are as ill-bred as you think me and invite themselves over? Will you turn them away? Relegate them to sandwiches in the library?"
He takes a champagne glass from a passing footman's tray and thrusts it at Mary. She doesn't take it, eying it dubiously.
"As much as I'd like to take the edge off the prospect of unexpected future dinner guests, I shouldn't."
"You shouldn't drink it." He presses it into her hand in spite of her protests and takes another for himself. When the footman is out of earshot, he continues in a lower tone, "You should hold it--unless you want to confirm everyone's suspicions about why we're marrying six weeks after announcing our--"
"Engagement ring!"
They both turn their heads, though Mary knows who the shriek belongs to before she catches a glimpse of the figure who can only be described as pirouetting across the drawing room, wearing a poufy shepherdess-style gown of buttery yellow taffeta festooned with crimson netting about the waist and elbow sleeves, looking like nothing so much as a ballerina come to life from a Degas painting--which would not be unsurprising in this house.
"I have to see!" cries Diana Manners, gesturing with a graceful arc of her arm before catching Mary's free hand in both her own.
Mary performs quite the acrobatic feat not to slosh champagne onto her grey-green dress and shoes as Diana tears off her white satin evening glove, and draws her bared hand up close to her glassy near-sighted eyes for inspection.
"Blimey, it's gorgeous! And such a romantic story, what with Richard punching people and commandeering vehicles to fight your disapproving family for you. It ought to be a novel. Oh! Maybe I ought to write it!"
Alarmingly, Mary finds her hand caged against the rosette at Diana's bosom as the younger girl claps it to her chest in glee. She twists to look to Richard for help, but he watches the scene as if he's in the audience of a comical play.
"Though it'd just scandalize the socks off everybody!" Diana's giggle gives away to another squeal as she squeezes Mary's hand tighter to the jiggling swell of her breasts above the neckline of her gown, which has begun to slip down off one shoulder. "And to think I was the one who brought you together!"
"In the novel version?" Richard asks.
"Oh Richard, you darling tease!"
Perturbing as it is to hear Diana calling her fiancé darling tease, Mary forgives it in her relief at her hand being freed from its confinement to the buxom chest as Diana unclasps it suddenly--only to capture Richard's arm instead. That invokes a glower.
"You know perfectly well that if it hadn't been for me inviting you to the Cave, none of this ever would have happened. I saw you fall in love dancing the Argentine tango."
Richard's gaze drifts over Diana's head to meet Mary's, the glint of amusement in his eyes blazing into a look she well remembers, which gives her a sense that the room spins about her as it did that September night when he twirled her with a final flourish and held her a moment too long.
"She wouldn't be wrong about the last bit," he says.
"Don't tell me!" says Diana. "I'll bet Frida's going to throw you an engagement party there. Or your wedding ball!"
"Do tell her, Richard. Is she wrong about that bit?"
As Diana looks up expectantly He quickly glanced around the room, as if he's been scanning the mingling guests for a face all this time, eyebrows lifting in recognition along with a hand in greeting.
"You will excuse me, Diana," he says, extracting himself from her grasp, slackened with disappointment, "but Sir John has something important to discuss with me. Mary will be all too happy to gush with you about our plans."
"Since I've always been prone to gushing," Mary glowers after him as he turns away with a smirk.
"Are you going to drink that, Mary darling?" Diana asks, the pink tip of her tongue darting out between her lips as she eyes the champagne glass. She leans conspiratorially, though doesn't lower her voice accordingly. "Only if you really are expecting, you shouldn't drink."
Mary allows her to prise it out of her hand; Diana has noticed she's not taken a sip, and no one else who might be looking on will think it odd that Diana stole a drink. Her hands free, she tugs her glove back on as her companion tipples and gushes enough for the both of them. Which is probably what Richard meant anyway.
"You don't look pregnant, at all. Though you were so green that day in Liberty, you must have been frightfully ill. Being sick is one way to stay thin. Ugh, the Christmas season has been awful for my figure. I can teach you lots of exercises. I do calisthenics, you now, to stay trim."
"Richard's going to teach me to box."
"What fun! Can he teach me, too?"
Mary blinks, and Diana drinks.
"In any case, Lucile works miracles with corsetry. God himself couldn't do better with foundation garments. No one will know you'll be walking down the aisle for two."
"Unless you tell your maid?"
That Diana hears the pointed remark at all, let alone feels the barbed tone with which it is uttered, comes as the most shocking interaction Mary has had with the girl to date.
"Gosh, Mary, I'm sorry about that. I really didn't mean to blab--ask Edith, when I got her letter, I wrote back that I do not spread damaging gossip. It's the chlorers, you know! When I've done those, I just never know what will come out of my mouth!"
The most ridiculous part is that, as much as Mary would like to say something snide about Diana's drug habit, she can see how sincerely the apology is meant. Before she can get a word in, snide or otherwise, Diana has moved on.
"Lucile is doing your gown, though, isn't she? Or gowns. I expect you'll need two if you're marrying in St Paul's and having a party at the Cave! When's your appointment? That's why you're in town, of course. I'd just love to tag along and help you choose! Oh, please say I may!"
"I'm sure Lady Mary will have enough help from her mother," Lady Rutland says, appearing rather suddenly at her daughter's side. They make quite the pair; the Duchess' evening gown, a drapey concoction of royal purple charmeuse embellished with silk flowers, gold lace and fringe and embroidery, as suited for a stage as Diana's. "Or didn't Cora accompany you to London? I can imagine how very trying the circumstances of your wedding must be to her. I'd probably take to my bed if one of my daughters--"
"Mama is in town, yes," Mary interrupts.
"Well. I suppose no more harm could befall you now. But everyone needn't know that. Especially in light of all those rumours your sister started. Oh, Poor Cora!" Lady Rutland's dramatic tones contain a quaver of vibrato; she actually touches a hand to her upturned forehead. "I really must call on her, and offer some advice about raising daughters."
Mary is, thankfully, spared hearing how the Duchess of Rutland raised Diana and her sisters by the dinner gong, though her discomfort is only temporarily relieved as her brief introduction to Lady Horner--though warmly made--reminds her that she's only here because of Richard's faux pas to begin with. When he offers his arm she takes it stiffly, lifting her chin as she avoids looking at him.
"Tell me," she says, "what was the point in being so uncouth as ask that I be invited to a dinner party so you can show me off, only to abandon me to Diana Manners and her mother?"
"I just thought you needed to know what you're getting into, marrying me."
"One last chance to back out?"
"The ring was insurance against that," Richard replies, reaching across with his left hand to cover hers where it rests on his arm and rub over the bulge of the diamond beneath her glove.
As they make their way around the long dinner table toward their places together at the centre, Mary says, "I can think of one benefit of a short engagement."
"Only one?" Richard murmurs as he leans over to get her chair, his fingertips brushing--and lingering--on her bare shoulders unnecessarily as he seats her.
Mary holds herself rigid against the shiver induced not so much by his touch but by the promise behind the words, but she has less luck restraining the twitch at the corners of her mouth.
"I won't have to endure too many of these awkward discussions about how short the engagement is."
"That reminds me." Richard keeps his voice low as he takes his place at her side. "I saw Reggie Swire today. He offered his congratulations, as well as his regrets that he wouldn't be able to host a party for us."
If it were not for the upward twitch of his eyebrows, and the tinge of a sneer in his tone, Mary would have shrugged off this breech of friendship as the result of Mr Swire's ill health. The significance of the glance, however, sets the gears of her own suspicious mind spinning.
"Surely Lavinia didn't tell him--"
"The little mouse? No." Richard emphasises the point with a shake of his head. "Although it would seem she's not as mousey as we thought. She told Reggie it would be too painful for you to have a party given by the future Earl of Grantham's fiancé."
Though the other dinner guests are filing in, Raymond Asquith, their hosts' son-in-law, occupying the seat next to her, Mary hardly notices the low rumble of conversation around her as the meaning of what Richard has said sinks in. Although on the surface Miss Swire's excuse to her father is in keeping with the meek character Mary observed, her first instinct lines up with Richard's: that the seeming sensitivity is in fact meant to touch Mary's most sensitive place--and, by extension, to strike at him.
"Not painful, exactly. Awkward. Though not as awkward as it will be for her when she receives an invitation to our wedding."
Richard studies her for a moment as the footman reaches around him to fill his wine glass, a smile softly spreading. He lifts the glass to her. "You are my perfect partner."
"You'll be mine--if you'll turn and speak to the guest seated at your right."
She smirks as Richard, mid-sip, turns to find himself looking into the dramatically disgruntled visage of the Duchess of Rutland, and chokes.
"Congratulations on your engagement, you darling man," she says, cutting Richard off when he starts to thank her, speaking low through scarcely moving lips. "But six weeks? You couldn’t have made your fornication more obvious if you’d published it in one of your papers.”
“I could if we’d waited the customary six months.”
Cheeks prickling, Mary turns to Mr Asquith as etiquette demands of her, but as the Prime Minister's son speaks, she scarcely hears what he says for training her ears on Lady Rutland's discreet dressing down of Richard.
"How could you? An unmarried girl…!”
“I suppose you think out of wedlock pregnancies are more virtuous for married women?" Richard rejoins. "At least my child will know who her father is.”
"So did you do it, Lady Mary?" Mr Asquith's wistful tones slip into her consciousness, so that she nearly chokes on her water. "Charm the truth about the Marconi source from Sir Richard," he clarifies.
"As a matter of fact I do know who it was. But I'll never tell."
"Of course not," says Mr Asquith. "How else will you keep him in line?"
“I hope you do have a daughter," Lady Rutland huffs, "so that you’ll understand someday what it is to wish to protect her reputation from cads like you!"
Long, strong fingers clamp around Mary's hand where it rests in her lap beneath the tablecloth, and Mary, feeling their earlier score is settled, gives it a squeeze. In a breech of etiquette--it certainly isn't the most shocking one she's made--she inclines her head toward his to whisper:
"This is so much more exciting than dinner parties in the country."
Read Chapter 29