Fic: A Girl in Black (32/33 + Epilogue)
Title: A Girl In Black (32/33 + Epilogue)
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle, Anna Smith, Martha Levinson, Robert Crawley
Chapter Word Count: 3251 words
Chapter Summary: The wedding day has finally arrived, but before Mary can walk down the aisle, unexpected members of the family make sure she's fully ready to enter her new life--and leave theirs.
Author's Note: In case you missed it, I posted a picspam of the inspiration for Mary's wedding gown here. As expected, I decided to split the wedding and wedding reception (and wedding night!) into two chapters. So there's only one more after this, plus an epilogue. Which is perhaps the truer reason why I split chapters, because I'm just not ready to see AGIB come to an end. I hope the same is true for all of you. Thank you for sticking with me until the very end. And, as always, thanks to ju-dou.
For the occasion, new cover art, by me. :)
Previous Chapters |
32. The Bride
"That dress is very becoming on you," Mary tells Anna, her gaze flickering from the inspection of her own image in the full-length mirror as the maid does up the eyelet closures at the back of her gown.
"Your ladyship is the only one meant to receive compliments today."
"Hmm, good point." As Mary's eyes swing back to the front reflection clad in ivory, they meet the twinkling blue pair over her shoulder.
"Thank you, Lady Mary," says Anna. "It's a lovely dress."
It was one of her old ones, and not even very old at that. Mary wore it only a handful of times since it made its debut at Agnes Belcher's wedding last October, and it doesn't fit her at all now. In spite of Mama's protestations that it might again after the baby, she gave it to Anna--along with most of her other old clothes, her trousseau more than sufficient to clothe her stylishly for the time being.
Anyway, Richard has promised to take her to the fashion houses of Paris on their honeymoon; she's determined to have one Poiret gown, at least.
Anna's figure is shorter and not so well underpinned as Mary's in the royal blue day dress, of course. Nor does her dumpy little black straw boater lend quite the finishing flair as the peacock plumed picture hat Mary wore with it, but she hadn't quite the generosity to part with her hats as well as her dresses. After all, Richard has a scarf to match that hat. They'll make quite the preening pair, indeed; a smirk twitches the corners of her mouth as she envisions them promenading arm and arm about Cadogan Square.
Any guilt she might have felt at not being more generous with her millinery was assuaged in the gift she made Anna of the cameo brooch pinned to her bodice.
"Well, Paris is the fashion capital of the world," Mary says. "You should look your best in case there's a handsome young curator showing you the Venus de Milo."
"I thought the point of Paris was to entice me to come back to be your ladies' maid in London, m'lady?"
"That doesn't mean you can't have a bit of fun there first."
Anna purses her lips as she adjusts something at the back of Mary's gown, but thankfully says nothing about the results of her bit of premarital fun.
Of which, Mary thinks with an exhalation of relief as she returns her attention to her reflection, there is no evidence in the clever Lucy Duff Gordon creation. Even if the dressmaker had not turned out to be the miracle worker at corsetry Diana Manners professed her to be, the construction of the dress is enough to conceal any new figure features that would belie her appearance as a blushing bride. Framed by an embroidered square neckline, a blousy long-sleeved lace bodice accommodates her fuller bosom, but appears only to be a softly romantic detail not designed for that purpose. Fitted at the narrower part of her waist, a more structured band of heavy silk drapes most becomingly over the length of the skirt, intricate chenille embroidery drawing the eye away from the hint of a bulge at her middle.
"Paris may be the fashion capital," Anna says, moving around to inspect Mary from all angles, "but I don't think your ladyship could have found a more perfect wedding gown there."
"You think I look the part? The press baron's bride, whose photographs will grace the pages of every paper in London, Yorkshire, and Edinburgh?"
A gentle smile is Anna's only acknowledgment of Mary's sudden rush of uncertainty, along with a press of her fingers as she brushes past. "Let's see it with the veil, shall we?"
"En français?"
Since Anna agreed to accompany her to Paris, Mary took it upon herself to teach her maid enough French to get by on her own in the hotel and around the city, as a honeymoon is certain to leave her frequently without occupation. An impromptu lesson as Mary manoeuvres her cumbersome cathedral-length train to the dressing table bench and Anna carefully arranges the pearl orange blossom headpiece in her coif provides a welcome distraction from pre-wedding jitters. In the spirit of the day and of her maid's support she ignores the urge to critique Anna's pronunciation too harshly, though the broad northern tones corrupt the language in a manner that offend even English ears on behalf of the French; these lessons have given her a new appreciation for Richard's ongoing battle against Gwen's accent, which as yet prohibits her from answering his office telephones.
Soon another, more grating accent assaults Mary's ears.
"Knock knock!" Grandmamma calls out; she does actually rap on the door--after she has already stepped through it.
Mary turns to see her grandmother covering her eyes, more for dramatic effect than to actually shield her from potential immodesty as she peeps one blue eye between splayed fingers. "Are you decent?"
"Would it stop you if I wasn't?"
"Ha!" Grandmamma lowers her hand and comes fully into the bedroom. "Nope! Who do you think you get your lack of inhibition from, honey?"
What an appalling notion, Mary thinks, but smiles at her grandmother in the mirror as she takes Anna's place behind her bench to squeeze her shoulders.
"You are positively radiant, my darling girl." Mary's thanks dies on her tongue as Grandmamma interrupts her to add with a wink, "That pregnant glow comes in handy. Now," she goes on, seeming despite her voluminous furs to glide across the room to the door, which still stands ajar; she sticks her head out, glancing into the hall as if on the lookout, "has your mama been in to see you yet?"
"No..."
"Then I better talk fast." The door clicks shut as Grandmamma leans back into it; then, as if it were made of rubber, she springs off, flopping onto the nearby sofa. "I guess she hasn't given you that traditional mother-daughter chat about what to expect on your wedding night? I mean, you already know what to expect."
"Begging your ladyship's pardon," says Anna, with a little curtsey, "if you won't require anything else, I ought to see whether Miss O'Brien needs help with Lady Edith and Lady Sybil."
"Ruby could use a hand," says Grandmamma. "Lordy but hers are full with those girls."
"Mama will be along soon and Sybil would appreciate your assistance, I'm sure," Mary says, hoping to spare Anna the fate of Ruby's children.
Yesterday at the rehearsal, Ginevra and Virginia threw their flower petals at each other all the way down the aisle, which made Mary suspect asking them to be bridesmaids was not the most well-advised decision she ever made. Though that seems to be a theme with this wedding. At least Richard's nephews made up for their dinner shenanigans by taking their page boy duties as seriously as their uncle takes his newspaper business.
When Anna has left them, Grandmamma says, "Cora's been living with your Victorian Granny and Papa so long she probably thinks the upside to your little scandal is that she's spared talking to you about the birds and the bees."
"As it so happens," Mary replies, "she told me how exciting lovemaking is. Which influenced my decision to try it."
She ought to know better than to try and shut an American up with a shocking speech; Grandmamma is silent for a moment, but apparently only because she is impressed, and not repentant.
"But has Cora also told you that sex can be even more exciting during pregnancy? That it's perfectly safe, and that you may want it more often than usual?"
Mary does not inform her grandmother that in fact Richard told her this--at least the part about it being safe. Concerned about the threatened miscarriage--or perhaps more anxious about a sexless honeymoon--he asked his physician, much to Mary's chagrin--though perhaps more to the doctor's. Richard really has no shame.
Thank heaven she is spared the shame of admitting any part of this to Grandmamma, who is more interested in imparting wisdom rather than in hearing how informed Mary is.
"I call it God's little gift to mothers," she continues, getting up from the sofa. "After you have that baby, you never want to make love again. But before the stork lands?" She shudders. "Wow-ee! It's just the most terrific fun. Enjoy Paris, dear."
As abruptly as she entered the room she exits it, but pokes her head and hand back through the door to pucker her lips and blow a kiss.
~*~
The winter chill touches Mary's skin through her filmy veil as she leans close to the window, not quite pressing her forehead to it--that would be childish--in the hope of catching a clear glimpse of this moment. London passes in a blur as the limousine carries them across town from Grantham House to St Paul's, the buildings, pedestrians, and other automobiles and omnibuses slipping by before her eyes can really focus on any of them, as if she is in a dream.
A dream come true, she thinks with a wry twitch of her lips. That's what she ought to feel, what other, starry-eyed brides being driven to the church to be given in marriage to the men they love would feel. But she is not any other woman; she never dreamed of her wedding day, nor of the man she would marry. Richard is not the man of her dreams, but he is hers, and she wants this day to be as real in her mind as if every instant of it were captured in black and white, sharp photographs and strong text beneath bold headlines.
Luckily for her, much of it will be.
Turning from the window, she sees Papa in plain relief beside her, his brow furrowed as he peers out the opposite side of the car.
"This isn't what you always imagined my wedding day would be," she says, his thoughts unveiled even by his natural English reserve. "A car instead of a horse-drawn carriage, the streets filled with strangers going about their daily business instead of your tenants and villagers taking a holiday. And not a scrap of bunting to be seen."
She meant only to tease, but Papa's reply is weighted down. "I've had that wedding already, haven't I? In another century."
Sighing, he leans back against the leather upholstered seat as much as his top hat will allow; not all the shadows on his face, Mary notices, are cast by the brim. Always before his plump features preserved a certain youthfulness. When did the creases at the corners of his eyes become so deeply etched? When did the hair at his temples turn fully grey? Papa's years are not so much more advanced than Richard's, yet his vibrancy and restless energy lag far behind.
Uncle Harold joked about daughters making a man old before his time. Was Papa like this before her picture appeared in the Sketch last autumn? Or were these changes wrought more recently, by her greater scandal?
How much has she missed with her gaze trained to examine her own visage in the mirror?
When Papa speaks again, however, he seems equally unaware of her. "The world has changed so much since that day. Our little world at Downton seems a different one entirely since I read that newspaper headline last April. In a way I've felt as though I were clinging to a bit of driftwood in the middle of the Atlantic as I watched you rowed away to stranger shores."
He looks at her then, and she is almost startled by the brightness of his eyes as they catch the rays of early afternoon sun that slant through the window behind her. Oddly, though the veil obscures her face, she has an impression that Papa sees her more clearly than he ever has been before.
"It isn't strange to you, is it, Mary? You've found a safe haven."
Safe haven? Can she have heard correctly? Has the veil obstructed her ears, too? She stares straight ahead at the vacant seat across from her.
"I thought you were of the opinion that Richard ruined me."
She feels the velvety kid of Papa's grey glove cover one hand, gently uncurling her fingers which bunch her dress in her lap.
"My darling Mary," he says, "you were everything a lady ought to be at that ghastly dinner party with the Carlisles."
At that, she smiles; Richard whispered to her at the rehearsal that his mother paid Mary a similar compliment after she left with her family: I was relieved to find her so ladylike. It's been my nightmare that you'd bring home that Manners girl whose shenanigans always feature so prominently in your newspapers.
The light press of Papa's fingers on her hand draws her eyes back to his face. Her heart catches, pressing against her ribcage at the shimmer in his eyes, which she cannot now attribute to the glare of the sun as the car slips into the shadow of an office building.
"If you think that anything or anyone could tarnish you in my eyes," he says, "then my sin is the greatest of all those committed these last months. You are wholly as perfect to me now as you were the first moment I held you in my arms."
"Oh, Papa." Mary's voice breaks and she leans into him, tucking her head into the crook of his neck as his arms go around her, one light hand cradling her head.
"My God, I was petrified of dropping you, of hurting you," he chokes out, and then draws back. "That's exactly what I feared I did do, watching paralysed as you stepped out from the safety of Downton into this new world in London. You'll discover what I mean soon."
His face goes very red, and behind her veil Mary's does, too--ridiculously, in light of how unflappable she remained throughout Grandmamma's earlier crude speech.
"While I cannot pretend I don't wish you'd acted differently, or that I don't sincerely hope your sisters won't emulate your courtship," Papa says, "I do admire the courage with which you have faced these changes in circumstance. And above all I hope the bridges between our two worlds haven't been burnt."
Emotion swells in Mary's throat and burns in her eyes, but a glance out the window reveals them to be rounding the corner into St Paul's Church Yard. She blinks back and swallows down the tears; she will not walk down the aisle with puffy eyes or speak her vows with a voice hoarse from weeping.
Smiling, she turns teasing again. "Richard has great plans for building a country house, you know. We shan't always be separated by two hundred miles."
"Indeed," says Papa, stiffly, and Mary's smirk deepens. So much for bridging the gap. She does not say so aloud, however, distracted by the squeak of the limousine's brakes as the car slows to a stop in front of the cathedral.
To her dismay, the scene around her moves slowly but no more clearly than it did throughout the drive. The dream-like haze persists as the chauffeur opens the car door and Papa slides out, turning back to hand Mary down as she contends with bouquet and train. Wrapping her arm around Papa's, she peers up at the dome of St Paul's, feeling for a moment that she's got her bearings.
Then, the dazzling light of a camera flashbulb renders it impossible to see anything at all.
~*~
When they rehearsed this, Mary thought the three minute procession down the cathedral aisle would never end. Now, she wonders if the musicians are rushing the tempo of the trumpet voluntary. Don't blink, or you'll miss it, Mama told her. The temporary blindness induced by the photographers having passed, Mary does her best to follow the advice as she makes her bridal walk. Just three minutes out of her entire life...
Pipe organ and trumpet echo through pillared archways, the strains dancing with the sunlight that beams through the glass of the dome, and seem to take a physical form that carries her down the black and white tile behind the clergy without her having to consider her steps. Worry kept her up half the night--that Isodora will step on her veil as she did when they practiced the processional, or that in her own impatience to reach Richard she will trip over her hem or the heavy embroidered satin train and humiliate herself in front of everyone who is anyone in London society. She holds to Papa's arm and enjoys the dashing figure Richard makes from behind in his dark morning coat and dove grey pinstriped trousers. Even so, her pulse flutters quicker beneath the lace cuffs of her sleeves with every step she draws nearer to him. What will his reaction be to her wedding gown?
That she looks beautiful is no question. She has seen her own reflection, everyone at the house told her so, and even above the resonant organ and trumpet duet she hears the murmurs of the wedding guests attesting to this fact--though of course she does not turn her head left or right to see their reactions, but keeps her gaze trained straight ahead, to the backs of her bridegroom and his brother at the front of the nave. She sighs to see George properly attired; the apprehension when he wore a day suit to dinner heightened to alarm when she heard Richard's father mention his intent to wear a kilt to the ceremony. Whether Mark meant it in jest or in earnest remains to be seen.
One point of protocol, however, George does break. Looking back over his shoulder, the sharp lines of a laughing schoolboy scamp soften as he stares at her for a moment. Then, dimpling, he turns around again and grasps Richard affectionately on the shoulder, leaning in to whisper. Mary reads his lips clearly: Just wait till you see her, Richie.
In profile, she sees Richard's cheek flex with his own broad grin, and her heart leaps with anticipation. For an instant she thinks he may steal a glimpse of her, but he plays the part of a proper bridegroom to perfection. Mary's gaze strays to her right, and she very nearly stumbles at the sight of a man's knobbly bare knees peeking out from beneath green and red tartan; averting her eyes, she sees Jean Carlisle's hat at her husband's shoulder: a relic from the previous century complete with a stuffed grey swallow bobbing above the brim.
The organ swells and slows, and the trumpet trills to the fanfare's finish at the precise moment Mary reaches the altar, and the wait--for her and for Richard--is over.
He turns, looking her over with the blue eyes that sought her across a crowded ball room not even a year ago, never fooled for a moment by the black dress, not once taking no for an answer.
Not that she ever wanted to give him any but yes.
As the opening chords of the hymn blast from the organ, Richard leans in close, his breath warm against her cheek. "This man wants to kiss a girl in white."
Mary lifts an eyebrow. "I didn't think it made a difference to you what colour I wore."
Read Chapter 33
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle, Anna Smith, Martha Levinson, Robert Crawley
Chapter Word Count: 3251 words
Chapter Summary: The wedding day has finally arrived, but before Mary can walk down the aisle, unexpected members of the family make sure she's fully ready to enter her new life--and leave theirs.
Author's Note: In case you missed it, I posted a picspam of the inspiration for Mary's wedding gown here. As expected, I decided to split the wedding and wedding reception (and wedding night!) into two chapters. So there's only one more after this, plus an epilogue. Which is perhaps the truer reason why I split chapters, because I'm just not ready to see AGIB come to an end. I hope the same is true for all of you. Thank you for sticking with me until the very end. And, as always, thanks to ju-dou.
For the occasion, new cover art, by me. :)
Previous Chapters |
32. The Bride
"That dress is very becoming on you," Mary tells Anna, her gaze flickering from the inspection of her own image in the full-length mirror as the maid does up the eyelet closures at the back of her gown.
"Your ladyship is the only one meant to receive compliments today."
"Hmm, good point." As Mary's eyes swing back to the front reflection clad in ivory, they meet the twinkling blue pair over her shoulder.
"Thank you, Lady Mary," says Anna. "It's a lovely dress."
It was one of her old ones, and not even very old at that. Mary wore it only a handful of times since it made its debut at Agnes Belcher's wedding last October, and it doesn't fit her at all now. In spite of Mama's protestations that it might again after the baby, she gave it to Anna--along with most of her other old clothes, her trousseau more than sufficient to clothe her stylishly for the time being.
Anyway, Richard has promised to take her to the fashion houses of Paris on their honeymoon; she's determined to have one Poiret gown, at least.
Anna's figure is shorter and not so well underpinned as Mary's in the royal blue day dress, of course. Nor does her dumpy little black straw boater lend quite the finishing flair as the peacock plumed picture hat Mary wore with it, but she hadn't quite the generosity to part with her hats as well as her dresses. After all, Richard has a scarf to match that hat. They'll make quite the preening pair, indeed; a smirk twitches the corners of her mouth as she envisions them promenading arm and arm about Cadogan Square.
Any guilt she might have felt at not being more generous with her millinery was assuaged in the gift she made Anna of the cameo brooch pinned to her bodice.
"Well, Paris is the fashion capital of the world," Mary says. "You should look your best in case there's a handsome young curator showing you the Venus de Milo."
"I thought the point of Paris was to entice me to come back to be your ladies' maid in London, m'lady?"
"That doesn't mean you can't have a bit of fun there first."
Anna purses her lips as she adjusts something at the back of Mary's gown, but thankfully says nothing about the results of her bit of premarital fun.
Of which, Mary thinks with an exhalation of relief as she returns her attention to her reflection, there is no evidence in the clever Lucy Duff Gordon creation. Even if the dressmaker had not turned out to be the miracle worker at corsetry Diana Manners professed her to be, the construction of the dress is enough to conceal any new figure features that would belie her appearance as a blushing bride. Framed by an embroidered square neckline, a blousy long-sleeved lace bodice accommodates her fuller bosom, but appears only to be a softly romantic detail not designed for that purpose. Fitted at the narrower part of her waist, a more structured band of heavy silk drapes most becomingly over the length of the skirt, intricate chenille embroidery drawing the eye away from the hint of a bulge at her middle.
"Paris may be the fashion capital," Anna says, moving around to inspect Mary from all angles, "but I don't think your ladyship could have found a more perfect wedding gown there."
"You think I look the part? The press baron's bride, whose photographs will grace the pages of every paper in London, Yorkshire, and Edinburgh?"
A gentle smile is Anna's only acknowledgment of Mary's sudden rush of uncertainty, along with a press of her fingers as she brushes past. "Let's see it with the veil, shall we?"
"En français?"
Since Anna agreed to accompany her to Paris, Mary took it upon herself to teach her maid enough French to get by on her own in the hotel and around the city, as a honeymoon is certain to leave her frequently without occupation. An impromptu lesson as Mary manoeuvres her cumbersome cathedral-length train to the dressing table bench and Anna carefully arranges the pearl orange blossom headpiece in her coif provides a welcome distraction from pre-wedding jitters. In the spirit of the day and of her maid's support she ignores the urge to critique Anna's pronunciation too harshly, though the broad northern tones corrupt the language in a manner that offend even English ears on behalf of the French; these lessons have given her a new appreciation for Richard's ongoing battle against Gwen's accent, which as yet prohibits her from answering his office telephones.
Soon another, more grating accent assaults Mary's ears.
"Knock knock!" Grandmamma calls out; she does actually rap on the door--after she has already stepped through it.
Mary turns to see her grandmother covering her eyes, more for dramatic effect than to actually shield her from potential immodesty as she peeps one blue eye between splayed fingers. "Are you decent?"
"Would it stop you if I wasn't?"
"Ha!" Grandmamma lowers her hand and comes fully into the bedroom. "Nope! Who do you think you get your lack of inhibition from, honey?"
What an appalling notion, Mary thinks, but smiles at her grandmother in the mirror as she takes Anna's place behind her bench to squeeze her shoulders.
"You are positively radiant, my darling girl." Mary's thanks dies on her tongue as Grandmamma interrupts her to add with a wink, "That pregnant glow comes in handy. Now," she goes on, seeming despite her voluminous furs to glide across the room to the door, which still stands ajar; she sticks her head out, glancing into the hall as if on the lookout, "has your mama been in to see you yet?"
"No..."
"Then I better talk fast." The door clicks shut as Grandmamma leans back into it; then, as if it were made of rubber, she springs off, flopping onto the nearby sofa. "I guess she hasn't given you that traditional mother-daughter chat about what to expect on your wedding night? I mean, you already know what to expect."
"Begging your ladyship's pardon," says Anna, with a little curtsey, "if you won't require anything else, I ought to see whether Miss O'Brien needs help with Lady Edith and Lady Sybil."
"Ruby could use a hand," says Grandmamma. "Lordy but hers are full with those girls."
"Mama will be along soon and Sybil would appreciate your assistance, I'm sure," Mary says, hoping to spare Anna the fate of Ruby's children.
Yesterday at the rehearsal, Ginevra and Virginia threw their flower petals at each other all the way down the aisle, which made Mary suspect asking them to be bridesmaids was not the most well-advised decision she ever made. Though that seems to be a theme with this wedding. At least Richard's nephews made up for their dinner shenanigans by taking their page boy duties as seriously as their uncle takes his newspaper business.
When Anna has left them, Grandmamma says, "Cora's been living with your Victorian Granny and Papa so long she probably thinks the upside to your little scandal is that she's spared talking to you about the birds and the bees."
"As it so happens," Mary replies, "she told me how exciting lovemaking is. Which influenced my decision to try it."
She ought to know better than to try and shut an American up with a shocking speech; Grandmamma is silent for a moment, but apparently only because she is impressed, and not repentant.
"But has Cora also told you that sex can be even more exciting during pregnancy? That it's perfectly safe, and that you may want it more often than usual?"
Mary does not inform her grandmother that in fact Richard told her this--at least the part about it being safe. Concerned about the threatened miscarriage--or perhaps more anxious about a sexless honeymoon--he asked his physician, much to Mary's chagrin--though perhaps more to the doctor's. Richard really has no shame.
Thank heaven she is spared the shame of admitting any part of this to Grandmamma, who is more interested in imparting wisdom rather than in hearing how informed Mary is.
"I call it God's little gift to mothers," she continues, getting up from the sofa. "After you have that baby, you never want to make love again. But before the stork lands?" She shudders. "Wow-ee! It's just the most terrific fun. Enjoy Paris, dear."
As abruptly as she entered the room she exits it, but pokes her head and hand back through the door to pucker her lips and blow a kiss.
~*~
The winter chill touches Mary's skin through her filmy veil as she leans close to the window, not quite pressing her forehead to it--that would be childish--in the hope of catching a clear glimpse of this moment. London passes in a blur as the limousine carries them across town from Grantham House to St Paul's, the buildings, pedestrians, and other automobiles and omnibuses slipping by before her eyes can really focus on any of them, as if she is in a dream.
A dream come true, she thinks with a wry twitch of her lips. That's what she ought to feel, what other, starry-eyed brides being driven to the church to be given in marriage to the men they love would feel. But she is not any other woman; she never dreamed of her wedding day, nor of the man she would marry. Richard is not the man of her dreams, but he is hers, and she wants this day to be as real in her mind as if every instant of it were captured in black and white, sharp photographs and strong text beneath bold headlines.
Luckily for her, much of it will be.
Turning from the window, she sees Papa in plain relief beside her, his brow furrowed as he peers out the opposite side of the car.
"This isn't what you always imagined my wedding day would be," she says, his thoughts unveiled even by his natural English reserve. "A car instead of a horse-drawn carriage, the streets filled with strangers going about their daily business instead of your tenants and villagers taking a holiday. And not a scrap of bunting to be seen."
She meant only to tease, but Papa's reply is weighted down. "I've had that wedding already, haven't I? In another century."
Sighing, he leans back against the leather upholstered seat as much as his top hat will allow; not all the shadows on his face, Mary notices, are cast by the brim. Always before his plump features preserved a certain youthfulness. When did the creases at the corners of his eyes become so deeply etched? When did the hair at his temples turn fully grey? Papa's years are not so much more advanced than Richard's, yet his vibrancy and restless energy lag far behind.
Uncle Harold joked about daughters making a man old before his time. Was Papa like this before her picture appeared in the Sketch last autumn? Or were these changes wrought more recently, by her greater scandal?
How much has she missed with her gaze trained to examine her own visage in the mirror?
When Papa speaks again, however, he seems equally unaware of her. "The world has changed so much since that day. Our little world at Downton seems a different one entirely since I read that newspaper headline last April. In a way I've felt as though I were clinging to a bit of driftwood in the middle of the Atlantic as I watched you rowed away to stranger shores."
He looks at her then, and she is almost startled by the brightness of his eyes as they catch the rays of early afternoon sun that slant through the window behind her. Oddly, though the veil obscures her face, she has an impression that Papa sees her more clearly than he ever has been before.
"It isn't strange to you, is it, Mary? You've found a safe haven."
Safe haven? Can she have heard correctly? Has the veil obstructed her ears, too? She stares straight ahead at the vacant seat across from her.
"I thought you were of the opinion that Richard ruined me."
She feels the velvety kid of Papa's grey glove cover one hand, gently uncurling her fingers which bunch her dress in her lap.
"My darling Mary," he says, "you were everything a lady ought to be at that ghastly dinner party with the Carlisles."
At that, she smiles; Richard whispered to her at the rehearsal that his mother paid Mary a similar compliment after she left with her family: I was relieved to find her so ladylike. It's been my nightmare that you'd bring home that Manners girl whose shenanigans always feature so prominently in your newspapers.
The light press of Papa's fingers on her hand draws her eyes back to his face. Her heart catches, pressing against her ribcage at the shimmer in his eyes, which she cannot now attribute to the glare of the sun as the car slips into the shadow of an office building.
"If you think that anything or anyone could tarnish you in my eyes," he says, "then my sin is the greatest of all those committed these last months. You are wholly as perfect to me now as you were the first moment I held you in my arms."
"Oh, Papa." Mary's voice breaks and she leans into him, tucking her head into the crook of his neck as his arms go around her, one light hand cradling her head.
"My God, I was petrified of dropping you, of hurting you," he chokes out, and then draws back. "That's exactly what I feared I did do, watching paralysed as you stepped out from the safety of Downton into this new world in London. You'll discover what I mean soon."
His face goes very red, and behind her veil Mary's does, too--ridiculously, in light of how unflappable she remained throughout Grandmamma's earlier crude speech.
"While I cannot pretend I don't wish you'd acted differently, or that I don't sincerely hope your sisters won't emulate your courtship," Papa says, "I do admire the courage with which you have faced these changes in circumstance. And above all I hope the bridges between our two worlds haven't been burnt."
Emotion swells in Mary's throat and burns in her eyes, but a glance out the window reveals them to be rounding the corner into St Paul's Church Yard. She blinks back and swallows down the tears; she will not walk down the aisle with puffy eyes or speak her vows with a voice hoarse from weeping.
Smiling, she turns teasing again. "Richard has great plans for building a country house, you know. We shan't always be separated by two hundred miles."
"Indeed," says Papa, stiffly, and Mary's smirk deepens. So much for bridging the gap. She does not say so aloud, however, distracted by the squeak of the limousine's brakes as the car slows to a stop in front of the cathedral.
To her dismay, the scene around her moves slowly but no more clearly than it did throughout the drive. The dream-like haze persists as the chauffeur opens the car door and Papa slides out, turning back to hand Mary down as she contends with bouquet and train. Wrapping her arm around Papa's, she peers up at the dome of St Paul's, feeling for a moment that she's got her bearings.
Then, the dazzling light of a camera flashbulb renders it impossible to see anything at all.
~*~
When they rehearsed this, Mary thought the three minute procession down the cathedral aisle would never end. Now, she wonders if the musicians are rushing the tempo of the trumpet voluntary. Don't blink, or you'll miss it, Mama told her. The temporary blindness induced by the photographers having passed, Mary does her best to follow the advice as she makes her bridal walk. Just three minutes out of her entire life...
Pipe organ and trumpet echo through pillared archways, the strains dancing with the sunlight that beams through the glass of the dome, and seem to take a physical form that carries her down the black and white tile behind the clergy without her having to consider her steps. Worry kept her up half the night--that Isodora will step on her veil as she did when they practiced the processional, or that in her own impatience to reach Richard she will trip over her hem or the heavy embroidered satin train and humiliate herself in front of everyone who is anyone in London society. She holds to Papa's arm and enjoys the dashing figure Richard makes from behind in his dark morning coat and dove grey pinstriped trousers. Even so, her pulse flutters quicker beneath the lace cuffs of her sleeves with every step she draws nearer to him. What will his reaction be to her wedding gown?
That she looks beautiful is no question. She has seen her own reflection, everyone at the house told her so, and even above the resonant organ and trumpet duet she hears the murmurs of the wedding guests attesting to this fact--though of course she does not turn her head left or right to see their reactions, but keeps her gaze trained straight ahead, to the backs of her bridegroom and his brother at the front of the nave. She sighs to see George properly attired; the apprehension when he wore a day suit to dinner heightened to alarm when she heard Richard's father mention his intent to wear a kilt to the ceremony. Whether Mark meant it in jest or in earnest remains to be seen.
One point of protocol, however, George does break. Looking back over his shoulder, the sharp lines of a laughing schoolboy scamp soften as he stares at her for a moment. Then, dimpling, he turns around again and grasps Richard affectionately on the shoulder, leaning in to whisper. Mary reads his lips clearly: Just wait till you see her, Richie.
In profile, she sees Richard's cheek flex with his own broad grin, and her heart leaps with anticipation. For an instant she thinks he may steal a glimpse of her, but he plays the part of a proper bridegroom to perfection. Mary's gaze strays to her right, and she very nearly stumbles at the sight of a man's knobbly bare knees peeking out from beneath green and red tartan; averting her eyes, she sees Jean Carlisle's hat at her husband's shoulder: a relic from the previous century complete with a stuffed grey swallow bobbing above the brim.
The organ swells and slows, and the trumpet trills to the fanfare's finish at the precise moment Mary reaches the altar, and the wait--for her and for Richard--is over.
He turns, looking her over with the blue eyes that sought her across a crowded ball room not even a year ago, never fooled for a moment by the black dress, not once taking no for an answer.
Not that she ever wanted to give him any but yes.
As the opening chords of the hymn blast from the organ, Richard leans in close, his breath warm against her cheek. "This man wants to kiss a girl in white."
Mary lifts an eyebrow. "I didn't think it made a difference to you what colour I wore."
Read Chapter 33