Chapter Text
If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.—You hear nothing but truth from me.
-Jane Austen, Emma
Once Mary loses the baby, it doesn’t take long to lose Henry afterward.
It’s easy to be in love when everything is sunshine and flowers. It’s suffering that shows you if you’re really meant to see it through together. Mary had hoped, with absurd naiveté, that the suffering would never come, that it might save her from discovering the truth about her new marriage. She has always known in the back of her head, in the farthest corners of her heart, that she and Henry Talbot do not have what it takes to make it in the long run. It had taken the voices of everyone she knows and loves to drown out that certainty.
At least now she gets to enjoy the satisfaction of having been right all along. As far as victories go, it’s rather hollow.
Anna and Mama, who have been through this before, come to sit at her bedside while she recovers, their presences soft and kind and quiet. Carson visits her, awkward as he always is in matters of flesh and blood but wonderfully sweet all the same. Mary doesn’t cry during any of these visits. There’s no sense in crying. These things happen to women sometimes, and that’s all there is to it. It’s not like she’s lost a person she knew. She hadn’t even begun to show yet.
George and Sybbie scamper into the room bringing get-well kisses and tears prick in Mary’s eyes, but the tears don’t fall and that’s what really matters.
It’s only when Henry holds her tight, promising her that it will be all right, that they will try again, that Mary finally weeps—and even then, it’s mostly for the wrong reason. She thinks of Matthew, of how they struggled so much like this so long ago, of the nights they spent embracing this way, and for the first time in a long while she misses him so much that it steals the breath from her lungs. She wants to shove Henry off of her, to rage at the world until it somehow gives Matthew back to her. When Matthew promised her that things would get better, Mary always felt that it had to be true. With Henry, it feels like a placating lie.
And maybe that isn’t fair. She is still a little used to being on the defensive against him, and doesn’t know him well enough to know if he always means what he says.
She wishes they hadn’t married so soon. If only she had trusted her own instincts, rather than letting everyone convince her that it was high time for the monstrous Mary Crawley to lose her claws and teeth at last, and that Henry’s love was the only way of turning her from a beast into a beauty.
She doesn’t know what she will do. Even after all she’s been through, she hates the idea of causing a scandal. Of being seen as weak and foolish and wrong.
And so she rests in bed, bidding farewell to visions of herself and Henry glowing with happiness, joined by their child, given something true and real and reliable in common at last.
She thinks of Henry saying We’ll try again soon, and wishes it were as simple as that, wishes she could find it in her heart to want that.
She’s glad for the distraction when Tom pops his head in the door.
“I won’t stay long,” he promises. “Henry told me you wanted some time to yourself. I only wanted to make sure—” But he stops talking there, uncertain of what to say. His forehead creases in sympathy, and Mary feels a well of affection for him.
“Oh, that’s only the sort of thing one has to say to one’s husband from time to time to get a little peace. You know I always want you around.”
“Always, hmm?” Tom says, smirking a little. “Perhaps you should be careful what you wish for.”
“Please. As if you have any time for little old me now that you’re forever running to London to spend time with the bewitching Miss Edmunds.”
Tom gives her a look that’s half-smile, half-grimace. Mary likes the thought that the reality of Miss Edmunds isn’t measuring up to the glowing first impression she made when Tom started seeing her back in January. The idea of Edith being the one to pick out Tom’s new true love rankles Mary. If anyone does that, it ought to be Mary. Then again, in Mary’s estimation, it’s all but impossible to find someone good enough. Sybil was one of a kind.
“I always have time for you,” Tom assures her. “Just call, and I’ll come running.”
“If that’s the case, then sit and stay awhile. I’ve grown tired of being treated like an invalid.”
Tom obediently takes a seat. Mary is glad to listen as he catches her up on what’s been going on with everything, her family and the estate and the children. He devotes a good five minutes to recounting George and Sybbie’s futile attempts to ride Tiaa through the nursery, and it feels good to laugh at something.
Finally, because she knows she must, Mary asks, “And how is he?”
“Sad. Worried about you.”
“That sounds about right, I suppose.”
“He’s afraid that you’re pulling away from him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
He’s got her there.
Mary sits up straighter. “Well, if I am, I’m certainly not going to admit it to you. You’ve been advocating for our happily ever after pretty much since the moment Henry and I met.”
“I’m sorry for interfering. I only wanted to make sure you didn’t throw your chance at happiness away. I know how stubborn you can be.”
“Yes, well, here I am. Happily ever after.”
Tom looks at her so earnestly that it curbs her spiteful sarcasm. He reaches for her hand, squeezing it warmly. Then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to her knuckles.
Surely they’ve kissed each other dozens of times over the years, unthinking little gestures of greeting and farewell, but this is the first time that she’s ever really paid attention to his lips upon her skin.
It shocks her how nice it is: a touch that comes from old love well worn in. It’s so different from fresh romance or desire or any of the nonsensical newlywed impulses that she and Henry have been indulging in these past few months.
When he loosens his hold on her hand, she touches his cheek for a moment. Then she realizes how absurdly sentimental the gesture is and clasps her hands in her lap.
“Mary,” Tom says. “What is it?”
She decides to confess. Tom, at least, will understand. “When Henry was comforting me, I couldn’t help but think of Matthew. Even after all these years, sometimes I can’t shake how badly I want him with me.”
“I know the feeling,” Tom says.
“Of course you do,” Mary says softly, and wonders if she ought to have brought it up at all.
But Tom keeps looking at her, waiting for her to go on.
“I miss how it felt, I suppose. Having a husband who really knew me.”
“Henry knows you.”
“The bits I’ve allowed him to see.”
“He’s seen you at your best and your worst, and he loves you all the same.”
Mary appreciates the sentiment, but she doesn’t know how true it is. She can’t shake the feeling that Henry has never seen her at her best. At her most charming, or her most pleasant, certainly—but somehow those things don’t feel quite the same as ‘her best.’
Henry will never walk the grounds of Downton with her and feel the weight of its history in his bones. Henry doesn’t quite understand her fondness for Carson. (“He’s a bit of a scary old codger, isn’t he? Even if I haven’t been outside, I always feel like he’s about to scold me for tracking in mud.”) He never knew Matthew, and can’t see how much of him still lives on in George. Henry isn’t a part of life here, and Mary knows that it isn’t his fault. Furthermore, she knows that in time he will find his home in this place just like Matthew did.
But she’s already so tired of waiting for that day to come.
She impatiently brushes away a tear that had no business falling. “We got married too soon, that’s all. If I’d had more time to think it through, I think I would have gone about it differently. Waited until we had really gotten to know each other before taking that step. But I got so swept up in it, and everyone seemed to think it would be the greatest mistake of my life if I didn’t hang onto him. When even Granny is telling you you're a soulless pragmatist who needs to make room for love, you know it must be time for a change. And then he had everything all planned and ready, and what was there to do but jump?”
Tom looks at her as if she’s hit him.
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Mary adds quickly. “Only wishing I’d handled myself differently.”
“Still,” Tom says, but doesn’t go any further than that. That’s quite a new thing: Tom Branson with nothing to say.
They sit in uncomfortable silence. It makes Mary realize how seldom the silences are uncomfortable between them.
“Don’t tell him what I’ve said,” she orders briskly at last. “I know you two are thick as thieves, but I insist that you stay loyal to me this once.”
“I promise,” Tom says.
Mary searches his face. He looks so glum.
“I’m sorry,” she says, meaning it. “You wish I hadn’t told you.”
“Don’t apologize,” Tom says. “It’s not the best news I’ve ever heard, but I want you to always feel like you can talk to me.”
“I do,” Mary says truthfully.
Tom forces a smile. “Maybe you’ll feel differently once a bit more time has passed, and things hurt a little less.” Mary can tell he’s trying to sound as optimistic as he can. He’s not doing a very good job of it.
“Maybe,” Mary says, mostly to have mercy on him. She doesn’t want Tom feeling like it’s his fault, even though truthfully he’s far from blameless. She had wanted very badly to believe him about Henry. To be able to settle down into her own life at last.
Sometimes she still wonders why he pushed Henry at her so hard, refusing time and again to take no for an answer.
Then again, Mary has never had a knack for understanding selfless gestures.