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She’d fallen over them once, when she was but a little child. She had been running – for reasons she cannot remember now. Maybe she was chasing one of her little sisters, maybe she was late, maybe she was doing it just for the sake of running. That’s the merits of being a child. You do things because you want to. Not because you have to.
Anyway, Mary Crawley, great heiress of Downton Abbey had tripped over the train-tracks and stumbled to her hands and knees, deep bruises and scratches marring them, blood soaking her blue dress.
She’d walked the entire way home on her own, collapsing at the front-door, causing Mrs Hughes to shriek loudly when she found her, practically making the entire staff and family come see what was happening.
“Silly girl,” her father had told her, clenching her hand tightly as the doctor dabbed her wounds with alcohol, cleaning them and making it sting and burn even worse than before. She’d had tears in her eyes, but she hadn’t cried.
She almost never cried: she merely sat still and held back her flinches, revelling in her father holding her tight and telling her that she was a brave girl.
“You are the most ineffable person I have ever had the misfortune to meet,” Matthew’s tone was definitely not the loving care of a father taking care of his daughter, but under the annoyance and slight worry, there was definitely humour. Mary winced slightly as he gingerly touched the scrape over her elbow.
“What on earth possessed you to suddenly take off running like that?”
She smiled, widely, mysteriously – maybe a little guilty, because she was both sorry for and pleased about having made him worry.
“It was just a feeling that came over me. I really couldn’t say.”
Her husband had the gall to roll his eyes at her. “You are impossible.”
“Really,” she laughed. “I think I rather liked ineffable more. What about precious?”
She was only a bit surprised as he leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to her mouth.
“You are that too.”