Mary has no book with her tonight. Mary does not fall to bed beside you when you pat the coverlet. Mary does not smile tonight. You are worried. You are as worried as when you learnt about Matthew, because this is Mary and things do not disturb her and yet she stands there uncertain and sad before you. You think the world must've ended for Mary to be so. But you don't know what to say. You reach your hand out, reach out to enclose the pale bare shoulders that seem too burdened. You reach out- and she is gone.
***
Perhaps it was a dream you think. Without her warm weight beside you, you could easily be convinced all of her nocturnal appearances were a dream. But last night there was no warm weight. You feel a chill through all the day.
It gets worse and she does not come that night either.
***
Matthew is the one who tells you. Mary is exposed. Mary is unvirtuous, there is disappointment when he tries to tell her. Tries not to offend her sensibilities. But she understands.
He is angry when he tells her how it all came out. He is angry at Carlisle for apparently blackmailing her.
Lavinia is not angry, for she is not thinking of Carlisle. Lavinia is worried, and empathetic, and needs to see her. But this is not the time for that, and so you wait.
You wait until night falls, and Matthew leaves, and the house quiets.
You are stronger, and though not quite prepared for stairs yet you are determined to reach the hall of Mary's room. With legs shaking from disuse and a hand on the wall to balance you slowly remember the path to Mary's room.
You have been there once, the first night you were ill Mary was there to care for you. You will return the favour.
When you finally reach her room you do not hesitate. She starts when she sees you, but in a second she is up reprimanding you for leaving bed and she is there with an arm around your waist to support you. When the comfort of her bed is under you and you have a minute to recover she begins to withdraw.
You hold on.
You hold on to one pale bare shoulder, you hold on to one thin, fragile wrist, your thumb moving over the soft vulnerable skin over her veins.
She is tense under your fingers, and you wonder if this was the bed, it must be the bed, where that man had died. You shake at the weight with which she has been living. You pull her back, without losing your grip on her manage to move back on this large bed that has had sex and death where it was only supposed to hold a young lady. But you are not her bed, and there is nothing predestined about who you hold but your choice, so for tonight you hold on, her tears soaking through your night gown.
no subject
***
Perhaps it was a dream you think. Without her warm weight beside you, you could easily be convinced all of her nocturnal appearances were a dream. But last night there was no warm weight. You feel a chill through all the day.
It gets worse and she does not come that night either.
***
Matthew is the one who tells you. Mary is exposed. Mary is unvirtuous, there is disappointment when he tries to tell her. Tries not to offend her sensibilities. But she understands.
He is angry when he tells her how it all came out. He is angry at Carlisle for apparently blackmailing her.
Lavinia is not angry, for she is not thinking of Carlisle. Lavinia is worried, and empathetic, and needs to see her. But this is not the time for that, and so you wait.
You wait until night falls, and Matthew leaves, and the house quiets.
You are stronger, and though not quite prepared for stairs yet you are determined to reach the hall of Mary's room. With legs shaking from disuse and a hand on the wall to balance you slowly remember the path to Mary's room.
You have been there once, the first night you were ill Mary was there to care for you. You will return the favour.
When you finally reach her room you do not hesitate. She starts when she sees you, but in a second she is up reprimanding you for leaving bed and she is there with an arm around your waist to support you. When the comfort of her bed is under you and you have a minute to recover she begins to withdraw.
You hold on.
You hold on to one pale bare shoulder, you hold on to one thin, fragile wrist, your thumb moving over the soft vulnerable skin over her veins.
She is tense under your fingers, and you wonder if this was the bed, it must be the bed, where that man had died. You shake at the weight with which she has been living. You pull her back, without losing your grip on her manage to move back on this large bed that has had sex and death where it was only supposed to hold a young lady. But you are not her bed, and there is nothing predestined about who you hold but your choice, so for tonight you hold on, her tears soaking through your night gown.
You will not let go.