Mary,
I have agonised over whether or not I ought to write you this letter. You will be cross with me for not having written it sooner, I know – but I only ask that you forgive me for my foolish pride and stubbornness, which you have warned me of all-too-many times. You may tut, and scold as much as you like, as long as you continue to read this letter – for I am scared, and alone, and I desperately wish I had you with me now, so that I might listen to your wisdom and enjoy your unfaltering friendship as I have done for so many years.
London is not at all as I had hoped, Mary. We always imagined it as such a vibrant, glamorous place when we fantasised about attending a Season – but unfortunately all I have seen is dirt, gloom and misery. Between the constant clatter of hooves on the road and the wailing of infants echoing from overcrowded, squalid housing, it is nigh impossible for me to get a wink of sleep. As I wake each morning to go to work at the nearby silk factory, the first thing I wonder is how I will get through the day without collapsing in an exhausted heap.
I must continue tirelessly toiling, however – for I know not how much longer I shall be able to remain in employment. My condition is further progressed than we initially anticipated, Mary, and I fear my time draws near. It is all I can do to conceal my swollen stomach from my colleagues, though it grows more difficult by the day. My greatest fear is being found out by one of the other workers – the silk industry in Spitalfields is dwindling, they say, and soon there will be precious little work to go around. As a pregnant woman, I shall surely be amongst the first dismissed.
Now, Mary, I know what you will be thinking – but you must promise me not to come rushing to my rescue. It may seem impossible to refrain from journeying to directly to London upon reading this letter, but I must entreat you to remain at Alverton Hall; doing so is the only way to keep my whereabouts hidden. He is likely looking for us by now, and will expect us to be together – continuing to reside at opposite ends of the country is the safest thing we can do.
Therefore, this is not a plea for rescue, but rather a request for advice. I know that I can count on you, Mary, for you have helped me out of many a scrape over the years. Please send word as soon as possible with whatever wisdom you shall no doubt impart upon me. I am fortunate beyond words to have a friend as loyal as you – for I know that even now, though I am perhaps more distressed than I have been my entire life, you shall find a way to offer comfort from afar.
I love you dearly, Mary, and eagerly await your reply.
Yours etc.,
Margaret
Mary thudded her fist on her writing desk in frustration, taking care not to crumple the wad of paper which had now been thumbed through at least three times. Margaret's words did not improve upon second or third reading – in fact, with each fresh glance at the paper before her, Mary's frustration only increased.
Never in her life had she felt so completely and utterly useless! Never had she felt so ashamed; pained by the knowledge that she had failed Margaret, the person she cared for more than anyone else in the world. Reading of Margaret's unwavering confidence in her near broke Mary's heart - if only Margaret could see just how stupid Mary truly was.
A sensible person would have convinced Margaret that running off to an unfamiliar city alone to give birth to an illegitimate child was a certain recipe for disaster – but clearly, a sensible person Mary was not. Instead, she had agreed to masquerade as Margaret in front of the Earl of Alverton and his daughter, as if she knew the first thing about being a lady.
How hard could it be?
Those very words had crossed Mary's mind several times over the years, as she heard tales of Margaret's mornings spent delicately sipping tea, or evenings gliding across the ballroom in yet another beautiful gown. Though she held no bitter feelings towards Margaret for the lifestyle she had been born into, Mary felt certain her closest friend had never faced a day of hard work her entire life.
Oh, how wrong Mary had been! Who could have imagined the amount of care and effort required to maintain Margaret's impossibly regimented lifestyle? The constant stream of social engagements and polite pleasantries were far more exhausting than any work Mary had ever done before. Who could have imagined that Margaret's world involved such complex social structures which must be adhered to at all costs, for the sake of preserving what Mary had now come to realise was an extremely fragile lady's reputation.
One wrong move – or one unfortunate stumble into the path of a countess, as was Mary's case – could dramatically affect an entire family's social standing, perhaps forever. How ironic, when Mary had been trying to escape the ballroom for the sole purpose of avoiding causing the Rowley family mortification, having discovered that to dance required knowledge of several dozen intricate, exact steps, none of which Mary had learnt in her life. She'd considered it rather a joke when Margaret had disappeared off for lessons with her dancing master each week – how she wished she'd taken greater notice when Margaret relayed the various country dances she'd learnt!
There was no use lamenting over such thoughts now, though - the damage had now been done, and Mary would surely be found out by Lady Helena very soon. The shrewd woman had long been suspicious, and after the dreadful spectacle at the Christmas ball Mary knew the earl's daughter would not rest until she extracted the truth from Mary once and for all.
Christmas Day had now been and gone; Mary was running short on time. And though she hated the thought of going against Margaret's wishes, it seemed the only option remaining was to sneak away once again in the dead of the night to seek out Margaret in London.
Lady Helena and Sir Edmund were both attending a performance in Chester this evening – Lady Helena's first appearance in public since Mary had disgraced her almost a week ago. To his credit, Sir Edmund had secured Mary an invite, although she intended to politely decline, as she had no desire to attend another social function ever again.
And if she remained at Alverton Hall while Lady Helena and Sir Edmund were out, she would be offered the perfect opportunity to slip away quietly...
Mind whirring, Mary leapt up from her desk and tore open her elaborate armoire – continuing to masquerade as a lady just a little longer would allow her safer and swifter passage to London. She would select one or two of the travelling gowns, and the thickest, warmest cloak, but little else – it was imperative that her departure be as inconspicuous as possible...
There came a sudden knock at the door, causing Mary to drop the sleeve of a velvet gown as if scolded.
"Are you ready? Lady Helena is becoming rather anxious that we shall be late unless we depart promptly."
It was Sir Edmund.
Struck at once with an idea of brilliance, Mary dragged a shawl about her shoulders, sprinkling a few drops from the washbowl along her hairline to give the appearance of a fever. Shuffling slowly over to the door, she prised it open with the pretence of lethargy.
"Oh, Sir Edmund," she croaked, attempting to sound as feeble as possible. "I am terribly sorry, but I do not think I shall be able to attend the performance this evening. I have suffered a nuisance of a headache this afternoon, and so I feel it best to remain indoors."
"Indeed, Miss Thorpe, you do not at all look well!" cried Sir Edmund, with such genuine concern that Mary instantly felt guilty for lying. "Why ever did you not mention it to us at tea, or ring for a maid?"
"Oh – I did not wish to trouble anyone," replied Mary limply. "With an evening of resting and a long sleep, I am sure to feel right again come morning."
Mary had hoped Sir Edmund would then concede and take his leave, but her plan appeared to backfire, as his brow furrowed in a deep frown.
"Miss Thorpe, I do not like to leave you in such a bad way," he muttered seriously, his voice a deliciously deep timbre which caused butterflies in Mary's stomach despite her guilt. She was a young woman, after all, who could not fail to notice the dashing Sir Edmund's many appeals, and had spent far more time than healthy over Christmas imagining what it would be like to have such a man as her beau.
"I have half a mind not to go to Chester at all."
"Oh, no!" cried Mary anxiously. "That will not do at all, for Lady Helena cannot attend unaccompanied, and she was so looking forward to it!"
In fact, Mary had not the slightest idea if Lady Helena had been looking forward to the evening, for she had not spoken two words to Mary since the fiasco at the ball – but Mary did know that Lady Helena would likely be very cross indeed if she was not able to attend the theatre through Mary's fault.
Not that I will be around to witness her anger, realised Mary with a jolt.
"Yes, I suppose that it true," Sir Edmund wavered.
"Indeed! I shall be quite alright here," Mary told him eagerly. "You have my promise that I shall ring for a maid should I feel even the slightest bit more unwell."
It wasn't that Mary found it easy to lie; quite the contrary in fact. As someone who preferred to speak openly and honestly about whatever was on her mind, it pained her to create falsehoods, especially to Sir Edmund, who had treated her with nothing but perfect kindness since his arrival at Alverton Hall.
When it came to Margaret, however, Mary found that all misgivings went directly out of the window, as she determinedly resolved to do everything in her power to protect her. And if that meant lying to the only man who had treated her as a lady during her time in Alverton, before sneaking off into the dead of the night for the second time in two months, then so be it. No trial was too great if it meant securing Margaret's safety – the person to whom Mary owed everything.
"Very well," sighed Sir Edmund reluctantly.
Mary fought to keep the relief from making itself apparent on her face.
"Are you certain it would not be more comfortable to have Lady Helena's maid sit with you?" enquired Sir Edmund desperately.
"I would not keep Dorothy from her duties!" replied Mary hastily. "No, I am not that unwell – although I thank you very much for your concern."
With a final nod of reluctant acceptance, Sir Edmund finally looked as though he were about to leave. Smiling down at Mary, his eyes crinkled at the corners in a way which caused Mary's heart to flutter again.
"I shall bid you farewell then, Miss Thorpe - else Lady Helena shall never forgive me!"
"Good night, sir – enjoy your evening."
Watching him disappear down the corridor, Mary felt a catch in her throat. She hated fate for having brought Sir Edmund into her life at such a time; for having given her a glimpse of how her life might have been. It would be a lie to say that Mary hadn't sometimes fantasised about what it would truly be like to live in this extraordinary world of elegance and glamour. It had seemed her bold, unrestrained personality did not fit in with this society of gentle, submissive women – but with Sir Edmund, somehow she had felt like she might just belong.
It was nothing but a fantasy, though; in reality Mary was simply a maid, with a duty to care for her mistress in any way she could. Yes, Sir Edmund had treated her with kindness, but there had been nothing more than friendship between them – nor could there ever be. Mary was not a sentimental being, and was not about to get caught up with romantic ideas now, when Margaret needed her the most.
Within half an hour, Mary had gathered a small bundle of essential possessions and was ready to make her exit. Unfortunately, though, she would surely be noticed if she attempted to sneak out while the household remained awake – she would have to wait until later. The ideal time, in fact, would be the very moment of Lady Helena and Sir Edmund's return, for the stable staff would be preoccupied with tending to the horses pulling their carriage.
It was undoubtedly a very risky plan – there was every possibility Mary might be seen should she emerge from the house at the wrong moment. Then again, it was not as if she hadn't successfully fled in the dead of the night previously, and under far riskier circumstances.
The key was in the timing. She would have to sit firmly at her window seat overlooking the driveway on constant lookout; that was the only thing for it. And the moment she heard the faintest crunch of hooves on gravel, she would flee Alverton Hall as if Margaret's life depended on it.
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A/N: So, another chapter from Mary's point of view - and it looks like she'll soon be off to London! Please give this chapter a vote or comment if you enjoy reading about Mary as much as I love writing about her :)