Chapter Text
Mary found herself out of sorts the following day.
It started with Matthew going to work. He knocked briefly on her door while she was still only blearily half-awake to say his goodbyes for the morning. He kissed her gently on the cheek and said that he’d be back at half-past five to pick her up for the fair. Mary had given a sleepy assent before snuggling back into the pillows for a bit more rest before she started her day.
It left her feeling odd, however, that her husband was off and doing a job. She supposed that didn’t make her any different from thousands of other wives.
Then, once she was fully awake and rang for her breakfast she found the redheaded maid Gwen bringing it to her.
“Where’s Anna?” she asked, surprised. Realizing belatedly she’d used the wrong name, she amended, “Sorry– I mean Miss Smith.”
“She’s come down with a cold, milady,” Gwen explained as she set the tray down in front of Mary. “Mrs. Hughes sent her to bed last night.”
“I see,” Mary said, flummoxed. She looked down at her breakfast, and thankfully no wave of nausea came over her. Her morning sickness must have nearly run its course by now. “I hope she isn’t feeling too poorly.”
“Oh, no, milady– just a cold,” Gwen said cheerfully, pulling open curtains to let the light in. “Some bedrest and she’ll be right as rain. And I’m sure Miss O’Brien will be up to dress you, just as soon as she’s finished with her Ladyship.”
That sent a bolt of anxiety through Mary’s abdomen.
Her pregnancy was only barely starting to show. Underneath her corset and her clothes, it was not visible at all yet. But O’Brien would be dressing her– would she notice anything? But she couldn’t ask for Anna to come dress her anyways, not if she wasn’t feeling well. She could feign ill herself– she briefly regretted her lack of morning sickness at the moment– but that would only result in Dr. Clarkson being called and a reprimand for wasting his time. For one mad moment Mary considered getting into her corset herself, before deciding that that would only draw more attention to why she didn’t want to be dressed by O’Brien.
Her mother’s maid was a piece of work, and clearly resented everyone in the house other than Cora. But she had been hired before Mary was born, and her mother would not hear of getting rid of her. Still, even if she figured out that Mary was pregnant, what could she do about it? She was married now, after all.
In the end O’Brien dressed her professionally and efficiently, hardly saying a word as she tied Mary into her corset and got her into a gray day dress. Once she was finished she only said, “Will that be all, milady?” before rushing off to go dress Edith.
It left Mary feeling silly for her worry, and also still full of a nervous energy with no outlet.
By mid-morning she had caught up on all of her correspondence and was left at loose ends for the rest of the day.
Her father was out on the estate. Sybil and Edith were both out paying calls with their mother. Mary had been exempted from this task, since she was just back from honeymoon and as a married woman she had more control over her own schedule. But she almost wished that she had gone out to say her hellos to the old ladies of the neighborhood.
She could have Diamond saddled up and go out riding, but that would mean summoning O’Brien to dress her in her riding habit again. She could pay a call to Granny, or to Isobel, but neither option sounded particularly appealing. She could walk down to the village, but to what purpose?
In the end Mary found herself idly browsing through books in the library, looking for one to occupy her. Only she couldn’t settle on a book. Either nothing sounded good, or she had read it before. She picked up a few books, only to put them down in frustration after a few pages.
Mary had to admit that she was well and truly bored out of her mind.
Ironically, she was right back where she had started. In marrying Matthew she had secured a position for her future, and somehow found herself in exactly the same circumstance as when her engagement with Patrick had seemed a fait accompli.
She will be the Countess of Grantham and mistress of Downton Abbey, but not yet.
It itched under her skin. She liked Matthew far better than she had ever liked Patrick, she was more attracted to him for one thing, and for another he didn’t habitually agree with everything she said like Patrick had done. But in its particulars her life had not changed all that much with her marriage.
How strange. She had been told all her life that being married would change everything.
Mary found herself anticipating the fair with far more excitement than she would have thought.
At precisely five o’clock, she called on O’Brien to help her into suitable clothes– a skirt of navy twill, a white linen blouse that draped nicely down her front, and a powder blue coat with darker blue collar and cuffs that matched the skirt nicely. Mary looked herself over in the mirror– the outfit was not quite so flattering as an evening gown, but it would do.
“Thank you O’Brien,” Mary said when she had finished.
“Was there anything else, milady?” O’Brien asked, in that flat tone she had perfected. She obviously resented the extra duty that was dressing Mary and her sisters, and knew how to stop just short of true insolence towards the family.
“No, that’s all,” Mary said, relieved to have that done with– and hoping fervently that Anna’s cold did not last long.
O’Brien bowed and left the room.
Mary adjusted her felt hat until it was angled just right, waiting for the clock to hit half-past five. Once it had, she rushed her way down the stairs– passing her father as he ascended the stairs with Pharaoh at his heels.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he chuckled.
“I'm meeting Matthew,” Mary said quickly. “He asked me to accompany him to the fair tonight.”
“Of course– Matthew mentioned, I’d just forgotten.” Robert smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine fondness. “You don't know how glad it makes me to see you both getting along so well.”
Mary shifted, uncomfortably. Was she getting along well with Matthew?
“We do quite well together,” Mary said honestly. Whatever else could be said about their marriage, she found that she did get on with Matthew when he wasn't being utterly infuriating.
“I was worried after the way you two started off,” Robert admitted. “I'm glad to be reassured on that score.” He gave Mary a fond smile. “What time should I tell Mrs. Patmore to expect you?”
“We’ll be in plenty of time for dinner,” Mary reassured him. She kissed his cheek and continued her way down the stairs.
Matthew was just arriving at the front entrance and taking his hat off when Mary got there. He was talking to Carson, saying, “I won't stay long– I'm just here to get Mary and then we’ll be off. Ah, there she is now.”
He smiled and his blue eyes seemed to come alright as he saw her. Mary felt her spirits lift with the sight of that smile.
It was only because she’d had such a restless day, she told herself.
“Here I am,” Mary presented herself breezily. Matthew offered her his arm, which Mary took. “Shall we? We’ll be gone to the fair for a few hours, Carson.”
The butler nodded. “Very good, milady.”
The walk down to the fair was a pleasant one, the day not too hot to be overbearing but still pleasantly warm in the late afternoon sun. They talked of inconsequential things as they walked, arm-in-arm. Just like any other man walking out with his sweetheart, Matthew had said.
The carnival was a whirl of bright painted colors and lights and sound, every attraction demanding the attention of passerby. The fairgrounds was dominated by a large wooden slide surrounded by a gaggle of laughing and eager children.
They passed by an eager barker calling out– “Find the lady! Try your luck– step on up young man!” – and a fire breather shooting a great gout of flame into the air from his mouth to the astonishment of passerby. They stopped at the coconut shie where both Mary and Matthew failed at knocking a coconut off the post.
“So are you enjoying being back at work?” Mary asked as they walked on towards the next attraction. “Going to and from the Abbey?”
“I am,” Matthew said. “I know my work seems very trivial to you.”
“Not necessarily,” Mary said, thinking of the long and rather pointless day she'd had. “Actually, I rather envy you– having somewhere to go every morning.”
Matthew looked surprised at that. “I thought that made me very middle-class.”
“You should learn to forget what I say,” Mary said blithely. “I know I do.”
Matthew smiled at her wryly. “How about you?” he asked carefully, almost nervously. “Is your life proving satisfactory? Apart from the Great Matter, of course.” His eyes flickered briefly to her abdomen, to which Mary realized he was talking about her pregnancy.
Mary sighed heavily. She should just tell him that she was happy with how things had turned out for them. That was what he wanted to hear, wasn’t it? But after her day she couldn’t summon up the words.
“Women like me don't have a life,” she sighed bitterly instead. “We choose clothes and pay calls and work for charity and do the Season. But really we’re stuck in a waiting room until we marry. And once we achieve that highest honor, our life becomes about providing children for our husband and heaven forbid you don't have a male heir.”
Matthew looked away, apologetic. “I've made you angry.”
“My life makes me angry,” Mary said softly. She didn't want him to think she was disappointed with him. “Not you.”
They walked on quietly for a moment, Mary contemplating what had possessed her to be so candid with him. She should have just lied and said that she was happy. Around then the sounds and music of the fair swirled, but between them there was a pregnant silence as it seemed Matthew was working out how to say something.
“Mary,” he said at last. “I'm your husband now. If you want to do something, whatever it is– if you don't want to do the Season, or have any more children, or whatever you want… I shall be behind you.”
Mary turned to him, quite unable to breathe. His blue eyes were were wide and earnest and she realized that he meant every word. Her heart was beating very fast in her breast.
“You mean if I asked to move to Paris and become a can-can dancer, you would say yes?” Mary asked blithely, needing some way to break the tension that had stretched between them.
“Do you want to move to Paris and become a can-can dancer?”
Mary laughed. “No.”
“If you wanted to move to Paris and become a can-can dancer, I should be very surprised and would endeavour to improve my French,” Matthew said, amused in his air but somehow she thought he meant every word. “But is there something you would like to do with your life?”
“I hardly know,” Mary said, bemused. “No one's ever asked me that before.”
“Well, think about it,” Matthew said seriously. “And if you come up with an answer, I would very much like to hear it.”
Mary smiled with real fondness. “You shall be the first to know, I promise you.”
She took Matthew’s arm again. They spent a little time watching a juggler who had drawn a crowd and was doing acrobatic tricks while throwing flaming torches into the air. It was quite impressive, and Matthew put a few coins into the hat when it was passed around.
Next they toured the menagerie– a small wooden building featuring a sad collection of macaques, a camel balefully chewing its cud, and a couple of moulting parrots whistling back and forth at one another.
“Poor creatures,” Mary murmured as they exited. “They don’t look very happy in those cages.”
“I quite agree,” Matthew said. “It can’t be good for them to be kept like that.”
Mary was more than happy to move on to the next amusement.
A little further and they stumbled on the fortune teller’s tent, an eager barker beckoning them inside.
Matthew shot her a curious look. “Shall we give it a go?”
Mary looked askance at the stall, lined with black curtains and a sign that said ‘Drakeley’s’ in large red and blue lettering. It did not sound very much like a mystical fortune teller should. Did all the good names get snatched up? “They're all frauds, you know that right?”
“I know,” Matthew said, with a wry grin and a shrug. “But it could be fun?”
“Oh very well,” Mary sighed.
They paid the barker and entered the tent, which was dimly lit by flickering gas lamps. A middle aged woman with graying blonde hair sat at the table in the center. If it weren't for her violently fuschia turban and robes she would look more like the woman who sold apples on the corner.
“Welcome to Madame Drakeley’s,” she intoned in a low, throaty voice that did not sound entirely natural. “I can see that you have come to have your future unveiled. Come, sit at my table.”
Mary was not overly impressed by this prediction, since they had paid to have their fortune told. But she and Matthew gamely sat down.
“I will need to see your palms, to read them properly,” Madame Drakely said. “Please, Madame, remove your gloves.”
Mary shot Matthew another skeptical look but stripped off her gloves and presented her palms– keeping a weather eye on her wedding ring. Madame Drakely only turned her palms this way and that, occasionally squinting at the lines in her hand and humming thoughtfully. It was all very theatrical, Mary thought, but if she were really reading the lines on their palms, surely she'd want better lighting.
“And now you, sir,” Madame Drakely instructed Matthew, and she repeated her performance with his palms.
“I see that you are quite newly married,” Madame Drakely uttered. “And what a beautiful wedding it was!”
Mary fought the urge to roll her eyes. Of all the guesses that has to be the easiest one.
“You will have a long and prosperous life together. That your love for one another will only grow as the years pass. I see great fortune in your future. You certainly won't have trouble with money, oh no. But watch out! There is misfortune on the horizon. Only if you face it together, will you prosper. I see that you will have three…. hm, no, four children. Though they may come as a surprise.”
Madame Drakely nodded decisively. Mary waited a moment for her to continue, before she blurted out, “That's all?”
Madame Drakely glared at her in the gloom. “What more do you want?” she demanded, her false voice dropping slightly and betraying a North Yorkshire accent.
Mary shrugged. “I mean, misfortune could mean anything. What sort of misfortune?”
“It's a fair question,” Matthew added, amused.
“Someone close to you will betray you,” Madame Drakely added, once again in that false low intonation. Then she affected an exaggerated sway and a low moan. “Ohh. The energies of the spirits are becoming too much for me.”
“We’ll leave you to the spirits,” Matthew said quickly, grabbing Mary’s arm and steering her out of the tent.
Madame Drakely fixed Mary with a resentful look as she exited through the dark drapery.
“I knew she was a fraud,” Mary crowed once they were away from the tent.
Matthew laughed a little. “She really didn't try very hard, did she?”
“‘Great misfortune will befall you,’” Mary parroted mockingly. “That’s hardly a prediction– it could apply to anyone. And that bit about love was just as wrong– we know why we married, and it wasn't for love.”
Matthew’s smile dropped. “Right,” he said, his voice faintly strangled. “Of course.”
Mary frowned at her husband. “Is everything alright?”
Matthew cleared his throat. “Quite,” he said quickly. “I'm– a little thirsty, is all.”
“I think there's a cider tent this way,” Mary offered.
A little searching and they found a tent selling small glass bottles of cider. After a few minutes Matthew brought back two bottles and a toffee apple for them to share.
“What’s this?” Mary asked when he showed the apple, shiny with its sugary coating, to her.
“I thought we’d share,” Matthew explained with a grin. “I loved these as a boy. And I still like them, now and again.”
Her husband had an incurable sweet tooth, Mary had learned. So it was no wonder, if he had come to a funfair like this, that he would enjoy the sweets on offer.
“Do you know, I don’t think I’ve had one of these since I was eight?” Mary said when he handed it to her after he’d taken his first bite.
Matthew took a moment to answer, hindered no doubt by the toffee sticking to his teeth, but his blue eyes danced. “Why not?” he asked at last. .
“It’s not the most ladylike treat,” Mary explained. “It’s sticky, and gets in your teeth, and you get juice everywhere. By eight I was far too refined for such common desserts.”
“If you don’t like it, I’ll be happy to finish it off. Though you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I never said that,” Mary said quickly, and she took a bite of the apple. Sweetness burst in her mouth, the sticky and saccharine toffee combining with the tart juices of the apple. Bits of juice ran down her chin, as she dabbed at her mouth with her handkerchief she found herself sharing a grin with Matthew.
In Matthew’s eyes, the fair had been an unequivocal success. Although he hadn’t won Mary a prize, she had seemed lighter this evening than he had ever seen her. He could recall with blinding clarity her joyful smile when she bit into the toffee apple, despite how messy a dessert it was. Something seemed to have lightened between them, and they continued to talk about their observations of the fair at length.
He was reluctant to return and change for dinner, but of course if they did not want to make the rest of the family wait on them they had to return. Still, Matthew wished that they could have stayed longer.
He dressed quickly for dinner, and then found himself cooling his heels while he waited for Mary. Since Anna was in bed with a cold, O’Brien was dressing all of the ladies of the house– and that had meant that everything was delayed.
The wait, it turned out, was well worth it. The sun was just beginning to draw long shadows across the hall when Mary emerged from her room, wearing a champagne evening gown with sheer sleeves that draped statuesque around her figure. Her hair was swept up into an elegant twist set by a tortoiseshell comb and a pearl drop necklace glittered at her throat. With the golden light of the setting sun sparkling on her gown, she looked like some Grecian statue brought to vivid life.
Andromeda indeed.
Mary smiled beguilingly at him as she approached. “Shall we? We shouldn’t keep everyone waiting any longer than they have”
“Right, of course,” Matthew breathed, shaking off his brief dazzlement. “You look lovely tonight.”
For a moment, Mary seemed almost flustered by the compliment. “Thank you.”
“It happens to be true,” Matthew said firmly. “It’s a beautiful dress.”
“I’ve had my eye on this style for a while now, and decided to buy it when we were in Paris.”
“You wear it well,” Matthew said, meaning it.
Mary gave him an appreciative smile, but said reprovingly, “We don’t have time for your sweet compliments. Granny’s coming to dinner tonight, apparently– we don’t want to be late.”
She swept past him to the stairs, where Matthew learned that the elegant draping of Mary’s gown exposed her shoulderblades and the vast expanse of her back. It was a daring cut for an evening gown, just this side of risque, and the effect was sensual and utterly captivating.
Matthew took a deep breath, wondering if she was a siren sent to torture him, and rushed down the stairs to join her.
He was thoroughly distracted throughout dinner, barely keeping up with the general conversation. Fortunately with the Dowager present he did not have to participate much, as she dominated the conversation. He could focus on eating his meal and on not staring openly at his wife.
Mary ate serenely, but every so often she would look up and catch his gaze across the table and her lips would curl in an enigmatic smile that sent a bolt of desire through him.
Once dinner had finished, it seemed Robert didn’t have much to talk about as he shared only a single drink with Matthew before indicating that they should rejoin the ladies. Matthew might have appreciated one more, to fortify himself.
His eyes flickered to Mary, statuesque and elegant on the settee. Her eyes met his when Matthew entered the room, and held them for a moment before she returned to her conversation with Sybil.
Matthew poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver serving set and tried to remain inconspicuous in a seat in the corner of the room.
Unfortunately that endeavour did not prove a success, as Violet soon approached him. Matthew stood up from his place, asking, “Would you like a seat?”
“Thank you,” Violet said, allowing Matthew to help her into the chair. For a moment she was silent and simply sipped her coffee, and Matthew wondered if he might have escaped scrutiny, when she said, “I judge by your preoccupation tonight that the honeymoon went well?”
Matthew nearly spat out his mouthful of coffee. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t be so shocked,” Violet said matter-of-factly, as Matthew flushed with embarrassment. “I was young myself once, and I haven’t entirely forgotten what it is like. I thought it high time we talked.”
“I’m at your disposal, of course. What would you like to talk about?”
“I wanted to talk about Mary,” Violet declared, and Matthew’s eyes flickered over to the object of his fascination across the room. “It’s clear you two are very passionate about each other, but passion is not enough to sustain a marriage.”
Matthew found himself wrongfooted. He and Mary had not been intimate since their failed wedding night, and even though he would have dearly liked to, Matthew was not going to push her before she was ready. And in any case none of this was something he could ever discuss with Violet Crawley.
“When I married the former Lord Grantham, we did not do so out of anything so common as passion or love,” Violet continued. “I was the daughter of a baronet, and he was an earl. We both did the duty that was expected of us. And between us we built Downton into what it is today, the center of this village and a force for good in the county.”
“That’s quite the impressive feat.”
“That legacy will one day be yours and Mary’s,” Violet continued firmly. “Your marriage, and your heirs, will be the bedrock of this community.”
“No one is more devoted to Downton than Mary is, I assure you. I could not imagine a better advocate for its future.”
“That is not quite what I meant,” Violet said. “If your marriage is the bedrock of this community, then it must become a solid foundation. Passion and love are very exciting, but they are not what builds a legacy. It is far more important that you share the same goals, and that you understand one another. I know my granddaughter well, and for all her charms Mary guards her innermost heart carefully. But if you are to succeed in this, you must truly understand one another.”
Matthew glanced across the room again towards Mary. He could see the truth in Violet’s words. At all times Mary was so careful and composed. Even when she had been furious at him, she had held herself as carefully as a statue.
And he wanted to know her better– not necessarily for Downton’s sake as Violet suggested, but for his own sake and for Mary’s. Matthew felt like he had only barely begun to get to know his wife, and he wanted desperately to know more.
“Thank you,” he said. “You’ve given me quite a lot to think about.”
“Have I?” Violet said. “Good.”
And she stood from her chair and rejoined the rest of the group in the drawing room.
Matthew understood that married aristocrats frequently took separate bedrooms. If the couple had the space and there was no uncommon affection between them, it was simply the done thing. He also respected that Mary wished for separate bedrooms and, considering the odd circumstances of their marriage, agreed that it would be for the best.
He had never been grateful to have a separate bedrooms, until tonight.
He could not get the image of Mary in her champagne gown out of his mind.
Was it immoral to lust after his own wife? Matthew was not sure, but he certainly felt obscene when he thought about the way the way the back of the dress dipped low, exposing her shoulders and back. Or the way it was tailored at the waist, bringing emphasis to the way her hips swayed.
If Lady Mary Crawley were a siren, she would not be able to bewitch him any more than he already was.
He had known it when he first met her, icy beautiful and inaccessible. He had known it when she had scandalously compared herself to the naked Andromeda, meaning to insult him. He had known it when he had proposed to her, knowing that she would say no. He had especially known it on their wedding night, and stopping when she'd frozen had been the greatest test of his fortitude he could have imagined.
He knew it with crystal clarity tonight.
Matthew growled, frustrated, knowing he would get no sleep if he didn't take care of this now. He took his erection– already at half-mast– in hand, and after a few gentle strokes was fully hard.
He imagined Mary in that champagne dress. Imagined kissing her neck and down her back. He would end just where the fabric began and make his way back up, worshipping her like some ancient queen. She would be quiet, he thought based on his scant experience of her, but could not help herself from letting out a sigh.
He would let her silky hair down from its hairpins, where it would tumble long and lustrous down her back. Then he would kiss her neck until she could not help but be vocal for him.
Only then would he divest her of her dress. He would slide her gauzy sleeves down her shoulders, following their descent with kisses until she was stripped to the waist. (In his imagination, there was no corset to get in the way.) Then he would lavish attention on her perfect breasts. Matthew could still imagine the way they felt, soft and pliable and perfectly shaped as if they had been molded to his hands. He would take her nipple into his mouth and see what kinds of sounds she would make when he did.
Then he would slide the rest of the dress off her body and he would pleasure her with his fingers again. He thought that Mary had enjoyed this when he had done it the first time, when it had been more of a means to an end. Matthew imagined what she might look like when it was an end in itself and he devoted himself only to her pleasure.
He had loved on their wedding night dragging those reluctant sounds out of her. Mary was always so poised at all times. What must it be like to see her lost to passion? Matthew’s imagination fell short on that score, and there was a part of him that wanted desperately to knock on Mary’s door so that he might join her and find out.
She would not thank him for it, not when he was so consumed by lust. In this state he would only behave in a beastly fashion towards her. When she was ready (and she had given no indication that she was), it would be better to begin gently as they had on their wedding night.
Matthew sped up the pace of his hand on his cock, his fingers punishingly tight and he imagined Mary’s lovely face looking up at him as he at last entered her. It did not take long for him to spill on his own stomach and hand.
He lay back on the pillows, breathing hard, his skin dappled with sweat. For a long time he simply stared up at the crown moulding as clarity washed over him. He would wait until Mary was ready to invite him back into her bed– forever if he must. To do otherwise would be to act as the worst sort of boor.
But he hoped, fervently, that one day she would invite him.
With a heavy sigh, Matthew went in search of a cloth to clean himself up with as he desperately hoped that the servants would not gossip too much.
It was a blessed relief when Sarah O’Brien finally managed to get out for a smoke. She had been pulled this way and that all day, all because Anna had the gall to be down with a cold and she was the only remaining ladies maid in the house. It was galling to have to work quadruple duty with nary a word of thanks or acknowledgement.
She took a drag off her cigarette and blew it out into the summer air.
After a few minutes, predictably, Thomas Barrow joined her at the delivery entrance. He lit his own cigarette and perched against one of the stacked crates.
“Why do you look so sour?” he asked bitingly.
O’Brien scowled at him. “I've been run ragged all day dressing all of the girls, what do you think?”
“Ah,” Thomas said succinctly. “Pity.”
“Normally Gwen would be training to take over for Ms. Smith now she's been promoted, but because she’s got it in her head she’s too good for service, nobody’s asking her to lift a finger.”
“Sounds terribly inconvenient for you,” Thomas drawled, blowing out a long stream of smoke.
He could be glib all he liked, but it was a terrible inconvenience. O’Brien took another drag of her cigarette. She did have one piece of news she wanted to share with Thomas.
“I think Lady Mary’s pregnant.”
“Is she?” Thomas looked bored. “Well, felicitations to her and Mr. Matthew then.”
O’Brien sighed. Did she have to spell it out for him? “I don't think it's Mr. Matthew’s,” she explained impatiently. “She isn't showing much, she probably thought I wouldn't notice, but if it were his she wouldn't be showing at all yet. It’s only been a few weeks. And considering what we know about her…”
Thomas’ eyes lit up at this unexpected bit of gossip. “You don't say,” he said, leaning forward. “Well, she handled that quick. Do you think he knows?”
“How could he?” O’Brien scoffed. “No, that baby will be born early and she'll pretend to the world that it's all neat and proper when really we know the truth.”
Thomas blew out another stream of smoke. “Do you think Anna– sorry, Ms. Smith knows?” He asked, with a sarcastic twist when he said Ms. Smith.
“She must know,” O’Brien considered. “She's in charge of Lady Mary’s monthly supplies– she’d know if there'd been no need of them.”
Thomas smirked. “Now, isn’t that interesting?”
