Hello again readers with another angsty fanfiction from yours truly! The setting behind this AU is: Mary is married to Henry Talbot, has been for two years, and they live just outside London so that Henry is never far away from his beloved racing track (bleh bleh). The problem is that Mary, who married Henry on the belief that she loved him, figures out that there was very little substance to their relationship other than looks. However, things have become worse as Henry, completely oblivious to Mary's true feelings, has essentially turned into a controlling, emotionally abusive partner. Sybil lives, of course married to Tom in Dublin, and Matthew lives as well. Without giving away much to what is to come, Matthew will reenter Mary's life when she almost succumbs to depression, and helps her build a secret life away from Henry.

What I want to portray as the relationship between Mary and Henry is not a physically abusive one; rather, he essentially manipulates her into believing she is somehow guilty for no apparent reason, makes her feel anxious and uncomfortable in her own home, and uses the tactic called gaslighting so that Mary eventually starts doubting her own emotions. Not only is this a loveless marriage, it is a marriage where Mary has very little control over her own body, her choices, and her time. I'm going to warn people right now, if any of this is triggering or makes you uncomfortable, don't read this. This is very troubling stuff, I will admit. The point is that, since Mary is not being physically abused, there's very little proof that she could use to confront Henry or get a divorce. Emotional abuse is just as damaging as physical abuse.

Tell me what you think in the reviews, and thanks for reading!

The Chance to Escape

Chapter 1

December 1921

Mary sat at her vanity, one hand resting next to her hairbrush, the other across her lap. She stared straight ahead, her face completely expressionless, exposing nothing of what she was truly thinking. Nothing of her outward form hinted at her inner thoughts. Her hair was done up properly, without a single loose strand, her dinner dress and jewels were the paragon of modern fashion. She appeared to be the picture of perfection.

But she was screaming inside.

The hand on her lap clenched suddenly, her nails digging hard through the satin of her gloves. She wanted to take that hand and lift it to her flawless hairstyle, grasp a large hank of it and rip it out, do that over and over. She wanted to pound her fists against anything – a wall, the edge of the vanity, the mirror she was staring at – she wanted to smell the blood pooling across her knuckles. She wanted to claw at her dress until she was wearing only shreds. She wanted to scream until her throat burst, to cry until she became sick.

It was all becoming too much to bear. She had no outlet for her torment, no way to release the crushing misery growing inside of her day by day. Even so, the pain she could inflict on herself wouldn't amount to what she was truly feeling. She thought she might be able to fight through it, put on a brave face just as she always did – always had to – but the struggle had already exhausted her. She could not possibly keep going, not after this …

She could have borne anything but this.

Had she fully realized the implications earlier, she would have begged the doctor not to tell her husband. She had not fully processed the news earlier, hadn't let it sink in until now. She had tried to convince herself that she hadn't heard the doctor correctly, that her brain was addled, that the truth was anything but. Try as she might though, she understood what the doctor had informed her, why she was feeling this way, and her gut told her it was all true. If she didn't believe it now, then she would in a few months.

She would not be able to hide from it.

The steady ticking of the tiny clock on the vanity reminded Mary that she had somewhere to be. What she really wanted to do was bury her face in her arms and cry until she drowned in her own tears, but she knew she couldn't. She was expected downstairs at the dinner table, sitting straight-backed and without any trace of distress. She had a duty as an obedient wife, as a respectable woman of society, and right now it would be unwise to hole herself up in her room as if something was wrong.

Because he absolutely could not know that, in her world, everything was horribly wrong. He would ask questions, questions that she could not provide an answer to without him getting angry or demanding to understand why. She was afraid to tell him the truth, even though it was screaming inside her own head, straining to be blurted out at any moment. Whatever she might say about her worries, he would likely not believe her, or not want to believe her. And his physical reaction, however it manifested itself, would certainly be the worst of all, because even with her witnessing his mannerisms for two long years he was still unpredictable – and rarely in a good way.

Mary turned away from the mirror and stood up, straightening her long gown. She hadn't cried one bit, so her eyes were not red and therefore would not make her appear upset to anybody else. Tonight she looked just the same as if it were any normal evening, as if there was no bad news dragging her down like rocks attached to her ankles. She could put on the mask of a content wife, a happy mother-to-be, and no one would suspect the contrary. After all, she wore it every day.

She opened the bedroom door and walked to the stairs, as stiffly and solemnly as though she were walking to an execution.

"Darling," Henry said.

Mary raised her eyes and forced herself to meet his. It was the first time either of them had spoken aloud this dinner. The silence had been uncomfortable, but the way his endearment had sliced through it made her wish they were not on speaking terms.

Henry's lips pursed as if he was concentrating hard on the sight before him – his wife. He cocked his head to one side, and the fingers of his left hand drummed the table. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Straightening her back, Mary answered coolly, "Like what?"

The corner of Henry's mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, but Mary discerned it. "Come now Mary, don't play games with me. How can you be so … so apathetic? After all, you've just received the best news of your life. I would think you would be positively beaming."

Mary said nothing, and her eyes went back down to her plate. She could act indifferent without a problem, but to put on a smiling face now, when all she wanted to do was scream in Henry's face … she knew she couldn't manage it, and so she hadn't tried to.

"What's wrong? Are you feeling sick again?" Henry asked.

"No, I'm … I'm simply a bit tired," Mary replied.

Henry's eyes narrowed. "Is that really it?"

"Why? Does it not seem a good enough reason?" Mary said.

"Not tonight, no." Henry's voice was soft and slow, but there was a trace of indignation in his tone. "Mary, I know something is on your mind, and I would like to know why it is you are acting so glum. You've been told that you are going to be a mother, and as of now the doctor deems you to be in perfect health. Is it that you're worried for the baby?"

"Of course I'm worried," Mary said, "I know that things can go wrong at any time."

Truthfully she was a bit worried. She had heard horrific stories of pregnant woman taken by surprise by a sudden complication; one moment sitting at home, perfectly fine, the next convulsing and bleeding on the floor. Her sister Sybil, trained in midwifery, had seen more than her fair share of tragedy at a delivery, so Mary had an idea of the afflictions a mother and a newborn could suffer. Even if the doctor had declared her in good health today, who could say what might come about?

"But I trust the doctor's word, and you are in an excellent condition, as he said to me," Henry continued. His eyes narrowed even more. "Unless he has told you otherwise …?"

"No, he told me the same when he was done examining me," Mary said.

"Then what is the matter?" Henry asked.

"I told you already, I'm only a little tired," Mary repeated. She was feeling herself grow more tetchy with every sentence Henry threw back at her. "Would it convince you if I said the excitement has exhausted me?"

"You must be rather good at containing your excitement so that other people can't see it," Henry retorted.

Mary reached for her wine glass to give her hand something to grasp. She felt holt inside, like a fuming bonfire had sprung up within, and Henry was methodically throwing fuel onto those flames. She sipped her drink, feeling his eyes bore into her like a hawk watching a mouse. Just let this be over soon, she pleaded silently.

Henry sighed, leaning back against his chair, his hands resting on the carved arms; his posture reminded Mary of an actor portraying a Shakespearean king. "Mary, I want to see you be happy, like I know you really are. You know you can smile and act as blissful as you feel in front of me. I'm your husband, not your grandmother."

My grandmother has a far better character than you, Mary thought sourly. She'd give you a good thrashing with her walking stick if she saw the way you've been acting towards me.

Henry's mouth twisted into a smirk, which he often flashed when he believed he was being charming. "Give me a smile Mary, please? I would like to see you smile again. You're far more beautiful when you appear happy on the outside rather than when you bottle it all in. It makes you seem so … uncaring."

In her mind, Mary imagined her hand grabbing for the stem of her crystalline wine glass, raising it high above her head, and then smashing it across the table. She could practically hear the glass shattering against the wood, the tiny shards scattering everywhere, the wine dotting Henry's stunned face. She'd be screaming at him, "Perhaps I don't care! Perhaps I don't care at all for you or for this thing inside me!" Then her hand would take the knife lying on her plate and grip it as she leaned forward, the point aimed between her husband's eyes—

She jolted back to reality, but under the table her hands balled into fists. As best as she could, she smiled at Henry, hoping that this one small display might satisfy him.

"That's more like it," Henry nodded. "Though I do wish you'd let me know what is on your mind. You trust me, don't you? You will tell me if anything troubles you, anything at all."

"Of course," Mary muttered.

"Are you still tired?" asked Henry. "Do you want to go to bed early?"

"I would, actually," Mary said, thankful that he was giving her leave to get away. Though, she remembered to her chagrin, they shared a bed, and likely she'd feel him climb under the sheets next to her, too close for comfort. If only she would fall asleep before that happened. "I'm sorry, I don't want to leave you alone," she added for good measure.

"No, go and get some rest. Tomorrow I want to see you glowing like the sun," Henry said.

Mary placed her napkin on the table and stood up, not too quickly so that Henry would not realize she was glad to escape. Only a few steps away from the door, though—

"Wait. Come back here."

She stopped, turning back around. Henry's hand beckoned her towards him. Reluctantly, Mary approached him, bitter at his betrayal. Let me go, please, her mind cried.

Henry took her hand in his, pulling her closer to him. His other arm encircled her waist, trapping Mary in his hold. Mary glanced nervously at the butler standing dutifully next to the sideboard, hoping he might at least give her a pitying look, but the butler's eyes were locked straight ahead, as though he was unaware of Mary and Henry's presence in the dining room. His loyalty to the family – more to Henry than his desperate wife – meant he could not involve himself in personal matters.

"You're going to be a wonderful mother, Mary," Henry said softly. "Perhaps you don't fell that way because, well, there's no child for you to hold yet, but I know you will be the best mother you can possibly be. This child," and he let go of her hand to brush his fingers against her stomach, "this child will be extraordinary. He or she was created by the two of us, by our true love, and they'll grow up to be the finest boy or girl the world has seen."

He smiled up at Mary, his fingers around her waist pressing tighter, prompting her to do the same. Mary forced another smile, a disguise for her grimace as his fingers dug into her skin.

"You understand that I myself won't be tending to the baby day and night," she remarked. "Our sort of people leave all that to nannies."

"Yes, but only you can give our child a mother's love," Henry said.

A mother's love. That didn't mean anything to Mary. If she had dreaded the doctor confirming her pregnancy, then she was certain she'd feel no love towards the child she was carrying. A part of Henry would live inside of it – was right now forming inside of her – and how could she stand to allow another of him come into this world to torment her? She'd look at that child and see only Henry, his face, his eyes, his voice …

His hands released her and she stumbled backwards. "Go," he said, "get some sleep, like you wanted. I'll be up in a bit."

Mary nodded. "Alright then. Good night."

She hurried away, exiting the dining room without looking back. She hastened for the staircase, and when she put her hand on the bannister she realised that she was trembling, just a little bit. Had she been shaking when he had held her to him? Had he felt it?

She did not waste any time in calling up her lady's maid, removing her dress and jewels, and climbing into an empty bed. Even for a little while, she might be able to sleep without Henry lying next to her, turned towards her as if watching her sleep. The room was already well dark, as the December sky outside was pitch-black and the curtains were drawn. She lay down and pulled the bedcovers closer to her, her head turned to the edge of the bed. To face Henry, even as she slept, would only make her feel the way she had at dinner: a small, insignificant, powerless woman.

Mary shut her eyes and breathed slowly and evenly, but the minutes passed one by one and she seemed no closer to sleep than she had in the middle of the afternoon. She was lying as still as she could, underneath the warm bedcovers, but her body refused to be tired. All she wanted was to be unconscious when Henry walked in. After the way he had spoken to her tonight, looked at her through mistrustful eyes, grasped at her flesh as if he did not care if it made her uncomfortable, she did not want to see him for the rest of the night. Was it so much to ask for, after all she went through just to keep him satisfied, seeing him daily and smiling upon request? She bore his presence in her life as best as she could while still keeping on the mask of a contented wife, but only for his sake. Everything she did for him, it was to convince him that she was just as glad that she was married to him as the day the vows were read.

The things I do for love, she thought bitterly.

When she heard the handle of the door turn she went absolutely motionless, keeping her eyes closes, breathing as a sleeping person would. She listened to Henry's muffled footsteps pacing around the room, her muscles going rigid as she heard him approach his side of the bed. She winced as she perceived him throwing the sheets over his own body and the mattress sagging under his weight. Despite her instinct to shudder as she felt him inch closer to her, Mary remained stone-still.

Like a shadow reaching across the bed, Henry leaned over her, planting a small kiss on her temple. "Good night, my love," he whispered in her ear.

Mary bit the inside of her cheek, and her fingers grasped the sheets tighter. It was all she could do to keep from screaming right then and there.

A/N: I generally try to keep the characters 'in-character' but for Henry's case I may have to exaggerate his ugh-factors. But considering that on the show he has as much personality as a shoebox, I may actually be doing him a favor by giving him an identity. |:P