A/N: so, a bit of Sunday-night fanfic for you all. I suddenly fell into a rather sombre, angsty mood a couple of hours ago and this fic wrote itself quite quickly. It began with Mary's feelings, then I realised I could make it into a continuation/prequel of my one-shot called 'Hate'. It may help to read that first, but it's not necessary. If you have read that, this chapter happens after Mary writes the poem.

I only anticipate me writing one other chapter, or maybe two depending on what people want/what takes my fancy! xxx

...

"...don't you think so, Mary?"

Having purposefully engrossed herself in cutting her vegetables into tiny cubes, Mary was startled to hear her grandmother's voice address her. Looking up from her plate, she saw a dozen sets of eyes focussed on her expectantly. Amidst them, one set of eyes in particular caught her attention. She'd been studiously avoiding them all evening. They made her breath hitch in her throat, her heart pound, her palms sweat.

Feeling pressure to respond, she forced a bright smile onto her face and took a deep breath before saying, "I quite agree!"

Eleven mouths quickly resumed the conversation, but her grandmother was clearly unconvinced by the charade. Ignoring the raised eyebrow that she herself had inherited, Mary glanced back down to her plate, willing her breathing to return to normal.

...

Four months. It didn't sound like a very long time when one said it. It was the length of the average English winter, after all. It was only half the time that it had taken her father to perish from the date of his diagnosis. Yet, as Mary was discovering, it was enough to make her fall hopelessly more in love with the man that she'd been trying to escape.

She'd had no warning of his arrival that evening - just two hours, which was hardly enough time to prepare herself. Perhaps it had been better that way, though; she didn't know what she'd have done with any extra time, besides fret and edge closer and closer to running away. Not that running away did any good, of course.

These last four months had given her the physical distance from him that she'd felt she needed. But she soon realised after arriving in London that geographic proximity made absolutely no difference. She could have moved to Timbuktu, but she would love Matthew Crawley as deeply as she would if he shared her bed every night. As hard as she'd tried recently, it was increasingly challenging to remember her life before him, to remember a time before every ounce of her being was dedicated to loving him.

Mercifully, she had found a way out of the post-dinner chatter and slipped away to hide in another drawing room. It was exhausting to spend each passing second persuading herself not to look at him, not to listen to his voice, not to admire him, not to let herself fall for him even more.

Some time later, the door opened with a soft click, and the steady rhythm of a stick hitting the carpet alerted her to the identity of the visitor.

"How do you feel, seeing him again?" Violet asked as she carefully perched herself next to Mary. The answer to the question was quite clear - all one needed to do was cast a fleeting glance over Mary's heartbroken features to discern her emotions. It can't have been easy seeing Matthew arrive with his fiancée on his arm, visiting London for one last time before their wedding.

Mary took her time before answering, distractedly picking at the tassels on the end of a cushion. "It's odd..." she began quietly, "you would think that, with him being in the same room, I would feel connected to him again. Like I'd found him." She said. "But...it feels like a loss." The silence punctuated her statement. "I feel even more like I've lost him. Forever."

This made sense to Violet. Mary felt like she should have seen it coming. Seeing the man you love with his fiancée, gushing and basking in the glow of pre-marital excitement, inevitably brings reality crashing down around you. There is a finality about it that is unforgiving, undeniable.

They had parted on good terms. Rather, on the best possible terms, given the circumstances. Her father had passed away almost five months ago and Matthew had automatically succeeded him as Earl. He had insisted that she and her family continue to stay in Downton - it had been the only place she'd ever lived in and he wouldn't dream of displacing her, he'd said to her, especially at such a mournful time in her life. But Mary had refused him. How could she live under the same roof as him - as he and his wife? Granted, she would have her own quarters and would not need to see him if she didn't want to, but it would be far too suffocating. She was consumed by him enough as it was. Of course, Matthew had no idea of her reasons for refusing, so had seemed concerned and somewhat upset by her abrupt decision to move to London to live with her Aunt Rosamund. In his willingness to understand, he'd construed her escape as an attempt to be closer to her father's side of the family. She had let him think that, and had moved out the day before he was moving in to the Abbey.

"I was reading one of Papa's old books the other day," Mary said, after a few minutes' of silent thought. "It was about the Tudors...Katherine of Aragon - after Henry VIII severed all ties with her and married another woman - wrote him a letter on her deathbed. Do you know what the last line was?" Mary asked. Violet remained silent, knowing that her granddaughter needed to speak whatever was on her mind, whatever was weighing on her heart, with no interruption. Mary took a deep breath, trying to calm her trembling breaths. "It said, 'Lastly, I make this vow: that mine eyes desire you above all things'." Mary paused, staring at the carpet by her feet. "I thought it quite fitting. Perhaps I should assign someone the task of delivering my note to Matthew when I finally die." She let out a breath, intended to be a bitter laugh. It quickly transformed into a sob, and soon her whole body was shaking with the force of her weeping.

Violet had presumed her heart to have expired long ago, but she suddenly became aware of its continued presence as she felt it breaking. Her granddaughter - her beautiful, intelligent, charismatic Mary - was not only contemplating her own lonesome, miserable death, but she was almost willing it to come. 'When I finally die', she'd said, with an undercurrent of longing in her tone.

"Oh, my girl." Violet muttered, gathering the small frame of her granddaughter into her arms. "There is no need to be so despondent." She gently patted Mary's back and cradled her head.

"Isn't there?" Mary managed to say through her gasping breaths. She wiped away the tears from her cheeks but more instantly replaced them. "I've lost everything. I feel as if I have nothing without him." She cried, covering her face with her hands. The parties, the dinners, the wealth that her station afforded her - what did any of it matter? There seemed to be nothing, nothing on this Earth that could bring her as much joy as a loving word from Matthew Crawley.

"Mary, you must tell him." Violet said, with such a sudden firmness that Mary was jolted out of her sobs.

"What?" She breathed.

"Nothing will change unless you tell him how you feel." Violet replied.

"Granny, do you hear what you're saying?" Mary was incredulous. "Matthew is getting married in a month!"

"What's the worst that can happen? What do you have to lose?" As much as it pained Violet to admit, it seemed like her granddaughter had sunk to the lowest depths of despair. She was in danger of becoming too settled in that position unless she took some action.

Mary threw her hands up, frustrated and helpless. "He'll laugh at me. He'll think I'm mad, he'll despise me for causing trouble four weeks before his wedding day." She rattled off a list. "He'll spend the rest of his life pitying me." She said forlornly. At least now, with him having no idea of her torturous feelings for him, she could be sure that she had Matthew's respect, and his friendship should she ever need it. It was nowhere near as much as she wanted from him, but she desperately wanted to preserve it - along with her dignity - and the idea of doing anything to risk ruining it didn't bear thinking about.

Violet raised an eyebrow. "Really, my dear? As I understand it, the reason that you are so deeply in love with Matthew is that you deem him to be the best man you have ever known. Am I right?"

Mary nodded a little. It hurt to think of his goodness, knowing that she could never appreciate it fully ever again. She needed to distance herself from him as much as possible. His pure, kind heart belonged to somebody else now.

"Would a man as good as he laugh at someone who professed their love for him? Would a man as good as he show anger in that situation? A lack of understanding? Pity?" Violet asked. Her tone was not as gentle as it could have been, she knew, but she couldn't bear to see Mary sit and wallow like this. The sadness had gone on long enough. She needed to have some sense talked into her.

Mary took another deep breath, dabbing the last of her tears away. "I suppose not. But he's hardly going to call of his engagement and sweep me off my feet, is he?" She said drolly. What good could come of confessing everything to him? It would only leave her feeling more exposed, more vulnerable.

"My dear, I don't wish to give you false hope, but any fool could see how madly in love with you he was-" Violet began.

"That was years ago, Granny." Mary said sharply. She hated the memory of those days, when she alone held his heart in her hands and unknowingly captured his full attention and willing devotion. Yet, in some secret moments, it was those memories that she would cling to in order to lift her spirits. At least she'd had that, and she relived those moments in her mind over and over again for fear of forgetting even the minutest detail.

"I know it was," Violet sighed patiently, "but a love that strong does not fade easily. It takes more than a few years - it takes more than a war, even, to erase those feelings. I'm not guaranteeing any particular result," she clarified, "but if you think it unlikely that Matthew will break off his engagement, think of how it will be once he actually weds. I don't claim to know Matthew very well, but I am quite sure that once that young man marries, he will stay married, whatever may come his way."

Mary pondered this as soon as the words were spoken, and she continued to ponder it as she went to bed that night. Her grandmother was right. Matthew would never divorce his wife in favour of another woman, even if it meant that he would suffer for the rest of his life. His sense of honour was too great for that.

So this was her last chance. If she didn't speak to Matthew now, before his wedding day, she would have no choice but to endure the rest of her days in silence.

...

A/N: quite a sad chapter, I know! I have no idea when the next one will be written, as I have UR and Incentive to update as well. I suppose it depends what kind of reaction I get to this and whenever I get inspired to keep writing! Thanks so much for reading xxx ps the title of this fic is taken from that Katherine of Aragon letter, which always makes my heart break.