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Christmas – 1937

"They're here!"

This announcement was bellowed by Sybbie Branson from the great staircase in the foyer of Downton Abbey, and she thundered down the steps to engulf her aunt, uncle, and cousins in a tight embrace. Mary Crawley Talbot didn't witness the display; she only heard it from the library, and frowned slightly into her glass. "Granny's probably spinning in her grave," she muttered. "Toddlers have less energy than that girl."

"Be nice," Henry warned from behind his newspaper. Mary sniffed and turned back to the window. She wasn't annoyed with Sybbie, of course. Her niece's boundless energy was usually infectious, but Mary had had a black cloud over her head all day. She watched as Edith and Bertie's car was unloaded – box after box of gifts were brought into the house, and she heard her mother's excited voice join the clamour in the hall. Mary's fingers tightened around the cut crystal tumbler and she took a large mouthful of whiskey. Henry tossed the paper onto the sofa. "Come and say hello," he said, but didn't wait for her. She sighed and finished the rest of the whiskey, allowing enough time to pass that Henry would know she wasn't about to follow orders. She found her sister and brother-in-law passing their jackets off to Barrow, and Sybbie herding the rest of the children out the door.

"She insisted on taking them sledding before dinner," Cora explained. Mary was disappointed she would have to wait to see them and stiffly embraced her sister, kissing the air beside her cheek. Her greeting for Bertie was slightly warmer. Edith barely acknowledged the chilly reception and all but threw herself at Henry, to which Mary could scarcely resist rolling her eyes. Bertie shook Henry's hand and kissed Cora. "Where's everyone else?"

"Tom's taken Robert and the boys into town to have a look at the new Rolls we just got at the shop. It's a thing of beauty," Henry chuckled, eyes shining, and led Edith into the library and a discussion Mary couldn't have given a whit about – and hadn't, which was that day's bone of contention between them. She took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Bertie, how are things? Is your mother's health any better?"

"I'm afraid not, but she likes to pretend nothing's changed."

"Of course." Oh, how she loathed the small talk she was forced to endure at these gatherings. She longed to close the door behind the lot of them and make a dash for freedom. Barrow appeared at her shoulder, foiling her plan, and she cursed inwardly. "I'll have a glass of whiskey, Barrow," she said, deciding to make the best of it. She ignored the way Henry's nostrils pinched and joined her mother and Bertie, who were catching up on household news.

"Marigold's decided she wants to be a playwright." There was equal parts indulgence and pride in his voice as he spoke of his step-daughter. "I believe she's organizing a production for us this week."

Cora smiled. "Oh, delightful!"

Just fabulous, Mary's inner voice agreed, dripping with sarcasm.

He went on to extol the virtues of his other children, Peter and Clara, and Edith's magazine, and the estate, and everything was great, just great! Mary smiled sweetly. "What a fairy tale life you're living. I can't imagine how one functions amid such happiness." Cora shot her a quelling look. Mary ignored it. She ignored the stab of guilt over her attitude about her nieces and nephew. They were innocents, after all, and she truly did love them. She drifted over to Edith and Henry somewhat reluctantly and tried not to look too bored. Eventually Edith noticed and changed the subject. "How are things going here? I know you had some concerns about the estate the last time we spoke."

"Some concerns?" Mary scoffed. How lovely it must be to live in Edith's world. Taxes had gone through the roof, which itself needed serious repairs, they'd had two years of low yield from their crops, and no matter which way she looked at it the estate just wasn't bringing enough money in to sustain itself. As it was she'd had to sell her soul to avoid selling off acreage this past year. "Don't worry yourself," she patronized. "Tom and I have it in hand."

"Of course I worry," Edith replied calmly. "It is my home too."

Indignation flared up and Mary opened her mouth, prepared to remind Edith of exactly the way things were these days, when she felt the pressure of Henry's hand on her elbow. "I'm sure you and Bertie want to get settled before dinner," he suggested to Edith, who quirked a brow suspiciously but agreed. "Yes, it was a bit of a harrowing drive in the snow. Darling, shall we go up for awhile?" They left the room sandwiched together in hushed conversation. Mary caught enough to deduce they intended to take advantage of time alone without the children around, and when they giggled she felt another stab, and ignored that too.

"Anna, give us a minute, will you?"

"Of course, Mr. Talbot."

It was funny, Mary thought as Anna gave her a look in the mirror. The only difference between herself and her maid was an accident of birth. They'd seen each other through all the tragedy, horror, and joy life had to offer. Mary was closer to Anna than she was to her own sister, and yet when someone asked her to leave the room Anna had no choice but to oblige. "Thank you, Anna. That will be all for tonight."

Henry's smile fell the moment the door shut behind her and Mary turned back to the mirror to fuss with her hair. "Well?" she drawled. It was an annoying habit of his to start a discussion then expect her to read his mind. To her surprise he sank wearily onto the edge of the bed, all the fight gone out of him before it'd really begun. "What is going on, Mary? You've been a complete-" He broke off and rubbed a hand across his forehead, no doubt reigning himself in. "You've been terrible to everyone downstairs – everyone you meet actually – for months. Years, it seems. It's one thing to go a few rounds with me, but nobody else deserves it."

To her disbelief, she felt a lump form in her throat. She took deep, sharp breath and swallowed it back. Mary Crawley did not cry. "I don't know what you mean," she forced herself to say, though she knew exactly what he meant. Henry laughed a little, though she recognized nothing was funny, and shook his head. "Fine," he said and started for the door. "I tried," he muttered, and Mary was suddenly and unexpectedly gripped with a fear she didn't understand. "Henry, wait. I'm sorry. I've been awful, I know." She stood in front of him like a chastised child and hated the uncertainty that had sprung up between them. She almost felt awkward when she put her hand on his arm and tried to read into the depths of his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said again. "It's the stress of trying to keep the estate together. I don't know what more I can do and I'm terrified of losing the house, but I shouldn't be taking it out on you."

"I wish you'd talk to me about it, Mary. Maybe I could help."

"The house is my responsibility," she said, grasping for an answer she couldn't actually put into words. Even after twelve years Downton wasn't Henry's home, at least not the way it was hers. He'd said time and again that it was just a house; she knew he'd never truly understand. "But I should talk to you about it," she conceded. "I will." Some of the frustration melted from his face and he almost smiled. She found herself reminiscing over how he never used to be without a smile, and how that easy grin of his had so easily charmed her. He was so very serious these days and she was well past the age of being charmed, and yet, for briefest moment she found herself yearning.

"Good," he said, and pressed a hasty kiss to her cheek. He went to change and she fought once again with the tears that threatened. "I'm going down," she said once she'd won the battle, and wondered if he'd even heard her.

Mary paused at the mirror outside the library and made sure not a hair was out of place before joining the crowd. She put on her usual bland smile and went to say hello to the most recent arrivals. Cousin Isobel was grilling George about law school again, and Mary had to admire the charm and diplomacy her son used to put off his grandmother's interrogation. It was all but understood he'd be following in his father's footsteps but at the moment he wasn't too keen on anything that didn't come wrapped in a skirt. She joined the conversation with a laugh. "So it's Oxford or bust, is it?"

"Oh, Mary! Perhaps you can talk some sense into your son."

"I'm sure you know as well as anyone that sixteen-year-old boys don't hear a word their mothers say," Mary joked, ignoring the disappointment that followed the thought. Isobel shrugged. "Well that's true. We haven't seen much of Henry lately. Where's he been hiding?"

If she smiled any wider she was certain her cheeks would crack.

"Dad's been really involved in the shop lately," George volunteered eagerly. Mary's smile slipped. Dad. It was a term she'd never got used to. It was something he'd picked up at school, and of course as far as George was concerned Henry was his father. "I've been going in with him a lot since I've been home," he was saying. "Running your own business seems pretty interesting."

"Running Downton is like running a business," Mary reminded him, and he sighed. "Yes, Mother, I know. You don't let me forget."

Henry was Dad and she was Mother.

"Mary," Cora pulled her away. "I wanted to speak to you about the hospital fundraiser. I think a nice donation from us would really help get the ball rolling for them. What do you think?"

I think we can't afford to keep ourselves afloat, let alone a hospital. "Can we discuss it after the party?" She suggested pleasantly as her chest tightened. "Mary," her father said seriously. "I wanted to ask you about the new tenants, the Fitz-somethings? I heard the most troubling news in town today."

"Papa," she soothed. "You know better than anyone not to pay attention to gossip." If that's all it was. The last thing she needed was an issue with some of their tenants, but Papa was not about to be put off. "When the gossip is about shaving profits I think it warrants some attention."

"Of course, Papa. We'll discuss it tomorrow?" She could feel the cracks begin to appear. A warm hand landed lightly on her back and she jumped, ready to tear into the next person who demanded her attention. "Mary," Tom smiled. "A word?" She followed him to the wet bar and he splashed whiskey into two tumblers. She accepted gratefully and the tension began to seep away. "You're a lifesaver."

"You looked ready to bolt," he remarked.

"I was. Thankfully you showed up when you did."

"What's wrong?"

He was so earnest, so genuinely concerned. Everything, she wanted to say. "Nothing," she smiled. "Just a headache."

"I don't believe you."

Of course he wouldn't. He knew her too well. He'd been her best friend for fifteen years and could read her like a book. She felt her control slip as if she'd hit a patch of ice and her composure crumbled. "You shouldn't." She turned her back to the rest of the room and took a steadying breath. "Mary," Tom murmured. "Tell me. Please."

Barrow announced to the room that dinner was ready, and she plastered on her fake smile once again.

"Another time, it seems."

He put a hand on her arm to hold her back. "Do you want me to tell everyone you're not feeling well?"

"You're a Dear, but no. I'm fine. Just a bad day." If the look on his face was any indication then he didn't believe a word she'd said, but she was grateful when he let the subject drop. He led her to the dining room with his hand resting lightly on her back, and she took strength from that small gesture of comfort.

Dinner conversation ranged from the worrisome political situation in Germany to Tom and Henry's garage to the annual gala they held on Christmas Eve. Mary tried to change the subject at that point; the gala was a sore spot for her. They'd had to borrow from Peter to pay Paul in order to afford the party this year, but she knew that cancelling it would be the final nail in the coffin and she refused to admit defeat. She kept a white-knuckled grip on the napkin in her lap and tried to block out the conversation.

"I can't wait for Saturday!" Sybbie declared. "It will be so much fun. I do love dancing."

Robert chuckled. "I'm sorry to disappoint but it's nothing but a bunch of stuffy old people."

Sybbie grinned mysteriously. "That's what you think, Donk. Won't you be surprised."

"Oh, do you have a beau coming?" Cousin Isobel asked. Sybbie shrugged, but George ratted her out. "Beaux plural, Gran. Isn't that right, Syb?"

Tom spluttered into his wine glass at that revelation. "What's this now?" For a moment Mary forgot everything and laughed. "You did give her permission to invite some friends, don't forget," she reminded him.

"I said friends, not boyfriends."

Sybbie waved him off and shot George a narrow look. "Don't worry, Dad. They're nothing serious. Anyway I heard that you invited someone too. Faye Delaney, isn't it?" Mary's amusement dried up as Tom turned pink around the collar, though Henry seemed to enjoy putting Tom on the spot. "I thought it was odd she was at the garage with so many car problems," he teased.

"Faye Delaney, from the hospital?" Mary asked, more sharply than intended. Henry's hand snaked into her lap and covered hers. She pursed her lips, annoyed, then glanced over at her husband. His look was more imploring than warning, and she realized she had no business insulting Tom at the dinner table just because she didn't like to share. Impulsively she linked her fingers with Henry's and forced herself to relax.

"Oh, Faye's a lovely woman!" Said blessedly oblivious cousin Isobel. "I've met her several times. I look forward to seeing her at the party."

"She's just a friend," Tom said firmly after he'd caught Mary's eye. She immediately felt guilty. He'd never remarried, though he had had a few dalliances over the years, so who was she to begrudge him his happiness? She let the subject drop, intending to grill him the next day in private, and Isobel turned the spotlight on George, asking him if he had invited any young ladies. Henry didn't take his hand from hers for quite some time and she allowed herself to feel a flicker of hope. And yet, she couldn't completely draw her mind from Tom's revelation.

Mary never knew which was worse: daytime when she had to deal with her problems or nighttime when she worried about them. She hadn't had a decent sleep for as long as she could remember, and after tonight's dinner she had just one more thing to add to the pile. The meal had lasted an eternity and Mary had made her escape as soon as she could, but she'd spent the last two hours staring at her bedside table as sleep evaded her. Henry came in and tried to be quiet as he got ready for bed. She didn't let him know she was awake. Five minutes of hand-holding wasn't a cure-all and she knew he wouldn't care about her concern for Tom getting involved with a townie. That was the least of her problems, of course. It was almost a pleasant diversion from the usual agonizing over the estate.

Henry flicked off the light and she felt the mattress sink as he slid into bed, and it was several minutes after that that Mary rolled over. "I don't know what to do," she whispered to his back. "I'm sick with worry. I'm afraid I'm developing an ulcer like Papa." It was so much easier to talk to him when she couldn't see the frustration and disappointment he wore like a glove. When he didn't reply right away she assumed he was asleep, and felt relieved. Then he shifted and the mattress creaked as he turned toward her. "What can I do?"

She reached out in the dark and traced the edges of his face for a moment before pulling him in for a kiss. It had been far, far too long since they'd last made love. They'd barely spoken over the last several months, never mind anything else. This was an act of desperation, she knew, and when it was done neither of them spoke. Mary turned back over and squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears still managed to escape.