Mary took it and turned. He was gone. There was no one in the queue behind her. Unhurriedly, she moved out of the pen, thinking George must have ducked down beneath the fence or a selling stall. Then she took a few paces and glanced down the path – knowing she could see much further down than he could've reached in the time. She stepped back and looked both left and right. On one side were lines of onlookers, on the other clear space, then the pig pen, then the dirt track leading from the main square round by the church yard. There may have been a few more figures bustling around than there had been a minute ago, but she hadn't been at all concerned by this then, her priority had been searching through the people for a three-year-old, and her immediate worry was the motors. This was a theoretical and purely precautionary worry- there were few motor cars around and she didn't believe the likliehood of George being hit before he was spotted to be very great, but she shouldered through the gathering crowd to the road none the less. She'd known she wouldn't find him wandering aimlessly around- George's habits were far from ordinary in adventurous ways such as this. He wouldn't walk off on his own. He prefered the company of those he knew- moreover, he preffered the company of either herself or Matthew. He'd occasionally stray off with his grandpapa- or Donk as the younger generation all insisted on calling him, or granny Cora, grandmama Isobel, one of his aunts or uncles even, but he was much more inclined to hold her or his daddy's hand wherever he went. No, George wouldn't have just dissapeared. He was also terrified of the road, though not of motor cars as he always thoroughly enjoyed when his parents took him for a ride, and she'd known he wouldn't be there even before she checked. Mary turned back and relaxed. He had to be still around the pig pen, and he could come to no real harm there. She expected to see him emerge any moment from behind one of the crowd. After all, it was an easy enough mistake to overlook such a small child in the first flicker of concern, to read too much into it and begin searching too deeply to suddenly. And yet, a slight nauseousness and tightening in the back of her thoat, and unpleasant twisting in her stomach and lightness of her feet remained with her as she twisted back to the fence. She still couldn't see him, watching out for a flash of blue eyes underneath a carefully combed head of shining blonde hair. When she journeyed passed where she had been standing mere minutes ago with his hand firmly held in hers, she felt a chill travel up from the base of her spine. She moved through the surrounding people at a controlled run- more of a fast paced walk than anything other- as, although a little self-awareness had already evaded her, she was not yet beyond caring of the level of unlady-like foolishness she might harbour had she completely lost sense. She moved full circle of the fete, weaving through villagers, servants and her own family alike and only abandoning all propriety when she came back to her starting point, with still no sight of her young son. She heaved in a breath, dizziness bringing her close to faint in panic, and shouted George's name.
Taking long, regular strides she unelegantly pushed her way round again, calling his name again and again, uncaring of all the attention she attracted in doing so. She searched as best she could, eyes turned low to where his three foot height would have stood but she couldn't see him. Her voice became steadily louder. Steadily harsher. Heads turned in her direction. She could see Anna approaching her in worry, her mother and Isobel making their way over from the other direction but she didn't stall her scouring for their sake, instead continuing to move in mindless panic in any direction she could manage. There was no mistaking her for an attention seeker or vagrant, her person still demanded authority and her appearance still commanded to be admired, but her fear was also too evident to be ignored. Too forecfull. The dawning of terror clear in her wide, dark eyes.
Within moments, all normalacy in business around her had ceased in its tracks. Prizes and belongings were set aside and people had gathered to converge their kindness and pull together goodwill. Within mere moments it seemed common knowledge. The son of Lady Mary Crawley and Mr Matthew Crawley- the heir of Lord Grantham- had dissapeared. People were calling his name. Everyone seemed to know. He was three. Blonde, blue eyed, three feet. He was wearing a blue tie, a white shirt, a light brown woolen jumper, a grey jacket and shorts, long navy socks and black shoes. He carried a golden-furred teddy bear.
The faces of parents were strained and sympathetically alert in their determination and concern to find the child. Mary's face had fallen into stoicy, her hysteria turning her fleeting thoughts into mere blurs. She could tell very little of what was happening around her. Her vision had become simple melded colours before her swimming eyes, her hands and visage shaking in horror, coursing quick paced adrenaline through her veins that caused her heart to thump in her throat. Her stomach dropped and her breath faltered. In her blind and racing fright, she could think of nothing to do but revert back to childhood; she felt like a little girl again, young and vulnerable- wanting to do the only thing that had ever calmed her when she was young- run to her father. And yet she couldn't. Robert had gone to London just a week ago, bringing Matthew and Tom with him on estate business that couldn't have been postponed.
Matthew had been sorry to go. It would be the longest fortnight in his memory, the longest time he'd been without Mary since they married. She had intended to go away with him, but it wasn't done to bring George to London also and he had been rather put out at the idea of both his parents leaving, so she'd stayed and they'd gone and now her go-to person in any kind of event – crisis or triumph or otherwise- her husband- was away, and it just so happened that her second confidente- her Papa- was away also.
There were people in black jackets speaking to her now, scribbling hurriedly into little paper pads as she provided the most adequate description she could manage, in her addled and anxious state, of her little boy.
The word had spread round the village like wildfire. George Matthew Crawley- son of heir apparent to Lord Grantham- missing.
Suddenly, her arm had been taken by Michael Gregson- Edith's husband of all people- and led over to Isobel who proceeded to guide her away from the crowd and into Crawley house. It was eerily and comparatively quiet in the cool coriddor, and Mary found no objection from Isobel or her granny when she made a beeline for the telephone. She requested the number of Matthew's club and forced her voice to bear no such hint of a crack as she asked her husband to be brought to the reciever. She'd broken on the line, relieved to hear Matthew's voice and yet too frightened to articulate what needed to be said. He didn't hear the words from her lips- having to face the reality that George was missing seemed so much harder once spoken aloud- and in the end Violet had told him.
She'd barely heard what her granny had told her. Something about Matthew being on the next train into Ripon. He'd be there within hours, she told her fretting granddaughter, but they'd have found George safe and sound before then.
"The others are still looking," Isobel said, "Edith, Sybil and Cora are doing the best they can, Michael has agreed to provide the relevant authorities with his photograph and we're certain he'll be found before the hour is out."
The next thing Mary knew, she was led down. She was turned on her side, her face looking toward the window that gazed over the modest green garden and sloping rooftops. There was a well-kept vase of flowers on the sill, pretty and fragrant and the current centre of her line of vision. The blankets were preened and straight underneath her, hospital corners and clean sheets yet she recognised by distinctive feeling that she was in the upstairs of Crawley house. Matthew's old bedroom, she'd been told. There was a palm laid over her forehead. The rhythm of the hand gently stroking back over her hair.
She had no idea of the time, no idea how long she'd been asleep or even when she had retired to bed. It seemed strange and yet she didn't allow her mind to dwell on it for long, as it soon slipped away to other things.
When had his hand left from hers? She hadn't noticed. Why hadn't she noticed? Had he said something? If he had, why hadn't she heard?
Why had she even taken him to the village fete? The rest of the family had been going, she knew that, but after the night before she should have realised it would've been a mistake to take George to such a busy place. He'd been so upset. She'd wanted to cheer him up, and he'd wanted to see her pigs. She'd taken him with her. And now all she could think of was his anxiety the night before, and how she should've paid it enough heed to keep him home this morning.
George didn't like it when either one of his parents left. She'd known that.
"When will daddy be home?"
It was the question that George had asked incredibly frequently over the last few days, and Mary had always met it with the same answer.
"Soon, darling."
Matthew had been reluctantly dragged away on estate business to London for a couple of weeks, being the co-owner of the estate brought about duties and, although it was a job that did afford him much more time than most to spend with his family, there were times when it monopolised his schedule beyond his control. He'd gone with Robert and Tom on an early train, kissing Mary goodbye and throwing George up high in the air, catching him and squeezing him tightly before landing him on the ground and diving in for another kiss from his wife before leaving for the station.
Once the car had disappeared, turning out of the drive and away from view, George had looked up at Mary, taking her hand and tugging it. He'd asked her then, his bright eyes shining up at her in anticipation and she'd given him the answer she would come to repeat often, taking him up into her arms, much to the nanny's disgruntlement, and touching his nose affectionately with a gentle poke of her forefinger. He giggled, a laugh she knew all too well, and she resigned herself to the plea she could never have resisted even if she'd tried, taking him inside and proceeding to lie in a very unlady-like position on the nursery floor, moving his teddys around in a game that he could so clearly envision that it exited him and enlightened Mary. She loved how loving George was, how innocent and passionate and genuinely kind hearted. He was very much like Matthew, in looks as well as spirit- he had his father's dazzling and beautiful eyes, soft blonde locks of hair and innate peacefulness and yet there was also so much of herself in him that she could see- his little nose and grinning lips, his confidence and inquisitiveness. And of course there were things he'd inherited from the both of them, he was stubborn – bedtime could be a nightmare when he wanted and he would certainly be capable of a good argument in the years to come, and intelligent, thinking carefully about everything and putting his excessive curiosity to good use.
Slipping in through the door, too small, timid and quiet to be noticed by either footman or even indeed the butler who was so dutifully stood to his post, George padded gingerly into the drawing room, barefoot and bereft of any warmer clothing that might have inhibited his shivers. He'd never seen it so lit by electric lighting, he'd never before been awakened nor up this late in his life and he felt somewhat scared, in the wrong, as if his late-night wanderings would lead him into so much trouble that it was worth how much he trembled in that moment. Neither granny Cora or Grand-mama Isobel hadn't noticed him, nor had aunt Sybil or aunt Edith, even his mummy had not turned at his entrance- he could see her sat on one of the large arm chairs, talking pleasantly to his uncle Michael, and he longed to reach out for her, suddenly beginning to feel the tears well up in his stinging eyes. He clutched more tightly at the arm of his teddy bear and wiped his running nose on the sleeve of his blue pin-striped pyjamas. His anxieties confused him and his nerves became suddenly intrusive, raging through his tiny shaking body. He glued himself, petrified, to the spot. He shivered, exhausted and afraid and finally whimpered in protest of his emotions, feeling vulnerable and small.
"Mummy…"
His voice came out even tinier and more fearful than he'd expected it to and his little eyes widened in horror when all the faces in the room turned to look at him.
Mary turned at once, the familiar falsetto voice sending her senses haywire.
She'd never thought herself particularly maternal, she'd been cold and careful before Matthew and although he'd roused change that had brought out a warmer and eminently more loving side to her, she hadn't believed there had been room enough in her heart for a child. She was filled with Matthew- loved him with everything she had- but when George was born she'd seen that he'd weaselled his way into her affection just as his father had done. She'd been unwittingly consumed with more love for the pair of them than she'd ever even contemplated possible. Her boys. She had very strong instincts regarding both of them, protective caring and otherwise, just as Matthew did for herself and George, and this was a quality of hers that she'd come to prize. She wasn't a conventional mother- she certainly didn't look like the average child-bearing woman- but she knew her son and she knew when he needed her. He looked so forlorn, so uneasy and panicked, standing there in his silk pyjamas in the doorway, trembling and tearful, his chin wobbled and bottom lip jutted out and he unwittingly dropped his precious teddy as he collapsed into tears and employed his arms to wipe his running nose once more. George wasn't a difficult child- far from it- he was gentle and kind and loving like his father; he was observant and intuitive, sensitive and thoughtful but his sweet nature and unassuming disposition meant he felt things more strongly and his temperament could get shaky sometimes. He'd always been unconventional in his fears; where other children hated loud noises, he deplored tense silences, where other children were afraid of strangers, he feared being alone. Where other children cowered at monsters in the dark, George had nightmares of being lost.
"Mummy," he cried out for her again, too wrapped up in his own tumult of feelings so realise that Mary had already vacated her seat and strode quickly toward him.
She bent down, taking in his pale faced countenance adorned with tear tracks, his lips turned into a wobbling frown. She wrapped him up in her arms, bringing him into a close embrace and standing, holding him to her closely. Instinctively, she moved a hand over her son's quaking back, soothingly rubbing in circles in the fervent hope of calming him down. His tiny body felt natural in her arms, small and fragile against her chest, and she rocked him tenderly. She felt strangely out of tune with him, despite being so close in contact. She hated that she hadn't seen this coming, noticed his unsteady disposition earlier in order to have prevented this from happening. He'd seemed fine, perhaps marginally more meticulous than usual but that was to be expected- Matthew had been away for a week now, and it would be another week further before he returned and George missed him, just as Mary did. Estate business was infrequent in consuming Matthew's time from his family but he'd been dragged away despite it to sort some things out and the short notice had taken George by surprise. He wasn't a fussy child- a strict nanny and close governing had seen to that, but he had tendencies for insecurity and simply needed a little reassurance sometimes.
"Shh, darling it's alright," Mary whispered to the crying boy in her arms. "It's alright, Georgie." She walked back over to the others, her son folded within her embrace, shielded from all the sympathetic looks of the family that she knew would simply put him on edge more.
"Shh, don't cry darling. Mummy's here."
"Is George quite well?" Isobel asked concernedly, moving toward her grandson and handing him the teddy he'd dropped in his upset, leaving him to hug it between himself and his mother.
"He'll be alright, I'm sure," Mary said. "I'll take him upstairs, could you ask Mrs Patmore to send up some warm milk, I think he may need a little coddling tonight." She addressed her own mother as she said the words, knowing that indulgence of children's whims was against every parenting technique she possessed and yet not being able to bear her son's tears. Cora nodded, dutifully putting in the request to the footman, taking a moment to wipe a tear from George's plump cheek before he rested it uncertainly against his mother's shoulder.
Sybil came over to kiss his temple soothingly and Edith gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze, but George only clung more tightly to Mary, scrunching up the fabric of her dress in his little fists and hiding his sobs by obscuring his eyes in Mary's hold.
"I've got you, darling," Mary muttered, leaving the room with a slow but swift step and bringing him to hers and Matthew's bedroom so's to remain undisturbing of her nieces that slept soundly in the nursery.
She sat delicately in a chair beside the fire, resting George on her lap and simply holding him, stroking over his smooth blonde locks of hair and placing soft kisses to his temple every now and then.
Thomas had clearly volunteered to take up the milk instead of the maid, placing the cup and saucer on a table beside Lady Mary, shooting Master George a sympathetic wink, to which he smiled forlornly in response. Mary attempted to coax the drink into George, a vain attempt at simultaneously calming and warming him. It bore little of the desired effect and she retired trying, settling instead to hold him more closely. It seemed odd that everything had been so collected mere moments earlier and, now, all she could feel was distress at her son's distress; it broke her heart and yet made it grow two sizes at the same time but she had felt the need to seek time alone with him to address how he felt and why, when he'd seemed so contented earlier, had his temperament suddenly changed. Once he'd relaxed, quieted and stilled against her, she cradled his weight and brought him over to the bed, setting him down at the edge and crouching down before him, resting her hands on his knees and smiling gently as she tipped his chin up to look at her.
"Georgie, what's all this about? Are you feeling quite well?"
He looked at her, his blue eyes rimmed red and his nose running again, causing Mary to reach for her handkerchief and clean him up with a gentle movement.
George didn't know what to say.
Mary's heart flooded with worry, a fear that something was really wrong consuming her as she placed her hands on George's trembling knees.
"If there's something wrong, darling, you must tell me. I need to know if you're not feeling well…"
"What if daddy isn't coming back?" he mumbled.
Despite the relief that came upon finding that his nerves had not stemmed from illness or injury, the question was a shock that made her heart ache for him. She hastened to reassure him, looking him seriously in the eye as she spoke.
"Oh, darling, daddy is coming back. Of course, daddy's coming back." She pulled George forward and brought him again into her arms, whispering comforts into his hair as she rocked him. "Daddy wouldn't leave us, would he?"
George shook his head.
"See," she said. "He'll be back very soon darling, I promise. And I know he misses you very much too."
"Really?"
"Of course, he does," Mary insisted. "Daddy has very important work to do with Downton, he doesn't want to be away, but he will be back soon because he hates being away from you, just as I would, just how you hate daddy being away."
He nodded.
She knew how much he missed Matthew, and that for a three-year-old, two weeks might as well have been two years. She could still remember when her own father had left for war, to South Africa, she'd been much older than George and her father had been away for a much longer time, but it had still felt like a lifetime to her. Matthew would be back soon, but soon was different for George. To him, soon was later today or perhaps tomorrow at a stretch, and yet Mary had no doubt that when Matthew returned, George would become too elated to even recollect how upset he'd been. She could picture it so well, he'd giggle madly as Matthew threw him on top of his shoulders and tickled his legs, spinning around until they were both dizzy and dishevelled. But now, all she felt was a desperate need to relieve her son's troubles, and knowing little left she could do, she cradled him, watching as after a while he came to feel drowsy. His little eyes drooped and his grip on his teddy loosened slightly. She smiled as he nuzzled against her, sucking his thumb into his mouth and closing his eyes tiredly.
"I think it's time you went to sleep, darling."
George opened his eyes, shaking his head.
"No." He said, shifting and trying to make himself seem livelier than he actually was. She laughed, stroking his soft locks of blonde hair and holding him against her breast as he continued to grow ever sleepier.
"Darling, it's a long time past your bedtime," she reminded him.
He shook his head, clutching her more tightly and suddenly it dawned upon her the real reason why he was so reluctant to be brought to bed. He didn't want to be left alone.
"How about, just for tonight, you sleep in daddy's dressing room?" Mary suggested quietly, "that way I'll be just next door if you need me."
George nodded, mumbling his agreement and yawning widely. He wrapped his little arms around his mother's neck as she lifted him, taking him through the adjoining door to Matthew's dressing room, and laying him down on the bed that had never been slept in. He curled up asleep within seconds and she tucked the duvet gently around him, smiling at how much he reminded her of Matthew.
"When will daddy be home?"
He hadn't been asleep after all, hanging onto consciousness by a mere thread simply to wait for her answer.
"Soon darling," she repeated, just as she'd done so many times that week.
George managed a half-awake smile, mumbling to his mother as she leant to dim the lamp.
"I love you mummy."
"I love you too darling," she replied.
It was only then that he allowed himself to dream, the last flickers of blue being finally covered by his heavy eyelids.
Mary leaned in and kissed his forehead.
"Sweet dreams, Georgie."
"George…"
She managed to breathe out his name in a quietly inquisitive form, for she knew who the gentle hand belonged to, she could smell the familiar calming scent, hear his soft breathing and sense his presence.
Matthew.
"Mother said you fainted," came the smooth-toned answer. "You've been asleep for some hours."
Her eyes fluttered open slowly, taking in the more than welcome and hugely relieving sight of her husband. He looked somewhat forborne, his appearance unkempt and subdued. His hair was mussed, his tie un-straightened, jacket hanging on the chair he sat in, shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows, devoid of waistcoat and remaining windswept in looks. His eyes were swimming in held back tears.
"My darling, where is he?"
"You're exhausted. You need to rest, my darling." He leaned in nearer to press his lips to her forehead in a gentle kiss, but she moved her hand to his jaw and brought the kiss to her lips instead.
"Darling, tell me." She whispered, swiping his hair absentmindedly with her trembling fingers.
"You need to sleep, darling. Violet said you may have hit your head when you fell…" she saw his distress. In accompaniment to whatever had happened to George, he had returned from London to find his wife unconscious also, and she knew it must have been a shock and moreover a nightmare for him.
"Tell me," she interrupted. Determined.
Matthew took her hand, entwining her fingers with his and squeezing her palm where it lay on the bed.
"We haven't found him yet. I've been out looking, but I couldn't leave you, and the police are searching besides. Robert has used every authority he can muster to make sure he's found. Mother and Cora are still looking together." His words were hollow and misshapen. "Edith and Michael are with Marigold at the big house in case he goes back there. Sybil, Tom and Robert are out as well. Violet is here with Sybbie – who wants to go out and look too, bless her."
Mary smiled slightly at Sybbie's determination. And then she began to move, stirring herself to action and clambering from her bed, against Matthew's expressed fears and worries.
He retired in his attempts at dissuading her, instead making her promise to stay with him.
"Really darling, I only fainted." She brushed off.
"I know, but if you should faint again I'd rather I was there," he pressed.
The fading of the light had also meant the dying of the heat. Mary's hope deteriorated more with every inch of sinking sunlight and by the time the moon had risen and the sky was blacked out, completely devoid of light, she'd grown more agitated and afraid. Wintry air swirled around her and she wrapped her arms more tightly around herself, pulling her coat closed and holding the hand gripping her torch closer to the warmth of her body.
"GEORGE!"
Matthew's breath was now visible in the stream of torchlight that lit the bracken and bumpy woodland before him. As he trudged forward, determinedly, he felt his heart crack an inch more with every step. He was petrified. He felt the icy ground beneath his boots and with hours left before dawn and the air smelling of overdue rain, he turned back to his wife alongside him.
"Mary…"
She was trembling. He reached out for her.
"You don't think…" she whispered, uncharacteristically unsure and frightened. "You don't think someone's taken him?"
The thought hadn't occurred to her until just now, and she felt sick.
Matthew gulped, his resolve wobbling as his lip trembled.
Mary saw it all, and god did he look like George.
Matthew shook his head.
"No," he finally voiced, hoarsely. "No, I don't believe he's been taken – someone would have seen, he would have cried out or something…"
There was a long silence.
Mary closed her eyes against her tears.
"He was holding my hand," she said, "I didn't even notice he wasn't anymore until I looked down…" She gulped. "I shouldn't have taken him on an outing at all, he should have stayed in bed after last night, only he seemed so excited about seeing the pigs – I wanted to cheer him up."
Matthew furrowed his eyebrows, looking at her confused with eyes narrowed in bewilderment.
"What can you mean?" He asked. "Why would he have needed cheering up?"
Mary sighed, dropping her head for a second before looking back at him.
She explained everything, all the events of the previous night, and watched as his face creased in further anguish.
"I should never have left," Matthew choked, scrubbing his face in his palms. "He's so young… I should have been here for him."
"Darling," Mary hummed, moving over to him and rubbing his shoulder, "we can't both be here all the time, you mustn't blame yourself for this - " her voice broke suddenly. "If it's anyone's fault it's mine," she wiped her eyes. "I shouldn't have looked away… I…"
"Don't." Matthew interrupted harshly. "Darling, don't."
He closed further the gap between them.
"it's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault."
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly.
"He hasn't been taken." He said resolutely.
He heard her whimper quietly against him.
"Mary, we'll find him."
It was the first time they'd been together in a week and all she could do was nod dumbly into his shoulder.
"I promise we'll find him, and when we do, I promise he'll be alright."
She couldn't help but believe him.
They didn't find him. And in the end, it was Cora and Isobel that coerced the two of them back to the big house. Robert, worried about his eldest daughter, argued to send her directly to bed – apparently having also been informed of her faint spell earlier. He knew she wouldn't be blessed with anything as relieving as sleep until George was found safe and sound, but even so, she and Matthew had been persuaded to rest, told time and time again that every authority was on hand to find their son.
They went reluctantly upstairs, Matthew keen for Mary to rest but also regretting that they couldn't be actively doing something. He moved into his dressing room once Anna was summoned, slowly and heavy heartedly changing into his pyjamas. He looked forlornly at the bed in his dressing room- imagining the last night when his son would have been tucked under the covers—and moved slowly over to his wardrobe to hang his clothes. He hadn't rung for the valet, finding himself too preoccupied and pent up to be able to summon the strength for bearing the company of anyone other than his wife.
He heard Anna leave the bedroom next door and finished arranging his jacket on the hanger. He dropped his tie and stooped down to retrieve it from the floor.
He took in a sharp breath. His eyes widened in disbelief. His heart thudded in mingled relief, confusion and worry.
There, curled in a heap of his clothes on the floor of his wardrobe, eyes closed and breathing soft and even in slumber, was the small body of Matthew's beloved little boy.
Immediately, he reached out for him, slipping his hands under the weight of George's form, letting the covering of his clothes flop away as he lifted his son swiftly up, holding him gently to his shuddering chest.
Matthew checked him over with his eyes, still whole, still breathing in and out. His hair was still golden and soft, his skin still smooth and warm.
All this time, he'd been so worried that George had been cold, alone and afraid – he hadn't been able to bear the thought—and to know that he'd been wrong, that George had been perfectly safe, warm and comfortable, had washed him over with a wave of so much relief it almost knocked him back.
He cradled his son.
"Mary!" He called, mindful to keep his voice low enough to not awaken the sleeping child in his arms. "Darling come quickly!"
Panicked and alert, Mary whipped in almost at once, shooting through the door and seeing the tears welling up in her husband's eyes.
Only then did she look to his chest, and only then did she see her son.
"Oh, my darling!" she rushed forward, sealing Matthew's lips to hers and resting a hand on George's golden head. "Where was he? Is he alright?" She asked after pulling back.
Matthew handed Mary their son and wrapped them both in his embrace, placing kisses on his wife's head before answering her queries.
"He was in my wardrobe, asleep." Matthew said in awe. "He was just curled in a pile of my clothes."
They moved slowly back to the bedroom, lounging on the bed- Mary tucked in Matthew's lap and George led in hers.
Mary relaxed back into her husband, gently kissing his neck whilst he stroked over her hair softly. George didn't stir.
"Darling?" Mary hummed, a realisation dawning on her.
"Mmm?" Matthew murmured.
"Would you tell the others he has been found? Papa will call the police off, but they really should know."
Matthew nodded. "Of course."
Reluctantly, he moved from the bed, kissing Mary tenderly before hurrying to let the family know that George was alright.
Mary stayed, and was still gazing softly at her son when his little blue eyes fluttered slowly open. At first, she sensed his confusion and hastened to reassure him, the flicker of fear and unrecognition of his surroundings in his eyes enough to make her ache.
His eyes opened fully then, blinking up at his mother.
"Mummy?"
His small, youthful voice was thick with sleep.
"Hello, darling."
"Are you very cross with me?" he asked, his lower lip jutting out in a meek pout.
"I'm a little bit upset that you just disappeared without telling me, darling." She admitted. Burdening such a young child with the truth of her fear and terror at his disappearance seemed extreme, and she couldn't be angry with him—not now.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, bowing his head in apology.
"It's alright, Georgie," She told him, "But why didn't you tell anyone where you were going? Did you just wander off or did someone take you home?"
"I was scared." He said truthfully. "There were too many people. It was too loud."
"But why didn't you say anything? I would have taken you home, darling." She brushed his tears away with a thumb on his cheek.
"Nanny says I shouldn't bother you, or daddy or anyone else when I feel funny," he said, "she says you don't need to be told those things."
Mary sighed, huffing slightly.
"Well I disagree with nanny."
George looked astounded at his mother's words.
"You can bother me and daddy, or Donk or Granny or Grandmama or your aunts or uncles with anything you like. You mustn't walk off without telling anyone," she scolded. "We were terribly worried about you."
"I'm sorry," he apologised again, looking so horrible sorrowful that she didn't press the matter further.
Mary kissed his temple.
"What were you doing in daddy's wardrobe?" she asked instead.
"I was scared of being lost again," he said, "so I went back the way we came." He looked up at her and then thought better of it, squashing his cheek to her chest instead. "I miss daddy. His clothes smell of him."
Mary smiled.
"Well," she said, "speaking of daddy, I have a surprise for you, Georgie."
His eyes widened.
As if on cue, Matthew entered the bedroom and immediately locked eyes with his son's identical ones.
George squealed with excitement, leaping upwards at once and scrambling over to his father. Once he reached Matthew's legs, he was swung up enthusiastically into his Papa's arms, thrown up into the air and caught before being squeezed tightly to his daddy's chest.
"My dearest little chap, I've missed you so much."
George grinned, wrapping his pudgy arms around Matthew's neck and hugging him.
"Missed you to." He declared. "I've missed you piles and piles and piles. So has mummy."
"Has she now?" Matthew asked, an eyebrow raised at his wife while his son nodded emphatically.
"Well I think it's about time we all went to sleep," he said, poking George's nose with an affectionate finger.
"Can I stay with you?" George pleaded, looking between his parents, imploringly.
Matthew and Mary exchanged glances.
"Alright then," Mary relented. "But just for tonight."
Mother and father changed their son into his pyjamas, and within minutes of being curled in bed between his parents, George was fast asleep again.
"He better not get used to this," Mary whispered through the dark to her husband.
Matthew stroked her cheek lovingly, saying nothing in reply.
"I mean it," she mumbled. "He's only sleeping in our bed tonight. I have plans now you're back you know."
Matthew smirked, cocking his eyebrows at her suggestively.
She leaned over and kissed him soundly.
"Goodnight, my darling."
"I love you, Mary."
"I love you too."