So, here's the first chapter of a new project. It's not a WiP per se but rather a collection a vignettes, of one-shots set in the same universe. There's an ongoing progression, of course, but each one-shot will be auto-sufficient. In other words, I won't be updating regularly but will publish each vignette when it's ready.

For the moment, the story is set in canon-verse, but it will soon go in AU territories I'm afraid.

As usual, a big thank you to MrsTater, her advice and enthusiasm: if this story, conceived as a one-shot, became a WiP, it's her "fault."

Brighton nights

1

The scene unfolding in front of her by the water was almost sickeningly sweet, Mary mused as she observed a father and his two young sons flying a kite on a deserted Brighton beach. Like the trio, Mary enjoyed this moment of the day. It was the hour when the sun began to sink in the West, making the shadows stretch, drawing deformed patterns on the sand. The ebb tide let a vast, untouched playground, filling the air with the smell of salt and decomposing seaweed. Strangely enough, she enjoyed that smell, much to Matthew's incomprehension. The noisy crowds had finally left the beach to go home and get some rest from the agitation and the sun – like her husband did – or get ready for dinner in one of the numerous restaurants located on Brighton Pier. Later in the evening the casino or the fair on the pier were distractions of choice for the carefree holiday-goers, for the ones who could afford it.

The young woman shook her head, as if the gesture alone would protect her against the onslaught of the very problems she and Matthew had tried to leave behind for a few days. This little trip was supposed to be a celebration of their first anniversary. After so many lost years, so much fear and heartache, she had finally got her fairytale ending, or so she wanted to believe when Matthew proposed and made her twirl under the falling snow. Seldom in her life had she been so happy, so deliriously happy. The few months between the winter proposal and the early summer wedding had been nothing but a dream. Mary could not help but smile at the sweet remembrance of the familial, irrepressible joy when she and Matthew had announced their engagement, the memory of the flurry of activity that had engulfed Downton with the preparations for the wedding, transforming the solemn estate into a buzzing hive under the enthusiastic command of Carson. Even the first occurrence of the family's financial problems, enhanced by her turbulent Grandmama's visit from the United States, and the horrible fight she had with Matthew the very day before the wedding, had barely altered her happiness.

Indeed, the day of the wedding had been everything she had hoped for. When she closed her eyes, she still could see her beautiful dress, Matthew's gaze of admiration and adoration when she had walked down the aisle with her proud father, the hunger plain on her husband's face when they finally consummated their marriage. Everything was perfect. She had married the man she had wanted for so long and she would be the Countess of Downton one day, fulfilling her most profound aspirations and her family's as well.

That had been before.

Before that fateful dinner back in January.

Before she had learnt her family was ruined, for good this time.

Lavinia's money had only them bought more time and, in spite of all his efforts, her father had not been able to save the situation: the ongoing postwar crisis had consumed all that the bad, foolish investments in pre-1914 Russia had not.

The memory was still painfully vivid. Dinner had unfolded as usual, under Carson's precise supervision. Sybil was busy nursing her eight month-old baby, under Mary's fascinated scrutiny. Branson tried to find his place in the most awkward manner, strangely reminding her of Richard. She was still appalled at her sister's choice: she could do so much better than that! Both her own former fiancé and Sybil's husband lacked the grace with which Matthew had eased himself into the family mold, and conquered her heart without even her noticing it.

Then her father had asked for everyone's attention.

Between the honeymoon in Paris and the marital bliss, the news had caught her by surprise, in spite of her father's unexpected sullenness when she had come back from France and the obvious signs of a growing resentment between her parents; she had attributed it all to Sybil's unusual wedding to the former chauffeur. What else could it be? Matthew and she were married, at last. Furthermore, Matthew, in spite of his initial reluctance, had agreed to use the Swires' money to save Downton; everything was alright again, wasn't it? For a few days, she had worried that Richard had finally published her scandal, as a form of petty vengeance after her wedding had been announced in the upper-class circles as an event of the year. An exchange of angry, bitter telegrams – she had not trusted herself to hear his voice again – had proved her wrong. Richard had not even been in England, but in New Zealand, visiting his sister, and quote could not care less if she had married Matthew or the Czar's hidden spawn end of quote.

A fourth person had joined the trio with the kite. Hearing his mother's call, one of the boys abandoned his toy to the wind and ran to her with a happy cry, followed by his brother, obliging their father to run after it before it got lost into the retreating sea. Mary could not see their faces, but she could hear their voices as mother and children giggled when the man barely managed not to fall gracelessly into the water as he retrieved the fleeing object. He must have heard them as well in spite of the noise of the waves: as soon as he joined them, he shook the drenched kite at them as a form of retribution before focusing his vengeance on his wife. Mary gasped in surprise, and the children laughed in delight when the tall, blond man caught the ginger woman by the waist, lifted her on his shoulder and feigned to throw her into the water.

It was unfair.

Mary was fascinated and jealous at the same time. She felt like a voyeur, observing this scene of unadulterated happiness, but could not find the will to stand up from her spot on the low wall by the beach and return to the modest hotel where Matthew and she had booked a room for a few days of escape. At the same time, she felt an irrepressible and unjust envy: this happiness should be hers as well.

Ever since her father had announced the family financial problems to everyone concerned, things had gone from bad to worse in an unexpected way. Sybil and Branson had shrugged it off – money had never been their principal worry – and had gone back to Dublin in spite of the war and her father's vehement protestations. Edith had stayed silent, digesting the news. A month later, Mary had heard that her sister had begun to talk privately to Carson and Mrs. Hughes, devising plans to reduce the costs and save what could be maintained. Apparently, Sir Anthony gave good advice, used as he was to a smaller estate and way of life.

As for Matthew and Mary, the nightmare had begun with its share of misunderstanding and barbed retorts. Their ghosts came back with a vengeance, as she had feared the magical day Matthew proposed under the snow, and, as she had feared, they were not suitably equipped to sail such seas. In his testament, Lavinia's father had given a more than substantial amount of money to the man who had almost been his son, to help him start a new life. In the days following the wedding, after much prompting on her part, Mary had finally convinced Matthew that using Lavinia's money to save Downton was not an insult to the young woman's memory. Almost perversely, she even had reminded that their future, their children's future, could not be sacrificed on the altar of his rigid principles.

And Matthew had relented, albeit half-heartedly.

When her father announced in January that this effort the family had demanded from Matthew had been fruitless, the guilt had engulfed him once more. They had insulted, even mocked Lavinia's memory for nothing. This was unforgivable, especially after what they had done to her. The idea of some shared responsibility in poor Lavinia's death was back once again, hurting Mary deeply. Nobody but Matthew had the power to hurt her this way. She tried to reason with him, knowing deep down that, ironically enough, it was not the Swire's money they had used, but Richard's, and hoping this new arrangement would never reach the newspaperman's hears. After that, their temper had flared.

In a feeble attempt at taking her mind off her troubles, Mary tried to focus her attention back on the family by the water. For now, the kite lay on the ground, forgotten, and the boys had started some kind of splashing contest. Some locals were reclaiming their beach and made profit of the ebb tide to dig out the shells left out by the receding waters. Grandfathers and children walked along the beach, trousers rolled up to the knees, straw baskets in hand, observing the ground with utmost attention. Mary smiled as she imagined her own father and Sybil's little one in similar scenery. The image was almost ridiculous, and, worse, took her thoughts back to Downton.

She was artificial and proud, Matthew said. How could she not be? That was the way she had been raised. After all, she had been willing to sacrifice her happiness to marry a very rich man like Carlisle, as if Matthew himself had had nothing to do in her miserable attempt at moving on. We are cursed, you and I. The words still resounded in her mind's ear as if Matthew had uttered them a few seconds ago. Worse, before the war, she had preferred Pamuk's empty advances to Matthew's steady attentions, which almost had led her to her demise, in many ways. Therefore, as far as their way of life was concerned, her advice was ridiculous.

He was stubborn and a bit of chauvinist, Mary said. He consulted for hours with her father, locked in the study, and never shared anything with her, as if the fate of Downton was nothing to her. As if she could not understand the intricacies of the management of an estate. Suddenly, she had been brought back in 1912 when her father and everybody around her talked about the entail, and did not think of making her a part of the decisions. At that time, only Matthew had deemed it necessary to address her as a functional adult, as an equal almost… He was so different back then, his middle-class upbringing showing in his every words and gestures. She used to hate this, and now, she was desperate to see a single glimpse of the old Matthew, of the awkward country solicitor. Four years of war had transformed him into the consummate aristocrat.

Their shouting matches in Crawley house terrified poor Isobel, unwilling and collateral victim of their clashing tempers. By comparison, the many arguments she had with Richard were mere heated discussions. Matthew used to save her from these discussions as if a few shouted, angry words could hurt her, as if she needed his protection from the bad, mean sea monster. Now, this role fell to Isobel who always appeared with a request that needed one of them to go to the post office or the clinic, a fresh pot of tea and biscuits. Much to her son's shame, one day she even had alluded to the irony of the situation, comparing Matthew to Mary's former fiancé…

Of course, in the secret of their bedroom, they still managed to find their way back to each other. Their lot did not divorce, as her Granny said, and they had gone through too much to throw the towel yet.

So they grasped at straws, like this little trip to the beach, far from Downton and its problems.

So she hoped that the lateness in her cycle she realized the week before was the sign of pregnancy, at last.

Mary let out a surprised shriek. She had been so caught up in her recollection she had not noticed one of the boys was flying the kite again, and she had not heard the shouted warning when the kite crashed less than six feet from her, startling her from her reverie.

-/-

All it took was a second of inattention. Richie called him to show the treasure he just found in the sand – some shiny, pearlescent shell – and Liam chose this exact moment to lose control of the kite. His sister Abby's alarmed cry brought his attention back to the not so flying object just before it crashed, a mere few feet from a young woman sitting on the law wall that separated the beach from the street, her hands posed on her umbrella as if she had come out of an impressionist painting.

Damn.

However, after a quick glance in the lady's direction, Richard was relieved to see that, in spite of the surprise, she seemed generally alright. And, fortunately, there were no angry husband or father in sight. Ignoring Abby's knowing stare, he excused himself as she was reprimanding Liam and ran up the beach to retrieve the offending object, and, maybe, make profit of the accident.

Richard had promised Eliza to buy her a drink later this evening but it would do no harm to diversify his options, in case the evening with the pretty brunette resulted disappointing. Well, the way her eyes had boldly assessed him, almost undressing him while she played with the short curls of her bobbed hair left no doubt as far as the rest of the night was concerned, but a few words with this lady would not hurt anyone…

Two years of his failed and fruitless engagement to Mary had cured him of any urge to settle down for a good while, and, as a result, had pushed him back to his old, womanizing ways. His work and his success would be largely enough as a legacy, and Abby and her children would receive the fruits of a lifetime, like he had always thought before meeting Mary. Meanwhile, he was free to occupy his time and affections as he wished, and with whom he wished. Marriage and family were a bother, a dead weight, and he did not know what devil had possessed him to think otherwise.

The dissolution of the engagement, as painful and humiliating as it had been, had given him back the freedom he had nursed jealously and selfishly ever since he was a child. Once again, Richard was a fairly happy and satisfied man, and it was a good feeling.

He reached the kite and retrieved it, then, showing his most charming smile, he turned to the lady with the umbrella.

"I hope you will accept my apology, my lady." Years of frequenting London high society and his engagement to Mary had taught him to recognize a woman with aristocratic roots when he saw one. "The boys are still a little clumsy with the kite…"

He meant to use this explanation to start a conversation about how nice the beach was at this time of the day. After all, she was there, sitting on the low wall, observing the locals with their baskets, when the fashionable crowds had gone back to their hotel to dress for diner.

His next planned words stayed stuck on his tongue as he recognized his former fiancée, who seemed as surprised as he was.

Just his luck.

Damn.

Standing in a sweaty tennis shirt, his face red from the sun of the day and his pants rolled up to the knees was not the way he would have wished to meet her again, not after the events that had caused them to part ways, not with Abby in the vicinity.

"Why, what a surprise. Hello, Mary."

He had been the first to talk, and he had managed to be civil.

Fifteen-love

"I hope you'll accept my late congratulations for your wedding. I suppose you're celebrating your first anniversary. I remember reading about the ceremony around this time last year."

She did not reply, and a shade of sadness darkened her face for a second.

Thirty-love

"Hello, Richard. Well, I suppose returning the congratulations is in order," she managed curtly, motioning towards Abby and the boys with her umbrella. "I did not take you for the adopting kind of man, though. Or did you forget to tell me a little something I should have known during our engagement? I know a tale about a pot and a kettle…"

In spite of her blatant misunderstanding, she had managed to render him speechless for a second. Damn, she was still biting.

Thirty-fifteen

"Well, the teacher in the family is my brother-in-law, not me, and I don't like to repeat myself. I suppose I told you once the story about my sister's surprise and the unexpected birth of my nephews five years ago, and I didn't care to tell it a second time. It wasn't worth your while, after all," he shot back more bitterly than he thought he would eighteen months or so later.

Mary stayed silent, her eyes fixing the horizon, her shoulders set in a way he had learnt to recognize as a guilty pose.

"I'm sorry. I forgot."

Forty-fifteen

After a long silence, she managed to surprise him and catch him off guard, nonetheless.

"You look good, Richard, and happy." She had uttered the last word in a whisper tainted with a point of envy.

Forty-thirty

For the first time since he had recognized her, Richard observed Mary with more attention, noticing the weight she had lost since he had last seen her, the paleness of her skin, the dark circles under her eyes. In front of him sat a tired woman.

An unhappy woman.

Deuce

Suddenly, winning their argument did not seem so important, and, against his better judgment, he sat by her side on the low wall, careful not to stare at her, setting his eyes on Abby and the boys by the water. In the distance, his sister waved at him in a mocking way, surely thinking he was on his way to another conquest.

"Is everything alright?" he finally said, trying not to sound too much like Crawley. "When I came back to London last spring, I heard that most of your problems were behind you so I didn't contact you…" The accusatory telegram had made him furious, and for a moment, he had been tempted to write to his man of business in London and ask him to finish the Crawleys. Then, he had cooled off, and even had resolved for a few days to help secretly when he would come back from New Zealand. His trip to visit his sister and her family down-under had permitted him to make some good investments in the Australasian press, in Sidney and Auckland especially. Thanks to these operations and his pioneering interest for filmed and radio-diffused information, he was even richer than last year. He could afford to be mean or generous if he wished.

"Well, from a strict economic point of view, things are better, thanks to my grandmother from Cincinnati. However, the scars are still there."

This, he could imagine. In two years, he had not heard a single positive word about the American side of the family. The Crawleys were not fond of people who managed to reach a position above them without inheriting it. In their twisted, narrow world, inheritance was synonymous of merit; hard work and social ascension were tantamount to stealing and disrespect. Owing money to such a family, not only once but twice, had to be unbearable.

Moreover, a quick glance at Mary and her concerned expression showed him she instinctively felt what was said in London: this solution was only temporary, and rural, archaic estates such as Downton were threatened in the present economic context. Great Britain was indebted to its last penny to the United States – ironically enough, the situation of Downton was an interesting reflection of that fact – and the countryside suffered from the competition from America, North and South.

"I tried to convince Papa to stay in our London house for a while, and reduce the costs, but he won't hear a word. Matthew and I could perfectly watch over Downton from Crawley house until we find a more viable solution."

Her voice was cold, full of barely contained resentment.

"Yes, until then, you can't say Downton is saved…"

Mary turned to him as if he had slapped her, staring at him with teary eyes.

Hearing the hard truth was harder than merely imagining it.

Richard shrugged as a way of apology.

"You know me. I'm a practical man. If you wanted comfort, you wouldn't be there but in your husband's arms, swallowing his every word."

The locals had come and gone with their baskets full of crabs and shells. The sun was low in the West and a cool wind came from the sea. Abby and the boys had returned to the hotel, and he needed to go back as well if he wanted to get ready and meet with Eliza. Next to him, Mary was shivering.

It was high time to end this conversation.

Richard was hurting her with his cold assessment of the situation of Downton, and he did not like it. Moreover, he did not want to meet Crawley again: the fact he had forgiven Mary and could be friendly with her did not necessarily mean he would be able to do the same with the rest of the family.

"Well, I sincerely hope you'll find a way out of this mess." He smiled honestly, a rare occurrence around her. "I trust you to push your family in the right direction." If anything, Mary was a strong woman. "You know where you can find me should you need some advice. They say I'm good at making money, and keeping it."

In spite of his light tone, it was not an empty proposition. It was not a joke either. Richard had not published her scandal as a way of retribution as he had threatened. In spite of all his barking, the idea of seeing Mary ridiculed in such a way was unbearable. More than anything, his animosity was directed at her father and her present husband, and their blatant hypocrisy. Secretly helping Mary to save Downton and showing them she was worth so much more than any of them would be a suitable revenge, indeed.

"I'll keep that in mind, thank you. Good bye, Richard."