Author's Note: Many thanks to Cyrillah for betaing this! It's the start of a multi-chapter fic about Matthew and Mary's engagement, mainly focusing on Matthew becoming ready to be married. Matthew's POV.


Mary was in the library, her head bowed over a book bound in red leather. He relished, as he always did, the sight of her sleek mahogany hair and her look of rapt attention. Admiring at her was much easier when her focus was elsewhere; sometimes her gaze back at him was entirely too piercing to be comfortable.

After a moment, the jig was up and she glanced in his direction, her welcoming smile warm in a way that still surprised him. He had gotten used to seeing her enthusiasm under a damper, whether by the secrets she kept or the commitments that divided the two of them. Now her expressions, though still reserved, were infused with an honesty he hadn't seen before and were made all the more beautiful for it.

"You." He let out a teasing smile as he spoke to her, a strain of surprise in his voice that was only partially invented.

"Yes, and why shouldn't I be here, in my own library?" She replied archly. "No, don't answer that, I know the answer and it's too depressing." She pursed her lips in feigned suffering.

"Are our mothers' plans for the wedding going that well, then?" He asked, coming to sit down on the settee a safe distance from her.

"I think the main problem," she sighed, sweeping imaginary dust from her dress, "is that they are extravagant in entirely different ways. Your mother is bringing patterns and samples from French dress makers who will have me looking like one of Mrs. Patmore's iced fancies, and you're not going to be able to make your way down the aisle past Mama's flower arrangements."

"Oh dear," he groaned. "Makes me grateful that the only responsibility I have is to finalize the wine selection for the toast."

A small smile curled around Mary's lips that seemed entirely unrelated to the subject at hand. "So how are you going to decide on that?" she asked, a faint challenge in her voice.

He shrugged, helplessly. "Rely on the recommendations of your father, I think."

"Very wise," she responded drily.

"Speaking of your father, where is he? We had an arrangement to go look at a bridge that needs some mending, down in the vale."

"I see. Papa's not in any condition for that, I'm afraid, he's gone to bed with a cold."

"Oh dear. Nothing serious, I hope?" He watched her carefully as she spoke, remembering her stoicism when Cora had been struck with Spanish flu. His memory had been like this in the past few months, events came to him like a sunbeam through a gap in the clouds. Memories he had of Lavinia's suffering, of her ministrations while he was an invalid, of their plans for a future together had broken open. Finally he was able to remember Mary's concealed fear at Cora's illness or the times she had said just the right thing to him in the hospital, telling him the truth he could handle but no more. He remembered snatches of their conversation about her marriage plans and his own, and slotted the missing pieces of Pamuk and her desire for his happiness into the memories of her circumspection. Knowing all this, he didn't so much listen to her response about Robert as he watched it - watched the shape of her lips, the line of her jaw, noted whether she met his eyes or looked away.

"Oh, no, I think he'll be alright by tomorrow." Matthew relaxed as he assessed her lack of concern to be genuine. "I could probably show you the bridge if you like, though I think you'll be disappointed. It's only a tiny footbridge, and half of it has already been claimed by the creek. The game keeper will be very grateful to you if it's fixed, though. He has to add three quarters of an hour to his daily rounds with it out of commission."

"That would be nice, I'd like to get started on it before the wedding frenzy has hit in earnest." He paused, reluctantly considering social mores. "You'd better go along and change, first. And shouldn't we bring someone along, Edith, say, or that new groom...Henry?"

Her sigh was faintly exasperated. "It's only at the bottom of the field, I'll just hold up the hem so it doesn't drag on the grass. And I'm so tired of being chaperoned.

His lips twitched in amusement at her pique as they stood and walked to the hall. "Well, I'll just let your mother know where we're going then."

But she stayed him with a touch on his arm. "Better not," she replied briskly. "Easier to ask forgiveness than permission!" With a cheeky smile, she propelled him out the front door.

"Ahh, that's better," she exclaimed as her feet hit the gravel drive. "I hadn't realized I was feeling quite so caged." She linked one hand with his and held her skirt up with the other, and they walked in quiet contentment down the path to the creek.