In response to the following prompt from the great lala-kate: Your antagonist met your protagonist ten years before the story begins. Only one of them remembers the meeting. Write about it from his or her viewpoint. I played with the prompt a bit, getting rid of the antagonist factor, and came up with this: An AU in which Patrick did not die on the Titanic, but rather in an automobile accident in 1924. He and Mary were engaged, but never married, as both of them decided mutually that they could do better elsewhere (the mysterious death of a Turkish gentleman may or may not have had something to do with the decision…) Instead, Patrick remained a bachelor and Mary married Tony Gillingham, who was killed in late 1919 during the Spanish flu epidemic, while Mary was pregnant with their son George. Mary has spent the last five years a widow, and has been secretly searching for a way to ensure that she and her son can keep Downton in the family and away from her father's new heir. But when the solicitor from Manchester comes to meet the family, Mary makes a startling discovery…

I had some trouble with the technicalities of the inheritance and Mary's marriage, so I apologize if I got anything wrong. It's all in good fun! Hope you enjoy!

May 1924

"Stand still, darling," Mary said gently as she smoothed her son's hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You want to look nice when Mr. Crawley comes, don't you?"

Her grandmother, overhearing her, scoffed audibly. "I don't see why he should. As I see it, it's the solicitor that needs to impress us, my dear, not the other way around."

"I don't agree," Mary said immediately.

The Dowager sighed. "Why am I not surprised?"

"We don't need to impress him, surely, but we still must look our best, for our sake as well as his. This is a difficult situation, and we don't need to make matters worse by making him think that we don't want him here."

"Do we want him here?" Edith asked, her tone morose. She had done nothing but sulk since Patrick's death, and while part of Mary understood, the other part of her, the childish part that still remained tucked away even though she knew, as a widow and mother, she ought to be more mature...that was the part that made her want to roll her eyes every time she saw Edith milking her grief for all it was worth.

"Probably not, but Mr. Crawley certainly doesn't need to know that. This whole thing might be a complete joke, but we have to be on our best behavior nonetheless." Mary bent down to gently straighten George's collar, as if this were the end of the matter. She heard her grandmother sigh behind her.

"I don't see why we should expect to hand over the entire estate to this complete stranger. What do we know about this man, aside from his occupation?"

"Well, he served in the war," Robert said immediately. "He was wounded at Amiens, but nothing too serious. And he's a widower."

Mary nodded absently. Her father had told her as much earlier. "His wife died in the same epidemic that took Tony."

Even the Dowager had nothing to say to that.

"I still don't understand how any of this works," Tom spoke up as an impatient Sybbie began an impromptu game of hopscotch beside him. "If Mary's the eldest, then shouldn't she—"

His words were cut off by the roar of an approaching motor. Mary straightened up, swallowing her pride, though she knew she would need it again when she met this Mr. Matthew Crawley. "That'll be them, then."

The Crawley family fell silent, observing these invaders into their midst.

The chauffeur stopped the car at the top of the drive, quickly getting out and opening the door. First to exit was an older woman, no doubt Matthew's mother. Her face was open and kind, her eyes bright and full of curiosity and perhaps more than a little trepidation. Her gray hair was piled neatly atop her head and she was dressed well, if not expensively. Mary almost smiled, but held herself back. Best to wait and see what the woman was like in person.

George fidgeted beside her, and Mary was about to put a hand on his shoulder to steady him when the second figure stepped down from the car.

Mary's heart shuddered to a stop.

It can't be…

It couldn't be him. It had been ten years ago, so long that her memory was surely hazy. No, not him, someone who looked like him, perhaps, but it couldn't be…

Her father had said that Matthew Crawley was a lawyer from Manchester. What could he have possibly been doing in Yorkshire ten years ago?

It couldn't be him.

But it was.

It is.

He seemed to have changed little in ten years. His eyes were the same, although there were faint lines around them now that hadn't been there then—lines that made Mary think that he had once smiled often, but not anymore. His hair beneath his hat was as blonde as ever, without a hint of gray, but then Mary had no way of gauging how old he was. The only major difference was the cane he gripped in his hand, the slight limp he now walked with. His war injury, Mary supposed. Men in Tony's unit had been much the same.

Time had changed him, as it had done her. And yet there could be no doubt in Mary's mind who this man was.

How could she ever forget?

Mary's eyes slid over to Tom to see if he recognized the man as well—after all, he had been there that day too. He had been there when Sybil had tricked Mary into accompanying her to the election count in Ripon, thinking she would be in less danger of Robert's wrath if her sister was there with her. Tom had been there when the event had turned rowdy, then violent, with men shouting and people shoving Mary from all directions. He had heard the man's voice as he'd tried to help them clear a path to safety ("My problem is you," he'd told one of the rabble-rousers; Mary could still recall the tone of his voice, even a decade later). And Tom had been there when Sybil had been pushed and hit her head, blood staining her coat and dress as she'd lost consciousness. "Oh God, please, no," Tom had whispered as he'd lifted her sister into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all, pushing through the crowd to get her to safety.

But Tom had been so preoccupied with Sybil, Mary realized, that he couldn't have seen what happened next—the blonde man with the piercing blue eyes, the one who had been trying to help them, gently taking Mary by the arm and escorting her through the mob. "Are you all right?" he had asked her once they were free of the chaos and had caught up to Tom and Sybil, who still had not awoken. His eyes had searched her face as if looking for some injury or trauma, and Mary had gaped at him a moment before nodding her head. "I'm fine."

The details were hazier after that, ten years of memories taking precedence over a single fleeting moment from 1914. She had gotten caught up with her worry for her sister, and her need to get her home and her head treated as soon as possible. Before she even knew he had gone, the man had vanished from her sight, blending into the dispersing crowd. She had never even found out his name.

Until now, that is.

Mary stood still as she watched her father and mother introduce themselves to Matthew.

"And this is my eldest daughter, Lady Mary. Her late husband was Lord Gillingham."

Matthew didn't appear to know the name, but there was sympathy in his gaze as he studied her. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"You needn't be. It was years ago," Mary replied. Her tone was cool, distant but polite, but there was the faintest hint of a smile around her eyes.

Matthew smiled then, looking down at George. "And who's this little chap?"

"This is my son, George, and my niece Sybil is over there with her father. George, darling, can you say hello to Mr. Crawley?"

George's only response was to make himself scarce as he hid behind his mother's skirts, and Mary couldn't help but laugh. "He's feeling a little shy, I'm afraid. Don't worry. I'm sure he'll come around in no time."

"I hope he does. I should like all of us to be friends."

"It certainly would make things easier," Mary mused, watching as Matthew straightened up to meet her gaze once again. She studied him for a moment, her brown eyes searching his not unlike the way he had looked at her so many years ago.

Nothing. There was nothing in his blue eyes that might indicate that he had even the slightest idea who she was. There was kindness, yes, curiosity, maybe even a bit of nervousness that he was trying his best to hide, but there was no hint of recognition in his gaze.

She had not forgot him, but he had forgotten her. He might have saved her sister's life that night, and he had no idea who she was.

And here he was, set to turn her entire world upside down.