"Go get them," purrs Mary to Matthew over their new son, who at this point happens to be oblivious to their joy and is absorbed with his task of greedily pulling at his mother's bodice in hopes of a meal to celebrate his entry into the world. "But first," continues his new mother, "I think I've earned a well-deserved kiss."

"Oh, you certainly have," agrees Matthew as he leans in to savor his overwhelming joy that has enveloped them both, the complete love and family that so many times seemed out of their grasp. At long last, fate has sealed their future: Downton has survived the war to end all wars, and they have succeeded in producing their very own heir, the first of what Matthew hopes will be many. As soon as Mary is finally up to it, of course, he thinks to himself rather mischievously. He simply can't wait!

The future seems limitless and boundless; the darkest days of their lives are truly over now. Even the weather is perfect, he muses, as if nature itself has sensed the need for a truly beautiful moment for the future Earl and Countess of Grantham.

So absorbed in their joy as a family that they fail to see the strange dark-haired boy with the odd puffy orange vest and white shoes adorned with the odd red swirls sneaking towards Matthew, placing an envelope into the pocket of his jacket, unbeknownst even to the hovering, beaming Anna.

All too soon, Matthew tears himself away from Mary's arms as she retains her rocking of their son. He walks backward, bright smile still in place, wanting to savor the beautiful scene as long as possible…and nearly bumps into the door frame in the process.

Stumbling to right himself, he sheepishly turns the opposite way…and feels a strange rustling in his pocket. Puzzled, he pulls out the envelope, simply addressed to "Mr. Matthew Crawley," and finds a letter. Chills run up his spine as his smile slowly dissolves into a puzzled frown and cold foreboding freezes his warm, happy glow. Within seconds, the letter rattles along with his now clammy, shaky hands clutching it as though for dear life:

"Dear Mr. Crawley,

"To begin with, congratulations on the birth of your new son. You don't know me, but I am an American, and I have come from the future to warn you that, impossible as it may seem to you now, within the next hour, you will lose your life in a car crash.

"Worse still, your wife will endure an extensive grieving period that will culminate with her marriage to a professional car racer who will eventually support your estate through the profession of used car salesman!

"For her sake, and for the sake of your new son, please take the necessary precautions. And for God's sake, please KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD!

"Sincerely, Marty McFly."

His spinning thoughts are pierced by the screech of tires, and his piercing blue gaze floats to the window where a cloud of dust is sliced by a strange silver vehicle of some sort. That's a rather jolly-looking model, he muses vaguely, as it zips through the path at a terrific pace leaving two trailing flames in its wake.

Soon, he realizes, that's all that is left of the vehicle.

Unnerved, he runs towards the phone and asks the operator to connect him to Downton. Once connected, he asks in a shaky voice for Cora.

"Matthew, what's wrong?" asks a gentle yet slightly worried voice. "Is Mary all right? What about the baby?"

"The baby?" Matthew pants. "Oh, yes, he's absolutely beautiful and perfect, and Mary is tired but fine."

"A boy! Matthew, a boy! No wonder – that's marvelous news! But why-"

"Oh, it's just that there's just been a change of plans," Matthew explains, his gaze fixed on the odd fire. "I'd just like to stay with my new family while we wait and plan our future. Could you please have Robert bring the others in his own car?"

Walking away from the phone, Matthew relaxes a bit and calmly yet lazily glances over the signature of the writer: "Marty McFly." Odd - he claimed to be an American, yet perhaps he could have been a Scotsman along with the deerstalking session he had hastily abandoned at the news of Mary's time. It doesn't matter really, but for an inexplicable reason, the name "George McFly" comes to him unabated.

"George Crawley," he muses out loud to himself, a smile creeping back into his features. "Now that would be a lovely name!"