"That certainly didn't end well."

Lady Mary Crawley sat alone at the dining table in her house in Eaton Square. She'd just read a bit of gossip in the morning paper about the divorce of Viscount Gillingham and his wife, the former Mabel Lane Fox. Adultery. Cruelty. Typical, she thought to herself. Shrugging her shoulders and rolling her eyes, she reached for her second cup of coffee. As a wealthy single woman in 1927 London, she counted her blessings that she did not succumb to the oily charms of men who sought to woo her. She had seen too many disastrous marriages and had no intention of getting married just for the sake of appearances. She was past the age of caring whether she ever married although her mama still wrote her regularly to inquire if she had "met anyone nice" yet. Oh, Mama….

She'd had her chance and missed it.

She couldn't allow regret to rule her life, yet what if? popped up occasionally in the dim recess of her mind, especially when she settled into bed and allowed loneliness to gain a foothold. For the most part, however, she was content with her life. Upon her death six years ago, Aunt Rosamund had left her Painswick House and a considerable settlement to cover its upkeep, no doubt in part to make amends for the adverse effect she'd had on Mary's life in 1914. Mary jumped at the chance to leave Downton because living under the watchful eyes of her parents (and others) was becoming more and more tiresome. They'd never really gotten over the Pamuk incident, and when a vindictive Richard published the story after she broke with him, she felt smothered by the recriminations and whispers that filled the air around Downton. Of course, the story followed her to London, but her affluence certainly served as a buffer, and the aristocrats with whom she socialized valued her for her ability to host elegant soirees and soon ignored her tainted reputation. What the public didn't know, however, was aside from some groping and uncomfortably passionate kissing, Pamuk died before they actually had intercourse. She was a thirty-five-year-old virgin who likely would remain so for the rest of her life.

Really, though, she was kidding herself if she didn't acknowledge her main reason for leaving. Matthew's marrying Lavinia knocked the stuffing out of her. They had locked eyes several times during the ceremony, and the way he looked at her infuriated her.

With longing.

With regret.

With love.

How dare he look at her that way when he had the power to prevent it?

Sitting stoically in the church, a smug Richard by her side, Mary had the sudden realization that marriage was something she no longer desired. Richard's threats meant nothing to her, and she resolved to end their engagement during that visit. She was in a fog for days after the wedding, and when Matthew and Lavinia came to dinner after returning from their honeymoon, she realized she was trapped at Downton, doomed to spend her life in a web of misery from which there was no escape. Months passed as she struggled to cope with the hollowness of her life. Loving and losing Matthew placed a weight on her soul from which she could never escape. Then, Aunt Rosamund died, and she had a way out.

Every year away from Downton lessened her pain. She no longer dwelt on what might have been.

Always the pragmatist, Lady Mary Crawley got on with her life.

Life in London suited her because there were no dinners where she would have to sit across from Matthew and try to avoid his gaze. She no longer had to feign interest in Lavinia's simpering discussions about living in Crawley House. In London there were intimate soirees to plan and to attend, letters to write, investments to make, and books to enjoy. Occasionally, she attended social gatherings on the arm of a soon-to-be-disappointed suitor. She liked the theatre although she hadn't attended a production since she removed the hand of the odious Earl of Langham from her thigh during a particularly tedious comedy of manners. (The memory of that experience always made her smile at the irony.) Except for occasional visits to Ireland to see Sybil, Tom, and their children, she rarely traveled, having no interest in dealing with the problems incurred by traveling for pleasure with only a maid. For the most part, she preferred the solitude her wealth afforded her.

She did enjoy the Season, though, which provided her the chance to see her mama and papa for a month or so. The party she hosted at Painswick House—she kept the name in honor of her aunt—was one of the grandest of the Season. The consummate hostess, Mary left nothing to chance. She oversaw every step leading up to it, from choosing its theme to hiring extra footmen. Everyone who was anyone attended in hopes of rubbing elbows with the Prince of Wales and other royal personages. People were intrigued with Lady Mary and her ability to attract such attention and yet remain such an enigma. She shunned public events during the Season, preferring intimate gatherings or private parties comprised of people with whom she was well acquainted.

At thirty-five, her beauty had yet to begin to fade; if anything, she actually was more beautiful than when she relocated to London. She could be counted on to reflect and refine the latest fashion trends. She certainly was no flapper, but she had the figure of one—long, slim, and willowy. She had made the acquaintance of Coco Chanel on a trip to Paris in 1923, and now she dressed almost exclusively in Chanel's designs, making trips to her salon four times a year. Her long chestnut tresses had gone by the wayside long ago, replaced by a sleek bob that accentuated her perfect cheekbones and set off her eyes. Women eyed her with admiration and envy; men eyed her with desire. People speculated as to why she chose to remain single, for, surely, she could have her pick of any of the single aristocratic men (and some of the married ones, too) who buzzed around her when she attended social functions.

She just wasn't interested. She had met no one who could fill the void in her life. Any physical needs she had could be dealt with in the privacy of her bedroom. She knew her own body well.

The morning she read about Tony and Mabel's divorce, three weeks had passed since the party at Painswick House. It had been a great success if the notes she had since received were any indication. Even the Prince was more effusive than usual although Mary suspected that his enthusiasm stemmed from the successful tryst he and a sultry blonde engaged in upstairs in the blue bedroom. Nevertheless, she was glad to have peace back in her life.

Her parents were coming for luncheon today before their return to Downton. Living away from them had eased the tension she had felt while living at the Abbey, so she was much more relaxed in their presence. In spite of their repeated entreaties, she had not been to Downton in six years, so this visit was something they all looked forward to.

They didn't understand why she wouldn't return.

She wouldn't tell them. Ever.

Of course, it was because of Matthew.

Matthew, who proclaimed that she was his stick as they danced their last dance.

Matthew, who promised he never would—he never could—despise her.

Matthew, who kissed her passionately and then left her bereft.

Matthew, who married Lavinia because he was so damned honorable.

Matthew, who broke her heart.

The longer Mary stayed away from Downton, the less painful the memories became. She had learned to live with them, pushing them back into that dim recess. Her steely resolve had served her well since she was a child, and it continued to do so since she moved to London. Sitting with her mama and papa at luncheon, she enjoyed hearing the news from Downton. Edith had delivered her second child with Sir Anthony four months ago, and her darling Sybil was still in Ireland with Tom. Her third child was due any day, so Mary made her mama promise to contact her as soon as her niece or nephew was born. Granny was quite frail but well, and Mary admitted to herself she missed her most of all. It had been a few years since Granny had traveled to London, so there was a good chance Mary might not ever see her again. Still, that wasn't enough for her to visit Downton. A prolific letter writer, Granny stayed in touch regularly, and Mary could hear her voice in each one:

You realize, of course, you will have to return for my funeral, and then it will be too late to ask my forgiveness for your moving away.

No, I will not have one of those contraptions in my house. If you wish to speak to me, come into my parlor.

If Isobel uses that imperious tone with me one more time, I shall shatter her great skull with my cane.

If you insist, I no longer will mention his name, but you're denying me the opportunity to expound upon the shortcomings of that little blonde piece, more's the pity.

I miss you dreadfully. You know you're most like me, so it's like missing a part of myself.

"And what of Carson and Anna? Are he and Mrs. Hughes still enjoying wedded bliss? And Anna and Bates's son? Is he as adorable as he seems to be in his pictures?" After Anna and Bates married, they left service and bought the Grantham Arms to run as a hotel. Mary still missed Anna's sweet smile and pleasant demeanor.

"Oh, Mary, he really is such a precious boy," exclaimed Cora. "He even manages to get a chuckle out of Carson and your papa when Anna brings him to the house."

Robert sniffed. "There's a reason children should be seen and not heard, my dear."

"Robert, don't be silly. You know you don't mind when he visits."

"I suppose. Still…."

"Carson and Mrs. Hughes are fine, too, dear," interrupted Cora. "They really are such a good team. I don't know what we'd do without them. I dread the day when they retire. Who in the world will replace them?"

"Who indeed?" replied Mary. She couldn't imagine the Abbey without Carson's formidable presence.

"You know, Mary, Matthew has taken over the management of the Abbey's business affairs now that Murray has retired," said Robert. "You ought to consider allowing him to look over your investments. He's done a marvelous job with ours. We've never been in better shape financially."

Mary blanched and her back straightened visibly. Her papa never seemed to miss an opportunity to extol Matthew's virtues. It irritated her to no end.

She answered in a measured tone, "How nice for you, Papa, but I'm perfectly happy with my present advisor. I have no need of Cousin Matthew's services."

Robert noticed her use of the honorific and shook his head. "I just thought…."

"Never mind, Robert. You know Mary is doing quite well managing her own affairs." Cora suspected Matthew had everything to do with her eldest daughter's refusal to visit Downton. She and Robert had spoken many times about this, yet he continued to scoff at the idea. Mary's reaction today solidified her belief.

"Quite right. Well, we need to be going if we're going to get to the train on time." He regretted bringing up Matthew's name since it obviously disturbed his daughter although he hoped by doing so he could prove to Mary how valuable Matthew was to the family. He always regretted that Mary and Matthew hadn't managed to solve whatever problems they faced and had married. Lavinia was a sweet girl, but she definitely was not countess material. Such a weakling. Such a barren shadow. Such a pity.

After her parents left the house, Mary leaned against the closed door. She so was enjoying the visit until his name was mentioned. Would she always react so adversely when she heard it?

She shook her head and walked slowly to her sitting room to answer Granny's latest letter.