The eldest daughter of the Earl and Countess of Grantham was one of two who took tea with her the afternoon, and for the first time since Matthew had stood again his mother felt as though the universe were smiling down on her.
At the very least, it was giving her an opening.
"Mary, dear—I wondered if I might have a word," her eyebrows raised at Edith, significantly, and a younger sister used to being thrown over in favor of the eldest took the hint. "In private."
A small pang of alarm went off in Mary's head. It was a dangerously familiar sensation, she could not count the number of times she'd felt it during the war…had something happened to him? Was he alright—was he happy?
"We could never be happy now, don't you see?"
No, she thought, beating the painful remembrance back down—he had said we. He still has a chance at it, if he would only let himself have it.
"Of course, Cousin Isobel." She led Matthew's mother into the library, trying not to think about.
They both settled into the comfortable space—it was her father's favorite room in the house for a reason, and Mary could imagine someone else occupying it, many years—but no. She wouldn't think of that now. An awkward silence hung in the air as she waited for Isobel to speak. Apprehension tugged at her like so many niggling doubts, and she wondered if it was her turn to chat, to paste on a false smile and simper about the weather and the size of this season's roses—
"I know you're very busy planning your wedding, and I don't mean to burden you, only—" as the woman across from her hesitated, Mary held her breath, unconsciously.
"What is it?"
"It's…Matthew."
She exhaled.
"What of him?" Even to Mary's own ears the words sounded cold and unfeeling. "Is he…he is quite alright, isn't he?" She looked away from the older woman, to the fireplace, to the rug—to anywhere. "I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say…how could he be, really?"
Isobel did not reply for a moment, instead allowing herself to take in Mary, the very beautiful and profoundly unhappy young woman sitting before her.
She wondered how it had come to this.
"Lavinia's death was a terrible blow, of course. But I can't help feeling," again, her speech halted, and Mary braced herself for the inevitable impact. "That he is carrying around some…other burden."
It was softer, gentler than she'd imagined. Not a direct accusation—and so she could escape it, and would, though at this point she was beginning to wonder why she even tried to conceal when it was so apparent everybody already knew.
"If he is, I am very sorry for it," Mary snapped, trying with little subtlety to drive the tête-à-tête into the ground. Whenever he was mentioned, whenever she heard his name she felt an ember somewhere deep within her breast glow, and she was determined to snuff it out before it burned her again. "But I don't really see what I have to do with it."
If her frigidness was meant to rebuff Isobel Crawley, Mary had underestimated the other woman's resolve.
"You'll forgive me, Mary, when I tell you that I don't believe you." The ember flickered. "Actions speak louder than words, yours not excepting. I know you care very much for Matthew—much more than you are willing, have ever been willing to say."
"Whatever I do or say, Cousin Isobel, it doesn't seem to make a difference—not to him or anyone else." She couldn't help but let the bitterness creep into her voice as she rose from her chair and walked to the window to survey an estate that would never be hers. "I've made my bed, and I must lie in it, just as everyone must."
Isobel stood up, as though she were going to the door, to let the whole thing drop. She had almost made it before a nagging thought made her hesitate and turn around again.
"Before I go, Mary, satisfy my curiosity on one point—" she pulled a small object out of her pocket, something small and dirty and covered with brown cloth. It would be placidly innocuous to anyone but the other woman in the room. "—Is this yours?"
Mary stared at it for a long moment. It was her dog, her lucky charm, sitting in the palm of Matthew's mother's hand—still his after all this time—and when she looked up from it into the other woman's kind eyes so like his her resolve to remain stoic and strong collapsed like a castle of cards. She was crying, not prettily, not delicately into soft, white hands, but great ugly sobs—and Isobel was holding her, with real warmth, as a mother would.
"It's alright, my dear, it's alright." She tightened her hold and Mary felt like a lost child, newly home. Perhaps she was home for the first time in her life.
"No, it isn't…nothing will ever be right again…" She wanted to scream into Isobel's shoulder, to do anything to excise this dull ache that was tearing at her, slowly ripping her soul in two. "It's like he said. We're cursed."
Isobel broke the embrace to look at her, torn between shock and dismay.
"Who said that? Matthew?"
She nodded.
"Why on earth would he say such a thing?"
"He thinks that he and I killed Lavinia," she replied, laughing almost hysterically through her tears. She was tired of holding the secret inside of her—of cleaving tightly to Pamuk, her love, the dance, the kiss, what had been said at the funeral, to all of the things that her soul had bottled up and distilled into a poison, the pain of which brought no relief. There would not be the oblivion of death in marriage to Richard, only years of the dull ache of inward bleeding.
She needed to tell someone—the weight of it all was crushing her.
"Lavinia died of the Spanish flu, Mary," Isobel asserted, disbelieving. "I don't see how you or Matthew could've possibly—"
"She saw us kiss…right before she died. He thinks that the shock of it…that…that…"
Though Mary struggled to say it, Isobel understood—for she understood her son, sometimes too well, to not guess what she meant. Matthew's erratic moods, avoidance of the Big House—the way he never met her eyes whenever Mary or her wedding to Sir Richard were mentioned—everything came into sharp focus.
What she'd said to Cousin Violet on that summer's day in 1914 came back with striking clarity.
"Tell me what happened, dear," she prodded, gently, leading Mary back to the small loveseat.
"Apparently Granny told Matthew that he ought to marry me, only…he felt honor-bound to Lavinia, of course, but…" she trailed off, uncertain.
"But…?"
"It's stupid, really, for me to think…he never even said it."
Poor Matthew…Lady Mary Crawley was not the sort of woman one got over with any ease, and now it was obvious he was as helplessly in love with her as ever. As for Mary…if the way she'd so selflessly nursed her wasn't proof enough of her devotion, the utterly heartbroken woman in front of her was.
Poor Mary, too.
"I rather think if he didn't love you, you both wouldn't be so miserable."
"I can't think why we do it," she laughed, in spite of her soggy handkerchief. "We make each other wretched."
The older woman held up the little dog. "You know, I found this in Matthew's dressing drawer a few months ago. When I suggested it be given to the village children he acted as though I had suggested giving away a Bruegal. I should have guessed it was from you." Isobel examined the little bedraggled creature in her hand with more interest. "When did you give it to him?"
"When he first came back to Downton. I suppose it was rather selfish of me, wanting him to carry around a piece of myself." She dabbed at her eyes, and Isobel could see how weary Mary was, how obviously exhausting she found putting on this façade for the world.
"I don't think selfishness is something anyone would accuse you of, Mary. Your family loves you very much, they want to help you—"
"There's nothing and no one who can help me now," Mary said quickly, with the instinct of someone resolved to her fate. She rose and bowed her head, always the consummate hostess. Just like that, the mask had returned and she was walking to the door. "Thank you for your concern, and for listening to my troubles, but really…nothing has changed."
"You can't mean that, Mary."
"I must get back to preparing for the wedding."
Banally devastated, that was what she sounded like—and as she walked away with the bleak finality of a man walking to the gallows, Isobel felt her courage and the desire the protect her, to understand her, rise.
"…Are you in some sort of trouble?" she blurted out, unthinking. It was the first thing that had come to mind, it had the queer ring of truth to it.
Mary's step faltered.
"Of course not."
Isobel Crawley was not a woman famed for her subtlety, but she could spot a lie, especially when it was as obvious as Mary's. The girl was in trouble, and, never being one to step back and let things happen, she knew exactly what she would do. She may have been accused of being a meddler more than once in her life, but there was a time and place for it, the same as everything else, and this was that time.
Luckily, she knew of at least one other person who was of the exact same mind.
Christmas is just one week away, people…and so my goal is to post my rather silly effort before the special and subsequent AU-ness that will ensue. This story was inspired by just how utterly obsessed everyone in-universe is with Mary and Matthew…I thought it would be fun to test just how far the ridiculous meddling could go. Be warned: this isn't meant to be taken too seriously, and people might have hysterical outbursts. Whatever it takes to get M/M together.