A/N: Not sure where this is going maybe just a chapter or two for fun.

Downton Abbey – December 1, 2013

Matthew craned his head looking for the turn off to the great house. One hand draped over the steering wheel, the other holding the directions he had scribbled on a notepad when George Crawley had called to summon him. He glanced down at the paper crumpled in his hand and back up at the road, straining to find the country road leading to the house.

"Jesus, where the hell is the bloody drive way?" He breathed out, shaking his head in frustration. Wealth exasperated him. The last time he had been to Downton was when he was twelve. His parents and he had been included at an extended family celebration of the anniversary of the building of the estate home, which occurred over Christmas. As a twelve year old boy, and one of two Crawley heirs, he had been fascinated by the fairytale quality of the house. He remembered the two-story Christmas tree in the salon, glittering ornaments and sumptuous food. He had liked George Crawley, a distant cousin, who had been extremely kind to him and his parents. Matthew's father was a doctor, and his mother a nurse, who lived a more normal life but still a rather privileged one. They had appreciated George's kindness and sense of family.

Suddenly from behind a hedgerow, the gravel road to the house discreetly appeared on the left. Matthew pulled the steering wheel, turning up the drive, and the large house unfolded in front of him like a mountain of lime stone, glass and spires. Despite his preference for conventional living standards, Downton Abbey never ceased to impress him. He had liked the eldest heir, Michael Crawley, and fleetingly thought back to George's phone call two weeks earlier. Michael was dead. A car accident in Boston. Downton's prince was gone, survived only by his sister, Mary.

The situation left Matthew as the new and reluctant heir. He sighed, thinking about Mary, feeling sorry for her loss but wondering if she was still the prickly shrew she had been as a child. She had been a beautiful little girl, but a selfish conceited brat. The thought sent chills up his spine and he shivered, hoping she was no longer looking after Cousin George.

The blue Volvo serpentined around the front of the house, coming to a crunching stop several yards away from the main entrance. Matthew got out, ran a hand through his blond hair and reached for his sport coat in the backseat. He slipped it on as he approached the door and rang the bell.

~~00~~

Mary Crawley stood in the downstairs powder room eyeing her in the mirror. Using one of her fingers, she gently lifted the skin around one eye bemoaning the first signs of tiny crow's feet. "Damned things," she muttered." I really need to call that plastic surgeon and get a Botox treatment."

The house bell filled the air. She hastily finished washing her hands and headed for the front door, shaking her head. "Matthew Bloody Crawley," she sighed. He had been an annoyingly perfect little boy. An exact replica of his namesake, the long lost 8th Earl; this Matthew Crawley had been a child that people doted on adoringly. She could still recall him playing with a model airplane as the family smiled approvingly and everyone saw the resemblance to great-great Uncle George's father. Mary huffed, dreading his visit. She paused and took a deep breath as her hand grasped the door knob. "Alright then, let's get this ridiculous business over with."

Pulling the door open she saw a man standing with his back to the door. As he turned around, she took in his attire. Dark brown jeans, a light blue shirt open at the collar, and a brown tweed sport coat with a blue and brown silk pocket square stuffed in to the chest pocket. His hair was short, and the same bright blond color she remembered, which blew haphazardly around his head, locks of it brushing over a pair of Ray Bans. His lips formed a gentle smile. "Hello, Mary."

She thought he was positively stunning and her heart was in her throat. She smiled nervously back at him despite herself. "Hello." She stepped to one side. "It's good of you to come. Uncle George will be so happy to see you. Please come inside."

"Thank you," he said breezing past her. He stopped and faced her, his voice sincere and quiet. "I'm so, very sorry about Michael. He was a fine man."

Mary nodded and rubbed her hands together. "Thank you," was all she could say. She averted her eyes, glancing toward a window, and then back. "Well then, follow me. He's back in the smoking room." She said as she began walking.

Matthew nodded and fell in line behind her, admiring her beauty. She was the spitting image of her ancestor, Mary Crawley Blake. "Is he still smoking?" He asked as they walked, wanting to make conversation.

Her expression was kind but confounded. "What do you think?"

He nodded and chuckled. She smelled wonderful. "Well, he's ninety two. What can it hurt at this point?" Following her, he couldn't help but glance down at her bottom as it moved beneath the tailored, navy blue Burberry slacks she wore with a white sweater.

She paused as they passed a large oil painting. Looking up they admired the rendering of Captain Matthew Crawley, who was posed in a World War I Army officer's uniform. "You look just like him, you know." His eyes mesmerized her.

Matthew's eyes moved over the painting and then looked back at her. Perhaps the shrew was gone, he pondered. But she was right—he could see his resemblance to the man who was never Earl, but who was George's father. "Is that a good thing?" he teased her.

Mary cocked her head. "He was quite handsome, so I'd say it can't hurt."

He looked up at the large painting and then back at her. "That's quite a testimonial."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself. The first Mathew Crawley was a genuine war hero who saved the entire estate." She turned on her heel and spoke over her shoulder. "And you? Are you still playing with airplanes?"

His brow furrowed. The shrew lived. "As a matter of fact I am." He caught up to her as she rounded a corner toward the east wing.

"Well isn't that special," Mary said in a droll and intentionally condescending tone. She didn't want Matthew sniffing around the estate. He was the heir, but as long as her uncle was alive the estate was still her baby, which she had successfully renovated and branded. Aside from tours and weddings, the family still occasionally entertained lavishly at Downton, which she oversaw and took great pride in.

"The house is resplendent, Mary. You've done a wonderful job." He said looking around as they walked.

She peered over at him. "Thank you. That's exactly what the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge said when they were here over the summer. But I'm so glad you approve as well."

He detected the sarcasm in her voice and clenched his jaw in frustration. "Look, I feel awful about Michael and I deeply regret my position in all this." He was huffing as he spoke. Mary had picked up their pace. "But I can assure you, Mary, I have no intention of interrupting anything you have in place here. There will always be a place for you at Downton."

She stopped. There will always be a place for you at Downton… The words stung and echoed around in her head, already making her feel like an outsider. "Well what's done is done." She said opening the door to the smoking room.

"Mary, please we can talk about the est…"

She cut him off. "He's just in here. Let's not keep him waiting."

~~00~~

Matthew's eyes soaked in the beautiful antique filled room; its walls adorned with more oil paintings of dead Crawleys. He smiled at the sight of George; his tall, silver haired frame elegantly slouched in a leather club chair, puffing a pipe. His reading glasses were perched on top of his head and he was wearing a burgundy red velvet smoking jacket, white shirt and a necktie.

George had been gazing out a window, but his attention and his tall silhouette turned toward them. He immediately smiled at the sight of Mary. "Ah, my dear, you bring our dashing visitor." He said pushing himself up from the leather chair with one hand, gripping the silver orb of his cane with the other.

Matthew immediately stepped over to him and reached out to help the old gentleman. "Please, Lord Grantham, be careful!" He kept his voice light but respectful.

The Earl laughed and tapped his cane on the floor. "Get a hold of yourself, Matthew, and let's dispense with formalities." His voice was filled with affection and humor. "Please call me George." He extended a steady hand.

Matthew smiled and let out a chuckling breath and shook his hand. "As you wish, Cousin George."

"Good Man!" George laughed openly and sincerely and clasped Matthew's hand, then leaned over and gave Mary a kiss on her cheek. He looked back at Matthew. "She's beautiful isn't she?"

Matthew looked at Mary and agreed, she was breathtaking, but bit down the urge to comment that she had the temperament of a snake.

Mary blushed and rolled her eyes. "Honestly, uncle, your eyesight is as bad as your jokes. And your attempts at flattery are shameless."

George laughed again and patted her arm. "I see perfectly fine, young lady and I mean every word of it. But I think we could do with a spot of tea."

She relented, her eyes softening, and noticed a tea service on the coffee table. "You sit. I'll pour."

George eyed the new heir, both hands propped on the cane. "You drink tea, young Crawley?"

"Yes, sir. My favorite is Earl Grey."

The old man smiled a broad, flash of perfectly straight teeth. "What a coincidence. So is mine." His upper class, Cambridge accent rolled the words around like marbles in his mouth.

Mary held a cup and saucer. "Where would you like me to set this?"

He waved around the coffee table. "Let's sit here, shall we?"

She set the cup down, and then another. She spoke conversationally as she poured and they all began to get settled. "Uncle, Matthew says he's still playing with model airplanes."

Matthew paused, cup in hand. He smiled knowingly before sipping the hot, aromatic brew. George caught his eye. "How quaint for a man who flew forty six combat missions in Iraq and Afphganistan."

Matthew's eyes shot up at him. "You've been checking up on me." He murmured suspiciously.

Mary paused and looked at Matthew, her brows knitted in surprise and embarrassment. "You're a pilot?"

"Guilty as charged." Matthew smiled and shrugged. "Twelve years in the R.A.F."

"Don't be so modest," George pronounced proudly. He looked at Mary. "This chap was one of the most decorated R.A.F pilots of the war and a credit to his family." George took delight in his cousin's accolades. He looked back at Matthew. "Tell her what you do now."

Mary looked back at Matthew pensively. "What do you do now?"

Matthew let out a self conscious sigh. "I'm a pilot for British Airways."

George chuckled. "And not just any pilot," he nudged Mary, "but the youngest senior captain in the history of British Airways." He was bursting his buttons.

Mary looked nonplussed. "Heavens." She realized Matthew Crawley was still the perfect boy that everyone adored. She didn't smoke anymore but suddenly wanted a cigarette. She crossed her arms defiantly. "I didn't realize I was going to be in such illustrious company."

Matthew pressed his lips together wanting to change the subject. "Well as much as I appreciate your approval, Cousin George, I'm sure you didn't summon me to review m C.V. and boor Mary to death. I presume you want to discuss the estate."

George finished a long sip of tea and set his cup down in to the saucer with an elegant clink. "Yes, of course, quite right. There is something you can help me with and it does have to do with the estate." He let out a sigh and his voice grew more serious. "Michael's body is in Boston. I want to personally bring him home and I was hoping you could help me."

Matthew straitened up in his seat eagerly. "Yes, of course, it would be an honor to make arrangements for you with the airline." He leaned forward, his arms on his knees. "What can I do to help?"

George smiled expectantly. "I want you to fly Mary and I to Boston."

Mary choked on her tea.

Thank you for reading!