Morning Walk
Summary: Every morning, Mary and Tom take a walk. Largely canon-compliant through to the 2013 Christmas Special and beyond.
A/N: I seem to have developed an affinity for these two. Inspired by the soundtrack to Joe Wright's Pride and Prejudice.
Disclaimer: Downton Abbey belongs to ITV and Julian Fellowes. I just wrote this for fun, with no copyright infringement intended.
###
Mary finds it amusing that Tom likes to walk. Not because there's anything wrong with that, but because he first came to them as chauffeur. He used to drive her places and now all they do is walk.
Their first walk came in the weeks following Sybil's death. Tom became a ghost once Sybil gone, a figure that prowled the halls at all times of the day and night, white-faced and drifting.
"I'm worried about Tom, Mary." Matthew says as he prepares to go to London early one morning.
Mary's half-asleep as she joins him at their window. There's a lone figure with Isis, too robust and short to be her father. The gait is familiar; Tom has started haunting the grounds, rather than Downton itself.
"He's just lost his wife, Matthew." Mary's afraid that her sister's death will turn her back into that chilly person she was before Matthew came and made everything inside her bloom. Matthew promises that it won't happen; how does Tom cope, cut adrift from Sybil with no anchor like she has?
"I know … will you talk to him, while I'm gone?"
"What am I to say to him?" It sounds harder than it did in Mary's head, so she softens it with, "I don't even know how to live without my sister, Matthew. How am I to help Tom live without her?"
"I didn't say help him, Mary. Just … you can be warm, you know. I know you think you can't but you can."
Mary finds Tom in the nursery, bouncing his daughter on his lap. His cheeks are flushed and bright and his whole focus is on the little girl in front of him so he doesn't hear Mary when she slips into the room and takes a seat. She stares at Tom's forlorn face and thinks about Matthew's words. You can be warm, you know.
She clears her throat, delicately of course. It's a small sound in a silent room and Tom's head jerks upwards.
"Lady Mary. I didn't hear you come in."
"Its alright, no harm done." Mary stares at her black skirt, smoothes down a crease. She feels like she has worn enough black to last a lifetime. "I saw you walking, this morning."
"Couldn't sleep."
"That's understandable." You can be warm, Matthew thinks so. Be warm, to your dead sister's husband. Be warm, to your niece's father. Be warm, because Tom's world has ended and he's a good man and you are a good woman. "I was thinking … Matthew has gone to London for the week. He won't be back until Friday. I've never seen Downton at sunrise."
Tom smiles, if you can call it that. "That's very kind of you, Lady Mary, but I don't need you to walk with me."
"Its Mary, Tom. You're family now, remember?"
Tom looks away, returns his attention to his daughter. "Good day, Mary."
Mary's hand lingers on the door, wanting to say more. I failed, Matthew. You were wrong to put so much faith in me.
She pulls the door closed and leaves Tom to his grief.
Mary's awake the next day, not able to sleep because Matthew isn't there with her. How did she manage, before he came into her bed and made the sheets so warm and inviting? So she sits at the window and watches her brother-in-law with Isis in the dark morning mist, feels her own grief unfurl in her stomach. She misses Sybil so much that she can't find the words.
Sunrise comes like a slow yawn against the trees and the hills and Mary has never seen anything more beautiful. Its all lazy yellows and oranges and it groans and pushes and floods the land with beauty and light and warmth.
Mary doesn't see Tom come in from her window, but he's there when she ventures downstairs for breakfast.
"I didn't see you come back from your walk this morning." She slides into the chair opposite him.
"I haven't been back long." There's a slight dirt smudge on Tom's cheek, his clothes smell fresh and full of nature.
Mary sips her tea, nods. "I saw my first sunrise this morning. I don't think I've ever seen anything so beautiful."
"It was very nice."
Mary sets down her cup and stares at her brother-in-law. You can be warm, Mary. "I'm sure it would be particularly spectacular from the ridge about a mile from here. I thought that tomorrow morning we might walk up there together, you and I. What do you say?"
"I don't think I would be particularly good company, Mary."
"Well we wouldn't have to talk. Sometimes talking spoils a good walk, don't you think?"
Tom reaches for his tea, adds sugar and milk. "As you please."
###
Mary isn't exactly sure what one should wear for a sunrise walk with a grieving-brother-in-law, eventually settles on a woollen dress and thick stockings, a silk blouse with pearl buttons that Matthew loves and she wants to feel like he is there with them, as this whole thing was his idea. She wears her sturdiest, most comfortable shoes and a thick woollen coat in red with a matching hat.
"I think its very nice, what you're doing." Anna finds Mary's warmest gloves and presses them into Mary's hands.
"Tom's family. Matthew thinks it's a good idea, and its what Sybil would have wanted."
Tom's waiting for her in the hallway, hat in his hand. Like her he's dressed thinking that it would be cold, with shoes that look a lot more comfortable than Mary's. He gives her a brief nod when she greets him, and then they set off.
Mary's no great walker and Tom's pace is a little faster than she would like, but she bears it without complaint. Dawn is breaking and Isis is soon lost chasing squirrels or rabbits, and soon it is just Mary and Tom and the crunch of gravel beneath their feet. Several times Mary opens her mouth to speak until she remembers her words to Tom and she presses her lips together.
They reach the ridge just as the sun peeks through the land, yellows and oranges and everything warm. Mary's heart is racing by the time they reach the ascent, her blood is pumping and a curl has slipped its place under her hat.
"Beautiful." She breathes into the morning, her face bathed in the sunlight. "Just beautiful."
Tom stands to one side, several feet from her. His cheeks are wet as he watches the sun rise. Mary opens her mouth, to offer words of comfort, but no words come. So she just stands next to him as they watch the sun rise together.
When Mary returns home she finds a blister the side of a shilling on her right foot and a run in her stockings, but she still says, "So I'll see you tomorrow?" To Tom before they all retire to bed.
###
Matthew joins them, upon his return from London. Mary's feet harden and Matthew buys her some practical shoes from Rippon made from leather as soft as silk. He is such easy company, her husband, easy to talk to and easy to listen to. He is like the sun that she sees every morning, warming her like nothing else. He stands on one side of Tom, afraid that if he takes Mary's hand or arm it will just upset his friend, who has no hand to take, so the three of them walk every morning according to the sun. Sometimes Matthew will offer a word about the wildlife, or the plants, or a snippet he has learned about Downton's history; he even finds facts that Mary herself doesn't know.
Tom doesn't say anything throughout these walks, but he's there every morning just the same.
###
"I'm thinking of taking Sybil away." Tom's voice is soft, soon swallowed up by the early morning dew. Despite the time of year its still cold in the mornings; the three of them are still wearing winter coats. "Ireland, or maybe Liverpool."
Matthew looks stricken. "Tom, are you sure?"
"No. But I can't stay here."
"Of course you can." Mary reaches for Matthew's hand. "Tom, you can't leave."
"I can't stay here." Tom shakes his head. "Everywhere I go, all I see is her. What kind of father can I be to Sybbie when all I see is her mother?" He stares out across the land that his wife called their home. "We have family there. Is it so wrong for me to want her to know them?"
"You must speak with Tom." Mary says as she and Matthew lie in bed that night, moonlight on bare skin. "He can't take Sybil away."
"She's his daughter, Mary." Matthew presses feather-light kisses along her arms. "He must try to make a life for them. It must be so hard to do it here, with Sybil gone."
"We are not so wholly horrible, are we?"
"Not at all." Matthew kisses her with a little more force. "But you aren't Tom's people. You know he feels strange, being here."
"But we are Sybil's." Mary clings to Matthew's arm, weakness she will never let anyone but him see. "I would hate to think of any child of ours not knowing Downton as I do."
Matthew strokes Mary's hair. "You know it isn't your decision. But I will speak to him, if you wish."
The two men are gone the next day; Mary leaves them to it and takes Sybil for a walk. The little girl is so like her mother that Mary cries on the walk back from the village. What she wouldn't give to hear her sister laugh or talk politics with her father. But Sybil is dead and alive all at the same time, so Mary hugs her niece as hard as she can and waits for Matthew and Tom to come home.
###
They walk for miles in rain and snow, sometimes three of them, sometimes two, it doesn't much matter which. Sometimes they talk, most times they stay silent. They always stop when they reach the ridge, that beautiful place where the sun always shines, and its always the most beautiful thing that Mary's ever seen. Sometimes, its so beautiful that Mary feels tears on her skin. The sun always takes them before they reach her chin. And Mary likes to think, although she'd never admit it, that its actually Sybil, wiping away her tears and thanking her and Matthew for taking care of Tom when she isn't able to.
###
There are no more walks after Matthew dies. There are no more walks, no more feather-light kisses on Mary's skin, no more gentle smiles and you can be warm. There is no sun. There is just nothing but a baby that cries throughout the funeral and won't stop crying and a picture on the mantle and cold sheets that are never warm.
Mary feels eyes on her, of course. She feels her father's worry and the way he tries to shield her from the estate's affairs. She feels her mother's insistent worry and concern, her grandmother's practical questions because her grandmother is living proof that life always goes on. Edith tries her hardest to make sympathetic noises but the two sisters have never been close and Mary doesn't expect that to start now, not when Gregson goes to Germany and Edith suddenly has more pressing problems. Carson and Anna and Bates, even cold-hearted Thomas all stare at her with soft eyes as she ghosts through the estate and she wishes that she was invisible because it there's one thing that Mary hates its being pitied.
"The grounds are looking nice, this time of year." Tom spoons warm porridge into his mouth one chilly autumn day. "I thought you might want to get some fresh air. You've been shut in this house for months. People are starting to forget what you look like."
Mary pushes her food around her plate, cuts it into smaller and smaller pieces to give the impression she's actually eating. "I see enough from my window, thank you, Tom."
Tom takes a drink of tea, a generous slurp rather than a dainty sip. Even after all this time he still isn't one of her people, her people who have tiptoed around her like she's a fragile breakable thing. Instead, its Sybil's Irish chauffer husband who says, "Mary, you've been in the land of the dead too long. Matthew wouldn't want this."
"How would you know what Matthew wanted?"
"I know it wouldn't have been this." Tom sets down his spoon, ignores the bug-eyed expressions Thomas and Carson are throwing his way. "Anna's laid your coat and hat out on the bed. You'll need to wear those shoes that Matthew brought you, and your gloves. Can't have you getting a chill. I'll meet you down here in ten minutes."
Mary pushes her plate away. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Tom, but-"
"Ten minutes, Mary. Come on, we'll bring the babies. They need fresh air as much as you do."
George. Mary's heart pulls when she thinks of her and Matthew's son. This wasn't our arrangement. I never wanted to do this alone. I can't do this alone. Why, why did you have to leave?
The coat is the same one she wore when she and Tom first went for their walk, cheery red with a matching hat. It reminds Mary of the blood they found on the side of the road. Her parents don't know but Mary went there, early one morning, not long after it had happened. It hadn't rained and the blood had dried, dark and hard against the ruined earth and tree.
She sets the coat aside in favour of a green one. No black; she cannot bear any more black.
True to his word, Tom is waiting for her in the hallway. Sybil's walking now but George is in a pram, two beady eyes swaddled in fluffy blankets. He gurgles and smiles when he sees Mary and she wants to turn around and go back to her bedroom and shut the door.
"I'll take George." Tom's wearing worn leather gloves and they creak when he takes the pram. "Why don't you take Sybil?"
Sybil. Mary stares at the young girl, so like her mother expect across the eyes that are the colour of the Irish Sea. Her niece gurgles happily, reaches for Mary's hand with chubby fingers. She's surprisingly strong and just as determined as her mother; nothing on earth is going to stop her lurching and struggling after her father on chunky legs.
"Mary?" Tom stops in the hallway. "Are you coming?"
"Yes." Mary takes Sybil's hand and follows Tom outside.
Its chilly outside, colder than Mary thought it would be. Their pace is slow but Sybil soon tires and Tom carries her, leaving Mary to push George. She looks at the handle, the blanket that her grandmother sent from America, the gravel on the path, anywhere but George's eyes. She looks at George and she sees Matthew and she can't bear to think about taking this walk without him.
Tom's lilt is soothing and slow, gentle and kind and he walks her through the changes that have happened since she last took this stroll with him. Mary hears but doesn't listen, his voice like gentle waves she can imagine crashing against a beach or great ship. She and Matthew talked about going to America, taking a cruise even though the Crawleys don't seem to do well on boats. Or cars.
Eventually they reach the ridge but the sun is clear in the sky. There's a smattering of dark clouds, bad weather ahead. Mary stares at the golden orb in the sky and feels colder than she has in a long time.
"Its colder here than I expected." Tom's leaning against a tree, watching Sybil walk, his hand on George's pram. "We shouldn't stay here too long."
"Please don't ever bring me here again." Mary turns and walks down the path and Tom has to struggle to keep up with her.
The walk tires Mary and by dinner she's falling asleep, half-afraid that her head will hit the soup bowl and splash Mrs Patmore's dinner onto the white cloth. For the first time in a long time, she doesn't dream and wakes when it is still dark. The house is still and she wanders the halls. Downton is never empty; there is always someone there to light fires, answer the phone or the door, someone to wait on her every whim. But now, with the house largely asleep, Mary wonders if this silence, this emptiness, is what it must be like when no-one lives here.
Dawn is creeping on Mary when she sets foot outside, her feet heavy on the gravel. Its cold and she's glad for her coat. There's early morning dew everywhere, even in the air, and Mary's face is damp with a thin sheen of moisture as she makes a new route around the property that should be hers if the world was more just. But its unfairness brought her Matthew and George; doesn't that make up for it, even if it is just a little?
The dark makes her pay more attention to her surroundings, and as Mary walks she sees what Tom was talking about: renovated buildings, different crop pastures, even the noises made by animals. She finds a field of cows and stands at the fence, watching the animals amble around without a care in the world. One comes closer; it's much bigger than she realised and its enormous mouth moves backwards and forwards as it chews, beautiful black eyes staring at Mary with undisguised curiosity.
"Lady Mary."
Mary turns around to find the farmer standing behind her, staring at her like he's seen a ghost.
"Good morning."
"I, uh … are you alright, m'lady?"
"I'm fine." Mary pulls herself up to her full height, difficult as that is when one's heels are sinking into mud. "I hear that some changes have been made to the estates, since … well, recently."
The farmer tips his hat although his terrified expression doesn't shift. "Yes, m'lady."
Mary smiles. "I look forward to you telling me about these cows."
###
Tom's out on his morning walk when he hears them. He'd recognise Lady Mary's voice anywhere, but he's surprised when he rounds the corner and finds her talking to one of Downton's farmers with a rapt expression on her face. Her hair's a little wilder than usual and her shoes muddy, and one of the cows is paying far too much attention to the flower in her hat, but her eyes are sharp and she nods and asks questions that the farmer is attempting to answer as best he can.
Tom smiles to himself and backs away before Mary spots him, but she calls his name before he's gone ten steps.
"Are there any other changes you and my father have made to the running of this estate?"
Tom smiles and tips his hat as she joins him. The flower is missing from her hat but she hasn't noticed. "A great many, Lady Mary."
"I look forward to hearing about them."
###
Their walks become more, than what they were. They are exercise, a chance to strategize about the estate, to discuss her father's plans when they disagree and need to offer an alternative, to talk about their children, and on occasion, other things.
"I'm worried about Edith." Mary says to Tom one spring day. "She's talking about going to Germany to search for Gregson."
"Your sister has had poor luck with suitors. Although I hear that your luck is about to change."
Mary sighs. "Not you, too. These walks are the only chance I get to get away from my parents' scheming."
Tom smiles. "They just want you to be happy."
"They want you to be happy too, but they aren't parading suitors in front of you."
"You know that isn't what they're doing."
Mary's very quiet for a long time. "I do not wish to get married again, Tom."
"You're still grieving."
"Do you want to marry again?"
Grief passes over Tom's face but its caught and tucked away in a quick, practised motion. "Once was enough for me."
"See? We are not so different after all, are we?"
###
Gillingham, Napier and Blake all try to entreat her to walk with them, during their frequent visits to Downton.
"You must allow me to escort you around the estate." Tony says as they stroll in Downton's shadow on a warm summer day. "Tom's told me how beautiful the estate is, although I'm sure it could never be as beautiful as my companion."
Mary smiles, although she feels a little ill inside. Tony's nice, just like Evelyn and Charles are nice, but she thinks about taking a walk with either of them and goes a little cold. "Cows and pigs? Not really your thing, is it, Tony?"
"It could be." Tony takes her hand and squeezes and Mary wonders if he could warm her bedsheets the same way Matthew did. "I mean it, Mary. I'm not asking to replace Matthew, because I know I could never do that, but you shouldn't spend the rest of your life alone, or grieving. Matthew wouldn't have wanted that."
Mary smiles that faint smile again, because what else is she to say? Once Tony's gone she takes to the paths, walking and walking until she doesn't know where she is. She finds another field of cows, a field of crops almost ready to be harvested, and tries to imagine Tony, or Evelyn, or Charles Blake at her side as she makes these walks, tries to imagine how they would react when she explained Downton's vision, its legacy. Do they love this land like she does? Do they feel its weight? She thinks not.
Tom finds her as she's walking back towards the house. "Mary, I was just about to take a walk. Would you care to join me? I need to talk to you about a plan your father has."
Mary's hungry and tired, but not quite ready to go back just yet. So she just smiles, falls into step beside Tom, and listens to him talk until he asks for her opinion.
###
Rose comes with them, just once. She's new at Downton and prowls the grounds like a caged lion, anxious for the prey she found in London. She leaves them at the turnoff for the village, craving variation, even if the village can't offer very much at all.
"I think Rose has cabin fever." Tom pushes brambles out of their way. It's the early afternoon and the sun is high in the sky. Thirst itches Mary's throat.
"You can't blame her. Downton must seem terribly dreary, after London." Mary stares at the hills and grass, wonders if she'll ever get enough of this land, of the wind that blows like Matthew is pressing feather-light kisses across her face. He has been gone over a year now and only now can she think about him without wanting to tear out her heart.
"I hear Tony Gillingham proposed." Tom follows her gaze, points out a bird's nest just ahead. "I also hear that you said no."
"I've already told you that I do not wish to marry again, Tom."
"Maybe not now. Maybe one day."
Mary sighs, surprises herself by pulling a blackberry from a bush and eating it. Carson would be ashamed of her, but Mary has discovered that she has something of a shameful streak. Mr Pamuk is evidence of that. She hasn't thought about him in so long but as she looks at Tom she finds that she wants to tell him, about Pamuk. She wants to hear his opinion of her shameful little secret. Maybe she will tell him, one day. Does he hide shameful secrets of his own behind those blue eyes of his?
"Matthew once told me that he would never be happy with anyone else so long as I walked the earth. Will I find that kind of love again, do you think?"
"I don't know. But what I do know is that if you're asking me about it, you haven't found it with Tony Gillingham."
###
The closest any of them come is Charles Blake. They sit in mud-covered clothes at Mrs Patmore's table while Mary scrambles eggs and watches her companion with new eyes. He's dark where Matthew is fair, lean where Matthew was heavier, shorter where Matthew was tall. But he has Matthew's easy laugh, now she has seen it, and watches her with such rapt interest it makes her feel a little self-conscious.
She opens her mouth to ask him when they part ways: I take a walk with Tom Branson every morning, would you like to come and see the estate? The words sit on her tongue, but go no further.
"I half-expected to see Charles Blake this morning." Tom's waiting for her when Mary comes downstairs.
Mary stifles a yawn. She's not so young anymore and sleep deprivation is one of life's crueller punishments but she wanted to walk. "No, I imagine he retired to bed."
"I heard about your adventures with the pigs." Tom can't contain a smile. "That is a sight I should have liked to have seen."
Mary returns his smile, and takes the lead. "Let's go for our walk, Tom."
###
The walks become longer. Sometimes they take a stroll around the grounds before dinner, to watch the sunsets. If Mary thought the sunrises were beautiful, the sunsets take her breath away. Anna always leaves a coat and hat on the bed in case Mary should need them.
"What do you think they talk about, on those walks?" Lord Grantham stares out of the drawing room window and watches the two retreating backs or his daughter and son-in-law.
"Oh, I don't know." Cora focuses on her sewing. Its easier to focus on that than the smile that's twitching at her mouth. "The running of the estate, I expect."
"They spend a lot of time together." Grantham pauses, his fingers on his glass. "Cora, you don't think-"
"I don't know, Robert." Cora smiles at her husband. "Would it be so terrible, if they were?"
"He was married to her sister!"
"Robert, Sybil has been dead longer than she and Tom were married. Haven't you noticed, how things are around here, now? Sybil is still here, George is happy – our daughter laughs again, Robert. Do you really think that is the work of Tony Gillingham or Charles Blake? Because I don't. And with one daughter in Europe and another dead, I need at least one of my daughters to be happy."
###
The autumn seems colder this year; Mary isn't sure what it is. Maybe it's the worrisome noises coming from Europe, the headlines that predict nothing but doom and gloom, or the way the cold mist hangs in the air like a bad dream. Downton stands immune to it all, or so it seems: her father talks about Europe like its some faraway place while she and Tom exchange worried looks over breakfast and Edith walks around the grounds for hours, returning red-eyed and frail. Rose floats around the house like a young deer in lace and tulle; Mary cannot remember what it is to be young or to feel young, so young that love and romance are the only thoughts that fill her head. Its times like this that Mary misses Sybil; her youngest sister was always young, but she had a depth and quality of vision that Rose lacks. Mary would feel guilty about comparing Rose and her sister if she didn't miss Sybil so much it made her chest hurt, and at times like that she seeks out the one person who will know how she feels.
"I feel like I'm in a bubble." Mary says as she and Tom take a morning stroll around the grounds. Its dark but the sun is pushing through the earth for another day. "I read all these terrible things in the paper, but its like we're stuck in time. Nothing affects us, does it?"
"One of the advantages of wealth." Tom's face is shadows in the still morning, his breath clinging to the air like its his last on this earth.
"Perhaps. But its more than that."
"How so?" Tom's cheeks are flushed, slightly ruddy from the cold. There's no-one around, just sheep and cows and the rolling hills that she loves so much.
Mary sighs, reaches into her purse. "I had a letter yesterday. From Charles Blake."
"One of Mary's Men."
"Don't you start." Mary says, a little too sharply than she intended.
"What did your friend Mister Blake want?"
Mary smoothes down the crumbled letter and stares at the words. So many beautiful words crumpled in a purse to be pulled out and read. "Oh, you know, this and that. He has a nice hand, that's for sure. Why is it that all the men I know have nicer handwriting than I do?"
Tom stares at the land beneath them. "Shame to spoil our walk with a whole lot of talk about nothing. Something's on your mind, so let's hear it."
Mary stares at her dead sister's husband and wonders how in the world he went from her chauffer to confidante. Maybe she doesn't live in a bubble, after all. "He … he wants to marry me."
"I don't think that's news, Mary." Tom's voice is not unkind, just firm. "You could have your pick, if you wanted."
"He wants to see me when we all go to London for Rose's coming out."
Tom shakes his head. "Sybil will never have to do that."
"She might surprise you and want to."
Tom stares at his little girl, who is play-fighting with a tree and a sword made from a felled branch. "Her hero right now is Lancelot. I don't think there's much danger of her dressing up for dinner. And you wouldn't want her to be trapped in this life, would you?"
"Times are changing."
"But not fast enough for you to inherit the estate in your own right."
"No, but George is still young." Mary sighs, reaches into her purse. "Tom, I want to tell you something."
Tom stops his walk, stares at Mary with those deep blue eyes and serious expression, and Mary falters, words on the tip of her tongue. But she started this and she's a Crawley and she's going to finish what she's started.
"I went to see a man in Rippon, a few weeks ago. He helped Matthew, from time to time."
"Alright."
"You see, what happened to Matthew, and to Sybil … our lives are so short, aren't they? We like to think that we'll live as long as Granny and we'll die in our beds, but often we don't. I wish I could think of a year where I didn't wear black, but I can't. You can call me morbid if you like, but I want you to know that I've made a will, arrangement, whatever you want to call it. Tom, if something should happen to me, before George is fully grown … I want you to take care of him."
"Of course I'll always take care of him." Tom's face relaxes. He had obviously expected something much worse. "He's yours and Matthew's son, he's Sybil's cousin-"
"No, Tom." Mary's words are coming out in a rush but she can't stop now. "No, that is not what I mean. What I mean, is that …. You are to be his guardian, if something should happen to me."
"Mary-"
"No, please let me finish. My parents are getting older. I can't pretend that Edith and I are close and I don't think she would know how to take care of a child, even if it was her own. Even if none of those things were true, you have done so much for me, you did so much, for Matthew and I … its what he would want, and its what I want. You understand what it is to live here without the other rules that come with it. I don't want my son to grow up bound by as many rules as I have been, but I don't want him to forget where he comes from. It has to be you, Tom. It can't be anyone else, don't you understand?"
Tom doesn't say anything for a long time, he just stares at Mary and Matthew's son, the last bit of Matthew that she has. "Well alright then."
They walk in silence for a little while until Tom says, "Since we're being honest like this … I've done the same, for you and Sybil. She needs a mother, Mary, and you can be so warm, when you want to be."
###
London is loud and obnoxious and Mary wants to go home. Tony and Charles are both there, seemingly hiding behind every pillar. They're amiable and handsome and years ago Mary might have enjoyed the thrill of being chased. Now she just wants to be at home where she can walk the grounds and be left at peace.
Tom arrives on the second night and homesickness lurches in Mary's chest when she sees him. He looks harried and anxious, finds her eyes and gives her a smile that doesn't meet her eyes.
"You've been avoiding me." She says to him as they dance after Rose's coming out. His hand is on her waist but his grip is heavier than it should be. He's never felt comfortable at these parties.
"I haven't, I assure you."
"You're a poor liar, Tom." Mary stares into those blue eyes and wishes she knew the answers there. "You've been on edge since you got here. Has something happened? Is Sybil alright-"
"Sybil is fine." Tom gives her a smile, twirls her even if everyone else is waltzing. "Let's take a stroll tomorrow. I miss the fresh air."
London is dirty and noisy, but they take a carriage to Hyde Park and walk in artificial calmness.
"Are you going to tell me what's troubling you, Tom?"
"I think that you would be ashamed of me if I did."
"I doubt that. You are not happy and you must talk to someone. If not me, then someone else."
Tom stops her and they sit down on a bench, opposite a fountain. His words are halting and his cheeks crimson, but he tells her about Sarah and the Downton tour. "She only wanted to see the upstairs." He says as forcefully as he can. "She's never seen the house before, and just wanted to look down on the balcony. I'm sorry if you think I betrayed your trust or took advantage of your family's absence, but there's nothing but innocence to it."
Mary's throat feels tight and she isn't quite prepared to think about why. "I believe you." She says, because Tom is her friend and she owes him so much and she really does believe him and she doesn't want to think about why it hurts when she sees his face smile.
###
Mary shares a carriage with Isobel on the way back to Downton. They haven't seen a great deal of each other and Mary has almost forgotten her mother-in-law's blunt manner.
"How long were you married to my son, Mary?"
"Have you forgotten, Isobel?"
"No." Isobel stares out of the carriage window and smiles. "Just humour your mother-in-law, if you would."
Mary swallows. "Would you like it in months, or weeks and days? If you give me paper and ink I could probably tell you down to the minute."
Isobel reaches for her daughter-in-law's hands. "I know that you loved my son, Mary. I know that you loved him for a long time before you got married, and a long time after he died. But he has been dead for two years." Isobel sighs. "I didn't like you, when I first met you. I thought you terribly aloof but that's your way, isn't it? Manners and rules to keep emotions hidden away, like they're wrong. I'm glad, that Matthew showed you that they weren't a weakness. He loved you so much, and it was so hard not to love you when he loved you so well. And you loved my son, so I loved you for that." Isobel presses her lips together and Mary can tell that whatever it is that the older woman wants to say, it is incredibly hard. "I won't stop loving you if you love someone else."
"Isobel-"
"No, Mary, hear me out, because I think you need to hear it. I won't stop loving you if you love someone else. You won't be betraying Matthew if you have fallen in love with someone else. No one will think the less of you, if you have fallen in love with someone else."
Mary sighs. "Isobel, if this is about Tony Gillingham or Charles Blake-"
"This isn't about either of them and you know it." Isobel looks insulted. "This is about Tom Branson, and I think you know that as well as I do."
Mary stands up. "I think that's quite enough, Isobel. Truly, I appreciate you trying to help, I really do. But I don't love Tom. I don't."
Mary leaves the carriage, shuts the door with more force than is necessary. I don't love Tom. I don't.
Don't I?
###
"I stayed behind while the others went ahead." Tom's waiting for her as she alights the train. "I haven't driven for a while, thought we could drive back together, see the grounds from other angle. And Mrs Crawley." He says when Isobel follows Mary. "I didn't realise you and Lady Mary had come together."
"We had quite the journey, didn't we, Mary?"
Tom's a good driver and Mary tries not to grip her purse too tightly. Even now, car journeys make her nervous. Tom went ahead with the rest of the Crawleys and has stories aplenty; one of the farmers has adopted a baby and Edith has taken quite a shine to it.
"Let's hope the farmer's wife doesn't mind too much." Mary says.
"I think its marvellous." Isobel says from the back seat. "Edith needs some love in her life, after her luck. We all need a second chance at love."
"Couldn't agree more, Mrs Crawley." Tom smiles and Mary just stares out of the window, not trusting herself to speak.
She hurries upstairs as soon as they're back at Downton, changes into a dress that she hasn't worn since before she had George. Its pale blue and probably more suitable for the spring instead of summer but Mary just wants to wear something other than black. She wants to wear something other than black as she sits beside Tom Branson at dinner and tries to work out if she has fallen in love with her dead sister's husband.
"Mrs Patmore's outdone herself this time, don't you think, Mary?" Tom says as they eat their soup.
"Oh …yes, very good." Mary's eaten her fill but hasn't tasted any. Her dress feels tight and her hair too tight and her gloves tight and everything tight and she wants to walk and walk and feel the rain on her face.
She stares at Tom's face, the same face she has seen every day for the last thousands days. He's aging well, no grey or fine lines, and he always has a ready smile. His is a nice face, quick to laugh and slow to anger. He's a good man. He's not one of them but he has his own rules and his own honour and he has never treated her like she's fragile and for that she will always love him. He's never hidden the estate from her like her father, or tried to wrap her in cotton and silk, been eager to possess her like Richard Carlisle or tried to woo her like Gillingham and Blake. He has just been … him. He is kind, and he is good, and he is staring at her with dancing blue eyes and she realises with sinking horror that Isobel might actually be right.
###
Mary stays up late that night, writing to Charles Blake. The letter isn't long but he deserves to know that she won't be accepting his proposal now, or ever. Similar, if shorter letters go to Evelyn Napier and to Tony Gillingham. As nice as they are, she knows that their paths are not to be walked together.
"Some post to go, Lady Mary?" Carson stands with a silver tray, ready to send someone to the post office, but Mary refuses.
"Actually, Carson, I think I might drive to the village."
Carson's expression doesn't change but his eyes can't hide his surprise. "Drive, my lady?"
"Yes." Mary smoothes down her red coat. "It's a nice day, why not?"
Mary's hands shake as she grips the steering wheel. Tom had made it look so easy. After a few false starts she is on her way to the village, the three letters in her purse on the passenger seat. She passes the road where Matthew died and lets the tears fall. He loved her, and she loved him, but he is gone and she is here and she has to keep living.
The letters go and Mary feels lighter once they are out of her hands. She cannot deceive them, or herself, any longer. They will understand, of that she is sure. They are not stupid men any more than they are cruel or neglectful. They are just not for her.
She stops at the cemetery on her way back to the car. Matthew's headstone is imposing and she hates it and knows that he would, too and for that reason she never visits him here, but she is here and she can't not go to her husband's final resting place. A quick touch of a gloved hand against his headstone and she is done.
Sybil rests in the family plot, a simple headstone picked out by Tom. Mary has never heard him speak of visiting her, although she is sure that she must. But she sits down and twists her hands together.
"I'm sure you know why I'm here." She says. "You must be laughing, to see your sister talking to your headstone. I miss you, Sybil. I miss you so much that sometimes it makes me forget what you look like. I've saved some pictures, for Sybbie, so she'll know you when she gets older. I will never let her forget you. I'm not here, to ask for your blessing; you've only ever wanted us both happy, but I would like it all the same. You see, I think I could be happy again, that I could marry again. Its alright if it doesn't happen; we Crawleys are made of stern stuff so I'm sure that I would cope quite well. But Matthew once told me that he could never be happy with anyone else, so long as I walked the earth. I didn't think I would find that again, but now I think that I could be that happy again. If he will let me, I will take good care of him."
She drives back to Downton, wants to close her eyes and be carried away with the wind and the sun, but then that would mean two Crawleys dead and George an orphan and never in Mary's darkest moments did she think of that. So she focuses on her drive until she spies the lane she is looking for.
Her shoes aren't made for walking and a lemon dress and coat is most unsuitable attire, but Mary doesn't care. She parks the car and walks, walks and walks until the ridge comes into the distance and she sighs. Here is Matthew, waiting for her. She can almost see him, sunny smile and blonde hair, those warm arms that kept her safe and reminded her that she could be warm.
She climbs as fast as she can; the sun is setting and she doesn't want to miss it. The sky is red and pink and orange and all the colours of the rainbow and Mary stands and surveys it all, this land that was hers and Matthew's and will now be hers and George's. This land is in her blood and her soul like Matthew is, so she stands on the ridge in the sunset and cries for her husband because this will be the last time. Matthew is gone, but she is alive and her son is alive, and she has so much to live for that to curl up and die would be such a waste of two lives.
She doesn't speak, because she doesn't need to, and even if she did, she wouldn't be able to find the words. So she just stands there and lets her tears and her heart say everything.
She doesn't know how long she stands there, watching the sunset, but when she turns to go, Tom is standing there beside her, watching her with eyes that look purple in the dusk.
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough." His voice is quiet and husky. "Isobel asked me if I wanted to walk with her. We saw your car on our way back, but she told me to go and find you. I just didn't think I'd find you here."
"You walked with Isobel?"
Tom nods. "She said you'd gone to the village."
"I was posting some letters. To Charles Blake, and Tony Gillingham, actually." Mary smiles, looks at the ground. Its wet and her shoes are likely ruined but she doesn't care. "Do you remember when I said that I didn't want to get married again?"
"Of course."
"Well, I changed my mind. You see, I would like to get married again, but just not to them."
"I see." A smile that Mary wants to describe as hopeful creeps into Tom's mouth. "Did you have anyone else in mind?"
Mary feels her smile get wider. The sun is setting on the land, and today has been a good day. "I believe so."
Tom nods, and offers Mary his arm. "Shall we take a walk, while you tell me all about it?"
Mary takes Tom's arm. Its solid and firm and warm, beneath his coat. He is warm. I can be warm. I am warm. "I'd like that."
FIN.