7th July 1912 Continued...

It is now late at night, and I'm just about to get ready for bed. I must say, the day was rather more exciting than I expected. That is to say, Evelyn Napier is still as dull as ever but his friend, Mr Kamal Pamuk... even now I'm swooning. He's an Adonis.

It's not just that he's handsome, (but oh god, is he handsome), but he's charming and he lives the most incredible life. We didn't talk much during the hunt – we raced, and we jumped over streams, and we laughed... in fact, we didn't really get much hunting done. After a while I forgot that Evelyn Napier was even there. Mama will not be best pleased.

Over dinner he told me all about life in Istanbul and, as Edith so helpfully pointed out, I giggled and sighed and probably made cow-eyes at him all evening. Honestly, I've never felt so pathetic in all my life. Evelyn was seated a couple of seats away from me, which I found odd, considering Mama's complete lack of tact in trying to fix us up. I'm surprised she didn't seat him on top of me. Never the less, he was seated close enough to interrupt Kamal's story every five minutes, which after a while really started to grate – on both me and Kamal.

Mary Crawley's List of Things That Could Potentially Cause a Diplomatic Incident:

1. Isis.

2. Evelyn Napier?

"You should travel more." Kamal was saying to me, "I can tell. You're like me. You have a restless spirit and you'll never be happy if you stick in one place too long."

Evelyn chipped in, "I have to disagree, old chap. I don't think Lady Mary would much like life on the road. All that dust, the sleepless nights, the lack of comfort... Lady Mary is a queen, and deserves to be treated like one." With this, he raised his glass.

Vomit. Although I wasn't about to argue with someone who was telling the room I should be treated like a 'queen'.

Kamal didn't falter. He raised his glass and said, "I can't argue with that. But perhaps you don't know her as well as you think you do? Lady Mary needs constant excitement. It's like air to her."

He has such a way with words. I felt quite faint.

"She does not." Said Napier, rather flatly.

A voice at the other end of the table decided to join in our conversation, which struck me as odd, because he really was at the other end of the table, which meant he would have had to strain to hear what we were saying across the conversations of the other guests.

"Gentlemen," Matthew said, "Mary is very much her own woman. She can make up her own mind without help from either of you. Isn't that right, Mary?"

The words were said with an unusual amount of vehemence. Coldness, too. I remembered that his outing with Edith was today, and I wondered if something had happened to make him angry. Whatever the case, the solicitor has some bite. I made a note right then and there to try to keep Matthew and Kamal away from each other if this was the sort of mood that Matthew was going to be in.

"Quite agree, Cousin Matthew." I said, sweetly. I was in no mood to fight with him tonight, but mark my words, Matthew will pay for his interruption in no small way later.

Mary Crawley's List of Things That Could Potentially Cause a Diplomatic Incident:

1. Isis.

2. Evelyn Napier?

3. Matthew Crawley.

After dinner, Evelyn and Kamal continued their bickering. Obviously, The Heir Apparent was feeling left out because he seemed to follow our party around the room and decided to interrupt both Kamal and Evelyn to ask me inane questions. Was I fond of architecture? Did I play any musical instruments? Would I ever go horse-riding with him? (My respective answers were no, yes, and oh god, no). Across the room, even his own Mother looked exasperated with him. Kamal Pamuk is the most exciting thing to happen to Downton Abbey in about 200 years, and Evelyn Napier is supposed to be my future husband, and Matthew was just... I don't know, ruining everything. Why wasn't he following Edith?

I made my escape to the gallery with Kamal. He was very forward – a bit too forward, perhaps – but he kissed me passionately and when I finally went to bed, I felt happy. I can't remember the last time I felt this happy. Oh, Kamal.

Before I climbed the stairs, Matthew grabbed my arm and asked me if I was alright and if I needed "rescuing from Pamuk" or some such nonsense. I know he was trying to be chivalrous, but honestly. The man is an idiot.

I contemplated letting Isis out of the library before I climbed the stairs. After all, Evelyn had retired for the night and so had Kamal, so it was only Papa and Matthew left to smoke cigars. Isis, of course, was desperate to escape, and was pining for Matthew again.

I didn't let her out in the end, but it would have served Matthew right if I did.

Anyway, Anna's here. Off to bed. Sweet dreams!


8th July 1912

I'm the idiot. Oh god, I've done something terrible.

I'm sorry. Oh Mama, I'm so sorry. I know you'll never forgive me.


27th September 1912

I haven't written in a long time. I haven't felt equal to it. To be honest, I thought I might give up on the whole diary idea altogether. The best place for this book is probably in the fireplace. But the horrid truth of the matter is, I think I need this. I have to get my thoughts out on the page or I will go mad.

Kamal Pamuk is dead. He had a heart attack. I've been very, very stupid.

I can't talk about it here.

Mama won't meet my eye. She knows the truth of what happened, and Anna does too – although Anna has been more sympathetic and more supportive than I would ever have given another human being credit for. Bates too, as I suspect she might have confided in him. Certainly, they've both been kinder to me than I've ever deserved. I don't know if I'll ever be able to repay Anna for what she's done.

Let me tell you dear diary, as I cannot tell anyone else, that for once in my life I feel the full weight of my own stupidity.


28th September 1912

I think I've lost weight. My corsets don't pinch as much as they used to and, as Edith likes to point out, my face is starting to look a bit gaunt.

"Well," she said, "gaunter than usual."

I watched in the reflection of my dressing mirror, as Sybil leaned over the bed and pinched Edith in the ribs. I suppose there's some truth in what Edith was saying. I don't seem to have much of an appetite lately. But then, it's hard to eat when you feel like everyone is staring at you.

Sybil said, "We're just worried about you, that's all. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Of course." I said, "Why wouldn't I be?" But even to myself, my voice seemed to lack conviction.

"No reason, particularly." Sybil said, "But you're awfully quiet lately, and everyone seems to be commenting on it." Oh, how lovely. I love being the subject of gossip. "Matthew says you're avoiding him. Cousin Isobel thinks you must be depressed."

That was a half-truth. I was avoiding Matthew, but only because he seems to have tripled the number of visits he's been making to the house. I still see him about twice a week. He's trying so hard to be my friend, but I can't face the worried look in his eyes, or his silly jokes, or the way he insists on fetching me everything. Want some wine, Cousin Mary? No? I'll fetch you a glass anyway. How about an extra cushion? No? Well, here it is, have one anyway. Good god, you'd think I was an invalid. Every kind gesture I get from Matthew Crawley makes me feel ten times worse. I don't deserve to be petted. If Matthew knew the truth about me, he'd never speak to me again.

Oh god, I feel sick.

Shortly after Anna finished dressing me, Mama arrived to tell us that dinner was about to be served, and dutifully Sybil and Edith both went downstairs. Anna followed them shortly after. For the first time in a long time, it was just me and Mama in the same room. I wanted her to say something. I just wanted her to look at me.

But "I'll see you down there." was all I got.


29th September 1912

Oh HELL'S HORSES, I completely forgot that it's Carson's birthday on Friday. I haven't bought him a damn thing. Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN. I know I shouldn't swear, but I'm probably going to hell anyway, so I might as well make it worth the trip. DAMN.

I've been so wrapped up in my own woes, that the date completely passed me by. Carson, who's always been so good to me. My Carson. I haven't got a clue what to buy him. Papa has gotten him some dusty history book or other. Sybil bought him a watch. Edith bought him a comb. I, on the other hand, have bought him nothing. I have to find him something tomorrow or I'm really in the soup.

This requires some thought.


30th September 1912

This is how I have spent my day:

Two hours at the Dowager House, having tea with Granny. My darling grandmother has all the tact of a full-speed locomotive, and consequently 'two hours of having tea' quickly translated into 'two hours of being lectured about why I should stop grieving over that 'dead foreigner' and 'get on with my life'.' If only she knew.

Twenty-minutes of being lectured by Dr Clarkson. (Because apparently today is my day for being lectured). I ran into Clarkson outside the Grantham Arms and he gave me a stern talking to about not eating properly. I suspect Cousin Isobel has put him up to this. No, actually I know Cousin Isobel put him up to this. I eat just fine, thank you very much.

Three and a half hours of looking for a birthday present for Carson in Ripon. To no avail.

Four minutes hiding from Matthew behind Redfern and Sons' butchers. (I don't want to talk about it).

And finally:

Forty minutes walking home in the pouring rain. I arrived home too late to change for dinner, but I made my excuses and told Papa I had a headache. This suited everyone else just fine. I had some sandwiches in my room and spent my evening cursing Carson for daring to have a birthday.

All in all, not a very productive day.


2nd October 1912

Carson's birthday is tomorrow and I still haven't got him anything. This predicament is made worse by the fact that Carson has been so kind to me lately. That is to say, Carson has always been kind to me, but lately he's been positively doting.

He hasn't been trying to smother me like certain other males I could mention, but there have been little gestures from him. Like cutting the crusts off my sandwiches, (he used to do that for me when I was little), or making me a cup of cocoa before I go to bed. Sometimes I catch him looking at me and he looks so sad – and that just makes me feel more guilty and more miserable, because then I realise I'm bringing down Carson too. I'm a misery machine.

To my shame, I don't always thank Carson for all these little things he does. I'm fully aware that I can be a spoilt brat and I have no illusions about it, But besides which, I've never been terribly good at finding the right words to say to people. This is why his birthday is so important. I want him to know how much these things mean to me, even if I can't always say it.

Anyway, I have to go. I'm going to head into the village and have one last attempt at finding Carson a present, and then it's off to Crawley House to have tea with Granny, Mama and Cousin Isobel. I'm determined to find a present for Carson, or die in the attempt.

Similarly, Cousin Isobel is on a mission to feed me Battenberg Cake until my corset explodes.


2nd October 1912 Continued...

I spent about two hours in the village trying to find a present, with no luck. By the time I made it to Crawley House it was nearly one o'clock and I was already running hideously late. Molesley, I assume, was serving tea in the parlour, because it was the housemaid that let me in the front door and took my coat. Fancy having a housemaid answering your front door. Carson would have had an apoplectic fit. I suppose they're not very fastidious about doing things properly at Crawley House.

I gave the girl my coat and she scurried off to hang it up somewhere. I was about to walk into the parlour and announce myself, when I caught wind of what Granny and Isobel were talking about and it stopped me in my tracks.

"She won't listen to me." Granny was saying, "Lord knows, I've tried. All she does is mope and sigh. She's not like Mary at all."

There was the usual clink of tea cups and saucers. Isobel added, "But was she very attached to the turkish gentleman? I was under the impression she didn't know him very well. She can't still be grieving for him?"

My mother said, a little too quickly, "What makes you think she's grieving over the turkish gentleman?"

"Matthew seems to think she is. He said they'd formed quite an attachment over dinner."

Another clink, more forceful, a teacup slammed down onto a saucer.

"Well then, Matthew is wrong. Mary didn't pay Mr Pamuk much attention, as far as I could tell." My mother is a terrible liar. "She is probably still depressed over Patrick, that's all."

Granny nearly inhaled her tea. "Depressed over Patrick? She wasn't depressed over Patrick six months ago. What, has she had a lobotomy you haven't told us about?"

Cousin Isobel, ever the diplomat, said something under her breath that I suppose was meant to be placatory, but Granny would not be silenced.

"No." She said, "She's clearly upset about the turk. There's something Mary isn't telling us, I know there is. I'll find the truth out, one way or another."

I heard my mother sigh, go to say something, and then change her mind. When she did eventually open her mouth she was practically whispering and I had to lean closer to the door to try and make out what she was saying.

"What are you doing?" a male voice said into ear. I nearly jumped ten feet. I was trying so hard to hear what the old hens were clucking about, I hadn't noticed Matthew sneaking up behind me. He'd obviously come home from the office – he had his blue business suit on, a brown necktie and of course, that stupid trilby. There are days when I want to smack that hat clean off his head. Today was one of those days.

"What are you doing here?" I said.

"Um, I live here."

"No, what are you doing here now? During the day. Shouldn't you be soliciting, or whatever it is you do?"

He smiled.

"They're doing some painting at the office." He waved his briefcase at me, "I thought I might take the opportunity to 'solicit' from the comfort of my own home this afternoon." his smile faltered, "But that doesn't answer my question. What are you doing?"

There was an awkward silence. From the parlour, I could hear the shrill voice of Granny denouncing the entire turkish embassy. I winced. It was embarrassing enough to hear your own family talking about Kamal Pamuk, but if Matthew heard them gossiping I know I would die of shame. He must have caught the look on my face, because he took off his hat and offered me his arm.

"Come on." He said, "I was going to eat my lunch in the kitchen, away from the..." he waved his hat dismissively at the parlour, "... the female parliament that's in session. Why don't you join me?"

I hesitated in taking his arm for all of two seconds. Anything to get away from Granny.

So I spent a rather enjoyable hour or so sitting at the kitchen table with Matthew, eating cheese sandwiches and watching Mrs Bird make shortbread. I can't remember much about what we talked about. I remember Matthew trying to shove a biscuit into his mouth without chewing and nearly choking himself to death, which earned him a scolding off Mrs Bird. His face went bright red, although he cheered up a little when he saw me laughing.

"You should do that more often."

I blinked. It took me a moment to catch on to what he was saying.

"Laugh." he clarified. "You haven't laughed in ages."

This was followed by a lengthy and rather awkward silence as I tried to decide how I felt about what he'd just said, and I finally concluded that I wasn't appalled by it, and actually it was rather a pleasant thing for him to say. But, like everything else in my life, the words to express what I was thinking seemed to fail me. I just nodded and bit into another sandwich.

"So," he said, "what have you been doing today?"

I was grateful for the change in topic. It wouldn't do for me to become too fond of Mr Matthew Crawley.

"Trying to find a birthday present for Carson." I said, "I wanted to get him something special, but I've had no luck."

Matthew smiled, "I could help. Offer a male perspective, maybe? When is his birthday?"

I winced. "See, that's the problem. His birthday is tomorrow. I'm done for."

Matthew winced too. "Crikey. You're cutting it a bit fine, aren't you?"

I bit into another sandwich to stop myself from saying something sarcastic. Oh, really? Cutting it 'a bit fine', am I? I hadn't noticed, darling. Thank you for pointing that out.

"Well," said Matthew, "have you any ideas?"

If I had any ideas, I would have bought something by now, but I didn't say that to Matthew either. I just shrugged.

"All I know is that I want it to be special. I want it to mean something. Like a watch, except Sybil has already bought him a watch. Or cufflinks maybe, but I think I might have got him those last year..." I sighed, "... any help would be much appreciated."

I watched Mrs Bird take another tray of biscuits out of the oven, the smell of warm shortbread filling the kitchen. Matthew nudged me. "The thing is," he said, "is that Carson already thinks you walk on water. You could buy him socks for his birthday, and he'd still idolise you. You don't need to get him an expensive present."

I already knew that, but it was still sweet of him of him to say and I appreciated it.

"I don't need an expensive present. I just need a special one."

Matthew looked at me rather oddly, like I'd confused him.

"Because it's for Carson." I said, because I thought that might explain things better. It didn't. Matthew still looked confused. In the end he just smiled and shook his head.

"Well, I never!" he said.

"What?"

"It's just..." he stuffed another piece of shortbread into his mouth and mumbled, "...oh, never mind. It was nothing."

"What?" I insisted.

"Nothing. Listen," Matthew said, "If you really want it to be special, then I think I have just the thing."