A/N: I'm not QUITE sure how I managed it... but here (just a LITTLE late for mmmondaymadness!) is Chapter 2. Now, I must explain that this chapter has been written in fits and starts over a horribly stressful week - my school is being Ofsted inspected and I've literally spent my ENTIRE weekend in school. It's not fun! But somehow, I've managed to get this out over lunch breaks - so I do hope you'll forgive any sort of incohesiveness in the chapter.

Thank you so much for your response to Chapter 1, it's enormously encouraging! And thank you to EOlivet for polishing my errant commas up and giving me the go-ahead!

:)

Chapter Two

At this moment in time, Matthew wasn't entirely sure whether he was grateful for his mother, or enormously irritated by her. Both, actually, he decided.

If left to his own devices, he wouldn't be anywhere close to having his coat on, gloves in hand, almost (but definitely not quite) ready to leave for the Abbey. If left to his own devices, he might not be in Downton at all. Oh, he would've found an excuse... Any excuse, it wouldn't have mattered what. Something. Anything. Anything to protect him from this.

Truthfully, it was not so much the situation itself as the fear of it. He considered himself – well, as much over the death of a fiancée as one could expect to be nearly eight months later. But it hadn't been her death that had thrown him so low, well – it was, of course it was, but – it was the guilt. Guilt at his actions, guilt that Lavinia had known them, guilt that she had accepted that and shown far better grace than the Lord knew he deserved considering what he'd done, what he'd felt... She would never have been there in the first place if it were not for him, and his selfishness. Even when he'd proposed to her – now that he thought about it – it had been to protect himself. Thoughtless, stupid, selfish man. More than that, though, more terrible even than that, was the guilt at the thread of relief that he'd felt. Of having escaped, good God.

Everything was a source of guilt, and regret, and hatred.

How could he possibly allow have allowed himself to be happy with Mary after what he'd done? How dare he? How dare he even consider to snatch her from Sir Richard, who could offer her stability and comfort - a far better prospect for her than himself; the wounded, bitter, miserable shell of a man whose trust in the promise of any sort of future had been mercilessly and systematically destroyed by circumstance, time and time again. No, he could offer her nothing. Only a love so terribly misplaced that it seemed to have done nothing but hurt people, himself included. He had no doubt that had he dared to follow his heart, to indulge his selfish fantasies and tempt her from her future and security, it could only have ended in further ruin. She deserved far better, and he deserved far less.

But to even consider that, in any case, would have been a slight on Lavinia, on her memory.

Escaping to Manchester – for that was truly what it had been, an escape – had helped him to heal. He was his own man, there; dependent on no-one and no-one dependent on him (thank God he could be independent, now). He lived, he went to work (it had only taken days to find a post, with men being so lacking following the war), he came home and read and ate and didn't bother anyone. No-one bothered him. He was lonely, but it was better that way, really. Away from Downton – away from her – the wounds had slowly begun to mend. He'd begun to forget; just a little, just sometimes. It had taken months, but slowly and surely he'd thought of them a little less every day – or at the very least, if he did think of them he could be comforted by the fact that they must all be getting along better now without him burdening them.

Only once had he been back, to see Mary married. That had helped. Though the grief in his chest had been sharp, and how he'd wished things were different in so many ways, it had afforded him some closure. Now she was settled, she was safe from him and his destructive love, and he could take some comfort in that. So long as she was happy, she was well provided for, and had a future to rely upon. And really, if he had felt any distress – well, didn't he deserve it? The pain almost made him feel better. Which only made him feel worse.

It was only under the considerable duress, both from his mother and Lord Grantham, that he had returned to Downton for the season. Though really, he would've been quite happy to spend the festive period in a self-indulgent, melancholic slump; but his mother had refused to allow it. In some respects, he was quietly glad of it – he did miss the family, and Christmas was a thoroughly miserable time to be alone, he knew that well enough already. Only... to go back to the Abbey meant seeing her, seeing her with him, seeing the place where he would have gotten married and the place where Lavinia had died. Any of the memories and feelings the place afforded him were painful enough on their own merit, but combined...

His mother, though, had helpfully pointed out that if he didn't go – if he remained hidden away and confined within the prison of his own self-imposed misery – everyone would imagine precisely why and would pity him for it when he would have to show his face on Christmas day.

Of course he had to go. To show them all how much better he was.

"For goodness sake, Matthew!" his mother exclaimed, standing already by the door impatiently.

He sighed heavily. "Yes, alright. I know, I'm coming. Stop treating me like a child, Mother."

"Only when you stop acting like one, my dear," she said very fondly.

Matthew glared uncharitably, and went back into the sitting room to retrieve his cane. He didn't rely on it a great deal, now, thankfully. But on such an occasion it provided a handy excuse for delay.

With no further excuse, Matthew took his hat from Molesley and, refusing any assistance, clambered into the waiting car, resolutely refusing the inclination of his gaze to shift just a little to the churchyard next door. He noted with detached interest the new driver – a youngish chap with the side of his face twisted and rippled and burnt off. It reminded him of Sybil, and Branson – no, Tom, he corrected himself – they wouldn't be there this evening, more was the pity, but at least he could bet on the distraction of their company for Christmas day itself. Small mercies.

He brushed off his mother's attempts at cheery conversation. Good practise, she said it'd be. He shrugged. He wouldn't patronise her with pretence – not when she knew that was all it would be.

As they drove slowly, so painfully slowly, down the interminably long driveway, Matthew felt his chest grow tighter and tighter. He could do it, he told himself. He'd pretended before, he felt as though whole chunks of his life in the past eight years had been merely a pretence... He could do it.

Carson was impassive in greeting them at the door. Passing over his things, Matthew looked down the daunting hallway, feeling suffocated. Well, he was here now. He almost wanted to laugh at himself for feeling so intimidated. After the things he had faced, how could this dread be more pressing than what he'd seen, what he'd done, in France? Gripping his cane tightly, and leaning rather more heavily upon it than usual, he steeled himself and walked slightly ahead of his mother, following Carson to the drawing room.

"Mr Crawley, your Lordship, and Mrs Crawley," Carson announced them. Matthew sighed. He didn't even have his rank to hide behind, now that demobilisation was well over with. He felt exposed without it. He breathed, fixed a smile to his face, and took Lord Grantham's extended hand. He did not look for Mary.

"Matthew," the Earl welcomed him so warmly, even after all that had happened. "It's very, very good to see you again. How are you, dear fellow?" The question was deeply sincere, carrying no air of mere politeness.

"I'm – quite well, thank you," he managed to answer relatively smoothly. "I'm so sorry we're late – I'm afraid there's only myself to blame. And this," he smiled wryly, waving his cane in protest at its very existence. That he was sorry was not at all true. That he could only blame himself; very much so.

However petty and sly, it had worked. "Oh that doesn't matter, Matthew," Cora smiled indulgently at him. "We're just glad you're able to be here at all. Shall we go straight through?"

Matthew smiled politely, nodded, as the rest of the family came towards the door to move to the dining room and greeted him. Edith seemed unusually pleased to see him, Violet almost a little disapproving... Matthew imagined that she hadn't forgiven him yet for being too cowardly to accept her advice. He could hardly blame her, when he hadn't forgiven himself yet, impossible though it had been.

Only when he could avoid it no longer, when they were upon him, did he brace himself to look up at Mary and her husband. She was standing a step behind him, hands clasped tightly together in front of her, smiling somewhere towards the middle of Matthew's chest. Matthew didn't dare allow himself to look long enough to notice any more than that, his chest felt as though it were being squeezed in an iron band.

"Matthew," Sir Richard's low, unnervingly smooth voice seemed to jar with him. "I hope you've been getting on well in Manchester?"

"Very." In replying, Matthew was at least forced to exhale, only realising then that his breath had been held. His smile was unnaturally bright with the effort it took. "Thank you. I've been kept very busy by work, and the city lends a welcome distraction. You're – both well, I hope?"

His polite query intentionally included Mary as well, though again it was her husband who spoke for them both.

"We are, yes. I'm glad to hear the city is treating you well. Anyway, shall we?"

Richard smiled politely, and gestured for Matthew to walk ahead of them, before very deliberately offering his arm to Mary. She smiled tightly, and took his elbow, understanding his display of dominance perfectly. Good Lord, he was like a peacock. Matthew was happy, better, in the city, without her. Without all of them. Yes, thank you very much, he'd made his point quite well. Matthew's back ahead of them was a cold, impassive wall, an impression only heightened by the hard tension across his shoulders.

Dinner felt terse. Everything grated at him. The soft candlelight burnt his eyes, the silver cutlery clattered against the china plates, wine gurgled in glasses and voices resonated between his ears. The chair was hard against his back, his legs, the tablecloth hung irritatingly on his thighs. Each morsel that passed his lips seemed tasteless. He didn't want to be there, he did not wanttobethere; not that anyone could have guessed it.

There was a faint edge of unease around the table, which Matthew put down to his own presence, and the fact that nobody knew quite what to say to him. Oh, it was an effort, but he did his best – wearing a passionless smile, nodding at the appropriate junctures, fielding concerns for his welfare with as little detail as possible and generally trying to keep the focus off himself. Did he still rely so much on his cane? Not so much now, thanks for the concern. Had he settled well back into work? Perfectly well, it was nice to have a routine again. Wasn't he very lonely? Not really, no. Had he missed them very much? Why, of course; how could they think otherwise? Everything was partial truth, concealed meanings, polite, anticipated responses. He said nothing that they would not expect him to say, and that was not questioned. He would not take their pity; he deserved that from no-one but himself.

Mind you, when the attention was not on him... Thank goodness he was seated next to Robert, though as the party was so small it didn't seem to matter much. The Earl chattered amiably about the estate, though not much as he didn't want to bore the ladies. How unfortunate; that at least would have been interesting. Isobel wittered on about the hospital until Violet decried it as an unsuitable topic for the dinner table. Edith tried, but didn't have all that much to talk about, in all honesty; and if she had, would anyone really have listened?

Matthew would've, if only to save himself from that which filled the gap... which was Sir Richard, describing with much gusto (at least, as much as he had) the new electric shower being installed in Haxby, and how thrilled Mary was with it, and how the stables had just this week finished their refurbishments so Mary's new mare Ruby was much happier, which in turn made Mary all the happier. Oh it wasn't that he said anything wrong, quite the opposite in fact; only every word from his lips punched into Matthew's gut in a fierce reminder that Carlisle could give these things to her, he could not. Carlisle was her husband, he was not. Carlisle could make her happy, he could not.

Not that he deserved any more than that.

He wanted to get on with Carlisle for Mary's sake, he'd promised (so long ago, it seemed) that he would like him if given the chance, only... how could he possibly, when his gain represented everything that Matthew had lost? Not that that mattered, that shouldn't matter, so long as Mary was happy.

Once or twice, he dared to try and smile at her (how long it was since he had done that with any genuine feeling!). But every time he gathered the strength, her gaze was away. On her plate, or on Richard, or somewhere on the wall behind his head... It rankled with Matthew, that this disappointed him. How he'd grown to somehow... expect that she should meet his eye across the table, as they had so often used to do. He gripped his cutlery tighter, forcing himself to breathe, in, then out, against the frustration he felt at himself. How dare he feel any sort of sadness that she was married now, that she belonged to someone else and not to him, when he had been little more than a day away from marrying himself and fully prepared to go through with it! After the way he'd acted then, he wasn't surprised she couldn't look at him.

Of course she couldn't look at him, Mary thought dejectedly. It would be too much, and she daren't, knowing how closely Richard's eye would be on her. He'd been calm, since that night with the photograph – not another word spoken about it. She found it unsettling, as though he were just waiting, waiting for her to prove what they both knew. Well, she wouldn't. What would it serve? Nothing good, surely. Every time Matthew spoke, it took a conscious effort to not look at him, an effort so forceful that her nails dug into her palms until the pain of that disguised the more miserable pain inside.

The furthest her eyes drifted was to his hands, then a little up to his chest, and it would be so easy just to glance up into his face… But then she'd feel Richard's eyes burning into her, hear his voice curling possessively over her name and tying her down to himself and the things that he'd provided for her, and her nerve would shatter.

Richard was right, she realised, as heaviness settled in her chest. It was far easier when she forgot him. Oh, she loved him alright – her stubborn, stupid, self-righteous cousin – that would never change. But to love him now could only cause heartache, for to think of him only reminded her of what she could never have, and what she must now live with instead.

Relief washed over her when the time came for the ladies to retire, granting her a respite from the concentration it took to politely ignore Matthew and yet attract no attention. Luckily, she knew that neither her mother nor her grandmother, now, would question her on it as they would have once. She was married now. Settled. Trapped. What would be the point?

The ladies' departure left Matthew alone with Richard, and Robert. As Carson set the brandy in front of them, the Earl looked between the two men. His son-in-law, and… the man he wished were his son-in-law, who was more truly his son than the man who was perhaps more, by law.

"It is good to see you again, Matthew," he said again. "We've all missed you."

While Carlisle raised an eyebrow at that, Matthew smiled graciously, feeling more at ease now the company was lessened.

"And I you," he said honestly. However difficult all the rest was, he had missed the constant, quiet support of Robert.

"Of course, it can't be easy to be back," Richard said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair, "considering all that you've been through here."

"It isn't," Matthew said carefully, tapping at the side of his glass, not appreciating the reminder of it (as Carlisle, perhaps, had imagined). "Certainly not. But I couldn't label everything here as a bad memory."

"I do hope not," said Robert, kindly.

Richard looked between them, bristling slightly. Oh, he'd never expected warmth from Mary's family, though the Lord only knew he'd done his best to fit in with them. He'd never desired it. Why would he? He'd desired Mary, and the advantages she could bring him, not the baggage of her family. Likewise, he'd never expected her to love him, or any such sentimental thing as that – no, they were a good match, it was advantageous, love had nothing to do with it – that, he didn't mind. But no matter what his expectations might have been, it still stung that everyone favoured the precious Matthew Crawley so. What was this uppity young man, so full of himself, that he should engender such love so universally? What did he have, what could he offer, that was above or beyond his own means? No, Richard had never expected his wife or her family to love him or anything of the sort, but equally he did not expect them (particularly his wife!) to fawn so profusely over man who'd stumbled into fortune – a fortune that was not even his own, yet! Richard at least had the pride of having made his own name. What could Matthew Crawley boast of?

He shifted in his chair.

"I suppose the Christmas season is as good a time as any to forget all that," Richard flashed Matthew a thin smile. "How long will you stay before returning to Manchester?"

Matthew looked up from his brandy, wondering why it felt like an accusation.

"I haven't quite settled it, yet," he answered. "But probably not much past Christmas day. The New Year at the very latest, then I'll be back at work."

"Stay as long as you like, dear chap," Robert insisted. "And while you're here, I'd like to show you the development plans for the set of cottages on the south side of the estate – now the war is well and truly behind us, work can finally move ahead on them."

"I'd like that very much," Matthew nodded, his smile a more genuine one than it had been all evening. Those sorts of estate matters, that business, he could somehow separate a little from the mess of the rest of his affairs here.

Richard bristled further, then eased into a smile. "You must see Haxby while you are here, as well, Matthew." When Matthew looked up, bemused, he spread his hands invitingly, his voice silken and somehow unsettling. "The estate has some fine prospects, and I know Mary as well as myself would be pleased for you to see our home, if you have the time for it."

Matthew inhaled sharply, fingers unconsciously tightening around his glass at the thought of Mary, her husband, and theirhome. Without needing to think about it, he knew that little could make him feel more uncomfortable. Yet in the same instant he also knew that he couldn't possibly refuse.

"How kind of you to offer," he smiled tightly. "I'd be delighted, of course."

Richard looked quite unmistakably satisfied, though the precise cause of his satisfaction was more difficult to define.

"Splendid. Well, shall we say Monday?"

Matthew could see absolutely no reason why not (more was the pity), and said so. And so it was settled.

If Matthew had felt more at ease once the women had retired to the drawing room, he found himself feeling now a greater sense of it to be joining them again. If he'd felt stifled over dinner, he'd soon found himself feeling even more so under the piercing scrutiny of Carlisle. What bothered him, though, was that he couldn't place his finger on precisely why. To be jealous would be pathetic, and he had no right to be so. Yet he had no reason to dislike him, there was just… something, some niggling feeling of discomfort, as though… Everything Carlisle said seemed to needle at him just so, right at the source of all his regrets and his bitterness, and while every word was perfectly and entirely innocuous, Matthew couldn't help feeling that somehow it… wasn't.

Once back inside the relative warmth and press of people in the drawing room, Matthew hung unobtrusively to the side. Cora played the perfect hostess and did her best to engage him, but Matthew found her sympathy cloying and overbearing. For God's sake, it had all happened months ago – it was as though they believed that simply because they'd not seen him since, he could not have moved on at all – or if he had, surely it was a cruelty to remind him of it! He was actually grateful, for once, when his mother stepped in to do most of his talking for him.

Released from the pressure of conversation, Matthew's eyes naturally wandered to Mary, sheltering by the side of Carlisle. It was strange, to see her so deferent; it wasn't what he'd have expected of her. But then, it seemed that her husband left her little room to be anything else. Not that it was in any way Matthew's place to wonder about it, he chided himself. Still, he did want to talk to her – he'd worried and dithered over it, sulked about it, but eventually accepted that there were things that needed to be said if they (well, he) were ever to move past this unbearable unease.

His chance came a little later, when Carlisle was unexpectedly beckoned over by the Dowager Countess. Matthew raised a faintly amused eyebrow, ignoring the temptation to feel sorry for the man being cornered by the indomitable Violet. Now, he allowed his natural inclination to gravitate towards Mary, strange though it felt to do so after so long and with their situations so changed. Though in a way, he reflected, that actually made it easier (for them, if not for him).

"Hello," he said quietly.

Mary, who had been staring at a not particularly interesting pattern on the carpet, seemed startled by his approach. She looked up, eyes widening almost in panic for a moment before a practised smile covered her face.

"Matthew!" Her voice was typically smooth, and easy. Behind the voice and the smile, though, she seemed flighty… Unsettled. She glanced towards her husband. "You're looking well!"

It was an inane thing to say, but really what else could she say?

Matthew nodded, putting her discomfort down to the strangeness of his presence after so much had changed.

"Thank you. I feel it; better than I was, at least. You look well too, Mary." His eyes unconsciously tracked up and down her, taking in the dusky red dress that he'd not seen before, the slimness of her frame beneath it, the way her dark hair contrasted so sharply to her pale shoulders; then resolutely stamped down the familiar stir of attraction. That was not right, now. It couldn't be.

There was something brave in his smile. "How do you find marriage suits you?"

Mary looked at him in surprise, taken aback by the question coming from him; though why she should be, she couldn't say.

"Oh, it is – everything I expected of the institution," she breezed after only a moment's hesitation, and smiled, hoping that would satisfy him on the matter. It was not a lie, after all.

It was a careful answer, a considered one, Matthew noticed. His eyebrow raised a little, and the question had slipped out before he had really thought about it.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said sincerely, "but… Is it everything you'd – hoped for?" It was a significant distinction, and one that was not his place to ask, he realised. How easily, how foolishly easily, he slipped back into these ways with her, saying things before considering the sense of it. That had been precisely the problem, always his problem.

Feeling mildly affronted at the directness of the question, Mary stared at him a moment. All her hard work, her concentration all evening and her hardest efforts to not be affected by him, was already beginning to unravel under the weight of his gaze.

Finally, she shrugged. "That would depend entirely on what one hoped for, I suppose!" was her flippant reply.

That seemed to do the trick. They seemed to dance around each other; there was something in the air between them, neither quite daring to push through it, both knowing they could not. A flicker of disappointment crossed Matthew's gaze, but he couldn't press it.

Instead, he settled rather uselessly for, "Sir Richard has invited me to Haxby on Monday."

"Oh?" Mary did not quite successfully cover her surprise.

"Yes!" No, Matthew was still not sure what to think of it either. "It's very kind of him. I hope it's home to you now – I shall look forward to seeing it," he lied, politely.

"Of course," Mary replied, her sincerity and unease matching Matthew's. Home? She supposed it must be. But for Matthew to be there, to intrude upon it, at Richard's own request… How, how was she supposed to forget him then! It didn't take her a full moment to realise her husband's intention. To show her off, show their house off, show off everything that he owned and possessed… Reminding Matthew, and herself, without room for interpretation, that he had won. It made her feel a little sick.

Uneasy silence hung for a moment, as Matthew searched for anything else to say that could delay his real purpose, but to no avail. He frowned, took a breath, licked his lips. Whatever else, even if he spoke not another word to her, he had to say this.

"Mary, I… want to apologize." There, he'd said it (or taken the first step, at least).

That caught her attention. "What on earth for?" she frowned.

So many things, he thought. This was difficult. "For what I said, when… At Lavinia's funeral." Mary looked stunned, but Matthew pressed on now that the words were finally released from where they had been buzzing perpetually around his head. Which was just as well, for Mary was too shocked to be brought back to that day so sharply to make any response.

"I was – it was so very difficult," he shook his head. "And what I said – was – well, what I mean is – I hope you understand that I never blamed you." He looked at her desperately. "I might have blamed us, I certainly blamed myself – well, I still do, but – never you."

For so long, he'd felt terrible about that day. Haunted by the look in her eyes as he'd laid into her, assaulting her with all the guilt that had been pressing so fiercely in his chest that it had spilled out in an attack. What a miserable man he'd been, and how cruel, so self-absorbed in his own misery that he'd not stopped to think about the blow of his words on Mary, something which he'd realised and regretted from the first moments of emerging from his darkness. If he never spoke to her again beyond this evening, well; he wanted her to know that.

She could do nothing but stare at him in a sort of horror for several moments.

Then, "Oh, Matthew!" and without thinking she touched his arm. In that moment, as he spoke so devastatingly honestly to her, she forgot everything that she was supposed to think and feel towards him and was overcome only by a deep sorrow. How could he still blame himself!

But before she could pay it any more thought, Matthew's eyes flicked over her shoulder, she saw his expression settle… She quickly withdrew her hand to her side, only seconds before she felt her husband's hand possessively on her back.

"Richard," she turned and greeted him with a flawless smile. "Cousin Matthew was just telling me about his planned visit to Haxby on Monday."

"Ah, yes," Richard looked distinctly pleased with himself. "We'll look forward to it, Matthew."

Matthew nodded, and quickly excused himself; and before long from the whole evening. He was drained; he was so unused to company now that the effort of it was exhausting – particularly this company.

Motioning to his mother, who nodded in understanding, he thanked Lord and Lady Grantham, bid the rest of the family a good evening and stepped into the hall to wait for the car. The harsh tap of his cane on the hard floor was strangely reassuring, the cooler air and open space refreshing. He'd managed it. Got through it. It had been far from painless, but he'd done it.

When he heard footsteps echo behind him, Matthew naturally assumed it was his mother, or actually Carson, come to think of it, with his coat.

"One moment, Matthew," a voice called behind him.

He stopped sharply, and turned, eyes widening then narrowing in confusion. His pulse quickened in readiness, he tensed; a natural instinct, almost forgotten now in the year passed since his injury.

"Sir Richard," he acknowledged.

Carlisle drew in front of him, observing him shrewdly. "Before you leave; a word of warning… Do be careful."

"Careful?" His mind raced, and he felt a stir of indignation at Carlisle's tone.

The taller man let the silence ring for an uncomfortable moment, appearing to weigh his words carefully.

"Yes. I – am not a blind man, Matthew, nor a naïve one." He let this settle. "And I am not unaware of the history you share with my wife."

"I beg your pardon?" Matthew spluttered. Whatever he might have expected, it was not that, and he was too stunned to make any more coherent reply.

"Oh, I know that there has been something between you in the past. And in the past I'm sure it is, which is why I'm warning you to care now – to put to bed this very instant even the slightest intention you might have toward her."

"Any –" Matthew's voice trembled as he tried to reign in his anger at such a suggestion. He shook his head, gripping his cane until his knuckles were white. "You may well be neither blind nor naïve, Sir Richard, but most certainly fanciful if you even imagine that I should –"

"No, no, I do not," Carlisle's irritatingly smooth voice attempted to placate him, along with his deeply insincere smile. "I think you far too much a gentleman for that, Mr. Crawley, in truth. I only wish the same could be said for – well, never mind."

He let his words sink in for a moment, observing the deepening of Matthew's frown with some satisfaction.

"What do you mean?" Matthew asked warily, convinced he was misunderstanding. Surely he was misunderstanding this entire conversation!

"Oh nothing, I'm sure," Carlisle words of reassurance carried none of the same sentiment. "I only urge you to be careful not to give even the slightest encouragement to Mary, for –"

Just then, Carson did approach with Isobel, and Carlisle's lips closed into a thin smile. "I hope you understand me Matthew; I do not speak a word against you. Until Monday?"

Matthew nodded mutely. How could he in one breath be accused of having intentions towards Mary, and in another be labelled too honourable… Then what… He couldn't think, and by the time he looked up again Carlisle had vanished back into the drawing room.

Deeply puzzled, Matthew smiled distractedly at his mother and took her out to the car. The moment he stepped outside, the cold December air flooded into his lungs. He'd hoped it would clear his head, but… That seemed hopeless, now. Sleep, he already knew, would elude him.

He was back. How on earth had he thought he could do this?

TBC

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know what you thought, reviews are always very welcomed! Sorry it was rather a long one - I do get carried away! Thank you!