I'm so glad you liked the first chapter so here's some more! Thank you for the reviews and kind words of encouragement. Again this is a sequel to Hearts and Bones so if you want to know more of MM's life in Paris post WWI please read that story!

**please assume all the dialogue in France is in French. I was trying to use French but this story will have a great deal of dialogue and I think it will prevent me making egregious errors if I just make a disclaimer here :)

XX

July 1941, Bordeaux France

Cécile looked carefully through the underbrush. Trying to make no noises to call attention to herself she waited for her contact. A Free French resistance operative posing as a farmer had information on German troop numbers guarding an electrical transformer station that was a prime target to be destroyed. He was to meet her and another agent within the half hour.

Her damned radio had gone out days ago and despite all her efforts it was still broken. After lugging the thing around for weeks, she was particularly peeved the wiring had frayed and she could not fix it. As a result she had barely made the contact. Gaby had proven her worth as she guided Cécile down a myriad of hallways and out of the flat by a back-stair case, eluding the Gestapo by mere minutes. They had made their way to the location outside Pessac in good time and they had reconned for possible German forces on the look for any suspicious activity in the area.

So far so good.

Once the contact and been made the and the information exchanged Gaby would then use her radio to transmit the information. Both women would then probably be pulled out and returned to England to debrief their superiors and get the radio fixed.

This would give Cécile the chance to see her family.

Her father would be worried sick. His own position with the agency would give him the clearance to at least know of her regular contact if not her exact mission. He wouldn't be allowed to tell her mother, sister, brothers, or anyone in the family that she was missing.

She felt terrible knowing that. Her father had only reluctantly supported her desire to join the SOE against what she knew would have been her mother's vehement opposition. She was too young. She needed to finish her education. Lady Mary Crawley, if she knew what Cécile intended, would have come up with a multitude of reasons why her daughter could find a way to contribute without having to actually put her life in danger.

Instead Cécile only had to work on her father's own sense of duty. "You were a VC recipient Papa," Cécile said. "You saved the lives of your men not because you believed in the greater cause of the war but because you knew it was the right thing to do. I want the same opportunity. To do what is right. To make my own decision as to how I serve."

Her father's reaction was unexpected. He had gone pale and his hands tightly balled into fists as if he was fighting some internal demon. It had taken several minutes for him to recover his wits and respond. When he did so it was measured and thoughtful. "I will always support you in whatever takes your passion. You're my daughter and I respect your decisions."

She had kissed his cheek and said, "thank you Papa."

Only then did he attempt a droll remark. "We will need to come up with a plausible story to tell your Mama. She can't know of your real job but to say you're still at uni would be impossible as she'd insist on a visit."

Thus they had concocted the idea of a semester ending caravan trip to the west country. It wasn't exactly important Mary believed it—neither father nor daughter believed it would go over at all—but that it was credible enough for her to realize what was happening. She had lived with a diplomat most of her marriage to Matthew where he could not tell her much of his work. She knew as well the "Careless Talk Cost Lives" placarded all over the place.

Something was up but there was nothing to do but get on with things. Mary had accepted it and stuck to the story.

Matthew had kept completely out of Cécile's training and assignment placement.

And now Cécile believed that, despite the setbacks, she had done well in the past six weeks in France. Kept her cool and stuck to the mission.

Gaby heard some rustling and pulled out her gun. Cécile stood behind her, the trees blocking her view. But it was just the contact who had arrived at the rendezvous.

The two women breathed sighs of relief. Gaby kept lookout as Cécile walked towards the man.

The rendezvous took just a few minutes. The contact, a man in his early 40s with a thick local accent informed them, "The rotation of guards is every four hours." He handed Cécile a silk piece cloth with a hand drawn map. "Their stations are marked here. You get this back to your superiors. Tell them it is of utmost priority this electric station be taken out. It will disrupt activities for weeks at the nearby German airfield."

Cécile shoved the map in her pocket. Gaby motioned they had to be on their way.

They two women carefully made their way back to an alternate safe house, closer to the wooded copse from which they emerged after the appointment with the Resistance cell agent. Cécile had already stowed the broken radio there, hidden from view. Gaby had stored her radio as well and she sent the coded signal back to base in Britain so that the two women would be picked up the following night by the SOE's Lysander single engine high-winged aircraft and returned across the channel.

If all went to plan.

They moved yet again once their message was sent in case the Germans had tracked their transmission.

Gaby knocked on a farmhouse door and a woman, expecting them but still with guarded, fierce eyes glanced out a slit in the window before opening the lock. The young Frenchwoman gave a swift nod of her head, allowing the two women in before she quickly closed the door again.

Any shaft of light in the darkness would potentially alert the Germans.

Herded into a back room without delay Cécile could see very little as they were guided through the kitchen, a dim light coming from a fireplace. Her nose caught the rich smell of root vegetables and beef, a stew being braised in a pot hung over the glowing embers of the fire. She thought she saw an older man rocking in a nearby chair but no words were exchanged.

The back room was cramped but sufficient for their needs. Blankets on a cot bed. Enough space for the two radios. They would remain in the room until the next night.

"You stay here," the woman said, emphatically pointing to the bare wooden floor. She seemed about their age, her hair in a tight bun and wearing a woven shawl against the chill of the night. No names would be exchanged or even many pleasantries. She gestured to a corner of the room where a bucket sat.

That would serve their toiletry needs.

"Thank you," Cécile said, her voice slightly higher pitched, giving away just a touch of the anxiety she felt. She sat wearily down on a three-legged stool, the only chair in the confined space. The narrow escape of the afternoon combined with the thrill of successfully meeting the contact with the Resistance left her in a kind of heady numbness. Her body going through the motions while her mind replayed the events of the day over and over. How could have done things better? More effectively? Had she cocked up anything?

Gaby pushed both suitcases, the radios hidden within, behind some boxes in the corner of the room. She sat cross legged down on the cot. A candle beside on a small table she lit with a match.

The French woman closed the door behind her, a lock secured in place. The sound of the bolt made Cécile jump. Suddenly very frightened. She began to tap her foot nervously, mechanically pulling down a lock of her hair over her face. What if they were locked inside when the Germans raided the farm? Burned the house? With them inside…

Gaby heard the noise. "You have to stop that. We must be quiet."

"Sorry..." Cécile ceased the rhythmical patter.

God she was hungry. That savory aroma of stew made her stomach growl though. Yet another sound…

But then the lock opened and the woman who was protecting them brought in two bowls of stew, some baguettes, and strong coffee.

"That should see us through the night." Gaby said. "Many thanks," taking one of the trays and biting eagerly into one of the baguettes.

Cécile took the other and put it on her knees.

The door closed once again. The lock jammed in place.

The morning a very long ways away.

XX

July 1941 London

Matthew walked briskly down Baker Street. He didn't want to remain in London for any length of time but he did want to find out more information on Cécile's mission in France. He wasn't sure he'd get anything out of his fellow SOE operatives but he wanted to give it a go. Secrecy was of utmost importance and Matthew would understand if he met with a wall of silence.

He had arranged a meeting with Major Maurice Buckmaster, F section head for Intelligence Operations in France. Inevitably dubbed one of the "Baker Street Irregulars" because of its Sherlockian location, Buckmaster was an old colleague of Matthew's from his time in France in the 1920s while working for the Foreign Office. The younger man had written articles for Le Matin and the two would sometimes meet at a nearby café for a drink after work.

It all reminded Matthew that not five or six years previous he had been the one scrounging around Paris for freelance journalism work while struggling to complete his report for the British Peace Commission. His wife had died of the flu, his mother from a bombing raid in Paris. His father never overcame his grief and had sat at home in Manchester in a funk of despair. Matthew himself wasn't much better, having survived the cauldron of war and a overcome a serious injury but was one of many who struggled with the guilt of the survivor. But by the time he met Maurice in 1922 he had settled down as the heir to an earldom, married with two little girls, and dare he say it, respected among his colleagues and society at large.

Downton, Mary's love, their children had saved him. He had been a broken man and he was who he was today because of them.

But he also chafed at the compromises. Part of him liked being footloose in Paris, open for whatever life brought. The automatonlike demands of the army for mindless drilling and following orders to kill or die was replaced with a welcome sense of independence. He could criticize the Peace Talks in an editorial, get paid for writing erotic short stories for Parisian literary periodicals (good thing those were written under a pseudonym) or even commence a blazing love affair with a dark-haired beauty, neither knowing the other's name yet at the end of it had mapped each contour of the other's body and soaked in all the other had to offer.

The affair had been intense. Heady and brilliant. They had done nothing for days on end but stay in his cramped flat and make love. They had given into each other completely.

That got Matthew thinking as he made his way down Baker Street. Crawley House had become very cramped with all the children and extended relations. Once they were all reassured that Cécile was safe, Matthew decided he should reignite that spontaneity. Mary needed time away, and he most certainly wanted her all to himself.

He finished the walk to the unremarkable front door of Section F. It was meant to blend into the neighborhood, showing nothing special about the remarkable war effort within.

He hoped Maurice Buckmaster could help with information about Cécile. He was a veteran of Dunkirk, who was now part of the recruitment and training of operatives working with the resistance in France. Those men and women, once recruited by Buckmaster or another agent, would be sent to advanced training at places such as Downton to learn how to use radios and other ways to collect information on enemy movements as well as techniques to carry out acts of sabotage and provide equipment and money for resistance operatives.

Once inside the office Matthew took off his service cap and gloves. Expecting his arrival, a woman got up from her desk and met him. Romanian born, educated at the Sorbonne and a finishing school in Lausanne, Vera Rosenberg emigrated with her mother to Britain right before the most brutal anti-Semitic activities began in Romania. Changing to use her mother's maiden name of Atkins she became Buckmaster's assistant in the SOE.

"Major Crawley," Vera said, shaking his hand. "Good to see you again." The two had met when they attended meetings at the War Office.

Vera almost matched Matthew's height and as they stood eye to eye, he tried to read Vera's face for any sign of worry but she gave nothing away. A brusque woman, Vera was not liked by everyone at the agency but she was responsible for many of the female agents and if anything had happened to Cécile she would know.

"The major will be available after he gets off the phone." She said, taking her place once again behind the desk.

Matthew knew better than to ask anything until they were all together in the back office. Even then he doubted he'd be enlightened as to exactly what her operation included. He would be happy with any information, not even to her whereabouts, just that they had heard from her through regular channels.

He sat down, nervously tapping his knee with his fingers as he waited.

Cécile… he knew he shouldn't ever play favourites and he loved all his children… but Cécile shared his love of language, his love of literature. She was still his little girl speaking French at a mile a minute while they fed the ducks at the pond near the Abbey. Her gift needed to be nurtured and he had rejoiced when she found a place at Somerville College. When the war started they had all sat together as a family in the library at Downton on September 3, 1939 listening to the Prime Minister declare war against Germany on the radio; everyone telling the parents lucky they were that their boys were too young to fight.

Then France fell to the Germans in June 1940 it had crossed his mind Cecile might play a role in government service but had thought she would finish her academic work first. Instead at 19 she was recruited by the SOE's Selwyn Jepson for work in France.

When she approached him for his support, what could he say? He was also being recruited at the same time and was thick in the middle of arranging for Downton to serve as a training ground for agents. So he said yes.

He couldn't tell Mary and that hurt. They had vowed ever since discovering their true identities never to say anything but the truth. But this was not something of his making. Their work was top secret. And he knew his storm braving wife got the signals and made connections in her head about what was going on. Not the details of course, but enough to assure her support.

So now they found themselves in the ironic position of having not one but two children in the war effort. Both of them young women. Their beloved daughters. Cécile secretly joining the SOE. Isabella taking on a position with the ATA.

Matthew sighed. All his work since the peace talks of 1919, and the work of thousands of other diplomats, had failed this generation. They were the survivors of the worst war in modern history. The war to end all wars supposedly. They had seen hell and it was of their own society's making. And they were resolved to change it all.

It had been up to them to make the politicians hear. To make the world safer. Freer. So that no more had to die in the false name of patriotism or duty. Dulce et decorum et pro patria mori indeed…

But all had fallen on deaf ears. Hate festered. And when it erupted in dictatorship, the fear of another war led to appeasement. Even coming from a genuine desire not to send another generation to fight, it was the wrong policy which eventually led once again to war.

All happening in twenty short years. The older, wiser, but damaged survivors of 1914 could do nothing but send off their sons and daughters to yet more foreign battlefields.

Matthew despaired. He should have tried harder. Worked harder in the Foreign Office or as Downton East's MP to have them listen. Done something …

It did no good of course. Here he was. And here he had to fight. Again. For his family. For his children.

For Cécile.

It all came down to that. You fight for what you love.

Matthew heard the door click and it opened and Buckmaster walked through.

"Matthew," he said. "Come inside."

XX

July 1941 Yorkshire

"Georgie your lunch is getting cold." Mary looked up from her own plate, falling into her old nickname for her eldest son as she was so very happy to have him back from school for the summer holidays. She was in a bit of a hurry though as she had to be at the farms to meet the Land Army supervisor for the day's assignments.

"Mama I am eleven years old next month," her son stood up straighter in his chair. "I would like to be called George from now on."

Mary suppressed a laugh, knowing he wouldn't like thinking his mother was making fun of him at all. She wasn't of course. It was just how so very grown he sounded when all she wanted to do was to hug him and keep him as her little boy.

"I wish Papa had allowed me to travel with him to London. He promised to take me to the Natural History Museum so I could study some of the fossils on display. Mr. Watson told me all about them at school."

"London still isn't safe." Mary said.

"I've heard that Herr Hitler is concentrating everything now on Russia and the blitz is over." George gave her a confident look.

"Oh indeed?" Mary tutted. "And just where did you hear that?"

George gulped down a sip of tea. "Teddy Minor's older brother…he's not really his older brother because he's the son of Mr. Fenwick's second marriage…he was divorced you know in 1934… so that makes him I guess a step older brother." He took another bite of the toast. "I'm glad I don't have step older brothers. Older sisters are bad enough. Izzy won't even take me riding anymore…"

"And how does Teddy Minor's older brother know?" Mary tried to keep her son from straying too far from the point of his story.

"What?... Oh…." George said, totally in awe. "He's in the RAF." As if that was explanation enough.

Mary smiled. George was obsessed with flying these days. Ever on about the types of airplanes he sometimes saw flying across the skies, making drawings of their silhouettes and shoving them in his pocket in case of German spies in the area. Matthew had bought the boys a Dinky model of a Spitfire, sold in a special presentation box as part of a fund to raise money for the RAF. George and the seven-year-old Robert would make spluttering noises to imitate the engine, holding the diecast metal model up high pretending to fly it all around the grassy area back of Crawley House. The younger boy whinging that George wouldn't let him hold it enough. Matthew had taken his wife aside and said, "I would have bought them one each but they were in short supply."

"Finish your food. Eat it all now. Isabella will take you out riding today. She promised. I have to be at the farm so you make sure Robert doesn't get into trouble."

"When will Cee Cee come home?"

George's blue eyes, the exact match of Matthew's, looked directly into hers. "Is she all right?"

"Yes. Yes of course she is. We told you she's out with friends in the west country. Walking around Cornwall. You know how she likes to do that. I think they're going to meet up with an archaeological dig."

The embellishment seemed to satisfy her son. Mary kissed him on the top of his head and made her way towards the back of the house. Stepping into her Wellingtons and rainslicker she reminded cook that there would be only the three children for lunch. She and Cora had a WI meeting in the afternoon.

Walking towards the back-gate entrance to Downton she tried to keep her mind off of Matthew's trip to London. He never said his true purpose, saying just that it was routine bureaucratic nonsense. But she knew it was more. Much more. But it did no good to pry. He wasn't allowed to tell and she wasn't allowed to ask.

She had a feeling it was about Cécile. She kept the charade up among the children but she knew her daughter was engaged in the same kind of work as Matthew. Only in a much more dangerous locale. Most probably France given her penchant for the language.

Any thought running through her head only ended in the fear Cécile was in great danger. Which did no one any good.

So Mary thrust her hands into the slicker's pockets and made her way across the muddy field to the barn. Much of the land had not been under cultivation for quite awhile. The Depression had meant that large portions had been given up to pasture as Britain relied more on imported foodstuffs. But now the farm was producing vegetables, potatoes, and wheat as well as milk production and poultry and eggs.

The farms hadn't been in this much use since her father's childhood Mary imagined. It was on these walks she missed him most. They would often walk together across the headlands, or ride when the hunting season was on.

Arriving at the barn, Mary knocked on the office door. She got on well with the WLA supervisor Emily Hawkes, something she gathered didn't always happen. Hawkes was a chemist by profession, having left her position at a research laboratory at the University of Sheffield to work with the Land Army and she was used to being in charge. Mary had found her crisp voice and succinct directives at first off putting but once she got to know her, found her efficiency to be admirable.

And Hawkes found it refreshing to have a woman owner. "None of this women can't do this or that nonsense. If one more farmer looks me in the eye and says 'females can't 'andle 'orses' I was going to show them not only can we handle the horses we can order them to kick you where it 'urts…"

Mary knew they would get along fine after that. She was also glad of the competence brought to all the book keeping. The government kept strict tabs on all foodstuffs and the records had to be meticulous. She also had the National Farm Survey forms to complete for the War Agricultural Executive Committee.

"More bumf…" Matthew would grumble looking over all the paperwork, and then with a wink say, "Glad you have to deal with it."

But both knew the importance of accurate recordkeeping. National rationing had been instituted and the better they knew how much food stuffs were available the better the system would be for all.

That was the hope anyway. So she had to gather data on crops, livestock, machinery, employed labour, soil constitution, drainage…the list was endless. In addition, a map had to be drawn showing the lay out of all the fields.

Mary gathered up some of the papers Emily had completed and they agreed on a work schedule for the girls, now arriving two by two through the barn doors ready to get to work either layout out hay for the cows and horses or getting the tractors underway for preparing the ground for plowing.

They chatted amiably amongst each other.

It made Mary suddenly miss her own siblings. Edith had ever been living her own life after the last war ended. Having had some kind of mysterious love affair while she worked for The Sketch, she at least was now settled with the Marquess of Hexham in Northumberland. Maybe at Christmas they'd get together with their two teenage children. Bertie, a former soldier, was now with the army in North Africa. They were all naturally worried about him. Sybil and Tom had also moved frequently as Tom looked for work. First in London, then New York City, then Dublin, then finally Manchester where he worked on the Guardian as a general correspondent. They had settled there in the mid '30s with their three boys and older sister Sybbie. Irish neutrality had meant some political differences of opinion once again with the elder Robert Crawley, and relations weren't at their best when he died. Sybil had managed to get to her father's side before his passing and that was of great comfort to the family.

Now Tom Jr and his brother Bryn served in the Irish Merchant Navy while the youngest, Kevin was still at school. Sybbie was in England working as a plotter for the WAAF.

Kevin, Tom and Sybil were expected to visit very shortly. Tom had offered to help Mary with the growing mound of paperwork as Matthew was swamped in correspondence of his own. Both knew it wasn't just piffle as Matthew kept saying. He was working on whatever project was happening at the Abbey and was not at liberty to tell. The growing lines etching his face in worry and concern meant that his burden was a heavy one. Tom wanted to do all he could to help out his friend. His heart condition once again keeping him out of any war related work.

Bringing the folders back to Crawley House after the WI meeting, Mary sat down at the desk and tried to make sense of Emily's peculiar handwriting.

The house was quiet. Isabella true to her word taking both boys out for the day to give their mother a chance to work.

Trying to focus her thoughts first drifted to Cécile, the nagging worry that something was wrong never left her. Matthew had telephoned he was returning by the afternoon train but she could tell nothing from his voice other than he sounded tired.

It would do no good to fret about that. So she tried again.

But then there was something wrong with Isabella, making Mary drifted again from the dizzying columns of figures in the accounts books. Maths was never really her strong point.

Isabella wasn't her normal, happy self. It wasn't just the desire to join the ATA to fly aircraft from the factories to the air fields. Something in her marriage was wrong. She hardly spoke about Sebastian anymore whereas she would talk of nothing else both before and immediately after their wedding. Mary had been opposed to the marriage saying Isabella was far too young at 20 to enter into marital life. But, headstrong like herself, Isabella demanded her parents' consent. Sebastian was not aristocratic it's true, but neither had Matthew been before finding out he was heir to Downton.

Mary remembered her daughter turning that to her favour. "I know you didn't even meet Papa before he was heir but he didn't grow up rich or entitled, but he was smart and from a good family. Those had to be considerations even after you found out he was Grandfather's heir. Or did you only decide on him because of the inheritance?"

Mary had bit back the retort that how dare her daughter speak to her in that fashion. She was trying to be a mother who did not react the same way as their parent's generation. And of course Isabella had no idea of Mary's past. Her divorce in 1919. An affair with a total stranger in the intoxicating rebellious air of post war Paris. She had kept it all very much private as she and Matthew had settled into a more normal married life.

With Matthew's nudging, she had consented and Isabell and Sebastian were married. To all evidence they were happy. But war does change things. Seb had been gone since joining up in 1939 and his work as a navigator with Bomber Command was incredibly taxing.

What was wrong between them? Isabella would only brush her mother off, saying you'd not understand.

Mary had been a mother much closer to her children than her own mother was. But all her children still saw Matthew as the more approachable one. The one to whom they would release their burdens and feel as if he was always on their side.

Was this her chance?

She wanted to help Isabella. Maybe now she could she use her past to try to break the barrier with her daughter and convince her she understood about love and passion and making the wrong choices for what seemed at the time the best of reasons.

Would it help? She didn't know but it gave her a sense of purpose to try. In a world where everything was chop and change as dear old Carson used to say, maybe one thing could be solved just by opening up and showing she cared.

She'd give it a go the next time she and Isabella had a private moment.

Resolved, Mary buckled down once again with the accounts books for the next several hours.

XX

We'll continue with Cécile in France and the family all together again in Yorkshire in the next chapter. Thank you so much! Maurice Buckmaster, Vera Atkins, and Selwyn Jepson are all real members of the Special Operations Executive.