A/N: First, I must say that I was so excited by the reviews from last week. I loved reading them so much and I really enjoy getting your feedback. I also discovered that it is possible to reply to reviews (yay!) so if you reviewed chapter 2, and have Private Messaging turned on, I replied to you!

Second, we are finally getting into some of the angst of this story. This is actually one of my favorite chapters, despite the fact that it's not a happy one, so I hope you enjoy it, too!


1934

On his thirteenth birthday, George Crawley discovered that his birthday, while a joyous occasion for him, was actually the hardest day of the year for his mother.

He had always known that his birthday was the one day every year that he and his mother did not eat breakfast together. She had once told him that the day after his father's funeral she had requested her breakfast be brought to the nursery instead of her bedroom. She had enjoyed breakfast with only her son for company every morning since – except on his birthday. George believed his Mama when she told him it was so he could sleep longer on his birthday (and sleep he usually did), and he had always assumed she ate breakfast downstairs with the rest of the family that one day every year.

But sometime between his twelfth and thirteenth birthdays, both he and his mother had decided that, though they very much enjoyed their time alone together before the hustle and bustle of the day, he really was much too old to continue to take his breakfast in the nursery, and they had both joined the rest of the family downstairs in the dining room ever since.

That was, until his birthday. He arrived downstairs slightly later than usual (taking advantage of his day to sleep) to find the entire family already eating their breakfasts, minus (of course) his grandmother, and (more suspiciously) his mother.

"Where's Mama?" George asked, upon walking in and discovering his mother's mysterious absence.

"We thought perhaps you both had taken breakfast upstairs today for your birthday. She may just be a few minutes late. She hadn't eaten breakfast downstairs in nearly fifteen years until you both started to eat with us a few months ago," his grandfather revealed. "Maybe she's been temporarily held up."

This confused him slightly. George knew she had eaten downstairs at least thirteen times - once a year on his birthday. Perhaps Grandpapa had forgotten. He was getting older, after all, and maybe slightly more forgetful, though one would think that he would remember it on such an important day.

George waited on his mother for most of breakfast, but when she never came down, he grew worried about her. He excused himself early and made to go to her bedroom.

He turned the corner to the corridor of his mother's room just as George saw Anna leave the room in question and turn towards him. "Mr. Crawley, can I help you with anything?"

"I was just looking for Mama. She didn't come downstairs for breakfast."

"She asked for breakfast in her room this morning."

What? Really? He thought. Of all the days…

"Is she all right?"

"I'm not sure her ladyship is feeling quite herself this morning. But it's nothing to trouble you with. I'm sure it's nothing. Why don't you run along and I'll tell Lady Mary you were looking for her?"

He nodded and walked in the opposite direction as Anna. Walking slowly and watching her out of the corner of his eye, George doubled back as soon as she had turned the corner. He approached his mother's door slowly and quietly and was not prepared for what he heard.

George had never seen (or heard) his Mama cry – not even when her beloved grandmother had passed away last year. But there was no mistaking the sniffling he heard beyond the door.

He hesitated slightly, but knocked. The sniffling sound stopped, but when she called "Who is it?" through the door, her voice was thick from crying.

"It's me!" he called through the door, then added unnecessarily, "It's George." George heard his mother hurrying around the room, and when she finally opened the door, she was still pulling her dressing gown over her nightgown. He noticed her hair still in a messy braid (had she spent the entire morning in bed?), and it was obvious that she had quickly tried to hide that she had been crying and not quite succeeded.

"George, my darling!" she said, seeming surprised by his being at her door so early. "Happy birthday." She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the forehead, wondering to herself when he had gotten so tall. "Have you enjoyed sleeping late this morning?"

Instead of answering her though, he asked, "What's the matter, Mama?"

"Oh, it's nothing," she replied, wiping away a stray tear. "I'm just being silly." They stood there for a moment before Mary spoke again. "Come along in for a moment. I was wondering when I could do this, but since you're here, I have something I want to give you away from the rest of the family."

George did as he was told and sat with his mother on his father's unused side of the bed. His mother's side was still turned down; George's suspicions that she had yet to get out of bed were confirmed.

Mary reached into the drawer of the bedside table, atop which stood the picture of his father, and pulled out a small box, which she handed to him. He gave her a questioning look, but she just gave him a slight smile and an encouraging nod.

Taking the top off the unwrapped box, he was slightly surprised. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.

His father's pocket watch, given to him by his father on his thirteenth birthday. He recognized it from all the times he had taken it out of the drawer in his father's bedside table and his Mama had warned him that he must be careful with it.

He looked up and saw that his mother's eyes were filled with tears again.

"Mama…" he honestly didn't know how to finish the sentence. For the first time in his life, he was being entrusted with one of his father's most prized possessions.

"He would have wanted you to have it," Mary replied simply.

George was suddenly very aware of where he was – sitting in the place his father used to occupy nightly, and next to his mother no less, who, despite the absence of her late husband, still kept to her side of the bed. George recognized the irony in the situation.

To him, Matthew Crawley was the equivalent of a mythical creature. George, of course, owed his life to the man he had only met once and didn't remember at all, but he had never truly been more than a man in pictures, a man people often told him he looked like, and a man his mother and Granny Isobel spoke of often.

For his mother, however, Matthew Crawley had been a beloved friend, companion, husband; someone with whom she had planned to spend the rest of her days; the man with whom she had planned on raising a family; the love of her life. Matthew Crawley had been the man with whom she had shared this very bed every night until exactly thirteen years ago.

And suddenly, he realized why his mother was so upset.


And now, my usually plea for reviews: Please, please, pretty please with sugar on top? I'm going out of town this week and I would love nothing more than reviews in my inbox when I get to Texas!