A/N: Well, now HB's back for series 3 it looks like my scenario here is off the cards... :P It's actually strangely depressing to think that when I started this fic, it was a genuine possibility still! Oh well... Thanks a bunch, Fellowes...

Anyway! I know this is different in tone to most fics that are popping up at the moment (much needed catharsis or epic denial FLUFF, both equally vital for my sanity), but I hope you'll still enjoy it. Thank you so much for your comments and feedback on chapter 2, it means a great deal to me!

Onwards...!

Chapter Three

The day seemed to pass by in a whirl, long hours of paperwork and signatures and contracts with Murray broken by a snatched lunch on a tray, a miserable meeting with Clarkson and the man from Grassby's to discuss arrangements, frequent interruptions by Carson and Mrs Hughes who, though they meant well, were bothering him with distractions that he really couldn't face... There was so much spinning through his head, so much to think of, that the precise wording to be printed in the next day's papers in announcement was the very least of his concerns. Thankfully, Mary had happened past the library just as Matthew's agitation began to boil dry, and she ushered the well-meaning butler away with instructions that all matters beyond the absolutely necessary must be brought to her, and not to Matthew.

By the time Murray had left, and Matthew had sorted all the documents into some sort of order (after looking through each again, to satisfy himself that he understood it), he was exhausted. Thank goodness he had an eye for paperwork. Though he'd worked hard in the years before the war to familiarise himself with the business of the estate, the sheer extent of the matter facing him now had left him in a daze. That, on top of having to think about arrangements for the funeral, matters of staffing that he hadn't even begun to think of... Cora shouldn't be burdened with it now, but... God. Unable to face any more, he went to the ornately carved desk, and picked up the key from the little drawer hidden under the lip. He opened it to put all the papers back in, but as he did so, he found himself faced with contents that twisted at his heart.

Oh, it was nothing much... Only those little, personal effects that made up something of a man's life. A photograph of Cora, and of each of the girls – he recognised it from the year before the war. Picking up that of Mary, he turned it over gently in his fingers, but there was nothing written there. He placed it back. Some letters lay in one recess, an engraved cigar case in another... He couldn't bring himself to look any further. It felt such an intrusion. He settled for slipping those papers he might need into the top of the drawer, and resolved to ask Mary to look through it all when she was ready to.

That done, he finally allowed himself to slump into the deep, red settee by the fire. The dark had fallen what felt like hours ago, and some poor unassuming housemaid had borne the brunt of Matthew's frustration when she asked his permission to light the logs in the grate. Yes, of course she may get on with it, did she imagine he'd refuse? He was tired, so tired, and so deeply downhearted. Responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he couldn't imagine the burden lightening any time in the near future.

Mary. She was his one bright spot, the one thing he had to look forward to. Thank God he had her.

It was a little over an hour later when he awoke with a start, at the unexpected feel of wetness on his fingers. His hand withdrew in shock, and he looked down to see Isis staring placidly up at him, with deep, sad eyes.

"Oh dear, my girl," Matthew said quietly as he rubbed the dog's ears affectionately. "I bet you've been feeling rotten today as well, haven't you." His lips twitched into a smile at Isis' answering whimper. Matthew had grown quite fond of her steadfast company during his recuperation at the Abbey, what felt like a lifetime ago now. It seemed she had not forgotten.

He was startled again by a low, gentle laugh just in front of him.

"Mary!" He sat up suddenly, face tightening into a grimace as his back protested from the uncomfortable position he'd slumped to.

"I hope you've had a pleasant sleep," Mary said softly from the opposite settee, hands clasped demurely in her lap. "I'm not surprised you're worn out. I'll ring for some supper, there's no need to move." She stood up smoothly, pulled the bell cord and returned, taking a place next to him this time when he lifted his arm to accommodate her. She rested her head on his shoulder, hand falling to lie on his leg where she could just tickle Isis' nose if she stretched her fingers, the melancholy dog having also sought a place to rest on his knee.

It was only moments before Carson appeared at the end of the room.

"Oh, Carson," Mary shuffled up a little straighter. She doubted anyone would mind, today of all days, but still she thought it perhaps best not to be quite so visibly relaxed in affection in her father's library. No – Matthew's library, she corrected herself with a little sigh. She turned, expecting him to speak, but realised he had drifted off again, so she addressed Carson herself.

She tried a smile, and took a breath. "Lord Grantham hasn't had supper yet – could you have a tray sent up please?"

"Of course. And, anything for yourself, my Lady?"

"No, Carson, thank you. That will be all."

"Very good." The butler made as if to leave, but paused, addressing Mary unusually hesitantly. "Shall – I have a room made up for his Lordship?"

"Oh." Somehow, that hadn't occurred to Mary, but of course it made sense. This was his home, now, after all. She looked at Matthew, whose lips were parted gently in sleep, then back at Carson. "Let me speak to him first. I'll let you know presently."

"Thank you, my Lady." Carson nodded respectfully and left, leaving them once more alone in the weighty quiet.

With a deep sigh, Mary shifted around and looked at Matthew properly. She'd barely seen him all day, and she had wanted to be with him so desperately. Now, his head lay back against the tall cushions, and he looked so peaceful… Such a contrast to the weary, taut frown he'd been wearing earlier. She didn't envy him any of it. Today, she'd caught just a glimpse of the pressures on him, and suddenly her role within that had become strikingly clear – to stand by his side, supporting him, easing it for him, taking what strain of the burden she could – just as her mother had done for her father for years – just as she would do, would be happy to do, as his wife. Her mother had prepared her for the responsibility, but she'd never appreciated it – oh, she'd been prepared for it, had spent her entire youth being brought up to it – but then, it had only seemed a far off duty. A role she was expected to play. Now, she wanted it, felt a deep-seated desire to fulfil it, for his sake – they would manage this. Together. It was all they could do.

Reluctantly, she rubbed his arm gently, then touched his cheek, until he stirred.

"Mm?" He mumbled, as he blinked at her sleepily, shifting himself to sit up a little. "Oh. God, sorry. I'm so tired, Mary…"

"I know," she gave him a small smile. "Well! Your supper will arrive shortly, and Carson will prepare a room for you if you like. You can take your pick of the bedrooms, of course, only I imagine you shan't want Papa's –"

"No!" Matthew exclaimed, straightening sharply as he roused. Mary's eyes widened at his reaction. "I mean – no, that's not necessary, I'll go home."

"But Matthew, it's late," her voice was all hushed concern, and her brow lightly creased. "And you know you'll need to be here again in the morning, and – well, I know it's difficult, but you must begin to think of this as your home, now. It must be."

"So everyone keeps telling me!" he snapped. His expression quickly turned to apology at Isis' distressed whine at his feet, and how he felt Mary stiffen. Shaking his head, he took her hands, clasping them reassuringly between them as he turned towards her. "I'm sorry. But it doesn't – it can't feel like home, and – it won't, not until… Not until it's ourhome, Mary."

Cora's sentiment rang in his mind. Downton was Mary. That was all there was to it, all there ever had been to it, in his mind. "I imagine you'll think it silly, but I can never see Downton as my home until I share it with you. You must know that."

"Oh, Matthew…" She looked sorrowfully at him, tugging a hand free to clasp his face. "You can't mean to remain the Earl of Grantham at Crawley House until we are married – whenever that might be, now!"

"What do you mean?" His grip on her hand tightened. As if able to sense some distress (beyond the obvious, for this day), Isis nuzzled at his knee with a soft whine. Matthew distractedly scratched at the back of her head as he frowned at Mary, uneasy panic pooling in his gut . "Whenever that might be – our wedding is in two weeks!"

"We couldn't possibly, now, not with my father... I want to – oh, darling, you can only believe it – but propriety forbids it." A gentle, longing sigh slipped past her lips as she gazed at him. Fate dealt such cruel blows. An event that made them ache for each other's comfort in the same beat delayed their happiness.

Matthew's lips pursed in agitation. "Damn," was all he could eventually manage, as his face fell. It was more than that; he deflated entirely. "How long?" he asked weakly.

Mary could only shrug sadly. "Two, three months?" A quiet, bitter laugh rang in the air. "We should count ourselves lucky; before the war it would've been six at least, but that seems so ridiculous now. But we must leave enough time for proper respect."

"God." He sighed heavily, and sagged forwards until his forehead touched hers. They embraced, spent a few sweet moments in mutual comfort. Matthew trembled with weariness, sadness, responsibility; his one ray of light had been dimmed. "I love you," he whispered.

"I know, darling," she murmured in response.

"I'm sorry." The apology carried so much.

Leaning back once more, Matthew raised his eyes heavenward and pursed his lips, retaining a tight clasp of Mary's hand. "I don't think I've done very well, today," he said deeply.

"Matthew…"

"No. I've sulked about, snapped at people, I missed both lunch and dinner entirely, let alone being dressed for it. I've not been fair at all."

"And no-one expects anything more of you – of course it's difficult! You can only take each matter as it comes, and I've no doubt – and neither did Papa – that you will be a very fine, and a very fair Earl." She looked pleadingly at him as her voice broke.

Matthew suddenly felt the most encompassing wave of disappointment in himself.

"Oh, Mary…" As her lip trembled, he drew her into his arms and held her in a tight, comforting embrace. "I'm so, so sorry." How had he been so unthinking, so selfish, so stupid? She'd lost her father, and here he was feeling sorry for himself. Good Lord. "I'm sorry," he repeated uselessly in a soft whisper against her ear, unable to communicate any more.

"Please, don't," Mary wept. Wiping her eyes, she leant back in his arms, blinking sadly at him. "Don't apologise as though he meant any deal less to you than he did to me, to all of us."

Pressing his lips together bitterly, Matthew shook his head. "I know." His voice shook as the emotion he'd forced back all day now began to overwhelm him in his exhaustion. "As much as he valued me as a son, I – I just hope he knew that I…" And he couldn't speak any more. They grieved together, stealing the chance of tears with tender kisses that covered their distress as they held each other for support.

By the next morning, Matthew's head had cleared a little. Another day. It had still taken a moment for the reality to settle upon him when he woke, but this morning Molesley did not stumble over his title, and as he approached the Abbey once more he felt a greater determination than the weighty grief he'd felt the day before.

Again, it seemed to take an age longer than usual for the bell to be answered. It did occur to Matthew, this time, that he was perfectly within his rights to simply walk in... But he couldn't quite bring himself to, not yet. Not just yet.

When Carson did finally answer, Matthew was met with a far warmer smile than the heavy, regretful one than he'd received yesterday. It seemed that Matthew was not the only one whose acceptance of the situation had much benefitted from another night's sleep.

"Good morning, Carson," his smile was a little brighter.

"Good morning, your Lordship. Do come through," Carson immediately stood back, holding the door.

Matthew's mouth had barely opened to ask after the family this morning when he caught a glimpse through the glass panels of the door into the hall.

"Carson..."

With a small smile of pride, Carson stepped ahead of him once more and swung open the inner doors. As Matthew went through, lips parting into speechlessness, Mary gracefully appeared by his side.

"Lord Grantham," her low voice echoed into the height of the room as she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. "May I formally introduce to you, your staff."

A veritable army of housemaids and footmen (well, mainly housemaids, now), cooks, gardeners, stablehands and all the rest faced Matthew, lined up in formal rows. So it seemed, to Matthew at least, for really there were not so very many since the war – still, a great deal more than Matthew had somehow ever realised, now that he saw them all together.

Overwhelmed, he faltered; but took a step ahead of Mary when he felt her hand supportively at his back, clearing his throat as everyone seemed to be looking expectantly at him.

"Well – what a welcome!" And what a stupid thing to say, he groaned internally as he moistened his lips. He had to say something… A frown flew over his face, and he started again, with a little more confidence. "I – know what a horrible, and uncertain, time this is – for all of us." He gave what he hoped was a reassuring look towards the sea of merging faces in front of him, only wishing that it could work on himself. He felt sick. Taking a deep breath, he warmed into his speech. "My gratitude goes out to you for maintaining your work so smoothly around such turmoil. I have very little hope, if any, of matching the decent, fair master that my cousin was to you – and can only promise you that I shall do my best, and ask that you bear with me while I try to do it."

As he spoke, he caught the eye of the maid he'd snapped at the day before, and she smiled at him. The kindness and understanding made Matthews' breath stick in his throat, and he couldn't say any more. If he'd felt unworthy yesterday, it only felt amplified now.

He flinched in surprise when Mary's voice murmured into his ear, "You did very well, darling. Quite the Earl, don't fret." He turned to catch her small, encouraging smile, and reached for her hand gratefully, when Mrs Hughes took a step forward.

"If you'd like to come with me, your Lordship," she held out an arm invitingly. "I'll give you a full tour of the working parts of the house – Mr Carson believed you'd not have seen much of it."

"I haven't – thank you," Matthew shook his head. He'd not even thought of that – another thing he had not much clue about. He vaguely remembered having been shown around soon after he'd arrived, but that was so many years ago now...

While Carson dismissed the staff back to their duties, Matthew followed Mrs Hughes, keeping Mary in close tow behind. Already, he knew it would be another long, long day.

Some time later, back in the relative comfort and quiet of the library (he was beginning to appreciate why this had been Robert's favoured room of the house), Matthew closed another folder full of lists and tables and numbers with a sigh. Looking at his watch, he wondered if he might actually escape for some lunch today... He stood up with the intention of seeking out Mary – whatever the luncheon arrangements, he was in dire need of some social interaction – he expected she'd be with her mother, still secluded upstairs in mourning. He couldn't blame her.

Before he could reach the door, though, it opened ahead of him and Bates walked heavily in.

"I do beg your pardon, your Lordship – might I talk to you briefly? Mr Carson believed you'd be in here, still."

"Of course," Matthew retreated to the desk, and hovered uncertainly by it – just as uncertainly as Bates, who looked really quite unsure of himself. "What can I help you with?"

Matthew was strangely touched that the valet should seek to ask him something, indicating a certain trust; at the same time as wondering what it might be. He supposed he'd better start getting used to things like this.

Bates shifted on his feet, before meeting Matthew's eyes. "It's only – you will need to forgive my impertinence, Sir, but I'm aware there's a lot you must be thinking about, and so felt I must ask."

"You needn't apologise to ask me anything, Bates, you know that," Matthew said warmly.

"Thank you, your Lordship. You see, as you know, my function within this household was the sole duty of valet to – the late – Lord Grantham. I'm sorry to say I've not fulfilled all the extra duties one might normally associate with such a role, but it was always understood that –"

"There's no need to explain that to me, I understand perfectly," Matthew reassured him. The man was clearly nervous.

"Yes, of course," Bates nodded. "If – I might be frank with you, Sir, I was rather wondering whether I could still be of any service to you. I'm aware you've your own valet, and I don't want to impose on that, certainly not. But if I may speak very plainly, I'm afraid my chance at another position would be small, and I've Anna to think of –"

"No, no, of course," Matthew frowned. Bates fell silent.

Not for the first time, Matthew's blood ran cold at the terrifying realisation of the power of his role. To hire and dismiss these people, with the potential to snatch away their very livelihoods, to ruin them… Robert's words had never left him, the advice granted him so soon after his arrival, when he'd been so ignorant… How stupid he'd been! 'We all have our parts to play, and must all be allowed to play them'.

Bates had been good to him. He'd been a good friend to Robert, and had served Matthew very well during his recovery, but then, Matthew did already have Molesley, who knew him and his habits and quirks so well now… Still, Matthew had been grateful for it and, having faced the terrifying prospect of life without the use of his legs, had an unusual sympathy for Bates' plight. Of course he'd struggle to find a position, and yes, there was Anna – he knew the pair were married and lived elsewhere on the estate, he could hardly throw one out without the other!

He paced, feeling the depressing weight of decision, the weight of a man's future, his life. No, he couldn't do it. With sudden resolve, he turned back to Bates.

"Of course you must stay," he said simply, and saw the older man's shoulders visibly drop in relief. Matthew smiled. "Anything else would be unthinkable."

"Thank you, your Lordship. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your kindness."

"Please, Bates, it's only right." Matthew's mind turned over, and he took an encouraging step forward. "I think – Molesley has served my mother admirably well as butler at Crawley House, I see no need for that to discontinue – and this way I might keep both of you on. I'll settle it with him very soon."

For the first time, as Bates left him, Matthew smiled to himself – wondering if he might, at last, have handled something right.

Within a week, a week that absolutely whirled by, Matthew found himself lying in a large, unfamiliar bed looking up at a high, unfamiliar canopy, underneath a tall, unfamiliar ceiling. All his things had now been moved across from Crawley House – it felt very, very strange to see his books, and clothes, and belongings in these much grander apartments. His whole life had shifted, changed. His case files lay, unattended, on a desk in the adjoining room (something which he'd insisted upon) – though he hadn't yet decided how that was going to work, now, or if it even could. The firm had mercifully given him some time off to arrange his affairs, but he knew that time was running out. To give it up seemed unthinkable, but to carry on equally so.

Lord Grantham, working day to day in Ripon. As soon as he actually heard the words, he laughed aloud at the absurdity of it.

The room was large, far larger than anything he was used to, and cold. The fire in the hearth did little to warm him. He lay on his back, and looked to the side, at the unfamiliar walls, the unfamiliar patterning around the door… Was this home, now?

Restless, he stood, walked to the door. Placing a hand upon it, he thought of Mary – so near, only down the corridor, and yet so impossibly far. With a heavy sigh, he rested his forehead against the cold wood. How could he bear another three months of this? She was already his Countess, this was already their home – in so many ways.

Just not in the way that could grant him any comfort, any relief from the cold, empty silence of this room.

TBC

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are very much appreciated and would be lovely, but generally I just hope you enjoyed it! :) Thank you!