OK! These two finally get together in real time. It's going to be a long night! Thank you to all who have read and reviewed!

Chapter 3

"You came. For a moment, I wasn't completely sure you would," Mary smiled. She started to put the record back in its sleeve, but gave up when she realized how her hands were trembling and clasped them in front of her.

"Well, for a moment, I wasn't sure if I would make it before tomorrow." Matthew shook his head and grinned. "You know I love your sister dearly, but good Lord, I was ready to throttle her tonight. Sybil just would not stop. The more she wound your father up, the more she kept at it. Your mother finally threw a small fit, thank goodness."

He maneuvered his chair around the furniture in the library as he made his way over to the table where Mary was standing. The light from the fire heightened the contrast of her alabaster skin with her dark hair and eyes. But he saw that her cheeks were pink, almost feverish, and the pulsing shadow at her throat told him her heart was racing.

"And then," he continued, trying to ignore his own pounding heart, "I waited until everyone had gone upstairs before I rang for Bates to tell him I would be a while-," he broke off with a sharp intake of breath, pressing his lips together, frowning.

"Are you all right?" Mary asked with concern as he stopped wheeling.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, I just sometimes get uncomfortable in the chair, you know." He started to say more but thought better of it. The moment passed and he continued to move forward, but glancing down, he saw that his right leg had fallen over against the left, his right foot turned in and almost off the foot rest. When had that happened? He felt his face grow hot. He hated the way it made him look, so helpless and without control, and he hated that it had happened without him noticing because he couldn't feel.

"Just give me a moment to make an adjustment," he said as he stopped again, trying to keep his voice steady. "Go ahead and choose another record, that last song was quite lovely."

She smiled and turned her back to him as she looked through the titles again. She wasn't sure what was bothering him but she knew he wouldn't want her watching.

Matthew held his lower leg in both hands and moved his right foot away from his left and set it straight. Then, his left hand holding his shin to keep his foot from slipping off the foot rest, he worked his right hand under his thigh. He lifted and pulled his leg until it was where he wanted it. But when he let go, the damned thing flopped back again. It had to be due to the way he was sitting. He grasped the arms of the chair in each hand and pushed up to lift himself enough to change his position slightly. Even with the exercises he had been doing to strengthen his arms and upper body, it was a struggle to lift the dead weight of his lower half. He grimaced as his shaking arms strained to hold him up long enough for him to attempt to reposition himself more to the right. He wasn't sure if he had improved anything; for all that effort he wasn't sure he had moved at all, but he lifted and settled his leg again. This time, the leg didn't fall back against the other but was still angled towards it. He exhaled slowly. How were those things really his legs? Well, it would have to do. He hoped Mary wouldn't notice. At least his foot was straight.

(Mary, of course, saw only Matthew.)

"All's well," he said lightly as he wheeled up to the table. His frustration with himself was immediately forgotten, however, when he saw in dismay that she was squeezing her hands together to keep them from shaking.

He looked up at her with an expression of such tenderness that Mary could almost not bear it. "So," he said cocking his head with a smile, his eyes affirming that he was on her side, "the American adventure awaits."

"Yes, I think so, yes."

"You will perhaps follow in your papa's footsteps?"

"If you mean marry a millionaire, that would be Mama's plan. Papa told me told me to find a cowboy, but perhaps there are cowboy millionaires." And although she was almost dizzy with anxiety, when Matthew laughed she had to join him. His presence, now that he was finally here, began to calm her a bit.

"A cowboy! That would be wonderful! Lady Mary of the prairie!" Then he paused and looked at her with a gaze that seemed to take in more than the moment.

She raised an eyebrow. "What?"

He gave a half smile. "I'm just remembering the first time ever I saw you when you came to Crawley House to invite us to dinner. You in your riding habit." When I fell hopelessly in love with you, that is. "You know, they have a whole other way of riding in the American West. I'd like to see you bring that back to Downton."

"You know I'm English through and through. More like I would bring a whole other way of riding to the prairie."

"I'm sure you would," he smiled. They were both silent. This was it, she should just tell him and get it over with, she had rehearsed in her head all evening what she was going to say, but she couldn't quite yet.

"Here, it's your turn, you choose a something." She brought the records to the edge of the table where he could reach them.

Matthew looked them over and made a selection and then, smiling up at her, handed the record over since he couldn't reach the turntable and the arm of the Victrola himself.

Mary considered the title, yes, that's certainly appropriate, and read aloud. "Look for the Silver Lining. I don't know this one."

"Sybil says it's from a show that flopped, Zip Goes a Million, or something. I rather like it."

"Do you believe that?" she asked, placing the record and winding the Victrola. "Is there always a silver lining?"

No, he thought, I don't believe it. But he said: "Yes, I do. It's just sometimes hard to find." He added quietly, "I know you'll find it, Mary." That he did believe.

She set the needle down and the somewhat melancholy melody filled the room, and he ached as he watched her move a bit to the music. He had loved dancing with her so very much, there hadn't been enough dances at Sybil's ball. He held out his hand. What? What in the world was he doing? For heaven's sake, he was asking her to dance! But before he could pull his hand back she had taken it in hers, and they both felt it, that connection, like an electrical charge, that had always been there when they touched like this, although anyone watching would simply have seen two people with hands clasped, arms imperceptibly swaying.

Matthew allowed himself to remember, just this once, what it had been like to be able to stand in front of her and look down into those dark eyes, his cheek almost touching hers, inhaling her scent. He allowed himself to remember how it felt to press his hand to the curve of her back and guide her around the room, their bodies moving as one.

Mary realized that, whenever she might leave for America, this was their good-bye—their good-bye to what was and what might have been and what could never be. Perhaps, after she told him, just good-bye. She let herself remember that night of the ball, floating around the ballroom in his arms, happier than she had ever thought she could be, loving him more than she had ever thought she could love. And then, right after, it had all fallen apart.

"We were a show that flopped." She hadn't realized she had said it aloud until she saw his stricken face. It hit him so hard his chest hurt.

"Oh, God, Mary," his voice a whisper, ragged with loss and regret. "I am so, so sorry. Do you know how sorry I am?"

"Don't be. It wasn't anyone's fault, or if it was, it was mine."

He started to object, but she looked back at him with the ghost of a smile, slightly shaking her head, and they became lost in each other's gaze, wanting the moment to go on forever, and truly, for a moment, it did.

Neither could have said how long the needle ticked after the music ended. Finally, Matthew lowered his eyes to her gloved hand and brought it gently, barely, to his lips. Without raising his eyes, he released her hand and backed his wheelchair away, moving toward the fire. Mary turned to the Victrola and lifted the arm.

Good Lord, are you mad? He remembered telling her once that if she weren't engaged, he wouldn't let her anywhere near him. She really does need to go to America and get away from you.

He was trying to find the words to apologize when he heard her say softly, "I have managed to stall, haven't I? "

"Mary, you owe me no explanations," he replied, turning to face her, although actually, he desperately wanted to understand.

"But, I do. You see, there are things you need to hear from me but they are very difficult to talk about." And she stopped and swallowed hard.

"I take it," he said gently, "that there is something Richard knows about you that you wouldn't want to see in print, although I can't imagine what."

"No, I'm sure you can't and when you find out, I'm sure you will despise me."

"I never would, I never could despise you, Mary; please, please believe that." His eyes sought to assure her of the truth of his words. And if I could take you in my arms to hold and comfort you, I would.

"Thank you for that, I do believe you mean it, but then, you don't know what I am going to say." Looking away again, she continued, "I told you the other evening that I was stuck and couldn't move, and I'm sure you thought I meant some kind of inertia in ending my engagement, but my relationship with Richard was much more complex." She took a deep breath and then plunged on. "After we became engaged, Richard learned of. . .of an indiscretion of mine. There had been gossip about it, which was bad enough, but if it were to come out in print, it would—it will—bring shame to me and worse, to the family. I told Richard myself so that he could stop someone who was going to sell the story to the papers, and he did—he bought the story, and so nothing was ever printed. Richard was actually pleased-it put us, as he said, on a slightly more equal footing." Matthew was looking at her intently, trying to see where this was going.

"Who tried to sell the story? How did they find out?"

"I promise I'll tell you another time, (if you're still talking to me) but it's too much for me to do right now." He nodded for her to continue. "So you see, although it was unspoken between Richard and me, I understood that I would always be in his debt, and that for me to end my engagement risked exposure. I wish I were like Sybil and truly didn't care what people think, but I do care, not nearly as much as I used to, but I do care." She looked away again, and then back at him. "And I do care about the people who would be hurt."

After a moment, she continued, "Richard and I quarreled the night before the Servant's Ball. (You don't need to know it was about you.) He was furious and he told me that if I ever crossed him, he had the means to destroy me and that he would do it. And suddenly, I realized, no matter that the story would come out, I couldn't marry a blackmailer."

"That bastard!" He wheeled himself up to her. "Thank God, Mary, thank God you ended it!" He scowled and his eyes darkened as he thought of what her life with Richard would have been like—what kind of a man would blackmail his own wife?

Mary touched his arm; only then did he become aware that his fist was pounding the arm of his chair, and he realized how much he wanted to hurt Richard and, at the same time, how pathetic that idea was given his condition. He stopped his fist and grasped the arm, worrying the wood with his thumb, his shoulder jerking with the motion.

"Your reaction does more for me than you can know," she said quietly.

"But do you really think he will publish if he hasn't yet? Several days have passed."

"I don't know. You're right, in that he was so angry when I told him, I expected to wake up to the headlines the next day, so perhaps his fury has passed. But he may be waiting in order to put the story out that he was the one who ended the engagement, no reason given of course, but with the implication that he was wronged. Then, after a time, he publishes the story, and everyone assumes that's the reason he ended it. And I assure you, no one will blame him." Matthew looked at her and started to protest

"But in any event," she continued with a quick smile, stopping him, "I'll be in America. And I can't have you reading about it with breakfast one morning. You need to hear from me how I 'blotted my copy book,' as Aunt Rosamund so charmingly put it once."

Mary had always wondered if he had ever heard anything, had had some inkling. Looking at him now, she realized he hadn't and, oh, it made it so much harder to go on.

Matthew frowned; he couldn't think what she might be talking about. "Something that happened after I left in 1914." A statement, not a question.

"No, before then."

"Then it must have been before we came to Downton?" Now he was really perplexed.

She shook her head. "No, it was after that."

Matthew looked up at her completely baffled. How could something scandalous have happened during that time, and he be unaware of it?

She walked over to the window seat and looked out at the clouds. A few snowflakes shimmered in the light from the library. She went to the fire, her back to Matthew, reaching up to the chimneypiece as she looked into the flames. Her rehearsed speech had suddenly flown out of her head, and she didn't know where to begin, except at the beginning.

"You, of course remember, Kemal Pamuk." She turned to see him nod. "And you might remember that I flirted with him, shamelessly." He raised both eyebrows and cocked his head, and she almost laughed. "Yes, well, of course you do, I'm sure everyone who was there that night does. I had never felt anything like it, never met anyone like him. I thought I was such a woman of the world! But I wasn't at all, I was naïve, completely inexperienced." She added quietly, "I hope you can believe that," and turned away, again.

"Mary, of course I believe you, I know it to be true. Do come sit down where I can see you better."

She sat down on an ottoman, and he wheeled up beside her, but facing the opposite direction. He looked at her with such a gentle gaze that she didn't know if she could go on; when she spoke again, her eyes dropped to her hands.

"You may remember, also, that I left you and Evelyn in the drawing room and followed him out." She paused trying to remember that person that was her younger self. "It was. . .it was exciting, and I wanted that. Or I thought I did. He was waiting for me in the morning room, and after some small talk, he pulled me to him and kissed me. I was stunned and stopped him. Can you believe it? It had never occurred to me that he would do something like that. He thought I was teasing, and he asked to come to my room that night. I said no and left him." She looked up. "Do you be- . . .?"

"I believe you. Of course, I believe you." He was beginning to see where her story was headed.

She looked down again and continued. "Then later that night, I was still up reading in bed, and suddenly, he was there, in my room—a servant must have told him where it was. I told him if he didn't leave I would scream. He told me no one would hear me and that, anyway, no one would believe me. I insisted he go, I said I was sorry if I had led him to think I was—I hadn't meant for him to think—."

"Mary, it's all right, please, you don't have to go on! You weren't the first woman he preyed upon, and you wouldn't have been the last!" Matthew could hear his heart pounding in his ears, and he found himself gripping the arms of his chair, his upper body moving in agitation, wanting to kill him if he weren't already dead. He knew now what she was going to tell him.

"I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. He kissed me and I didn't try to stop him. He pulled me down on the bed and then he . . .I thought I was so sophisticated, I tried to be so sophisticated, but I was terrified." Her voice had become so quiet, so small, and she had crossed her arms, holding her sides, as if she would break apart. "And then it was over. And then he died."

Matthew stared at her. "He died in your bed? How did he. . .?"

"Anna and Mama and I carried him back to his room."

Matthew's jaw dropped. "The three of you? Carried him across the house? And no one saw you?"

"No, that's just it, someone did. You know the three of us would never have said anything."

She paused and looked at him with a tight smile. "So that's my saga, my tale of lust and intrigue. I'm Tess to your Angel Clare. It would make a bad novel. It will sell a lot of papers."

"Please don't joke about it and make it little. It isn't little. You're not little." If he touched her, would she shatter? He reached out his hand and she took it; they were holding each other up.

His voice was choked with emotion and pain. "I don't think you understand what he did to you."

She searched his anguished face for censure but could not find it. "I think perhaps that, in telling you, finally I do," she whispered in a voice she could barely keep steady. "But that's not how the story has been told, nor will it ever be. It will always be that I took a lover who died in my bed. That's how I told it to myself until tonight." She released his hand and looked down. "And the fact is that I was made different by it. And because of that, we were made different by it."

Matthew shook his head, trying to absorb everything he had just heard, trying to understand. What did she mean, we were made different by it? He looked at the embers of the dying fire and tried to see the two of them through the years but now with new eyes.

He was silent so long that Mary wished he would just say something, anything. Finally, her throat constricted, she said quietly, "I'm so sorry for it to come out to you like this. I should have told you at the garden party."

It was as if he had been turning and turning a kaleidoscope and then stopped, and suddenly there, finally, was the picture.

His head snapped up. Her shoulders were shaking, everything about her straining to maintain control. A tear trickled down her cheek. She brought a hand to her mouth, just as she had that awful day so long ago.

His eyes found hers and held them.

"Is this," he whispered, "is this why you didn't accept me?" She could only nod her head as she began to sob.

"Oh, my darling-" he cried, and his face crumpled as he held out his arms, and in one motion, she fell against him with a wail, and he gathered her into the embrace they had been so long denied .

The night's not over yet! Thank you for reading!