The main drawing room, Arnhall Castle, November, 1918

It was like a trance, going through the old house with his bags in hand, still wearing army drab, a clean uniform and a large green trench coat that hung off his tall and determinably thinner frame. He was almost certain his mother would remark upon that the moment she saw him—her cherubic little child had gone to war and returned a man, losing his innocence and many precious years of youth in the process. He set his bags down by the entrance of the large drawing room, surveying the house he'd always known as his cousin's. It had been his for some six months, after Lawrence had died and before his son was born, and Matthew had been gladdened by the birth of his late cousin's child, feeling no account for any kind of jealously or bitterness at being passed over for another heir, instead harbouring a secret joy for a little brightness that the boy had afforded their lives.

Of course, Teddy would be near to a year older than he'd been when Matthew had first met him, no longer a new-born able to be held in his two hands.

He vaguely wondered why Catherine had allowed the room to fall to emptiness, for it looked as if the house had been shut up. What furniture was left had been covered with large white throws, and some had even been boxed up and stacked against the walls. He turned to take it all in, puzzled as to why his mother had written for him to return to here rather than home. Arnhall had always been a place at a distance to him—owned by his mother's father, then his mother's brother, then Lawrence and now a child too young to pronounce its name—it had been world that was close to his, but another world all the same. Then the war had come, and he had had no world left where he truly belonged. He'd seen friend after friend die in the blink of an eye, seen strangers perish and family take their last breaths.

He shook it all from his mind, concentrating on the here and now. He was back. The war was over.

His mother would probably be upstairs somewhere, talking with Catherine or playing with Teddy, for she so loved her infrequent visits to Cornwall and chances to do so were few and far between.

Then, out of the corner of his eye from where he stood in the centre of the large room, he caught sight of something out of place.

Set straight on the mantelpiece above a cold fireplace, was a letter, with one jagged word emblazoned in hand writing that was half foreign to him, yet half familiar. In black ink and expensive pen, in the very centre of the envelope, he read his own name.

Matthew.

He took it into his trembling palms, nervous to find what awaited him inside, and split it open with a careful thumb under the back rim.

His fingers removed and unfolded the paper, his eyes only just focussing enough to read.

To my dearest cousin,

Should this letter fall into your hands I must first let it be known how glad I am that you returned from home from the war, safe and cherished. It gladdens me very much to think of you returning home in the knowledge that this war is behind you, that there will be no return to the front, and the future before you will no longer clouded with such unspeakable horrors. Just the thought of your homecoming is enough to lighten my spirits and I must hope against hope that you'll return without scathe or scratch. However, the second condition on you receiving these words is that I have succumbed to my illness and passed away, leaving my home without mistress and my son without a mother. I am confident that, wherever I go next, I shall thrive as much as I have here, so you mustn't feel sorry or worry, dearest Matthew, for you deserve all the happiness in the world for all you've done and all you've gone through, and although it seems it is your prerogative to fear what has become of us all, know that we are all together and at rest.

What I now must ask comes at great cost to you, and I know it is something you will have never envisioned taking on, or wished for, and, for that, I am truly sorry, but I must ask the greatest favour imaginable from you. I must implore you to take care of my son. You and Isobel are all the family he has left and yet with all her causes taking her over the globe I know it would be impossible for her take on, whereas what you could provide for him is all I could ever want for my child. I wish for him to grow up in the care of someone he can love that might love him in return, and as lacking in family as I am, I must beseech you to take him on. He has enough money to pay his way, and the estate should be yours to sell, the fortune to do with as you wish, but he needs a family, a parent, and I know there is no one more kind or more loving than you, no one that could raise him as well as you could, no one better that can defend the downtrodden.

He needs you, and, if I'm honest, I think you need him too.

Please look after my son.

All my love forever,

Catherine.

Matthew could barely breathe. Chest constricting and lungs devoid of all air, he ripped his eyes from the letter and looked out over the gardens from the large window. Unbeknownst to him, for weeks now, Teddy had been left an orphan.

The Upstairs Library, Arnhall Castle, September 1921

"What's that you're singing?"

Matthew jumped, turning sharpish in shock. He had been apparently unaware of her presence behind him, too wrapped up in perusing through his beloved books to have heard the shuffling of the rug as she walked or the clack of her shoes on the floorboards.

She made only futile attempts to suppress her smirk as Matthew, turning a bashful shade of pink with his ears burning, tripped backwards in surprise and ended up with his back colliding with the bookshelf.

"Oh – its uh… nothing really. I'm just…"

She shook her head slightly, one eyebrow raised. "You were singing," she clarified, smiling at his awkwardness.

"Well…" he searched for an appropriate explanation that wouldn't make him seem like a fool. He'd done it now; showed himself up as the bumbling idiot he was by reviving his old war songs while he sorted through his books, singing without thought, thinking he was alone. "It lightens the mood a bit." He offered, giving a small shrug of his shoulders in a vain attempt to downplay his embarrassment.

"I suppose," she mused, nonchalant, moving brusquely to a near shelf and scanning her eyes along the spines of old volumes, kept pristine and well nurtured as if they were his best loved possessions. Her fingers sifted across them, perusing through titles and authors alike, admiring the splendid collection as she moved from shelf to shelf, wandering up the stairs to the level raised above the room and finding old tales written in languages she could only guess at. Mary had been tutored mercilessly in a number of languages she'd never really ever had cause to use. Latin came in handy from time to time—the odd phrase, saying or word a deriving from something she could comprehend—and French she used in lessons with Teddy, trying desperately to compel him to understand in the same fashion she knew her own governess had struggled with to do so with her. She had used her German once, maybe twice, but had never found reason to speak a word of Russian and had so far found the countless lessons somewhat useless. It was a shame really, when she thought back to it. She would have liked to have put it to some use—perhaps in way of travelling to Moscow for the ballet or something else of the like. Such thoughts seemed strange now—originating from a different ilk of life, one that was not her own any longer.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?"

Mary glanced down over the bannister to where Matthew stood on the floor below, looking up at her as she browsed.

"Not in particular, no," she replied. "just something of interest to replace the last book I was reading."

"Ah yes," he nodded in understanding. "You mentioned it was disappointing."

She had, in fact, explained in great detail over breakfast near a week ago how thoroughly displeased, or moreover infuriated, she had been with the—in her own words—whimsical drip of a protagonist she'd been reading of. He'd laughed at her disgruntled description, but it hadn't left his head for a long while afterwards.

"Which reminds me—actually," he murmured, "I hope you don't mind, but I… well I got you…" he moved over to the window, beside which he had a large desk that looked over the garden, and took a parcel from a middle drawer, wrapped in smooth brown paper and neatly tied string.

He jogged up the stairs to meet her where she stood.

"I got you a few books on my way from work the other day, just—you know—in case you were…" he bumbled a little awkwardly, "still looking for something to read," he finished with a grin.

Mary was a little taken a back, the pure thoughtfulness of his gift rendering her lacking in speech for a moment.

"Mr Crawley… I…"

He chuckled, rolling his eyes and bowing his head, then looking up with a blue-eyed stare.

"It's Matthew, please."

"You're not very fastidious about doing things properly, are you?" she noted.

"Less than you might think," he smiled. "Here, take them. I think you'll like them—not a whimsical drip of a protagonist in sight I don't think."

She quirked an eyebrow.

"Will you make it a habit to quote my own words back to me?"

"Maybe," he said, "you seem to have a lot of things to say."

"You should learn to pay no attention to things I say. I know I don't."

They seemed to have moved unwittingly close.

He could feel her breath on his cheek.

"Thank you, Matthew," she said earnestly, taking the offered parcel into careful arms. "Very much."

"It's nothing," he blew it off with a grin and a glint in his eye.

"It's not nothing," she said quietly, watching him as he turned back to his books. "Not at all."

Carraway Lane, Emelle Cliffs, Cornwall, September 1921

Mary laid a hand over her hat, keeping it from blowing off in the strong winds whipping up from over the vast Atlantic. It was a bright day, the sun beaming down with a jovial light that seemed to give a little more warmth than expected as the seasons shifted through to slightly colder, wilder and more colourful introspections. The road lay blanketed with leaves blushed bright as if she walked through a painting, the sky above a pale lucid blue, the air thin and brisk but lacking in any bitter signs of an oncoming winter.

Teddy soared like a plane before her, arms outstretched to either side of his body, accompanying his imaginings with appropriate sound effects, the imaginative ruse only ceasing when he turned around to check she was still following close by, or to come bounding back up to her, brandishing a handful of conkers proudly in a small palm as if they were his greatest treasures.

She thought it, on the most part, amusing, but had to exercise a little authority now and then to stop him leaping into puddles or scrambling over a Cornish hedge, lest he make a mess of his clothes. As they neared the village, however, she had to appeal to draw him back to her, so she might take his hand to keep him close by, for Teddy was all to easily distracted by the simplest of musings and Mary did not want a missing young boy on her conscience. She'd almost driven herself to complete panic during one of their outings a few weeks prior, when she'd turned around in the post office and he'd disappeared, only to find out a quarter hour later that he'd, without questioning, followed a dog into a nearby field to where it's owner was waiting. She'd been very fortunate indeed to find that said owner had happened to have been Hugo Maudsley, a good friend of Matthew's she'd met once or twice, who'd carried Teddy on his shoulders back to the village to find her. But thankfully she'd learnt to keep a sterner eye on the boy since the excursion because, although Teddy meant no harm or disarray, he seemed to have a habit of wandering off towards anything that caught his eye.

"Come along, Teddy." Mary ushered, making her way to the post office. "If you're good, once we're done, I'll take you to the sweet shop."

She'd never found bribery much of an effective stratagem until she came to find a small boy in her charge.

Teddy practically rocketed, physically leaping up for joy in place of his next step, keeping his grip on her hand firm as he grinned up at her. "Mrs Jenkins said she'd save me a sugar mice and a liquorice wand for the next time I come."

Mrs Jenkins was the woman who ran the sweet shop. She was an old lady and a little bit of a busybody – she certainly told Mary more than her fair share of the village gossip whenever they ventured in – but she was very kind and clearly doted on Teddy, for she had no qualms when he sat on the counter while she weighed out pear drops in little paper bags, or when he pressed his nose up to all the colossal glass jars filled with bonbons and sherbet lemons.

"It's a sugar mouse, Teddy." Mary corrected gently. "When you're talking about one, is a mouse, when there's more than one mouse, they're called mice."

"Oh," he said, before his mind quickly wandered to what he considered were higher things. "Do you think there'll be any pear drops?" He mused wistfully.

"I shouldn't worry about that, I'm sure they'll be plenty of sweets left for you."

"What're we going to do in the post office?" He asked.

"We're going to post your letter to Aunt Isobel and collect any letters that might've come for Uncle Matthew, then I'm going to buy some stamps."

"And then sweet shop!" Teddy declared with a wide smile.

"Yes," Mary nodded, "And then the sweet shop."

"What about Barley sugars twists?" Teddy mused. "Or gobstoppers!"

Mary simply laughed, bringing the little boy up and into her arms as she pushed through the door of the post office.

"Ah Miss Levinson how lovely to see you again—I've a letter here for you, and another two for Mr Crawley."

Mary smiled, putting Teddy down so he sat happily on the counter, grinning widely as Mrs Braithwaite cooed at him while she passed the letters to the other woman.

Mrs Braithwaite was a rather dear old lady, who adored Teddy—much as everyone in the village seemed to —with white hair pulled into a seemingly impossibly tight bun at the back of her head, a tall, slender, aged frame and small, half-moon spectacles that sat at the bridge of her thin nose.

"Thank you very much." She cast a thumb over her letter, noting the handwriting of the address. "I was wondering—could I buy some stamps as well today?"

"Of course, my dear," the woman smiled, "First Class?"

"Yes, please Mrs Braithwaite. Teddy has a very important letter for his Aunt Isobel."

"Oh, how lovely, I expect you're telling her all about the fair."

Teddy nodded emphatically. "And the toffee apple I won!"

Mary had come to quickly learn that Teddy had a one-track mind where sweets and the like were concerned.

"What about you, dear?" Mrs Braithwaite inquired, looking to Mary with a kindly expression. "You're a youngster—surely you'll be going to the end of fair dance I expect?"

Mary pursed her lips, forcibly hiding her intrigued grin from the keen eye of the woman. She had a feeling Mrs Braithwaite, like Mrs Jenkins, always kept an ear pricked up for gossip.

"We'll see," she said guardedly, paying for the stamps and holding one out so Teddy could eagerly plaster it to his letter, his clumsy aim leaving it at a rather jaunty angle. Mary fleetingly thought with a smile that Isobel would be left in very little doubt as to who the letter was from on receiving it.

"Good morning Mrs Braithwaite, have a lovely day."

"Goodbye!" Teddy waved with a cheery smile as Mary brought him down from the counter and took his hand once again, the letters carefully stored in her coat pocket.

The bell jangled merrily as they exited the shop and Teddy skipped by her side holding onto his little hat with a free hand to make sure it did not fall off as he bounded along. The village was decently busy; mothers pushed their prams and called, exasperated, after straying children. The residents went about their businesses with fresh cheer in their countenance, however mundane their weekly tasks might have been.

"Can we go to the park?" The boy inquired eagerly, looking up at her with wide and pleading eyes.

Mary thought his sweet look endearing, but did her best not to make her sentiments obvious, as it would not do well for him to know he had the capabilities to melt even the hardest of hearts.

"We can go for a little while, but then we must get on with our errands afterwards," she said evenly, crossing to the opposite path and bringing Teddy through the gate to a rather beautiful little field of sparse trees and colourful flower beds.

"You mustn't go too high up in the trees, remember," Mary warned. "Be careful. We don't want to hurt ourselves, do we?"

Teddy shook his head solemnly.

"Alright then, off you go."

He ran off on earnest little legs, carrying him through the shrubberies and out of sight.

Mary rolled her eyes a little at the unbridled enthusiasm of the child, finding his keen and fervent nature as yet unparalleled. She only wished he brought such ardent vigour with him to his lessons. She took a seat on a bench, bringing out the letter addressed with her name, and slipping the paper from its envelope.

Dearest Mary,

I cannot tell you how much I envy you. Happiness seems simple when you write, as if the unanimous contentedness that surrounds you as somehow rubbed off to your show of a stern exterior. Teddy sounds such a darling; his games, phrases and little quirks are described so vividly in your letters that I almost find myself knowing the child like he were family. However, Mr Crawley remains, to me, more ambiguous each time he is mentioned; you have never put his looks to words as you have with others, and yet his ways, or at least how you perceive them, show him to be strangely dissimilar to any man I'm sure I've ever come across. He seems kind, polite, unusual and yet strangely captivating. Some of the stories you've relayed had me laughing out loud as I read them, so certainly he does not lack humour or interest, but part of what you see shows he is somewhat lonely or, at least, internally inclined. For all Mr Crawley inquires of your family, he seems not to speak of his own. For all he talks of literature or choice trivialities with you, it makes me wonder why he appears to possess experience beyond his years, especially for a man so young. But then I suppose the war has made wretched our generation, and many of us will never see youth the same again. And, despite all this I have rambled of, you all seem so inherently happy.

I beg of you to let me visit—I will turn eighteen before the year is out and after which, perhaps a little way into the new year, Papa has promised to allow me to embark to Oxford for a few weeks on a nursing course. If you would permit it, I would be able to tell Mama the course was a little longer than in truth, then use the extra time to travel down to Porthcurno Village to see you. It would feel like a dream to see you again after so long, for, although we all of course miss you dearly, and even Edith misses the presence of a sparring partner, I feel your absence as acutely as if it were my own.

Please, please say you will let me come.

Your loving sister,

Sybil.

She read and re-read the letter, twice, three times, again and again until she could near recite the words for herself. She could not indulge her sister in this notion of a visit, she knew that. The risk it entailed was too great to bear thinking—one slip about her name, about Downton, about any intricacy of her previous ilk of life would surely result in tumult and upheaval. But she longed to see her little sister again. And Sybil was very discreet and trustworthy when it came to secrets of any kind, she could be relied upon, Mary was sure of that. But the idea still stirred a little unease in her—the introduction of one life to another seemed like a balancing act that was tiring and tricky enough as it was when both versions were separated by estrangement and distance. She'd have to write back and put her off, it was the only logical solution, however much she didn't want to do so.

She was yanked sharply back to reality by the sound of a loud and abrupt cry. Mary stood, folding the letter carefully and storing it safely away in her pocket once more, following swiftly after the sound through the flower beds until she was met with a rather pitiful sight of Teddy slumped on the grass, red faced and tearful, clearly having fallen during one of his overzealous fictitious games.

"Oh darling," Mary sighed, coming towards him with a mingled look of 'I told you so' drawn out with a sympathetic pout. "What've you done?"

The child whimpered, wiping snot across his arm, causing Mary to wince in thinly veiled disgust. She came to him and brought the boy into her arms despite it, throwing away her qualms to seat him atop a close-by bench and kneel before him, taking his hat and bringing away his glasses then retrieving a handkerchief to wipe his face.

Teddy gestured to an ugly stain on his long socks, his bottom lip still quivering from the pain of it. Mary tutted at him, carefully reaching forward to roll down his sock and survey the injury. It wasn't so bad—she'd had worse from her own misadventures as a child—but it was bleeding fairly profusely and would need to be cleaned and dressed.

"It's just a graze," she noted clearly, "you're alright."

He still frowned, eyes remaining pitifully red.

"Ho ho!" A decorous and rather booming voice called out from behind Mary and she rolled her eyes a little at the grandeur of the inflection. "What's going on here?"

Mary turned her head, standing upright as she did so with a little resignation in her stature—it seemed that the man in question—Mr James Astley—happened to come across her and Teddy on their outings rather frequently.

"Teddy, my boy! Chin up, what've you done to your knee?"

James had a rather cacophonous tenor that was caught and carried easily through the air. He came striding up, his physique somewhat lively nearing boisterous, flashing a deliberately charming smile towards Mary as he took Teddy into a hold swiftly upwards.

James had an infamous reputation in the village. He was rather a cad.

"Good afternoon," Mary said a little stiffly, smiling all the same.

"Ah, good afternoon Miss Levinson. How wonderful it is to see you both out on such a fine day!"

Mary pursed her lips, inwardly sighing at the overzealous greeting.

She'd met his like before.

"And may I say the same to you," she managed, masking her amusement at his attempts to charm her. "But I'm afraid I must get Teddy home to clean and dress his knee."

She offered her arms out for the boy, who fiddled mindlessly with James's hat, pinching the brim between his fingers with a fixated stare.

"Well, you must come back to the Merchant's Arms with me—Miss Layton was a nurse during the war and I'm sure she can patch him up to spare you the journey back beforehand."

Mary quirked an eyebrow, doing her best to suspend all disbelief on the subject of James's intentions.

Teddy's face was still blotchy from tears and it broke Mary's attempted resolve to refute the offer.

"Very well," she resigned, revising to keep a firm temper for the duration of James's company. "Thank you for the offer, it's so kind of you." She said it with conviction, despite her belief of his ulterior motives.

James passed Teddy over and the small boy gripped around Mary's neck, his cheek pressing to her shoulder, grateful for the familiarity of her scent and grip. Mary tried to forget about the snot and saliva that had been wiped on the child's shirt.

Thinking for a minute, Mary thought perhaps she could take advantage of James's interest in her.

"Would you mind awfully if I asked you to take Teddy and I to the sweet shop?" She gave her most beguiling smile to try to swing the request, but she needn't have bothered for James was already wholeheartedly on board with her every whim, his hopes of charming her admirable, if unfortunately, futile.

The Orchard, Arnhall Castle, September 1921

Mary couldn't shake away the possibility brought by Sybil's last letter. She'd mused over it silently for days throughout the week, barely entertaining the prospect of writing back with a decision either way, for each consequence was fraught with difficulty that seemed, to her at least, equally impossible to face.

Matthew had even inquired about her silence over luncheon, to which she had merely put down to abstract thought and he had obligingly let that be the end of it, but she couldn't put her mind to rest on the matter so easily. She wanted, more than anything, to see Sybil once again for it would give her purchase to hear of her family, of her home, and perhaps not feel so lonesome for a little while. But what she risked was great, and there her dilemma was born.

It was nearing sunset, but the sky had not given way just yet. It was warm out, the heated rays of golden evening sun falling over her the orchard as if it were still the height of summer. Pollen remained steady in the air, the mellow chirping of lazy birds and buzzing of crickets from adjacent shrubberies brought about a hazy feeling of relaxation.

Footsteps came up behind her, light thumping in the grass that caused her to turn, smiling at the familiar view of a blue-eyed grin as Matthew moved to tip his hat in greeting.

"I wondered if I'd find you here," he announced, falling into step comfortably beside her.

"Oh?"

"it's an easy place to be alone with one's thoughts."

"It is," she nodded, looking off vaguely into the far distance of fields made of green and gold.

Around where they walked grew large and sumptuous apple trees, their fruit bearing in their prime, ready to be picked when Mr Skelper could find the time and volunteers to do so. Mary felt sure it would be a familial occasion— Matthew and Teddy were the very type to muck in and make a day of it, finding their own amusement with games of hide and seek amongst the branches and wheelbarrow rides between pickings.

"There must be so much history here," She mused, for she knew the like—the intricacies of the past that such estates became the lifeblood of. All the people that had passed through, all the lives that had been created, started, lived and even come to an end within the walls of such a wise old building. Not to mention the scandal, the fable-like tales of tragedy and loss and also great love and happiness.

"It's Elizabethan," Matthew replied, glancing wistfully about the gardens as they walked. "Well," he corrected, "The original building foundation was a royal manor, going way back to the days of the Saxon kings, starting off, I think, with Aethelred the Unready. It was passed down through various royalty until a man named Henry Turnbull won the entire estate off Edward of Woodstock in 1349 in a game of cards. Henry entered the bet to release the woman he loved from her forced engagement to the Black Prince, as he was then known, and unwittingly won an estate in the process." Matthew recalled the history of Arnhall as easily as if he were reading a passage from a well-loved novel. "Henry had only had one surviving child—a son, William, who planted the orchard for his little sister Anne who died when she was eight years old."

"You know a great deal about the place." She observed, for it was rare to find someone so caring as she was in the history of their home.

"It's my mother's family history really. Her brother was Teddy's grandfather, you see. Really, he should call me cousin Matthew—but Uncle seemed more fitting when he came to my care."

"From the way you two get up to so much mischief, brother would seem more appropriate," Mary teased, her look purely and deliberately coy.

Matthew chuckled. "I shall take that comment as a compliment," he decided.

She smiled indulgently toward the horizon.

"Oh!" He announced suddenly. "I almost forgot! I came out after you with an invitation and lost the thought in conversation." He stopped before her, a bright and excited glint in his eyes. "I'm sure you've heard of the dance at the end of the fair—well Mrs Braithwaite was more than happy to keep Teddy in check for the night and I wondered if you'd like to come. I'm walking down with Anna and a few others in a little while—and I know it'd be a joy to everyone if you were to join us."

"I'm afraid I've only heard the more infamous tales of this particular dance."

His smile faltered a little, and it did not go unnoticed by her.

"Please?" He tried. "What if I were to promise you you'd enjoy yourself?"

"I still wouldn't be entirely convinced," she said a little warily. Such abandonment of structure and caution had never been an enticing prospect, and yet she saw an appeal in accompanying him to the fair. An appeal she couldn't quite place. "And I would advise you to not make promises you cannot keep," she finished, albeit with a little intended charm in her tone.

He moved a little closer, a dawning smirk on his handsome features.

"And what if I were sure I could?"

"Then you must be sure to wager it, and be ready for the consequences should you prove to be wrong."

Porthcurno Village, Emelle Cliffs, Cornwall, September 1921

Unaccustomed to such events and feeling a little out of place, Mary sat out by Anna's side for the first few dances—the pair of them conspiring and giggling together in joyous camaraderie until Anna was whisked away by a hopeful young man and Mary waved her off into the dance, still hanging back despite the copious attempts to drag her into the fray.

She occupied herself by thinking wistfully of Sybil's letter once again, wondering how she should reply as she idly sat on the side of the crowd.

Matthew came out barely a minute since Anna's departure and Mary found herself captured as she watched his approach. His face was flushed, and his perpetually unruly hair was more rucked up than ever. His shirt had become unbuttoned a little at the top, the ends untucked from his trousers, sleeves rolled up to over his elbows leaving the blonde hairs on his arms visible to her scrutinising, keen gaze.

"Can I get you a drink?" He asked, a wide grin stretching cheek to cheek, eyes vigorous and bright, voice just the tiniest bit breathless from the gallop. His chest still rose and fell at heightened rates, beating heart pumping blood rhythmically through his veins, pulse elevated by the mere vigour of the dance.

"Oh, I couldn't," she declined, "I don't drink beer."

Matthew laughed. "Why is that not a surprise?" he exclaimed, dropping down to the bench beside her with a wide and knowing smile.

She drew back, arching an eyebrow at his bold but well-placed assumption. "And what do you mean by that?"

He chucked, his shoulder knocking hers, the dense crowd bringing their proximity close and nearly stifling. The lamps that hung from overarching branches shed golden heated light on them all, the dancers radiated body heat from every inch, laughing faces and busing masses, loud music and overflowing drinks bringing a merry and jovial atmosphere across the whole brigade.

"Only that you don't quite strike me as a beer girl."

Despite how he leant toward her to say it, his voice was elevated to be audible over the roaring crowds and striking band and even while feeling his nose brush barely against her cheek, it was still a strain to decipher his words, so lost were they in the tumult of sound.

Mary only gave a cool and unaffected smirk of innocence, merely looking at him with challenging eyes.

"I'll have you know, I could drink every one of you here under the table, and still be able to walk the line."

He never was one to back down from a challenge.

"Is that so?" He questioned, grinning in earnest. "Well, in that case, I shall fetch us both a drink and then you must dance with me."

"Must I now? There was I under the impression you must gain my approval in order to dance with me."

He got up, still smiling a handsome smile, standing before her and leaning forward to speak, lips to ear so he would be heard.

"But I've already gained it."

With that, he withdrew, making his way slowly through the bustles of people and out of sight to where she remained sat.

There was something wildly enticing in the way his suave comments were threaded and executed. His said them with temperament and meaning, the style coquettish and yet bearing no hint of unwanted vulgarity or expected repayment. She'd match him, flirt in return, and it would feel right, natural and yet also thoroughly thrilling all at once. He was attractive in both stance and manner, and she'd acknowledged this increasingly since she'd known him. He was polite, kind and encompassing of all virtues that made a fine and accommodating man, but also stubborn, quick witted and amusing in harmless well-put folly. Perhaps she would dance with him. The prospect of such a close, unruly and fast paced dance was one she had barely been afforded to face before and made her a little anxious, so out of her zone of comfort as it was, but still a reckless, soulful shade of her almost demanded she gave in, accepting the wonderous feeling of him taking her into his arms, held and spun close against his chest, able to feel each breath and heartbeat over all the crowd and all the music.

He came pushing back through, a large tankard of beer practically overflowing held in each hand.

"What do I owe you?" Mary asked, accepting the professed tankard into one hand, taking a sip of foam and wrinkling her nose at the foreign taste. Beer had of course never been on the table at Downton Abbey, her father had never made a point of bringing the family to the pub and if he ever had possessed occasion to do so, his daughters had never been part of the brigade bought along—as young as they were. No, she had never tasted it before, and frankly was not in much of a hurry to do so again.

He looked at her in question, an inquiring furrow of his brow.

"… for the drink," she clarified.

"Ah…" Matthew declared, taking a hearty gulp of his drink and placing the tankard down to one side. "For that, I shall accept the payment of the next dance."

Mary sighed, sipping the beer quickly, deliberately not looking at him, keeping her eyes trained straight ahead as she quirked an eyebrow with the merest inflection of chastising affection.

She found herself brought into the midst of it all mere moments later—her drink lay empty beside his forgotten waistcoat, jacket and tie—and she was perhaps more than a little lightheaded from the atmosphere alone, but it was excitement she found in the confines of the crowd. It was claustrophobic, hectic, busy with lights and sounds and laughter and people. The music struck up and she was pulled to Matthew's chest in a dizzying haze, both of them knowing the movements as instinct, reeling and spinning with a clumsy and vigorous beauty. She was lifted and twirled, struck by the feeling of his hand bare clutching her own gloveless fingers.

The adrenaline through her veins was paramount, it seemed, to anything else. His arms could be felt around her on occasion and the loss of the feeling was acute with every swap of partners until they were returned to each other. Both hearts beat quick and erratic with the exercise and, if it weren't for the great strength of the fiddle and the rest of the band, he felt sure they would have both heard the other's fast ins and outs of breath.

The dance came to a close with a great groan and encoring cheer from everyone until the band started another reel and her hand was in his once more.

A/N: I am so sorry this took me so long to update and I really hope it wasn't a disappointment. Please tell me what you think and any thoughts you might have, reviews are always greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading :)