"What are you doing here?"
Cora stares back at her eldest daughter, looking far too pleased with herself as she sets down a bottle of champagne.
"Celebrating your divorce," her mother answers. "What else?"
"Now?"
The word sputters out before she can think.
"Yes, now," Cora returns as she lays a basket on Mary's kitchen counter. "Unless you're otherwise occupied."
Mary's mouth moves wordlessly, and she glances over her shoulder towards the steps, wishing a certain naked man she'd left sprawled out on her mattress possessed the ability to pick up her danger signals telepathically.
"Is something wrong?" Cora questions. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Yes," Mary gushes, pasting on as bright as smile as she can muster. "I'm fine. Why?"
"Well, you're in a robe," Cora answers with a shrug. "Even though it's nearly lunch time. And you're flushed. Are you certain you don't have a fever?"
"I'm certain," Mary insists, backing up a step as her mother reaches out to touch her cheek. "I'm fine, Mama. I just slept in today, that's all."
Cora eyes her closely, finally stepping back with a satisfied nod.
"Good. I'm glad to hear it."
She lets out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"You deserve to pamper yourself, Mary," Cora continues with a smile. "And to be spoiled, which is why we're here today."
"We?" The word nearly chokes her, and she looks over her mother's shoulder towards the front door. "Who else is here, Mama?"
"Why your father, of course," Cora grins. "And your grandmother, Edith, Sybil and Tom, although the Bransons are running a bit behind."
This cannot be happening. God, her family never stops by for a surprise visit, but today of all days, the first day in her life she'd indulged in a one-night stand that bled over into the next day, the first morning in years she'd done more in the shower than simply wash her hair, they show up on her doorstep with an instant party in tow. How is this possible?
She forces herself to swallow, panic-tinged bile pushing up her throat.
"Then let me go and change," she manages, praying her expression is far calmer than her stomach.
"Of course," Cora returns as she moves back to the front door. "I'll just go and help your father bring everything in."
Shit. Just shit.
The door clicks shut, but her feet won't move, and she breathes in and out, trying to figure out what the hell they're going to do. Locking Matthew in the closet seems to be her best option, but would he go for that? After all, sharing space with racks of shoes probably wouldn't appeal to most men, and this is one man she'd like to keep around, at least for a while. Climbing out the bedroom window is risky, and the only route to the back door would bring him directly into her family's line of fire. She inhales deeply to rouse her nerve, turning towards the stairs when warm arms securely ensnare her around her waist.
"Whoever it was finally left, I see," he mutters into her ear, his voice rubbing her like warm velvet, his mouth gliding up and down her neck. "I'm so glad."
"Matthew," she begins, pushing on his arms to no avail. "You have to stop this…"
"Quite the contrary," he hums into her skin, sliding one side of her robe over her shoulder. "Remember, sex that occurs on the same day in the same location…"
He is cut off by the front door flying open, his head shooting upwards as she tenses all over. Cheerful conversation pauses in a flash as four pairs of perfectly rounded eyes stare back at them without blinking.
"I see you were otherwise occupied," Cora utters before clearing her throat. Mary's stomach drops to her knees, and she pulls her robe back over her shoulder, fully cognizant of the fact that whether or not that part of her anatomy is exposed really doesn't matter anymore.
"Oh, God," Matthew mutters under his breath. She couldn't have said it any better herself.
"What on earth?" her father cries out, and she feels Matthew's grip on her tighten, wondering if she should pull away from him or simply stay where she is. She supposes it doesn't really matter. The truth of their situation is painfully obvious.
"It would appear Mary started the party without us," her grandmother cuts in. "I think we missed the best part, unfortunately."
"Are you surprised, Granny?" Edith retorts, far too delighted by her sister's discomfort. "Mary always keeps the juiciest bits to herself."
Sweat beads across her forehead, her throat now the texture of sandpaper. Would anyone notice if she simply melted into the floor?
"Don't be crass, Edith," Violet snaps back, claiming a chair at the table. "It's not at all flattering, you know." The older woman turns her full attention to Mary, pointing at Matthew with the flick of a brow. "Well, Mary. Are you planning on introducing us to your amant mystere, or are we simply supposed to stare at his chest and try to guess his name?"
She clears her throat, tugging the robe even tighter around her neck.
"Granny," she begins, her voice too wobbly for her liking. "Everyone—this is Matthew."
She senses his embarrassment, feeling it rub up against her own as he clutches the towel firmly around his waist. God, if it were to drop now, it would be the final straw.
"And does Matthew have a last name?" Violet questions.
"Crawley," Matthew answers. "It's Crawley."
Mary spins around to stare at him in shock, the rest of her family mimicking her in tandem.
"Is something wrong?" he asks her, he gaze flittering between her and her relatives. "Besides the obvious, that is?"
"Crawley is our name," Robert cuts in, stepping directly towards them. "Are you telling me that the two of you have been having sexual relations without even bothering to exchange surnames?"
She wants to run from the room screaming, but she forces herself to stand her ground, eyeing her father directly as she draws herself up taller.
"Of course we have," Mary insists. "He's Matthew Crawley."
"And she's Mary Carlisle," Matthew utters, his tone a bit unsteady. "Although not for much longer, thank God."
It would be just her luck if it turned out that she'd just had the best sex of her life with her second cousin. Shit. Just shit.
"God, Mary," Edith snorted. "Are you so desperate that you've taken to banging potential relatives?"
"Edith," Cora reprimands, tossing her daughter a look that could scald an iceberg. "That's enough."
"Who is your father, Matthew?" Robert interjects, stepping in so close that Mary backs directly into Matthew's torso. "Perhaps we can sort this out before it goes any further, although it seems to have gone too far already."
Her stomach flips over a couple of times, her head spinning in a misguided attempt to keep up.
"Reginald Crawley," Matthew answers, his mortified heat pressing up against her back. "From Manchester."
"Reginald, is it?" Violet mutters, trying the name out on her tongue to see if it suits her. "The physician?"
Mary turns to see Matthew nodding, and she wonders if the fact that Granny knows his father is a good thing or the pealing of bells announcing her impending doom.
"He's a very distant cousin, Robert, but not enough of one to matter when it comes to...well, you know," Violet volunteers with a shrug. "Carry on, then, Mary."
"She is not going to carry on," Robert interjects, his voice rising in volume. "Are you?"
"At least not while we're in the house," Edith mutters just as Cora shoots visual daggers in her direction.
"Well," Violet murmurs. "It would be a bit crowded."
"Do you suppose it would be alright if Matthew and I went up to change now?" Mary manages, so far past the point of embarrassment she's bordering on numbness. Numb would actually be preferable to how she's feeling at the moment, like she's living that nightmare of standing in the middle of Piccadilly Circus in nothing but a sheer bra and knickers.
Yes. Numbness does possess a certain morbid appeal.
"I'd recommend it," Violet answers with a shrug. "Before Sybil and Tom arrive."
"You called?"
Shit. Too late. She slides right past numbness into out and out panic.
Tom's voice echoes from the front door, and Mary turns towards Matthew, burying her head into his shoulder, wondering if this entire situation could get any worse just before it unbelievably does.
"Matthew? Matthew Crawley? What in God's name are you doing here?"
She prays she doesn't get sick all over Matthew's chest. God—wouldn't that just be icing on the cake?
"Tom?" Matthew answers. "Is that you?"
Mary turns to face her sister and brother-in-law, avoiding Sybil's broad grin like the bubonic plague, attempting to stare at Tom's hairline rather than directly into his eyes.
"You two know each other, I take it?" Robert questions, looking from one man to the other.
"I doubt Tom knows him in the same sense as Mary does," Edith murmurs, earning herself a whack on the arm from Cora.
"That would make this entire situation even more interesting," Violet adds, chuckling to herself under her breath.
"Matthew and I work out together," Tom explains. "We go to the same gym." He tries to contain the smile tugging at his mouth, the result being that he looks a bit like a puppy trying not to pee on the floor. "I had no idea that you and Mary, ah…knew each other."
"We didn't," Matthew replies, his directness nearly making her choke. "Until recently, that is."
"Well then," Violet hums. "Now that everything is so nice and cozy, perhaps we could break out the food."
"Yes," Cora exclaims, clearly relieved by the change of topic. "Sybil, Edith—will you help me unpack the sandwiches?"
Sybil coughs and sputters, her face turning three shades of purple before she finally barks out a loud cackle. Violet couldn't look any more pleased, her father is still the color of a ripe turnip, and her mother is as ashen-faced as Mary has ever seen her.
What a fine afternoon for a party.
"Of course, Mama," Sybil manages, just as Tom and Edith break out laughing with her. "How shall we arrange everything?"
"Over-easy would be my suggestion," Edith mutters, this time getting whacked by Violet herself.
"Hard-boiled would be more like it," Tom quips, ducking behind his pregnant wife to distance himself from Cora's wrath.
"Well, we did bring quite a spread," Sybil manages between fits of laughter, making Mary roll her eyes as discussions ensue.
"Don't mind us," she utters as she and Matthew turn and make their way up the steps, her words lost in the din of family conversation. "We'll just be getting dressed."
She nearly pushes him up the stairs, breaking into a sprint once they reach the top.
"Do you think they'll even notice we've gone?" Matthew asks as they round the corner to her bedroom, finally shutting the door behind them and sucking precious air into their lungs.
"Don't even think about it, you two," Sybil's voice cries out from beneath the floor boards. "We can hear you, you know."
They gaze at each other, brow for brow, stare for stare, mortification meeting amusement head on.
"Does that answer your question?" Mary asks, leaning against her wall as she attempts to catch her breath. "Oh, God, Matthew. What are we going to do now?"
"Well," he utters with a small shrug. "If they already think we're going at it again…"
He slides two steps in her direction, the impossible grin on his face tempting her to smack it off and kiss the hell out of him at the same time.
"Put your trousers on, Don Juan," she retorts, whacking him with his pants just as his towel drops to the floor. "I think we've hit our limit for today."