Chapter Four
In Which There Are Two Very Earnest Conversations

December 31, 1912
Downton Abbey

Mary had, in truth, expected Matthew to spend his time either holed up with her father in the library or wandering the estate with Simon. Her father and Matthew were already fast friends, she knew. Robert Crawley liked the young solicitor, as he'd proven to have a brain in his head, and Robert had always valued intelligence. And it was obvious to everybody that Matthew now filled many roles: Cousin Matthew, Matthew the Solicitor, Matthew Crawley, Simon's heir should the worst happen. He and his mother were fascinating on the nature of being middle class alone, and the Crawleys of Downton Abbey regarded them rather like some foreign animals in a zoo exhibit. Mary didn't expect to spend much time alone with Matthew on his stay because of that.

But it was on the second day of Matthew's stay that he found her out at the temple on the western part of the estate, as if he had been seeking her. Clearly this wasn't the case, as she saw Matthew's eyes, still as bright as the first day she'd seen him, widen as he rounded the bend and took her in. "Oh," he said. "I beg your pardon. I didn't know anybody was here."

Mary straightened so that she was sitting up like a proper lady, the heavy black dress rustling about her as it always did. She'd been enjoying her reprieve from the prim and the proper. "It's rather a good hiding place until it's discovered, and I'm flushed out like prey."

"If you like, I can keep going and pretend I never saw you."

"No, the game's passed, and I lost. The rules dictate that I should cede my defeat with grace."

When Matthew continued to stand there, as if he really wasn't certain what he could say to make it better, she sighed again. Her foul mood really was going to taint everything today. "I'm afraid I'm not very good company."

"More reason for me to continue on my way, then," Matthew said.

"And that will only confirm my suspicions that I'm being ungracious," Mary said with a sigh. She began to brush off her skirts. The infernal black hid dirt rather well, but the stones on the temple steps were chalky, which showed rather starkly against the dark cloth. She should have foreseen that. "I washiding, but I suppose the time for that has come to an end. Would you care to join me?"

"Only if it does not appear that I am hiding, too." Matthew took a seat a safe distance away from her. "Though I suppose I am. This house, it's rather large, isn't it? I always fear I'm going to say the wrong thing and there will be the dowager countess, giving me that look I'm sure she learned from my old schoolmasters."

"Granny enjoys being intimidating. In some ways, she and the house are very much the same."

"Works of art?" Matthew asked, smiling.

Some of Mary's foul mood slipped away as she found herself laughing.

"She's asked me to pay her a call," Matthew went on. "I'm not sure why. Possibly to check my pedigree. Or my teeth." He bared them at Mary, like a horse, and earned a second laugh from her. "Here I was, assuming myself a very distant cousin, and she spends the entire meal last night eyeing me as though Cousin Simon and Cousin Robert might simultaneously fall to the ground, dead on the spot, and make me an earl. It's a very daunting prospect for a working class lawyer."

"With all that Granny's lived through, I suppose she likes to prepare for the worst. I sometimes feel she'll outlive us all."

"The Lady Grantham, presiding over Downton Abbey and all of Yorkshire, whacking people about the knees with that cane of hers, for centuries to come?"

"You laugh," Mary said, though she was laughing as well, "but see if it doesn't come true! If you like, I'll come along when you pay that call, help protect you from my grandmother."

"I'm not sure it's entirely chivalrous to hide behind you, but I accept."

"We'll go for tea," Mary said. "Don't let her fool you: she loves unexpected company. We should collect Sybil or Simon to come along with us."

"I believe Cousin Sybil was in the library when I saw her last," Matthew said, and once Mary had brushed off the final remnants of chalk from her skirt, they set off together. "I'm to understand you won't be part of the shooting party tomorrow?"

"Unfortunately," Mary said. "I've accompanied the party for a few years now, but this year…" She gave a half-shrug. Her situation was one she had come to accept, though it dragged on her more than she liked to admit, and certainly more than she showed her family. She had been Edmund Cavendish's bride for only eight months, roughly the same amount of time she had now been a widow. "It will be some time before it's acceptable for me to do so again."

"I see," Matthew said. "Do you enjoy it, the shooting?"

"Yes. And hunting, too, naturally. All families like ours hunt. Do you ride? We typically host the opening weekend here at Downton—or I should say that my father does." She'd married, after all, which meant she wasn't truly a Crawley anymore, no matter how much it felt like most days, nothing had changed.

"Not very well." A rueful smile graced Matthew's features. "I mostly stick to my bicycle, and you can't really hunt foxes from that."

"I imagine it confuses the hounds, also."

"Oh, terribly. They've asked me to refrain from hunting in the streets of Manchester, out of consideration for the poor foxhounds there. I've decided it's much better if I keep to what I do best, and remain the rather boring solicitor."

"We all have our calling," Mary said, though she wasn't sure if that was the truth or not. She'd thought she had found her calling in being Edmund's wife. After all, she might not have loved him, but he had suited her needs: the right breeding, new money, power, intelligence. Even more than that, she had respected him. Marrying him had been the next step in a life plan that her mother and grandmother had likely schemed about while she and Simon were still in their cradles, as she had known early on that she would never be one of those great, adventuring heroines in the books she read, facing down all manner of trouble and making love matches in spite of it. No, Lady Mary Crawley, as she had been then, was far too practical for that, so her mother's life plan and Edmund had been ideal.

Now she had nothing but a great deal of money, properties to manage, and a sense of displacement that she could never shake. No wonder, she thought, she had sought a hiding place on a bitterly cold day.

"That reminds me," Matthew said, and she tried to shake her irritable thoughts away. She hadn't meant to lose the jollity, odd though it was. "I took the liberty of meeting with Mr. Stirling and Mr. Fitzpatrick on Friday, before Mother and I came to Yorkshire. I thought it might be best to present their reports in person that both factories are managing quite nicely. There was a small fire in the Johnson Street property."

"Was anyone injured?"

"No, according to Stirling, the men were quick to put out the flames. Very little was damaged. He's sending up a full report that should be here any day now."

"You didn't think to bring this up before?"

"It was a small fire," Matthew said. "You likely won't even see a loss in profits, though you're right, I should have told you right away. I apologize for that oversight on my part. I must confess, I'm still trying to wrap my head around…"

Being third in line for the earldom, Mary realized. It really had been exactly like Simon to drop such momentous news on Matthew like he had. Most of the time, Simon was far too clever for his own good. Once one added a dollop of restlessness and a healthy dose of what could be considered almost an anthropological study of humanity—especially their family—Simon could really cause trouble when he set his mind to it.

"Well," she said, attempting to brighten up, "if the fire is as minor as you claim, no point in worrying about it until I receive Mr. Stirling's report, is there? Come, we'll head inside and hunt up somebody to come along to Granny's for tea. Even better than dropping in unexpected is dropping in with a large party in tow."

Matthew gave her a wary look. "You and Cousin Simon," he said at length, "have much more in common than your looks, don't you?"

"I couldn't possibly begin to know what you mean, Cousin Matthew."

Conversation turned back to the reports from her managers, who had sent greetings for the new year, and to a discussion of morale in the factories, which Matthew noted had improved, thanks to the fact that Mary had insisted Edmund's tradition of gifting the workers with extra wages continue on. It hadn't occurred to Mary that the men might be worried that this might not happen. Perhaps, if somebody else had taken over the business, that might have been the case, but Mary had been raised at the knee of Lord Grantham, who believed above all things that kindness was vital in the treatment of one's workers. It didn't lead to a perfect household, but it certainly paved the way for a much nicer one.

"You know, the factories are certainly turning a nice profit," Matthew said as they finally reached the abbey. "I believe, looking at the old projections, Mr. Cavendish had even hoped to expand in 1913."

"Well, that's simply out of the question," Mary said immediately.

Matthew turned to give her a surprised look. "Is it? Why?"

She gave him a perplexed look. "Because I'm not Edmund, naturally. I haven't the business acumen to look into expanding whatever idea he had in mind for his empire next. I feel like I'm barely keeping my head above water with the two factories he left me, as it is. Expanding? Some days I feel like I'm playing at a game, pretending to run a business and nothing more."

"Well, if it's make-believe, you've certainly fooled a lot of people into thinking it very real, Cousin Mary."

Mary felt warmth begin to collect behind her sternum, spreading through her, at the look he gave her. She'd been admired before—it was impossible to be the daughter of an earl and not be admired, even if her dowry hadn't been very large—but never quite like this. Matthew was looking at her as though he admired her not for her looks or for her lineage, but as one might respect a colleague. It wasn't the ardent look of a lover, but she felt a blush rise nonetheless.

It was for the best, then, that Simon opened the front door and stepped out, drawing up short at the sight of them standing on the walk. They'd stopped walking at some point, Mary realized.

"Oh, good," Simon said, giving Mary the briefest of puzzled looks before he turned to Matthew. "We've been summoned, you and I. Granny wants us to report to the dower house for tea. I was just about to set off to look for you, but it seems Mary's found you first. Excellent."

Matthew opened his mouth, possibly about to correct that notion. After a second, he closed his mouth, evidently taking this in stride. "Yes. Cousin Mary and I were on our way to find you, actually, for the tea."

"Gents only, I'm afraid," Simon said. He turned to Mary. "Mama and Edith are in the drawing room, asking after you. It'll be up to Matthew and me to face down Granny by ourselves."

"I wish you good luck with that," Mary said, working up a smile.

"We'll need it. Come, man, I could do with the walk," Simon said, clapping Matthew on the shoulder and setting off.

Matthew, however, took a moment before he followed Simon. "Do give the idea of expansion some thought. I have the feeling you'll find it more appealing than you think."

"I will," Mary said, giving him a nod as she turned to go inside. Though the day was cold, and the house not much warmer, she still felt improbably heated as she handed her outer things to Carson and went into the drawing room to have tea with her mother and her sister.

- O -

He'd had no idea that accepting an assignment from Josiah Babbett in April—a matter of industrial law, of course, as he had been hired for that specialty—would lead to drinking tea with a dowager countess, a viscount, and his mother on the last day of 1912. Of course, Matthew thought as he warily helped himself to a tea cake, very little could have ever prepared him for that eventuality. Given that he had never lived an extraordinary life, being entirely middle of the line in virtually everything he did (save for being a terrible shot) and almost mundane, it seemed even harder to accept.

The tea cake was tart. The flavor did nothing to ease the surreal feeling spreading through him.

He wished, not for the first time since he and Simon had strolled up the front walk of the dower house, that Mary had indeed come along to act as his proverbial shield. Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham, had eyes even sharper than her tongue, and whenever she looked at Matthew, he felt as though his recurring nightmare, in which he attended school in nothing more than his pants. Even though he was fully dressed, and an adult with a viable position at a prestigious Manchester firm, it did nothing to stop the feeling of wanting to squirm under Cousin Violet's suspicious gaze.

Thankfully, Isobel Crawley was not at all cowed by Violet, making her the only person in the room to do so. For all of his bluster about "Granny's bark being worse than her bite," Matthew had noticed that Simon Crawley certainly didn't use as much cheek in the presence of Lady Grantham as he did around the rest of his family. He sat next to Isobel, making idle comments that made the older women smile. He'd been delighted, he claimed, to find that Isobel had preceded them, as the opportunity to get to know family better was one to be cherished.

Matthew imagined Mary rolling her eyes at Simon's fripperies, and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

"Mary tells me you handle all of the legal aspects of this business folly of hers," Violet said, staring through Matthew.

Folly? Matthew blinked at that, but the woman seemed completely serious—and about her own granddaughter, as well. "She's a client of my firm, yes. I primarily oversee her case, though, as the estate is settled and it mostly has to do with any proceedings she needs handled for her business."

Violet pursed her lips. "And what do you think of this, of Cavendish leaving factories to his wife? It's simply not done."

Isobel sat up straighter. "Why not? Doesn't she have as much right to her husband's property as anyone?"

"Well, no," Violet Crawley said. "Of course not. A woman in the boardroom? What is the world coming to?"

Matthew kept his gaze focused on his teacup, partly amused to hear the opinions of Josiah Babbett—a more middle-class man Matthew had never known—coming from the lips of the blue-blooded Lady Grantham herself.

"I think," he said, "that the Lady Mary is remarkably intelligent and quite up to the task."

Violet stared at him in surprise. "No one's questioning that, my dear boy, at all. It's quite obvious. The problem isn't with Mary's capability, it's with the idea of a woman running a business and trying to survive in the realm of men when she should be grieving for her husband."

Those, Matthew knew, had been the same objections both Babbett and Mary had raised upon hearing about Cavendish's wishes. "She's thinking of expanding," he said. It was partly a lie—he'd only given her the idea a half hour before, and he'd seen the shock evident on her face that it hadn't even occurred to her—but to hear Violet Crawley speak like that set his teeth on edge. It made him think of that gulf once more, widening with every word the woman spoke.

"Expanding?" Violet asked, and her eyes turned shrewd.

"Yes, from everything Matthew tells me," Isobel said, "the business is doing quite well."

"Truly?" Violet looked from Isobel to Matthew. He gave a short nod. Thankfully, with Violet Crawley, there was rarely a need to say much more. She leaned back slightly, hands still clutching the handle of her cane, obviously deep in thought. "To think that we've had a magnate on our hands this entire time and no idea of it at all. She must get it from her mother; they're quite like sharks on that side of the family."

Simon chuckled as he set his teacup down. "You're calling Grandfather a shark? I'm not sure Grandmother would like that, Granny. Not very sporting of you."

"Sporting? I've little time for sporting, young Simon, and once you get to be my age, you'll learn not to waste your time. Speaking of wasting time, what's this I hear of your name in connection with Lady Jessup's youngest daughter?"

"Pure fiction," Simon said. "She was there when I paid a call to the Jessups to see that new revolver Lord Jessup's been boasting about. Hardly scandalous, I assure you."

Violet harrumphed. "You're not getting any younger," she told him.

"Granny," Simon said, laughing now. "I'm fresh out of university! Surely there's a grace period before you and Mama march me down the aisle to where some unfortunate heiress awaits."

Matthew glanced at Isobel, grateful that he hadn't ever had to face this particular problem. His parents had made a love match of it, he knew, and they'd claimed time and again that they wouldn't pressure him to marry, like so many of their generation. Isobel, perhaps reading his thoughts, smiled at him and sipped her tea.

"With Patrick and James gone, you have a duty, m'boy," Violet told Simon.

Lines tightened around Simon's mouth, almost imperceptibly, but he smiled at his grandmother. "Worried that I may take a long walk off a short cliff and leave Downton to a complete stranger, Granny?"

"Of course not," Violet said. "But I've come to learn to expect the worst."

"No need to fear the worst," Simon said. "Even if I were to leap off this mortal coil this evening, we wouldn't be leaving Downton and all of its inhabitants to a stranger. I have my heir right here."

He turned to grin at Matthew, who felt that sinking feeling in his stomach that seemed to arise whenever the thought of being in the line to inherit the earldom arose. Simon might think it a grand joke, but he could see plainly in Violet Crawley's eyes that a working-class lawyer, as he'd called himself to Mary earlier that very day, inheriting Downton Abbey might very well be the definition of "the worst" she had in mind.

Don't worry, Cousin Violet, he thought silently at her. I happen to agree.