Mary went down to breakfast, on that morning of 29th September, feeling completely at peace for the first time since the whole Pamuk incident had happened.
She smiled fondly at her father and even to Edith as she sat down, holding a full plate of food in her hands.
Lord Grantham gave her an envelope, and she was quite surprised. She wasn't waiting for any letter.
New York, 4th September 1918
Lady Mary,
I am writing in order to let you know that rumors are spreading both in New York and in London about your escapade.
I am therefore bound to inform you that our agreement does not stand anymore, as it would undoubtedly damage both me and my business.
I will not pay you visit anymore, and I would appreciate it if you will not call on me in London, either.
The article will appear in the paper on October 1st.
With distinction,
Sir Richard Carlisle
She felt dizzy, and couldn't tell if she was still breathing.
She was ruined, definitely, and she couldn't do anything about it.
"Mary? Are you all right?" Lord Grantham's voice was low and soft, his brow creased and his expression worried as he scrutinized his elder daughter's face. "You've become as pale as a ghost".
"Yes… yes, Papa, I'm fine. I'm just not hungry anymore…" she excused herself and rose, crossing the dining room and the hall quickly, and started to run up the stairs.
She knocked on the door and burst into her mother's room, nearly knocking over Mrs O'Brien who was just retreating.
She pushed the card in her mother's hands, and began pacing as she read.
"Mary…" lady Grantham whispered. She knew her still unmarried daughter's chances to go on living the life she had always known were nil, after the publication of the article.
Mary felt awful about it, but she had started to weep silently. She hadn't wept in so long, and now she couldn't even fight against it.
"I will write to Grand-mama straight away, you could wait it out in America and then maybe…" lady Grantham suggested. Maybe there still were American millionaires who did not read English papers, she hoped.
"No, Mama. You perfectly know it would not work" Mary replied, slowly getting back her self-control. "Besides, there is one more thing you should know. Matthew proposed to me last night, and I said yes." She smiled at this.
Lady Grantham was surprised, and she had just whispered "But…" when Mary cut her short once again.
"He knows about this. I told him everything, and he doesn't care. He just wants me, Mama."
"Oh… well, what can I say? If he really does, then… I know you're in love with him… We shall tell Papa right after breakfast, he can't read the awful thing without knowing…"
Mary left her mother's room feeling a little bit better; she had plans, her life would continue, and she was so incredibly happy to marry Matthew that the whole thing was going back to its real importance, even if she didn't exactly fancy telling Lord Grantham about the late Mr. Pamuk.
She met Matthew and Isobel in the drawing room, and she dropped the bomb immediately.
"How could you!" Isobel lashed out at Mary. "How could you take advantage of Matthew once again! I thought you were sincere, but now I see…"
Matthew cut her off, an angry expression on his face, grabbing Mary's hand and threading his fingers with hers.
"Mother, stop it! I am perfectly capable of defending myself… And Mary has never lied to me. I knew everything about Pamuk, she had told me before I asked her to marry me".
Isobel was completely astonished, and she stood there, pale and with a distant gaze, for several moments, while Matthew explained her that he already knew about everything and that he didn't think any less of Mary for something that had happened so long before.
She wasn't a haughty woman, and she apologized to Mary heartily.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry… You will think so badly of me after this… Mary… what can I say? I was so surprised that I have said things I don't think…"
"Cousin Isobel, I understand. I…"
Isobel cut her off, and moved Mary to the verge of tears with her reaction.
"I know what it means to be young, my dear, and I agree with my son. You don't need anyone's forgiveness, because there's nothing to forgive. You made a mistake, and you admit it. There's nothing more to say, apart from that I am so very glad to have you as a daughter."
She hugged Mary, and she stood up. "Now I'll go, dears, Dr. Clarkson is waiting for me at the hospital".
When Mrs. Crawley went out of the door, a rust of chilly air came into the room, and the door shut forcefully, with a loud bang that echoed in the high-ceilinged hall.
Matthew let out a fearful moan, looking around with glazed over eyes, in search of some invisible danger.
He was in his wheelchair, and it was dangerously shaking and threatening to fall on its side, as he had practically dived on his right, his torso perched on the armrest.
Mary rushed to him, kneeling down on the floor at his side.
She took his face in her hands, trying to make him look at her, to make him see that nothing was wrong.
"Matthew… Look at me… Darling, it's all right, you're at home… Look at me, honey, please… Come back to me…" she combed his hair back from his forehead, repeating her words over and over, sweetly, trying to reassure him.
After a few moments, she had been able to help him sit back straight, and he had raised his eyes to look at her, his head on her stomach while she caressed gently his back.
"Mary…" he had whispered, encircling her waist with his arms.
His voice was hoarse, and Mary offered to fetch him some water from the jug on the counter.
He didn't answer, his arms tightening their grip on her, telling her silently what he needed.
She held him, whispering gentle nothings in his ear, and he finally he relaxed into her.
"I'm sorry…" he murmured. "I don't know what's happened… I just thought…" he was blushing, clearly ashamed.
"You don't need to apologize, Matthew. I'm here and I love you."
Mary took a step back, looking straight in his eyes, a small, impish smile on her lips, and she gave him Sir Richard's letter.
"I think this could be interesting for you" she stated.
She looked at him while he scanned the note, his eyes getting angrier and angrier with each line.
"How does he dare!" he spit out when he finished reading. "How does he dare to treat you like that! He has no right whatsoever, and he owes you respect, and…"
Mary had put her hand on his forearm, looking tenderly at him.
"Don't be angry, Matthew, please. I'm free, I got rid of him, and that's all that matters." She exhaled, shakily, and she went on. "It won't be easy, and when he publishes his article, well, the storm will hit… I guess I will have a lot more of free time than I have now, as I don't see how possibly anybody will invite me for dinner until the scandal wears out, but…"
He took her hand in his, smiling at her, his anger forgotten.
"You're a storm-braver, Mary, if I ever saw one…" he was looking at her with so much love in his eyes that she felt her heart swell with happiness. "And you must not hide, my darling. I love you, and we will go through everything together." He kissed her knuckles, and he added, "I think I should talk to your father, shouldn't I?"
"We both have to, Matthew" Mary answered. "He still does not know about Pamuk, and I think I should tell him, instead of waiting for the newspapers…" she passed a hand on her forehead, sighing. "He will be terribly disappointed in me, I'm sure, but…"
"Well, then, I think we could talk to him together" Matthew suggested kindly. "Hearing your story followed straight by our plans for marriage could soften the blow."
"I think you actually have a point. We could tell him after lunch, I guess… at least we will have him in the library all alone" she joked, eliciting a soft chuckle from Matthew.
"It's decided, then" he smiled.
Matthew was resting, when his mother burst into his room, a conspiratory smile on her lips.
She hoped Matthew had forgiven her attack on Mary earlier in the morning, and that he would accept her present.
In her handbag, she had one of her most cherished possessions. Her mother's engagement ring, that she had worn countless times after her death, especially when Matthew was a little boy.
He had been fascinated by the delicate diamond ring, a thin band of white gold holding only one, pure, drop-shaped stone.
She put the little black box in his lap, and he saw his eyes sparkle at the sight of the ring.
"Mother" he whispered, his voice cracking, a smile spreading on his lips.
She took his hand. "Well, I thought that you were in need of an engagement ring for Mary… and I had promised you that this ring would be yours to give to your bride, so…"
He was speechless. She had remembered, and she had given him what he wanted, what he needed.
She kissed his cheek, smiling.
"Now I truly must go, dear, or Dr. Clarkson will send out a search party", and she left, barely leaving him the time to thank her before closing the door.
He hid the little box under his pillow, ready to be fetched later.
Mary had gone in Matthew's room to call him for lunch, and he found him, already dressed, peacefully asleep in his chair.
He woke up as soon as she entered the room, smiling and offering her his right hand, inviting her in his embrace.
She noticed in that very moment that Matthew had hidden his left hand in his pocket, and was already withdrawing it.
His eyes shimmering, he took her hand, and placed a little velvet black box in it, opening it so that it showed a delicate diamond ring.
"I wanted to wait for Lord Grantham's permission to do things properly, because I realize that my proposal hasn't been… a traditional one… but I found out I can't wait a minute more…" he whispered, reaching for her other hand.
Holding them both in his own, he looked up at her, locking his gaze with hers.
"Lady Mary Crowley, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?" he asked her once again, and she found herself gasping for breath as emotion was choking her.
"Yes" she whispered, bending to kiss him.
His lips were soft and gentle against hers, and she lost herself in the kiss, forgetting everything apart from Matthew, the fact that he loved her, and that she would become his wife.
They broke apart, and he slid the ring that had been his grandmother's on her slender finger, unable to hold back his happy tears, mirror of her own.
