If they weren't busy enough preparing for a full house for lunch, and prepping for a double seating at dinner Matthew's thoughts kept him preoccupied further.

Robert's words crept around his head, twisting and morphing into images and playing with the hope string of his heart. Words associating leisurely time off, and Mary in the same sentence were almost too much to hold as images ran away and danced across his vision. One that flickered constantly, like a memory, too stubborn to be tossed to reality held a snapshot of white linen, coffee mugs with croissants, ripe strawberries blush red, and a singular flower in a tiny chinotto bottle. With a flash of skin, faded by moonlight. It was an image of promise and happiness and Matthew wondered now why he would think it may have been from his past, when he decidedly knew it wasn't. Or if his wishful fancies were generating into something more tangible and his grasp of how farfetched they were from his current life.

The arrival of a bevy of staff just before twelve jolted Matthew from his reverie, instead the coffee machine spluttered dark amber comfort, filling two cups as his eyes sought her form around the sunlit room. The way his mind had been working this morning, he was surprised that he even had to search for her. His bearing seemed to be off kilter, shifted slightly by the eruption of feelings of last night.

Was it the echo of promise that rattled around in his head, or the hangover from possibilities unfulfilled? Matthew shook it as he filled the demitasse cups, adding sugar, as his senses adjusted to seeking her in other ways.

He smelt her first. His nose keen to all fine things, and he smiled as he acknowledged that he recognised her perfume.

It brought to mind spring meadows, vanilla white clouds and woody truffles of the forest. It was delectable and exotic and wafted inside him stimulating his nerves. She was like a heady and complex wine, one to be opened and breathed before delicately tasting.

His smile erupted into a giddy private smirk he doubted he should share with her now. With coffee in hand he approached her at the front desk. Her back was to him as she put away her bag, having changed into her uniformed black ensemble. A few strands of molasses hair had escaped her loose bun, and Matthew fought the urge to tuck it behind her ear.

"Peace offering." He extended his hand holding her preferred drink.

Mary's long fingers stretched to grasp the tiny cup, their fingers almost touching as she took hold.

If it only took one small cup of comfort to bring that, her mind raced, and yet felt peace still, as her eyebrow slightly cocked.

"Perfect timing," and she continued under her breath so that Matthew could not even grasp what she said, "with the coffee at least!" She turned back to the reservations book, flipping pages and scribbling notes into the margin for tonight. "Thank you."

Matthew cleared his throat, unsure how to kick off his idea with her. After their previous conversation he needed to make sure that he was getting it right, but not also rushing to her with haste after such an admission.

"I thought I may run something past you? An idea that may just prod some friendly competition between the staff, and also line the coffers of Downton."

"What is it?" How easily her interest was piqued when Matthew talked of ideas and implementations. If it was anyone else, save Carson, normally she would huff her objections. But she had recently come to the conclusion that when it came to work, they literally thought alike.

It was ridiculous that he needed to breathe in courage, as this was an incentive trick tried and tested at his previous employment, which he thought might just work here to boost wine sales. And alcohol was predominantly profit. He described to her then of ways to pushing bottles of wine, selling not just from the wine list, but also how by generating a separate exclusive VIP list of rare and expensive wines and alcohol, that would be offered to only a handful of customers with a promise of the ultimate fine dining service lavished on them.

He watched as Mary's head nodded and she asked questions as he explained and finally saw understanding and admiration write melody across her face.

"I can imagine it working with the likes of Thomas and Bates pitting against each other. Even O'Brien and Carson will take it on wholehearted. You'll quickly need to run it past Carson though to make up the VIP lists. And it may be best coming from him to the rest of the staff so it appears that you all have equal footing in the stakes. I think his sommelier ego would love to take your idea on." Her body stood open to him, almost mirroring his stance and lopsided head. Their hands bracing on the desk were no more than a wine glass stem apart.

"Do you really think he will embrace it?" Matthew said with still the traces of uncertainty.

"I embrace your idea. There is no question he'll give it a swirl."


With Carson erecting a table on the board in the back-of-house, Bates and Thomas subtly rushed to memorise the wine list so that they could recommend the most expensive bottles. Carson then disappeared down into the cellar to create the VIP collection for the deeper and vain pockets.

Matthew knew he too should have been skimming the wine folder to faithfully roll off his tongue at the drop of a hat. But he knew, for the moment he was safe in that which was already banked. He had two secret weapons up his shirt sleeve. The first was one particular wine that he knew like the back of his hand, classed in the category as his only favourite, and one which he understood and held dearly its origins.

The second of course was his skill at the recitation of stories of his encounters at various vineyards around the world. It always helped to personalise the experience at table and added another layer to help recommend certain labels for both consumption and enjoyment.

He had learnt the trick long ago in a little place that was frequented by hardworking lawyers and doctors. Professionals that rarely travelled, so by the painting of a picture of vines falling down a hill, or the way the leaves turned a certain colour in autumn, or the smell of oak barrels piled high in old barns, or the play of sunlight in the evening as one stood at the distillery's large doors, watching the end of a hard day's work come to close, those businessmen felt they too drank of memories.

Customers consumed those tales, wanting to grasp that connection, as the bottle was opened at table and the first sip lacquered the tongue. They claimed Matthew's experience as their own, and brought the ritual of breaking bread, knowing that someone else's dream was intermingling with their own current experience.

Patrons entered the hospitality of restaurants, dined and paid for an individual experience. It was a moment of expectation, suspended in reality and enjoyment. That was the duty of Downton at the Abbey, to fulfil dreams and feed souls. Ultimately they bought into that, albeit an experience not entirely their own.

Yes, Matthew was very good at reading people which helped in anticipating their needs. It had been the exemplification of his career and he had managed to do well in some of the industry's best establishments almost due to that fact alone, with perhaps a smattering of moral goodness, loyalty and a hell of a lot of hard work.

Hard work which at this particular moment, he relished. With shirt sleeves rolled up, muscles bulging as he lifted the last of the round table tops, manoeuvring around the maze to the place Mary directed.

Carson had suggested they get Thomas or Alfred to lift them, sighting a level of propriety, but Matthew had insisted, as he happily complied with Mary's every direction, stealing the little amount of time they had to interact before service. Mary on the other hand, relished the sight.

Her orders were succinct, clipped even, but efficient and he could tell she was always ten steps ahead. He had grown to admire that about her, how her eyes took in all the details in one glance, how the list ticked over in her mind's eye, and he knew she had contingencies waiting if additional changes needed to be made in an instant. The air around them held the quietness of breathing, as they scurried to finish set up before the night ahead. The clock held the momentum of heartbeats, and he watched as the coil wound tighter in her, ready to spring forward once dinner began.

"The ten seater round, Matthew, on 2-0-6. And we have 15 minutes left until open. Hurry up slow coach." Her mocking was quiet so the others didn't hear, which made Matthew smile all the more at the implied intimacy of it.

"Is that your nickname for me then?" said Matthew.

She stopped to look at him then, a foggy conversation of the industry's tendency to baptise its workers. Her eyes cast down to finish her quick hands work setting the table, a rueful smirk and shake of head played with the space between them.

"I'm surprised the others haven't labelled you something more true to your character!" They both chuckled. "But you should have more faith," Mary continued. "If I name you, and granted you would be the privileged first, it will be iconic and suitably appropriate."

"I'm surprised you," he imitated her "haven't called me something yet, even under your breath?"

"Oh," Mary paused for dramatic effect, "I have!" the two smiles mirrored each other, wide in acknowledgement and light hearted jousting.

They both had reached a place where grey confusion of the unknown and denial swirled like mist around the stark black and white of factual truths and reality. That is what they found hard to balance between them -the ballast of duty and expectation and the depth and levity of a shared spirit.

Mary continued, "If my father had anything to call you, it would be along the lines of prodigal son or The Heir." Her mouth pouted in a forced look of disgust, one Matthew was sure never to have seen her face do before. "Not my words though."

Matthew's hands folded the starched linen in an automated functionality. Mary paused as she went to pass him though, the heat from her body pervaded his pores and her perfume coating his senses.

She whispered to him, unable to hide the sudden thought of shock that jolted her brain cells. "What do they call me?" It was something that she would not normally care that much about, but since Matthew's arrival, the way they seemed to connect had allowed her to trust him and she trusted his honesty. Would he share that with her?

His inability to hide his smirk almost infuriated her with his smugness. The urge to belt him around the head flickered briefly in her periphery.

"They wouldn't dare call you anything other than Ms Crawley. Their respect for you transcends that ritual." She at least gave him points for trying to sound convincing.

"Thank god for that small miracle then."

He didn't miss a beat, "I, on the other hand have one on ice which I may christen you all in good time. Half the fun is finding a name."

"Mr Crawley, we are more than mere labels." Her body simpered to leave him to the coming night.

"That we are, Ms Crawley." He liked the way it sounded, and the shared thought, that to any outsider their shared name held another connotation, perhaps may indeed be made truth one day.