A/N: Your reviews and alerts are so appreciated - thank you all for sticking with this! Extra thanks to Eolivet as always.

Never Such Innocence Again 10/?

She knew it wasn't from the teething, no matter what that idiot doctor told them. Lily was feverish and weak, and looked as unlike herself as Mary had ever seen, and the smug attitude of Clarkson talking about maternal instinct as if she couldn't possibly know when Lily was really ill made her want to bite something other than the inside of her cheek.

Her cheek was raw now, her fear increasing by the minute as she wiped the cold cloth across Lily's little face and neck. She should be crying if it was teething, or gnawing on something, but she wanted nothing except Mary's arms. "Darling girl," she whispered as she kissed the hot little forehead. "Please get better."

Isobel's hand on her shoulder startled her. "Mary, if you want to rest, or go down for dinner, I'll stay with her."

Mary shook her head gently. "I'm not leaving her." She looked up at Isobel. "And thank you for being on my side with Clarkson."

"He's an idiot." Her hand brushed across her granddaughter's wispy curls. "She is so like Matthew at that age..."

"What was he like?"

"As a baby?"

"And as a boy." Lily let out a little sob and pushed at Mary, and settled only when the icy flannel was brushed across her cheeks.

"He was..." Isobel's eyes grew soft. "Very wanted. I wasn't exactly young and we'd thought perhaps.. And then he was born and he was perfect. Rather like Lily in temperament, only even easier, but very much a boy. Always a boy, rushing headlong into danger. I worried about him, but his father just mended the wounds and sent him on his way." She paused, and Mary knew from the slight mist across her eyes that Isobel's heart, like Matthew's, had never quite healed from the loss. "He loved sport, and got quite good at cricket when he went off to school. He never seemed to study, but he scraped by. I wondered if... But then his father died, and he took that very hard. I think that's when he became so serious." She smiled sadly at Mary. "Sometimes I miss that reckless little cricketer who never studied."

"Did he ever want to be a doctor?"

"No. He always wanted to be a solicitor. I think he imagined himself Lord Chancellor someday."

Mary smiled at the unwitting awareness she had so long ago of Matthew's dreams. "Now he'll be in Lords. Poor Matthew."

"Why poor Matthew?"

Mary shrugged. "Power derived from title, not from his own wits. And he has such lovely wits." She rocked Lily, humming something to her, smiling down at the little girl.

Isobel could see the fear in her eyes and a fierce wave of love for Mary rushed up through her. "Clarkson's wrong, you know. About maternal instinct. It's not derived from actually giving birth."

"It might happen faster, though." The baby's eyes began to droop.

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't love Lily right away," she whispered.

"Well, why would you?" Isobel leaned toward Mary and put her hand on her arm. "She wasn't yours then, but she is yours now, just as I think of you as a little bit mine now. I hope your mother won't mind."

Mary shook her head and leaned over to kiss Isobel on the cheek. "I.." she began, and it was clearly hard for her to continue. "She was all I would ever have of Matthew."

It was too much to think about, and neither of them spoke for a while, until Lily began to cough, a dreadful sound that left all three of them shaking.

Isobel's hand went to Lily's head. "You weren't wrong. This isn't teething."

Clarkson came back before dinner at the bidding of Carson, but Mary was far too terrified to feel any vindication when she learned the hall boy and two housemaids who had reported feeling sick the night before did in fact have the 'flu, and Clarkson did not dare look at Mary as he described what she should continue to do through the night and what to look for. Lily had gone from fussy to listless, but at least she had eaten a little during the day and was not quite as hot by the time Matthew came up with Anna and a tray. "Eat," he said simply. "Or sleep. Or both."

Mary, already queasy and shaky from a long day in the nursery, did not mind being forced to rest for a few minutes. "Wake me in an hour," she said as she curled up on the nursery chaise, and smiled at Lily, who answered with a weak, adoring smile before Mary closed her eyes.

She never knew if it was an hour.

It was the last normal moment.

Screams awakened her, and there was blood and sick in the cot, and Matthew was gone, and Mary did not know where those screams came from, only that she was the only one who was calm, the only one who wasn't crying.

Why is there so much noise, why don't they understand that it should be quiet, that Lily can't get better if it isn't quiet?

Clarkson is useless.

Matthew would understand, but Matthew wasn't there, and neither was Isobel, and it was just a little nosebleed, and babies were sick all the time. Lily had been sick before. Anna knew things should be quiet, only they said Anna was ill now, and she couldn't come, and wouldn't m'lady want to come downstairs now, and Mary did not know who thought this was a good idea, not when Lily was coughing so much.

Armstrong understood, Armstrong didn't try to tell her to do things, Armstrong just brought useful things, and Clarkson again, who wasn't useful, who still did nothing, and Armstrong asked if Anna could be moved from the rooms at the top of the house.

Too cold, of course she should be moved, put her in the south gallery, make sure Clarkson sees her.

No, I can't come downstairs, I can't leave her.

Why isn't Clarkson here, why won't anything stop Lily's coughing?

Darling girl, don't cry.

Lily, darling. Lily. Lily.

It was up to Mary and the screamer, who turned out to be the nanny, who turned out to be useless, and who disappeared at some point, and it was only Mary who held Lily through the night.

Matthew, where are you?

Lily... LILY.

No one heard Mary's fervent prayers, no one heard her beg for Lily's life, and after a while, no one came in that long, black night.

Something was making noise and moving.

Someone ached all over, and something smelled, and Mary opened her eyes to grey skies, weak sunlight and frost on the windowpane in front of her. Daylight... but it had just been night. She was on the chaise, but she'd only put her feet up for a moment. She had just...

Lily.

The memory of the night came back at her in a horrific rush, the smell suddenly identified, and Mary looked down at the weight in her arms.

Matthew's legs were like lead as he climbed the nursery staircase, the fear of what he was about to face dragging him down even more than the ache in his left leg, weighing on his heart even more than what he had just left. In the chaos of that long night, Clarkson had told him his daughter was dying, and that Mary did not believe him. "A matter of minutes," he'd said as he returned from upstairs a few hours ago. Matthew had started up the stairs a dozen times and every time something else happened and he was drawn back.

Now, in the awful calm after the worst night of his life, with dawn just beginning to break, just as he knew he had to face what was upstairs, Armstrong had come to him and said someone had rung from the nursery and that the scullery maid had come down crying after lighting the fires.

He heard singing as he opened the door, a light, sweet, slightly shaky voice that did not belong in the disaster scene that greeted him, with stained linens and baby clothes on the floor, and a trace of a scent he remembered all too well from the trenches and now from downstairs. My child is dead, he thought to himself.

Soft splashes of water came from the bath, and Matthew followed the sounds. Through the half-open door, he could see Mary, disheveled from the night, her hair undone, her shoes gone, seated by the small tub, bathing something he could not see. Her voice shook a little more and as he recognized the song, he wanted to die himself.

"You made me love you.. I didn't want to do it.. I didn't want to do it."

Mary wondered why she'd never done this before. It wasn't hard at all to draw a little bath, and Nanny and Isobel always said Lily loved baths, and there was something so wonderful about Lily afterwards, the sweet smell of her hair and the pink perfection of her skin. She stroked the warm, wet cloth across Lily's shoulder, and sang what she always sang to Lily, the only song she could remember, and what had seemed silly the first time when Lily was only weeks old, but what had always soothed her better than anything Nanny could do. "And all the time you knew it.." she crooned. "Didn't you, my girl?"

A creak startled her, and her head whipped around to see Matthew, still in the shirtsleeves from the night before. "Where were you?" she breathed. "We've missed you, haven't we?" She pointed at the shelf next to him. "Will you hand me a towel?"

Lady Mary refuses to understand the child is dying and there is nothing we can do.

Matthew felt as if he would be sick, and he could not look at Mary or the bath as he passed her the towels, his hands shaking. He stared at the window, at the barely discernible rays of sunlight peering through grey, realizing that twenty-four hours ago he had awakened in Mary's arms, Lily asleep in a basket by his bed, and now... Mary was wrapping a small, silent form in a towel and talking nonsense to it and he had a sudden, terrible urge to shake her, to make her understand what had happened here, what havoc had been wreaked on this house in the past twelve hours alone. He turned his head back to her as she stood, and his eyes locked on the sleepy, blinking, blue eyes of his daughter.

Lily.

Who yawned at him and nestled against Mary.

And he staggered, and grasped the doorframe as he realized his daughter was alive. "Clarkson said," he whispered.

She gave him a scornful look and moved close to the fire. "He said this was teething." She picked up a blanket, warming by the fire and quickly wrapped Lily in it. "And it wasn't."

"She's all right?"

"She's better." Mary tucked the feathery soft blanket tightly around Lily, who let out a cross little "bah" sound. "The fever's gone, but the cough isn't." As if to prove her mother right, Lily coughed, and Mary rubbed the small back gently as she calmed. "And she's hungry. Armstrong?"

The valet had entered so silently Matthew hadn't seen him, carrying a tea tray. "Yes, m'lady?"

"Can you arrange for a bottle for the baby? I don't know where Nanny is."

"I'll take care of it, m'lady." His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Lily, and his eyes flicked to Matthew before he slipped out.

"Tea," Mary sighed. "Could you pour?" She sat on the hard chair next to the fire and put her feet up on the grate. "Lily, I should have gotten in that bath with you. Look at me."

Matthew had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. His hand shook as he handed the cup to her and watched as she drank it, her eyes never leaving Lily.

"Is that better? No, you can't have tea." She held Lily as closely as she could. "I hope a bath wasn't a bad thing, but I didn't get her head wet and she was just a mess and it calmed her... Oh, God, Matthew, it was awful. Where were you?"

He was saved from having to answer when Armstrong reappeared with a bottle and Lily reached for it greedily, which brought tears to Mary's eyes. "There, my darling." She pressed a light kiss to Lily's forehead as she ate, which resulted in a cross look from Lily that made Matthew laugh in spite of everything. "I can't believe..." he said.

"Clarkson's an idiot. Your mother was right."

He blanched, but she did not see it. "Armstrong, how's An.. Smith?" The pause made her look up. "Armstrong?"

"She's very sick, m'lady, but the doctor thinks she'll pull through." He looked quickly at Matthew. "M'lady, one of the housemaids is coming up to clean the nursery. I've taken the liberty of requesting the footmen move a cot downstairs into your room so you can keep L.. Miss Crawley with you. The... If it's all right, m'lady, I think it's for the best."

"Oh, Armstrong, what a wonderful idea. Thank you." She looked back at Lily. "How did you get the bottle warmed so quickly?"

"A moment in the tea kettle," he said softly. "Old trick."

"Armstrong, is there anything you can't do?"

He did not smile."Yes, m'lady, and I shall endeavor to ensure you never discover what it is." He looked at Matthew. "M.. Major Crawley, may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Of course." Mary nodded at them both, and turned all her attention back to Lily.

Armstrong waited until they were out of earshot, near the nursery door, before he turned. "The nanny, m'lord. She... seems to have succumbed. She's in the other room."

Matthew shook his head. "My God."

Armstrong's voice got even lower. "Does Lady Mary know about... "

"Not yet." He looked back at the door of the bath, still slightly ajar. "I want to get her downstairs and in her room first. I can't..." His face began to fall, his jaw trembling.

"It's good news about the baby," Armstrong said quietly.

Matthew caught himself and nodded. "It's better than good." A laugh from Mary made his face go soft for a moment. "Thank you, Armstrong."

Mary was kissing Lily's face and the little hand batting at her. "She's much better," she said as Matthew came in. "Look, darling."

"We should get you two downstairs," Matthew said softly. "You should get some rest."

"I should get cleaned up," she murmured. "I'm a wreck." She stood up and swayed a little. "Could you take the baby?"

He took Lily into his arms, eliciting an angry cry and smiled as Lily reached back for Mary. "Mamma's coming with us, darling," he said and pressed his lips to her forehead. Alive, alive, alive, he thought to himself.

There was a breakfast tray in Mary's room when they opened the door, and he could see the steam coming from the bath in the adjoining room. "If he can do hair, Matthew, I might steal him," Mary murmured. She picked up a piece of toast and Matthew watched as she went pale. "Do you mind if I take a bath, darling? The.." She waved at herself and he nodded.

"Of course not, my dear. We'll be here." Lily, who had resigned herself to being held by Matthew, was snoring delicately, and Mary smiled at them both. "Do you.. will you need any help? Should I ring for someone?"

"Oh no," she replied. "Unless you want to keep me company." At the slight shock on his face, she grinned. "It's not as if you haven't seen it before."

He watched her walk into the bath, his mind torn to pieces by all that had happened. Lily had survived. Others had not, and he did not know how to begin to tell Mary.

It felt better than she imagined, to sink into warm, scented water, to scrub away the literal reminders of what had happened the day and night before and to close her eyes against it all. She could hear Matthew in the other room with Armstrong, arranging the cot, and she grinned at the mental image of the two of them putting Lily in it.

Lily.

To have awakened with Lily in her arms, to have believed for a few terrifying moments that her darling girl was dead and then to see those eyes open, to hear her breathe, to know she was alive, filthy, and completely cross... Mary's heart swelled again at the memory. How Lily had survived that awful night, she did not know, but she was grateful, so grateful. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for my daughter's life."

My daughter.

She opened her eyes. She had never slipped into thinking that before. It was always just Lily, or the baby, or my girl. "My daughter," she said aloud again. Was it gradual, she wondered, or was it that dark night that had made her see what Isobel already knew, that Lily was her daughter, that the responsibility she once felt had turned into pure love, and that it was and would be no different from the love she already felt for this barely-real child to come? She hugged herself and sank even deeper into the welcoming heat. A boy, she thought to herself as she closed her eyes again.

Matthew could not stop staring at Lily.

Her perfect hands, her buttoned-up eyes, her little mouth open as she slept were so precious now that he did not want to leave her side. "Mamma saved you," he whispered.

Mamma.

Mother.

"Matthew."

Mary stood in the doorway, wrapped in his too-big dressing gown, the grey wool swallowing her up. He put a finger to his lips and she smiled as she padded over to the crib. He wondered at how tiny, how frail Mary felt in his arms, her head almost under his chin, as he held her close. "You saved her," he murmured.

She put her head into the crook of his neck and he could feel her shoulders begin to shake.

"Where were you?" came through soft tears.

And she gasped as he suddenly picked her up in his arms and sat down with her on the bed.

He did not know where to start.

He was frightening her, his jaw flexing as he tried to speak, started to tell her something, his eyes flicking to her face again and again. "Matthew," she said softly. "What is it?"

His eyes closed and he took a deep breath. "A lot of people are sick... were sick, Mary."

"Besides Anna?"

He nodded. "Your.. father and mother came down with it last night after dinner." His arms tightened around her.

"But they're going to be all right." Mary's voice was firm, and his heart broke.

"No," was all he said, and watched as it hit her.

He was inches from her, she was in his arms, and yet he seemed so far away, his voice not real, his lips moving, but what he was saying made no sense.

"It happened about four hours ago," he said softly. "Oh, God, Mary, I'm so sorry."

She nodded, swallowing several times, her eyes avoiding his. "Is that why people kept trying to get me to come downstairs?"

He must have said something, but she didn't hear anything, only a thumping in her ears that was her heart, beating faster and faster as the words coursed through her head. No, I'm so sorry. No. No.

No.

"Edith. Sybil. I must..." She pulled herself from his arms and stood up, bracing herself on the post of her bed. "They'll need me. Where are they?"

His voice was getting farther and farther away. "Where are they?" she repeated. Bile rose in her throat and she fought it, fought to keep from getting sick.

"Sybil's room," he said, and it was too loud, and she stumbled backwards.

"Are they...?" She couldn't finish.

"They aren't sick," he said and she let out a small cry.

"Mary, you need to rest. You need to eat something." He reached for her, but she flung his hand away, and looked up at him.

"They need me," she replied stubbornly, and he nodded sadly as she shoved her feet into her slippers.

Something else is wrong, a voice inside her said, and she looked at him, really looked at his face as if for the first time, and saw the tearstains on his cheeks, the purple of exhaustion smudged under his eyes, the slight shake of his hands. "Matthew?" she said, and her voice was small, so small, she could barely hear it herself. "Who else?"

And nothing, not even his nightmares, had made his jaw tremble so, and never had she heard such a voice from him, a boy's voice, a child's, as his shoulders bowed, and he said one word.

"Mother..."

TBC