A/N: Hello! Thank you so much for your thoughtful reviews, and to anyone who's alerted/favourited - I'm incredibly touched you're still with me! Also I must thank both Pemonynen and EOlivet for discussing some upcoming plot points with me - however much I try and plan, M/M just take me where they want to go. Thanks also to the latter for her polish and enthusiasm!

And, here we are.

Chapter Ten

On the morning of her wedding day, Mary was rudely awoken by the protestations of her own body, an occurrence which was becoming more and more familiar.

Raising her head wearily from the washbowl and wiping her mouth, she pushed herself from her knees to her feet and rang for Anna, pressing a hand gently to her belly, thankfully still hiding its secret well. Dawn, she noticed, was just beginning to break and the sky looked blessedly clear. Her spirits were low enough as it was, without the need for persistent, cold drizzle to dampen them further.

It was not how she had ever envisaged this day, in the girlish dreams of her youth (where had that gone, she wondered?). At least she did not need to plaster that charmed, gracious smile to her face in the presence of her mother and Anna, as hands and silk and lace and pearls swept over her, transforming her into the vision of a pure maiden that felt like a gaudy lie, no matter how beautiful she objectively knew herself to look.

As Anna pinned her hair with care up and into perfectly placed curls and waves, Mary dabbed powder across her forehead and cheeks in an attempt to hide the pallor they would dare to reveal.

"How do you feel, Milady?" the maid asked, touching Mary's shoulder gently for a moment.

"Quite sick," Mary smiled ruefully, and then shrugged. "But I think that today at least I might put that down to the blushing nerves of a young bride, don't you think?"

Cora smiled from where she perched on Mary's bed. "Of course, darling. And this is so much for the best that you have reason enough to be cheerful, as much as any young woman about to marry. So do try to smile, won't you."

"Mama!" Mary laughed sharply, her shoulders shaking in something bordering on hysteria until she settled herself with a deep breath or two. "I know perfectly well I've every reason to smile, so please trust me to manage it without your insistence!"

If only it were that easy, she thought. Though her thoughts were soon distracted by her younger sisters sweeping in and cooing over her in their pale blue gowns and smiles and the rush of activity as they left, she could not hold them at bay for long.

Finally ensconced in the carriage that would bear her to her wedding, she peered out of the windows at the cold February sunlight that shone over the grounds, that would one day now be hers as they should be. They passed into the village which was covered in reams of white bunting, strung from every rooftop and lamp-post, and she saw the multitudes of villagers (there seemed to be more than she'd ever known) who'd come to wish her – them both, she supposed – well. And the fraud of it broke her heart.

For it was everything she'd ever wanted. The dress, the flowers, the carriage, the banquet… It was everything she'd dreamed of, and beyond that the man waiting for her in the church owned her heart, which was… more than she'd ever dreamed of. And yet it was all a sham, a deception, to cover the shame of the child she bore that he did not want. She wondered at how everything that seemed so perfect, so right, could be so irreversibly soured and tainted, all at the same time.

"My darling girl," her father's voice broke softly into her thoughts, and she blinked at him with a tremulous smile. He took her hand. "It's alright to be nervous, you know. But Matthew's a very good man – you must know that or we wouldn't be here, and – you know I couldn't be more proud of you both, or happier."

Mary's heart ached. "Oh, Papa… Matthew is the best of men. I'm as sure of that as I am of myself," she laughed to keep the tears that threatened in check. If her father only knew, how disappointed he'd be, and yet here he was proud of her… for doing her duty. For marrying the man they'd wanted her to, for securing Downton… She squeezed his hand tightly, thankful for his ignorance as she couldn't bear his faith in her to be destroyed.

"I'm glad, my dear."

They sat in silence for a few moments more, until the church drew into sight. How pretty it looked, how cheerful and promising. Mary drew a gentle breath and squeezed her father's fingers tighter, suddenly feeling so terribly young and unsure.

"Papa, I…"

He smiled encouragingly. "What is it?"

"I… do love him, you know." A faint, breathless smile touched her lips and for a moment, her eyes shone softly, with the threat or the promise of tears. Her father leaned forwards and kissed her cheek, and in the slight gesture Mary suddenly realised all the affection that she hadn't known he held. She kissed his own in return, taking a deep breath and loving her dear Papa more than she ever had.

"Then I've no doubt that you'll share every happiness, my darling daughter," he assured her kindly.

Oh, how she wished she could believe him! It seemed faintly ridiculous; that instead of love being the reason for a happy marriage, she anticipated it was that very love and the agony of hurt it had caused that was making her heart leaden with despair and regret. But it was too late for all of that now.

As the coach drew to a halt and the door was opened for her and a hand offered to help her down, Mary schooled her features into the demure smile she'd practised for the last month. Her sisters were there, and she kissed them each before taking her father's arm, her heart pounding in time with the music that suddenly echoed from the doorway before her.

She felt her father's hand cover hers, and allowed herself to be led as the doors swung open to reveal a seemingly endless, carpeted aisle flanked by hundreds of people, people who as one body turned their expectant faces to see her as she glided with a fluttering heart towards the altar and her future, her security, her love.

He was her love, standing tall and handsome at the top of the aisle, the only person to not be looking at her. Instantly Mary took in the expensive cut of his morning suit, his hands clasped behind his back, his broad shoulders and his hair that held a slight, thick wave. Her heart leapt instinctively before it sank again, wondering how she could be so fortunate and so undeserving as to take him for her husband.

The man beside him (a university friend of Matthew's, she recalled his name was Martin) leaned to whisper something close to his ear. She saw Matthew nod in acknowledgement. The aisle stretched endlessly, when would she reach him…

When he turned at last to see her, she was grateful for the support of her father's arm, for her knees nearly gave way beneath her. His blue eyes locked onto hers, he was impossibly handsome, and for the slightest moment his lips twitched up… before his gaze dropped, slid away from her, she saw his chest dip with the tightness of his breath as he couldn't face her anymore, and her own clenched against the pain she felt from it. To anyone else, she knew, his reaction might simply be pinned as being overwhelmed by the beauty of his bride, by the enormity of the promise they were about to make to each other.

And then her father was kissing her cheek again, passing her hand into Matthew's that felt cool against the clammy warmth of her own palm.

Matthew stared at their joined hands, and wished that he could tell her how beautiful she looked. Only he couldn't, because to look at her, to think of it, made his heart spear with remembrance of why they were here and marrying as they were.

The vicar's voice bored into his mind, as he clasped her hand so tightly as if it were the only thing that could stop him running screaming from this place and her and everything she made him feel. It is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly… Oh, they certainly weren't doing that. Nothing about their union was undertaken lightly. Unadvisedly? Perhaps. But it was the only choice, the only right choice, so that must sanction it… Reverently, soberly… Yes, he was certain of those at least.

He repeated his vows, as he'd rehearsed the day before, with a quiet and trembling voice. Still, he stared at their hands, her hands, that must forever now be his – oh, but it seemed rather late for that, didn't it. The holy estate of matrimony, God, what about their union was holy? He would honour her, he would forsake all others, he would keep only to her as long as they both might live. His voice broke upon the promise to love her and cherish her, and he rapidly blinked away the tears stinging his throat and eyes, praying that it might be seen simply as an expression of the intensity of his feeling. That, he supposed, was only the truth.

Mary followed him, proclaiming her vows to him with all the reverence and sincerity that she could muster, for truly she meant every word, if only each promise did not feel so… tainted, with how she had defiled them so before this day. If only he would, or could believe her!

For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health… they were bound, and then sealed by the ring he placed with shaking hands upon her finger.

Matthew couldn't comprehend how their life might work, how they could achieve that joy with each passing year that the vicar spoke of so fervently. He could barely think how this day would work, this night, with her. Could he harbour such pain forever? Surely not. But… he could not yet conceive of the weight in his heart dissipating, he could not remember how it felt not to ache with the disappointment of ruined dreams and shattered trust, or how to look at… his wife, and simply love her, and want her, without the burden of pain that she carried for him now.

At last they were man and wife, and he dutifully leaned forwards, his lips trembling as they touched hers to kiss her for the first time since that afternoon when he had allowed her to undo him and he had loved her. How innocent he'd been, how stupid. Her lips were as soft as he'd remembered, and… just as quickly he shied away from them, and the memory, of everything that had brought them to this point.

As the organ burst to life to herald their union and they turned to walk together back down the aisle, he shared one breathless glance with her. This was it, where their act must begin. They smiled, though those smiles faltered and trembled, supposed by their guests to be from elation and the relief of nervousness. And then they were swept up in cheers and rice and smiles, and bundled into the carriage which pushed through the village's residents who waved handkerchiefs at them and blew kisses and…

"They're all so happy for us," Mary said quietly, the silence between them in their solitude at last stifling her.

Matthew stared out of the window, mustering a smile to his lips and waving.

"Well, why shouldn't they be. It's been quite the spectacle for them." His lips quirked wryly at the thought of just how apt that term for it seemed.

"I suppose," Mary glanced at him, her breath quickening again at his handsomeness and the very fact that he was her husband… "that wasn't ever how you expected to get married."

"It wasn't." He licked his lips and continued to fix his gaze out of the window, though they were past the well-wishers now and into the Abbey's grounds. Turning back to her, just for a moment, he asked softly, "Was it for you?"

The weight of his eyes on her was too much, and it was Mary's turn to stare at the countryside rocking past, though it made her feel a little ill and her hand went instinctively to rest where her corset pressed in her belly. Matthew's eyes followed her movement, though he quickly looked away.

"No," she whispered. "Whatever you might think, it wasn't."

The scale of their wedding proved fortunate for them. Despite the haste of its organisation, everyone who might be expected to attend the wedding of the eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham (to his heir, no less) had done so. It was a society affair, and besides the necessary compliments and graces and wishes everyone owed to the bride and her family, a great deal of curiosity abounded. The guests of the aristocracy knew nothing of the middle-class heir, and were relishing the opportunity to find it out. Likewise, those friends and relatives of Matthew's (seeming pitifully few compared to those invited by the Earl and Countess) were anxious to see this new world into which he'd been thrust, and had apparently become so quickly initiated into.

As such, the bride and groom barely found their paths crossing through the entire celebration, or at least when appearances dictated they must stand together they had no need to communicate much. Matthew stood with his hand lightly on his wife's back as they greeted their guests (it seemed to take hours, and no one could question their smiles wearing thin by the end), and as they sat together through the meal they could be more occupied with eating it (or trying to) for anyone to wonder why they talked so little.

When it fell to them to dance together, they did so, and for that minute or two Matthew simply closed his eyes and breathed her in and tried his very hardest to imagine that he was happy. For Mary was in his arms, he could feel the faint tickle of her hair against his cheek, her hand in his, she was moving gently against him and with him and… if he closed his eyes he could almost be dreaming. He had dreamed of this, so often… But when the music ended and he stepped back and looked in her eyes, and saw the understanding in them again his dream shattered afresh.

If anyone questioned as to why he did not dance with his wife again, he passed it off with a chuckle and said that he had the rest of his life to enjoy that pleasure, so why should he deny it to others now for the evening? And then his own words kicked him in the gut as he remembered other pleasures that she'd given to another, that now should be his alone for the rest of his life, and… the smile faltered on his lips as he sought a moment's solitude and some air. To anyone who disturbed him there, he claimed simply to be overwhelmed by the whole day, and they quite understood and patted him on the back and said again how wonderful it all was. He could only smile graciously and nod.

How he'd wished for the day to be over, and all too soon it was. Too soon, for as Mary went upstairs to change for them to leave, his heart began to pound with fear for what it would mean next. His mother found him hovering anxiously by the tables strewn with the debris of their wedding breakfast.

"I'm sure she won't be long, my dear. How do you feel?" She smiled at her son and touched his arm, and he twisted to kiss her cheek lightly.

"Oh. To tell the truth I'm shattered, it's been – quite an exhausting day!" He smiled tightly. "Is it very terrible to admit I'm quite glad it's nearly over?"

Isobel grinned kindly. "Not at all, Matthew, not at all. Only you mustn't be too tired –"

"Mother!"

"No, no – I'm sorry, you've got all that quite under control I'm sure!"

Matthew pressed his lips together and stared at his feet, feeling colour spread in his cheeks. "Quite so, thank you…"

How could he tell her the truth of it? His heart stabbed again at how disappointed his mother must be in him if she were ever to know. How… he hardly needed to consummate his marriage as they were well past the blushing, fumbling nerves of a pure and virginal wedding night. How his wife already bore the secret of a child, a secret formed without thought of wedlock and fathered either by him or, worse, a dead Turk whom Matthew was fairly sure would be dead by his own hands now, had he not already passed.

The shame of it bore down on him, and he forced a smile to his lips and pulled his mother into a fond embrace so that she couldn't see when it faltered.

"I'm so happy for you, my darling boy," she murmured fondly into her son's shoulder. "And I do hope you'll be very, very happy together for very many years to come."

"Thank you Mama," he whispered tightly, fighting to keep his voice in check. "I very much hope so too."

She hugged him again, and when they parted Matthew found his eyes fixed on the vision of his wife coming down the grandeur of the staircase in a well-cut skirt and coat of the purest white, with pearl buttons and a hat veiled with the most delicate of chiffon. He swallowed and looked at his feet, tightening his fists by his sides, willing himself to take this step for he had no other choice.

He found her, and she took his arm, and they were shown out to the waiting car as the newlywed Mr. and Lady Mary Crawley, to the accompaniment of cheers and whistles and waves from their guests. The car pulled away, and again they found themselves floundering under the leaden realisation that there was no going back.

Alone with each other again, they each stared out of their window and into the darkness reflectively, wondering at what was to come from this point on, both tonight and for their future. It seemed too much to possibly comprehend, too complicated, too difficult, too fraught with tangled and powerful emotions of all kinds. For all that Mary had achieved everything she could possibly have wanted, she felt numb as she tried to reconcile that with the desperate weight on her heart, that could only be lifted by Matthew's forgiveness that she wasn't sure he could ever grant. And she knew she couldn't push him to it – heaven knew she had pushed him to enough already.

When his soft voice broke the silence over the chug of the motor, she startled and turned to face him.

"You must be so tired," he observed quietly, and Mary drew in a breath as she realised that his gaze had fallen to her waist, and knew what it was that he meant.

"I am… Thank you. But I've been alright since this morning."

"You didn't eat much," Matthew shrugged gently. They both knew that her sickness would have been hard to explain.

"Neither did you."

They shared a small, understanding smile, and fell silent again, neither noticing how close their hands rested on the seat between them. If they did, they would only have withdrawn their own rather than dare to touch the other. There was too much distance, too much distrust and regret between them now.

The motor pulled up outside Crawley House. Darkness had fallen several hours ago, and the air held a cold chill as Matthew helped his wife out of the car. She waited, then, watching it leave them alone before her husband opened the door to their home and showed her inside.

He didn't look at her.

"You know where the bedroom is, don't you," he said quietly. Her things had been moved over in dribs and drabs over the last week or so, and she'd overseen them being settled into the master bedroom while Matthew had been at work. Somehow, they'd managed to never quite cross paths, and Matthew had only made a note each evening of what was changed. His bedroom, as well as himself, had slowly become something he barely recognised.

"Yes," she nodded. "Thank you for being so –"

"Please, Mary, don't thank me," he sighed, weary from the stress of everything that day. The morning seemed like a lifetime ago. "Anna should be there for you by now, and – you must ask if you need anything else."

"Yes. Alright."

She didn't know whether to bid him goodnight or not, hardly daring to hope that he might come to her. After all it was his bedroom he'd welcomed her to, and it was their wedding night so convention dictated – oh, but what had they done that was conventional so far in their relationship? She simply nodded, smiled, and went up the stairs ahead of him.

Matthew instead went into the sitting room and poured himself a strong brandy, sinking into his favourite chair as the day spun around his head. She was here, she was his wife, they were married. He had to be a husband to her. He… wanted to be, he knew, somewhere within him. But how could he be, after all that had gone on?

Dismissing Molesley, he climbed the stairs and went to his dressing room. He'd had the bed in there made up, and he looked at it now, as if it stood to mock him and his marriage and the love that had burned within him. It was the very symbol of the failure of all his dreams for himself and Mary. Could he live like this? How long for?

Thoughts such as these batted across his mind as he undressed, tossing his wedding clothes carelessly onto the bed and re-dressing in his pyjamas. Back and forth, again and again, trapped endlessly in the cycle of the impossibility of his despair.

He didn't know what to do, what he could do… and at a loss for any sort of answer, he found his hand lifting to knock softly upon the bedroom door. His, that now should be theirs, that was hers.

"Come in," he heard her voice bid him softly.

TBC

A/N: And now let's all look forward to Series 3 to see their wedding as it should be, i.e. HAPPY... :S Thank you so much for reading! Of course I'm curious as ever to know what you think, and I'm so often challenged and inspired by your responses.

Next update won't be till next weekend at the earliest as I'm going to Paris for the week - hence me squeezing in this chapter now. :) Thank you!