A/N: By request, Mary.
"Mary Josephine Crawley, what on earth do you think you are doing?"
Her Papa's voice reverberates angrily through the quiet library. Flanked by a smug Edith and a wide-eyed Mama, he stands there waiting for an answer. Momentarily stunned at being found out—though most certainly thanks to Edith—she pauses and straightens up, clears her throat, and smiles faintly.
"Having a drink." She replies in an even tone, though her hand is shakily gripping the brandy snifter. His anger is building by the second, but there is no backing down now. In one final act of defiance she lifts the glass to her lips and takes a sip, daring any of them to stop her.
A flood of shouts fills the library as her father yells something about propriety and decorum and "how this is most unladylike behavior for a fourteen year old girl." She stands there silently as he shouts and watches as her mother sends Edith out of the room. No doubt she is already en-route to her room to record the rare triumph in her sad little diary.
When they ask why, she is uncharacteristically lost for words. How can you explain one small act of defiance that stands for so much more? Or explain that one stolen glass of Brandy and one defiant sip holds so much pent up anger and so many disillusions. They do not understand—or do not want to understand. The talk of marriage has only come up recently. Murmurs of tradition, of legacy, and of the Crawley name have become ever-present whispers now that she and Patrick are getting older.
She relishes in the look of shock on her father's face as she throws the glass on the floor and runs out of the room. Throwing herself on her bed, she is comforted by the singular thought that runs through her mind.
"They cannot make me do it."