Thanks to all of my readers, reviewers, and followers! This took a bit of time to write because I needed to think very carefully about the direction of the story, but here it is! I'd like to give a special shout out to Hillevi, who has been very supportive of this work the whole time, and to dgd2001 for your constructive criticism. Keep up the reviews, guys, I love to read what you think.

"Tell me, Lord Branksome, what did you think of New York?"

Evelyn took a bite of his cucumber sandwich and swallowed before answering, "Quite marvelous, Lady Grantham. I was thoroughly impressed…it was much different from any other city I've visited—a very modern city, I would say." he answered with a slight smile. The majority of the luncheon's conversation revolved around his extended trip to America on diplomatic business. Lady Grantham seemed to be most interested in his travels, which he attributed to her having grown up in the country, while Lord Grantham was politely attentive, though he could tell the man was bored, Edith was noticeably absent ( in London, he was told ) and Mary didn't hesitate to teasingly extend her sympathies for having been stuck there for almost a year.

"I wouldn't last a minute there, I'm sure. I still can't believe you were there for that long—how ever did you survive it?" she asked, a smile tugging at her lips.

"It really wasn't all that bad. There are far worse places I could have been assigned, I think." God knew he had been to far worse places. America—although much different from England—had been a comfort to Evelyn, perhaps for that reason. It in no way reminded him of Mary, who was blissfully unaware of what had become of him. It had been better that way—for if she did not think of him and had no reason to, then it would be easier for him not to think of her. At least, that was what he hoped. Every once in a while there was a pang of heartbreak in his chest whenever he saw something she would find funny or would enjoy, and for a moment he would let his mind gravitate to her. It never lasted very long because he knew how futile it was to dwell on what could never have been, what never could be.

He wondered, because of what she had said to him, if she was truly open to it now. It almost seemed too good to be true—that she would even think about him, about them, any differently than she had for the past ten years. He did not want to let himself hope too much in case she changed her mind. He didn't expect to ever be happy, which was why he was so hesitant in hoping that he would be. Between four years of war and his failed attempt to win her heart in the past, he wasn't sure that hoping again was the best idea for his heart at the moment. Nevertheless for her he would take a leap—and it was, quite a leap—of faith.

When the meal was finished, Evelyn found himself in the hallway with Mary, as he had planned to catch the afternoon train back to London. "Thank you for the lovely afternoon. You must pass on my compliments to your cook, lunch was delicious." He smiled but he felt as if he was holding back again, feigning triviality in the friendly tone of his voice, as if he was afraid to become the sincere, earnest young man he was—had been—years ago and just a couple of hours before.

He didn't know why he wanted to put on an act now, maybe it was because he realized that he was getting ahead of himself. She must have sensed this because her next question seemed to be aimed at encouraging him. "We'll see each other again soon, won't we?"

He blinked at this and his smile returned, much brighter than it had been before. "Yes—yes, if you would like."

"Of course I would."

Her answer and accompanying smile, slight as it was, was enough encouragement for him to ask, "I don't suppose…you'd like me to write to you? I mean, I would like to write to you, if you wouldn't mind…" God, he felt like that boy fresh from Oxford again, with barely enough gumption to ask her to dance. He didn't know why or how she still had this effect on him after all these years. He had gone to war, faced far more frightful things than asking Lady Mary Crawley if he could write to her on a regular basis—something that they used to do constantly before the war without him even having to ask—and yet he still possessed a great deal of apprehension in doing just this.

It seemed to amuse her, and he couldn't help but grin—only half-apologetically— at the slight chuckle she let out over his bashfulness. "We'll both write. I wonder if you would to come to dinner in a few weeks? Mama has invited an old family friend—a Lord Anthony Gillingham, he's one of the Duke of Dunley's sons."

"Gillingham? I think I might have met him a few times—if my memory serves me right we were the same year up at Oxford." He couldn't for the life of him remember what he was like, or his face, but the same sounded familiar. "In any case, I would be glad to join you and your family for dinner again. Thank you." He turned over his hat in his hands and then settled it upon his head, touching his brim. "Until then—and I promise to write often."

"You'll have a reply just as often. Good-bye." She nodded at him, and smiled again, which he couldn't help but return, as he stepped into the car.

As their chauffeur drove him off to the station and even when he boarded the train, his mind dwelled upon that smile and the rare laugh that she had given him. Knowing that he had been the cause of it made him grin like a schoolboy, so much that the woman with the food trolley gave him an odd look. He blushed and his face became impassive again as he went back to the paper he had intended to read.

"How was your day, sir?"

"Very good, Jones, thank you." Evelyn nodded at the man after he handed him his dressing gown, which he pulled over his striped pajamas. "I was glad to see my friend again, as usual." He knew that the valet knew well enough whom he was talking about. Albert Jones had seen him struggling across the blood-splattered field after he had been wounded on the Somme, and had carried him the rest of the way to the medical officer after he fell unconscious. He had written to him as soon as he realized that he was still alive, and asked him to come work for him after he had been discharged himself. Jones was a farmer's boy—'a Shropshire lad', he would always say, since both he and his employer were admirers of Housman's work—and self-educated for the most part. Evelyn had helped him further his reading skills when he came to work as his valet, lending him books from his steadily growing library. Most of their casual conversations were about literature, but he did trust him, and he often did come to him with his troubles.

"Will you be seeing more of her, milord?" he asked, his red eyebrows raised slightly. Jones was much more forthright than he was—than any men in his own position were, or could afford to be. It was a trait he admired in the classes lower than his. If they were able to be more straightforward, it would make life a lot easier, but it wasn't in their nature.

Thus in his answer, he was vague. "Only time will tell."

Next up: your first glimpse at my version of Gillingham! This is totally AU ( as you've probably guessed ) since I have no idea what goes on in Lord Fellowes's mind, but from his short description of him I hope I do him justice.