Many thanks to jadeandlilac and AriadneO for betaing this behemoth of a penultimate chapter!

Day 11: Confessions

She was steadfast in her petulance, suffusing the room with a thick tension till the air reeked of it, and dispersed when a large hand smacked against the table with a resounding thump.

"We've been at this all morning, Miss Shore. We know what you've done. All that is left is for you to sign the confession."

"Never!" she snarled. Golden curls hung limply about her face, dark bags detracting from the natural beauty of her deep, amber eyes. "I've done nothing and you can't prove a thing!"

"Shall we lay down the facts once more?" The detective leaned back from the table, retracting his hand from its surface to tick off the evidence as he laid it out before her. "You worked for Lord and Lady Flintshire at the same time as Vera Bates, were known to be well acquainted with her, were seen leaving her residence on the day of the murder, and what's more – there's this!" he exclaimed, brandishing an elegantly penned letter, the contents of which were already well known to those exhausted amber eyes.

My Dearest Marigold,

You cannot imagine my relief when I received your letter last. Can words ever express my devotion, my gratitude that you have at long last rid us of that odious creature, Vera Bates? Our secret will be safe, thanks to your capable hands and brilliant mind. The loose ends have all been neatly tied, I believe. I have conferred with Mrs. Marshall in Givendale and have made arrangements for Katherine's continued maintenance and, as you have requested, this will be my last letter to you. As usual your judgment is impeccable – our correspondence has become far too dangerous – but know this: you are the light of my life, the beacon of joy in my heart, and I shall devotedly remain,

Yours Forever,

Shrimpy

Marigold Shore breathed her vehemence, nostrils flaring as she parted her lips to speak.

"Before you say another word," he forestalled, "know that we already have officers ransacking Lord Flintshire's London residence for anything that will tie you and him to the murder."

Her inner fire briefly stoked at the warning, and for a moment she shone, eyes burning with the lucent glow of desperation. But then the words pierced through, her form began to tremble; the strained, defiant visage softened to the point of melting, and at long last the proud flower withered.

"Vera caught us out," she cried with an anguished sob. "She found out about the affair, the child, and threatened to expose us, so he paid her off to keep quiet." She looked up then, eyes wild. "But she kept wanting more and more! I'd have never gotten another post and his career would have been ruined. So yes, I killed her. Met her at her own home and poisoned her tea – and I'm not sorry for it! Did the world a favor if you ask me!"

Behind the one-way mirror Bellamy folded his arms in satisfaction.

"Have you seen enough?" he asked the officer standing next to him.

"Yes," the officer nodded and turned to another uniform just behind. "Call the prison. Tell the warden that Mr. Bates is to be released at once!"

There was a heavenly smell wafting from the pot. Bubbling inside was the first and last meal she would be cooking for the day: a spot of porridge for the servants' breakfast. The aroma was distinctly familiar, and as Mrs. Patmore waved the scent into her nostrils, relishing the pleasant odor of culinary perfection with Mr. Carson hovering faux-casually behind her, it dawned on her with smug delight just exactly what it reminded her of.

It smelled like…vindication!

After a few more silent stirs she at last deigned to speak to the butler.

"Come over to apologize, I presume?"

"I'm not sure an apology is owed," he disdained and followed it with a dignified harrumph to her suddenly stiff back. Mrs. Patmore sniffed airily and resumed her snubbing, prompting Carson to lower his defenses. "Come now, Mrs. Patmore, don't be difficult. After what Dr. Clarkson told us at to the nature of the illness, what else could I have done?"

"You could have had a little faith in me, that's what you could have done!"

Carson sighed in defeat. She was right. Several decades working alongside this woman and she'd never once made so egregious an error. He should have trusted her, and with no small measure of wounded pride he opened his mouth to testify to the fact.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Patmore. I should have trusted you, and searched for other causes to the illness that did not include your impeccable cooking skills." The spoon lulled in its vigorous stirring as Beryl turned around, a triumphant smirk etched onto her face.

"Apology accepted, Mr. Carson."

Mrs. Patmore returned to her labor while Carson collected the remaining fragments of his dignity and carried them up the staircase, entering the gallery just in time to join every other head in swinging swiftly to the door, eyes fixed on Lord Grantham as he burst through, his face aglow.

"Wonderful news, everyone! I've just got off the phone with the Ripon police – Bates has been cleared of all charges!"

The assembled gathering cheered at the news, master and servant alike, for today was Christmas Eve, the day of penultimate festivities, the day of the annual servants' ball, and the day on which said servants were given reprieve from their duties to partake in the fun – which unfortunately now presented quite a problem for the Earl, whose eyebrows knitted together as he muttered over the logistics.

"We'll need someone to pick him up from the Ripon prison. Jones has the day off, and Edith…" his eyes strayed dubiously to his middle daughter handling both her suitors like a master juggler, "…. seems rather occupied at the moment." He'd been speaking quietly, mostly to himself, and was surprised when a voice came from behind.

"I could pick him up, if you like." Robert spun around to see his son-in-law, still and brittle as a windowpane and looking rather poised to chuck himself out the nearest one he could find. Robert spoke softly, lest the former chauffeur would shatter.

"That's…that's very kind of you, Branson." At his words Branson relaxed into something more flesh-like, and he gave that lopsided smile, the one that had never failed to charm the Earl on many a long car ride, no matter how bombastic its bearer's political views may have been. Robert felt a morsel of warmth invade his heart. "Very kind of you, indeed!"

"Right then. I'll go 'round the garage and fetch the car. It shouldn't take very long to get Mr. Bates and bring him back here."

Robert smiled his approval, clasping his hand around the young man's shoulder, and effectively undoing any of Branson's previously achieved tranquility. "I know we've had our differences, Branson," he said, his tone reflective, "but there's no denying that Sybil is happy with you. And while it may be strange to think it, the fact remains that upon your marriage to my daughter you've also become…my son."

"Um….yes, m'lord. I suppose I have," Branson replied doubtfully, unsuccessful in his attempt to surreptitiously detach himself out of the Earl's grasp. It was surprisingly vise-like, and the entire scenario had already skipped a few yards past surreal, with the Earl gazing at him in a way that was strangely…sentimental. Branson felt a presence lean in close behind him.

"Don't worry," Matthew whispered in his ear. "You get used to it."

Two slabs of narrow wood, bright white and glistening with the morning's dew, and nailed perpendicular to mark the tomb of her late husband. It had been eight months since she could bring herself to face the epitaph – William Mason, in bold, black lettering, painted across the horizontal plank – but she was here now, and had resolved that the next visit would not be so long in coming.

"So Mrs. Hughes has decided," Daisy told him. "She's going to let Ethel stay on, and your father will watch little Charlie. He's to come by tomorrow for Christmas lunch to meet Ethel and the baby. He's so very excited, William. I can't remember the last time he'd sounded so!"

She grinned brightly – the first confession was the easy part – but her smile began to wane as she knelt down into the wet grass, unmindful of the patches of moisture that bled into her stockings, her throat suddenly and painfully parched.

"But the truth is William, I… I wasn't always honest with you. I know you loved me, though I never could figure out why, and I know you thought I loved you." She closed her mouth and swallowed a mouthful of dry air. "But I didn't! – at least, not in the way you wanted me to. You were my friend, and I did care for you, but I didn't love you like a wife ought to have, and I'm sorry, because you had a right to know the truth."

She'd held back her tears rather bravely for most of the admission, but her voice finally cracked and they spilled out forcefully as she cried for her friend; for they were friends, she knew – always, William had once said, before the world spun backwards and tossed their young lives into chaos. And all he had wanted was to do right by her.

She wiped her eyes.

"And I'd like to think I've done right by you, William – by all of them – in the end."

Her head tilted up to the sky.

"I think I have," she said to the shrouded sun, and when she looked back down at the cross bearing his name, she smiled.

I know I have.

Two-dozen temporary staff had been hired for the event, and the long gallery, glittering Christmas tree anchored to its core, had been easily altered into a commodious dance hall. The walls were lined with small tables clothed in elegant fabrics and adorned with flickering votives, and it was at one of these, tucked away in the back, that Lady Rosamund sat sipping her refreshment, unusually quiet – and to the eyes of her mother sitting just beside, disturbingly deflated.

"You can begin your gloating whenever you choose, Mama." Violet started at the sudden and bitter speech.

"I usually find it preferable to start at the beginning of a conversation rather than jumping right into the middle, but if you'd be so good as to inform me exactly what it is you're talking about, I may just have the pleasure of comprehending you."

"Don't pretend not to understand," Rosamund replied exasperatedly. "You were right, of course. Lord Hepworth was more interested in my bank accounts than any of my other assets, with the one exception of my lady's maid," she ended sourly, looking downcast into the hands folded in her lap. "He had no interest in me, and you may as well go on and tell me what a fool I've been."

"You must consider me a poor mother indeed if you think I take any pleasure in my children's suffering," Violet replied, the tenderness in her voice cracking through her daughter's veneer. Rosamund blinked away the moisture licking her eyes, but her jaw still trembled slightly as she spoke.

"I liked him, Mama. I really thought there was a chance. A chance to finally…. have someone."

Violet extended her hand to clutch at her daughter's, patting it fondly. "My dear Rosamund. There's no shame in being swindled. It happens to the best of us."

Rosamund was not yet consoled enough to smile, but let her mother stroke at her hand gently as they sat together in silence. While sincere and companionable, it was something that neither party ever indulged in for long, and soon their quiet moment was interrupted by a request from his Lordship's valet.

"Yes, Thomas?" the Dowager asked.

"Milady," he bowed. "I thought I'd ask for a dance from the only rational person in the room." Violet chuckled.

"My, my. It's been sometime since these old bones have had a rousing." He helped her out of the seat and led her to the dance floor.

She leaned into his strong and dapper arms. "Congratulations are in order, I believe. I hear your resourcefulness has saved us all from horrid and sundry forms of chicken infection."

"I suppose I have, though I can't say I did it alone. Had a bit of help from above," he said with a look so keen and pointed Violet could almost see the implied tapping of the nose. "How did you know, milady?"

She sniffed.

"I never disclose my secrets and it's abominably rude to even ask."

Behind them Matthew squirmed in Mrs. Patmore's all-encompassing grip, the idea of comfort a far and hopeless dream.

"So I take it you enjoy cooking?" he verily squeaked. She responded by gripping his shoulders tighter and bestowing another snuggle into his firm chest.

"Oh, I enjoy many things, Mr. Crawley, many things!"

Beside them Isobel and Dr. Clarkson were passing just close enough to overhear the exchange. Smothering her laugh, Isobel moved on to engage in one of her most cherished past times: unabashed gloating.

"So you relented in the end, and gave Nurse Branson the recommendation?"

"Yes, yes," Richard conceded tiredly, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. "How could I not, after she proved herself by solving the mystery as to the source of the illness?"

"Anyone might have guessed it if they knew about the footmen's activities."

"Perhaps," he agreed, but then frowned. "But perhaps not. Either way she showed herself a quick thinker, and I felt it warranted a little more faith from me."

"Indeed it did, and I'm very glad you've finally pulled your head out of the cigar smoke long enough to see reason," she finished smugly, earning herself another melodramatic eye roll.

They drew imperceptibly closer, both musing on their mutual ability to alternately please and aggravate each other with equal ease, and wondering just how long this delicate dance would continue.

Outside the Ripon post office, both the car and John Bates had been left idling, and as Branson approached and climbed into the driver's seat, Bates proffered a friendly smile.

"All finished with your business, Mr. Branson?"

"Sorry about that," Branson said, slamming the door. "I just had to make a quick phone call for an article I'm working on." He looked over to his passenger. "Ready to set off?"

"I am. But I was wondering – if it wouldn't be too much trouble, of course – if we could take a short detour?" Bates had been skimming the paper the entire length of the trip, and had it opened now to the classified page. Shoving it into Branson's face, he pointed out an address circled in thick, black ink. "I know it's a sight out of the way, but it's important I get there. Do you think you can get us there and back to Downton before the servants' ball ends?" Branson peered at the advert with ever widening eyes. "Will you be able to find it?" Bates wondered aloud, recalling their lack of maps.

Branson grinned. "Don't worry, Mr. Bates. I think I can manage," he said with more than a little irony, and turned the steering wheel to direct the motor due North.

Above the swirling sets of dancers the violins sang, mellow tones resonating off the high walls of the hall, girded beneath by the low and steady rhythm of cello and bass. The small string choir sat nestled into one corner, providing ample space for the couples to glide along the floor betwixt the streaming flow of notes and melodies.

In the middle of the floor stood a heart that was full to bursting with the joy to be found in song and dance (a much greater joy than that found in sickrooms and bickering medical personnel), his soft tenor demanding that such happiness be remarked upon.

"Lovely music! Lovely evening!"

Edith smiled into the face of her partner. She took in the wrinkled visage, perhaps unappealing to others her age, but all she could see was kindness in every crease, only serving to magnify the warmth of his perpetual smile.

"Yes," she replied. "It's one of my favorite events all year." She paused to observe the passing sets of couples, musing, "Though it does seem somewhat strange, that I should feel more comfortable dancing with the servants than those of my own set."

His smile climbed several degrees. "I don't find it strange at all. It's much easier to relax with those we see everyday than the perfect stranger, I dare say."

"I suppose you're right. Though I must say –" Her words cut off as he spun her again. When she was secured once more in his arms, she looked at him deeply. "I'm feeling very relaxed right now," she admitted, breathless.

They stared intently, held captive by the mirrored images of complete rapture that were only to be surpassed by the complete indifference of their neighboring dancers.

"Do you not care for dancing, Lady Sybil?" Carson asked his lackadaisical partner, struggling to haul her limp form about the floor.

"I used to enjoy it very much, rather. But I suppose it's lost most of its appeal now," she answered, sneaking a quick glance at the door through which no errant husbands emerged, and sighed. "And to be honest there was only one servant I ever cared to dance with."

Mary craned her neck an inch to the left, and smiled to see her youngest sister and favorite butler. Resting in Matthew's arms, and with the knowledge that Sir Richard was far enough away that his own arms could not reach her, she let the façade slip away till unabashed delight spread like melting snow across her face.

"Cousin Isobel told me about Dr. Clarkson's change of heart regarding Sybil. It looks as though we'll have a doctor in the family after all!" she said almost giddily.

"Good for Sybil. I've always admired her spirit."

"Have you?" One dark, neat eyebrow arched in challenge. "I remember a time when your feelings for her seemed to go beyond that, enough to knock a man down, even."

"Then you have a faulty memory. It was only ever admiration with her. I'd knock any man down that deserved it, regardless of whether or not there was a lady in question." She laid her head against his chest as the tempo slowed, the dulcet hum of the strings infusing the mood with a sense of peace and grace. "Besides," he added softly, "my affections were already firmly settled elsewhere." Mary lifted her head to meet his eyes.

"There are other things I remember – our last dance together," she said quietly. A grimace flashed across his face.

"I prefer to forget that," he admitted, shaking his head as if to loosen the cords of memory from his mind. "I was abominable. Unforgivable."

"Perhaps. Though it gave me an opportunity to learn how to be forgiving. And now…" her voice faltered as she took a steadying breath. "And now I feel it is time I give you the chance to do the same."

"What do you mean?" She was silent, her eyes locked on a spot over his shoulder. "Come Mary, don't tease me. There's nothing you've done which could possibly require forgiveness from me."

Mary shut tight her eyes and forced out her next, reluctant words.

"No, Matthew, there is something. You'll find out soon enough what it is I have to tell you, and better that you hear it from my own lips than through another source."

In confusion he followed her out the door, the very door which Sybil's eager gaze had once been searching, the very door that Anna's anxious eyes had been cleaving to all night long. Lost in thoughts of him, the head housemaid appeared somewhat dazed when O'Brien's query suddenly burst into her reverie.

"Why aren't you dancing?" O'Brien asked. After a few blinking moments Anna was recovered enough to answer.

"Why aren't you?" she snapped back testily.

"I hate to dance; it's no secret. But everyone knows you love it." Smirking, she tipped her head to the table beside them. "I think the second footman is looking for a partner. Fancy a bout of salmonella?" A bit of levity might have been just the thing to take the edge off of Anna's nerve, but for the identity of its harbinger.

Anna eyed the lady's maid in distrust.

"I know what you're trying to do Miss O'Brien, though I'm not sure why."

"I'm not as nasty as you think me –" O'Brien began, but her tart defense was cut off by an excited, red-haired flurry of limbs and grins.

"Ethel!" Anna cried, standing to hug her reinstated co-worker.

"Charlie's sleeping so I thought I'd drop by for a bit." Sweeping her large green eyes around the room she gushed, "The servants' ball! Haven't been to one of these in ages. Wonder if one of the footmen would be up to a dance…"

"Mrs. Hughes told us about the arrangement," O'Brien said. "Must say I was pleased to hear it." Ethel raised a disbelieving eyebrow, crossing her arms.

"Were you?" she snipped.

"Does the whole of England think me a heartless harpy? What, that I can't be happy that someone won't starve out in the street, or that Bates won't be hanging for a crime he didn't commit?"

The reference to the valet was strangely providential, or so O'Brien would later consider, for it was only a few seconds after that when John Bates himself, for the first time in nearly eight months, stepped into the long gallery of Downton Abbey.

Anna jumped to her feet.

"Mr. Bates?"

Her body swayed dangerously. She had known this moment was nigh, but at its arrival felt such a contradiction of powerful joy and utter disbelief that she nearly toppled over. She clutched at the chair she'd just quitted as he called back to her, great strides sending him quickly to her side.

"Anna!"

"Mr. Bates!"

The music lulled as husband and wife came together, every body slowed to a standstill and giving the surreal impression that time itself had stopped to honor the reunion.

The world fell away; Bates brushed it aside as he held his Anna, a free man. She was crying, laughing, while his hand stroked over her hair like raindrops down a leaf.

"Our happy ending," she whispered.

"Is it everything you imagined it?"

"No…no….no…." The word tumbled out of her mouth and into his chest, over and over and over, a mantra. She sniffed and tilted her head to his face. "It's so much more!"

When their lips met her heart took flight, his breath and nearness cutting through the strings of fear and pain that had long moored it down. They fell to the distance, shrinking into nothing, forgotten. Only love remained – the promise of a lifetime filled with each other – and a shared joy so all consuming as to render both deaf to the thunderous applause ringing throughout the hall.

Her eyes were not on him. Standing in the garden, she admired the dying blooms, marveling at the rapidity with which something once so fair and lively could soon decay back into the earth. Her hands itched for occupation, and she took to her old habit, toying with the necklace that lay cold against her skin, the fragile jewelry seeming a fitting emblem for her life – a series of glass beads strung together with delicate thread – and with every second he stood still and silent she felt the string snapping, and the pearls of her life shatter one by one onto the cobbled steps below.

None remained unbroken by the time he chose to speak.

"Kemal?" he finally said. "Kemal Pamuk?" Every fiber of Matthew was confused, agitated. His voice betrayed it readily, for he took no pains to hide it. "I don't understand, Mary. That was…what, six years ago?"

"Seven," she corrected.

"Seven." The information sank in, robbing him of a few more moments' speech. "He came into your room and…I'm not sure I understand what you're trying to tell me, Mary." Mary suppressed a groan, wishing for once that Matthew could be more cunning than noble and spare her the need to make her discretion any plainer.

"Oh, Matthew! He died…in my bed. How much clearer do I need to be for you to understand?" His eyes were everywhere but her, his gloved hands frantic and fidgety, his mind processing.

"I see," he said. "Forgive me, I – I'm not quite sure what to say."

Mary closed her eyes.

Say you love me.

"You need not apologize to me," she said crisply.

Say you forgive me.

"You need not say anything at all."

Say there is nothing to forgive.

"It was unfair of me to burden you with my affairs, and of course I know it must come as a shock."

"Yes. Quite a shock," he nodded, lost. He took several paces away. "I need…I need some time, Mary."

"Of course you do."

Unbidden the tears sprung, stinging her eyes like a splash of vinegar; and whether he noticed them or not he left her all the same, to her sorrow, to her wretchedness, and to the first flakes of snow that began to trail slowly to the earth.

It was the last clumsy twirl she could possibly take before her patience ran thin enough to tell her husband that the informal dancing lessons she gave him back in Dublin had obviously not been effective in saving her poor toes from a thorough trampling.

"So…I'm not good?" Branson asked.

"Well…you're not terrible," Sybil conceded generously.

"I suppose that's something. But I still wouldn't call this lazy swaying about anything like real dancing."

"Oh, darling," she groaned, burying her face into his chest. "Promise me you'll spare us all a sample of what you and your kind call 'real dancing'." She felt his chest rumble beneath her cheek while he laughed, and she began to giggle as well, before looking up at him, eyes shining.

"I love you, did you know?" she said.

"I've had my suspicions."

"Only, I don't say it very often, because you're already so full of yourself as it is, but I think I ought to mention it at least once in awhile."

"You're very kind, m'lady, very kind," he said, and leaned down to lay a kiss – a kiss that was being keenly observed through a hardened set of eyes. Robert's silent fuming was interrupted by his wife.

"Are you going to allow that?" Cora asked bemusedly. He heaved a sigh.

"Why not?" he surrendered. "He is her husband, after all, and it may shock you to hear it…but she could have done worse."

"Worse than the chauffeur?"

Spinning her delicately full circle, Robert drew her back in and held her close, breathing in the dark curls of her crown. It reminded him so much of that first season together, back when he was in hot pursuit of the purse strings rather than the woman they were attached to. But of course he could not have known then what his Cora would one day mean to him: his wife, the mother of his children, his partner, his friend, his confidante.

His love.

"Yes, worse than the chauffeur," he replied, smiling into her hair.

Several minutes of silent dancing passed before he felt her break his embrace and peer up at him tentatively.

"Robert?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Murray sent a letter. He gave it to Rosamund to deliver to you, and she gave it to me. Now don't get that look on your face because I've already read it." She pressed her lips to a thin line and looked at him sadly, his eyes growing wide and fearful.

"Tell me about Mrs. Moorsum," she demanded.

Dozens of questions blitzed through his mind. What did she know? What did she not know? At the very least there was suspicion, and Robert knew only honesty would answer. He led her to an empty corner, and tremblingly obeyed her command. Every detail, every long withheld painful feeling and perceived offense, whether justified or no, poured forth, and he ended it all with a plea, and a promise.

"But I don't love her Cora, and it never…. it never went beyond that, I promise I –"

"Please don't say anymore. I think I've heard quite enough." Cora rested her cheek on his chest, letting the tears soak into his silk waistcoat. "Let's just have this one last night, this one last dance, before we face everything in the morning."

From across the room Edith observed her parent's hasty retreat and was unable to hide the concern from marring her brow.

"Something interesting?" asked her neglected partner. She looked back swiftly.

"Forgive me, Mr. Napier. I was just watching some of the other couples." He smiled his forgiveness, and she asked, "I missed you after Father's announcement about Bates. Where did you get off to?"

"I went to the stables, actually. I rode – for the first time since the war, I rode."

"And?" she asked. Evelyn paused, considering. At the time it had been a wondrous occurrence, but pronouncing it aloud had a muddying effect, like a grown man perusing his childhood treasures only to find them comprised of junk.

"Do you know…. it wasn't nearly as frightening as I'd made it out to be in my mind. Talking about it now, I feel more foolish than brave that I had put it off for so long."

"Bravery can take on many forms. I can't imagine what it must have been like to learn to live life again, after everything you experienced. When Downton was a hospital I felt how lucky I was, even with all the regular trials of life, just to be alive."

Memories of pettiness and betrayal ghosted between them, and Edith felt suddenly vulnerable to be dancing in the arms of one who knew her past transgressions.

"I like to think it's changed me for the better," she said. The hand at her back lifted to her face, his fingers running lightly, fondly down her cheek.

A waltz by design is intended to dizzy, to loosen the inhibitions of the dancers, and Evelyn felt the full effects of it now and as they spun and leaned forward to close the small gap between them.

"I think you have changed," he whispered, near enough to hear her slight intake of breath and to feel the rush of warmth as she let it out again.

"Do you mind if I cut in?" Branson asked, oblivious to the dual set of fiery glares attempting to roast him on the spot.

"Of course not," Mr. Napier said tightly. "But only on the condition that I can claim another dance to replace this interrupted one," he said before vanishing into the crowd.

Edith rounded on her brother-in-law.

"You'd better have had a good reason for that," she snapped. Branson hoped to allay his sister's wrath by beginning their dance, but feared her irritation only increased when he saw her wince at the crushing blow to her big toe.

"I do. When I was in Ripon picking up Bates I gave Sir Richard a ring."

"Really?" Edith gasped. Her head took several swings around her shoulders to ensure no one lay within earshot. "And what did you say to him?" she asked.

"I told him about the papers that Daisy found. I said that he should get ready, that his involvement with the motor company will be in the papers tomorrow morning."

"So you're going to write up an article about it?"

"Just as soon as I can get out of all this. I'll send it by express. It should make it in time if I start on it shortly." He grinned. "Which is why I'm here actually. How would you like to help me write it?" Edith opened her mouth, shocked.

"Me? Help write the story?"

"Why not? Sybil told me you used to enjoy writing a bit. Little essays about posh people problems."

"I suppose I did. But of course that was ages ago, and I haven't written anything in years." She chewed lightly at her bottom lip – a similar habit of Sybil's, Branson idly registered – before looking up at him doubtfully. "Do you really think I should?"

"Why not?" Branson planted his feet into the ground, effectively halting their dance and putting him in optimal position for persuasive gesticulating. "Just think of it, m'lady: your name, splashed across the headlines – but in a good way! What do you say?"

Edith took a few more nibbles. The offer was enticing, and Branson knew his point was won when he saw her face light up.

"I say…what are we waiting for!"

Muffling his footfalls, Carson saw her white ball gown gleaming in the darkness, and his mind stretched through the decades to conjure a child tugging at his pant leg, black, wild hair blending in to his dark livery. The little girl was weeping, pouring out her soul after another miserably failed escape.

Mr. Carson, I made it to the stables this time, but Lynch caught me and tugged me back!

Mr. Carson, I begged Edith to join me but instead she tattled to Mama!

Mr. Carson, I was almost to the gate before Taylor drove in and scolded me for nearly getting run over!

"Lady Mary. You'll catch your death of cold out here," he said when he drew near, draping his coat across her shoulders.

"I'll be fine, Carson," she said, but did not make to remove it.

She stared into the distance.

"I noticed that Mr. Crawley has returned to the ball," he said.

"Yes."

"And how did he leave you?"

"Much the same way you found me."

Carson cursed the trails of drops streaking down her face, and even more the man who dared invite them.

"Then he does not deserve you," he growled. "You've done nothing to be ashamed of, and if he can't recognize that then he's a greater fool than I ever thought him."

Her head whipped up, eyes glistening, open to him in a way they had not been since they first slipped her into a corset and squeezed the last of the fight out of her.

"Oh, Carson! Is there anything I could do that would lose your approval?"

"No. And you never shall." He sat down beside her on the bench. "And it's not only me, my lady. All of us are here for you – the staff, your family – and we shall all stand beside you, no matter what the morrow may bring."

"I know, Carson." Drying her eyes on his coat she looked over at the house beyond, glowing bright and beautiful – the home of her youth, though it could never rightfully be called hers. But even so, housed within were the people in her life, so much more valuable than stone or mortar ever could be.

"It's strange," she said curiously. "My whole life was spent surrounded by people, but now, for the first time ever, I don't feel alone."

By now his coat was peppered with white flakes, and as Carson patted her back fondly, she breathed in the cold, clean air – fearless, painless – and without a single drop left in her eyes.

Quiet mumblings issued from the receiver. Sir Richard absorbed the sounds impassively, and with a soft click he hung up the phone and pressed his fingers into his eyes.

Mr. Branson hadn't been lying – the warehouse had been raided that morning, and documents were trickling in about his direct connection to the Cooperton Motor Company, his informants on the newspaper beat telling him that an exposé was already on the printing press.

The morning light would see the airing of his scandal exposed through the very medium that had made him who he was. Sir Richard laughed, wondering what Lady Mary would say to that.

How fitting.

Life in prison. Execution. The various scenarios played out before him. But there were alternatives to a public flogging, he knew. Opening a desk drawer he reached inside, pulled out a sleek, black pistol, and laid it atop his newspapers' Christmas day cover story – penned by his very own hand: Dead in Her Bed – Lady Mary Crawley and Her Turkish Lover.

Tomorrow morning would see the dawn of his ruin, there was no doubt about that. The only question, he mused, was whether his former fiancé would join him on the stage of exposure, and – tapping his finger on the narrow barrel of the gun – whether he would even be there to see it.