It was difficult to sit and wait comfortably while acknowledging how much, and how well, sound carried through this enormous house. Despite not having spent much time in the family wing, Matthew knew it was some distance from the hall in which he stood, and yet the bitter words from above reverberated off the walls around him more forcefully even than Sybil's head had bounced against the pavement.

Robert's roar was quite fearsome, and it reminded Matthew of the rare hidings he had received as a boy from his own father. Even so, he could hear Sybil's answering petulance ringing through the hallways just as loud and clearly. Sybil's strength lay not only in her political beliefs but also in her determination to do something with them. Given the state she had been in not an hour before he was surprised, and somewhat impressed, that she was still willing to take the naysayers on. Matthew's admiration was almost immediately tempered on hearing Sybil's threat to run away, admitting to himself that his young cousin had a lot of growing up to do. When that small, inevitable hurdle of time was cleared, he thought to himself, she would become quite fearsome herself.

Eventually the clamour died down and before long Robert and Mary appeared, looking far more serene than the previous cacophony would have suggested was possible. Indeed, Robert projected quite a light-hearted demeanour;

"I gather you're the shining knight in all this." The reminder of his actions brought the slight lingering discomfort in his hand to mind and he flexed his fingers, drawing it once more into a fist. He was rather proud of himself he realised, contemplating the residual pain, clearly the result of a highly unusual act. More used to fighting with words, Matthew had never been in a real fight before- he fleetingly recalled a bit of a push-and-shove over a highly contested conker game from his days in short trousers- but knocking a man down and getting Sybil cared for, home and safely tucked up in bed, seemed momentarily like quite the achievement. If, as he suspected despite Robert's praise, the slight tussle could not be classified as a proper fight, it was, at least, as close as Matthew ever planned to get.

In the midst of his own self-satisfied thoughts he caught sight of Mary's patented eye-roll and any contented feelings he had left drained away completely. She was not pleased with him, and he was sure Sybil had relayed his role in her accident. He had momentarily allowed himself to forget that it was his part in the altercation that had ultimately been the cause of Sybil's fall and now he had to face the fact that her protective sister was unlikely to ever do likewise.

In fact Mary had no idea of the role Matthew had played in Sybil's fall and was instead remembering her observation from earlier in the evening: Her father might imagine Matthew in gleaming armour, but she thought that he rather needed a good going over with the Silvo and a little Carson elbow grease. Almost despite herself, and her current anger, she battled to keep tight control on a sudden snort of amusement at the thought.

On reflection, she realised, he was only actually tarnished in her eyes. Locked in a reverent gaze with her younger sister, his sense of honour and chivalry was clearly intact, the only problem was his apparent willingness to be anyone's champion. It was all the reminder she needed of her past, of the way men worked, and, she tried desperately to persuade herself, precisely what she did not need in her life again.

Men. Did none of them have any sense? It was like they were going through some sort of silly season. Matthew, Branson, even her Papa, they were all ripe for ridicule that evening, and Mary was in a mood to lay in with abandon. Offered the incentive of another of her father's more ridiculous knee-jerk statements she took no prisoners; "Papa prefers the servants to read the Bible and letters from home," she drawled with heavy mocking, completely uncaring of her father's capacity for rage that had been on display only minutes earlier.

Anyone with any knowledge of Mary should have seen that she was best left alone at that point. She certainly was not in any mood for company and the last thing she wanted to do sit with Matthew while he tucked into his hero's banquet- fitting as it may be in the form of the most basic repast she could think of to request. Despite that, her father gave her little choice in accompanying her cousin to the dining room, staring her down when she moved to complain. Gracious little hostess she had been trained to be, she led the way to the dining room. Or, to put it more correctly, she stormed away, leaving Matthew to follow in her wake. With any luck, she thought, they'll have forgotten to cut the crusts off. The idea of watching him choke down the hard, unpalatable edging caused by Daisy's occasional inattention was as soothing to her current frame of mind. All she really wanted to do - go back upstairs, break something, and fall into a deep sleep until her brain was purged from thoughts of Matthew Crawley- would have to wait.

The silence was awkward and the ticking of the mantel clock was beginning to get on Matthew's last nerve. It didn't help matters that Mary was tapping her finger nails against the table top in a manner of frustration, or anger, that he had never seen before from her, even in their earliest confrontations. The not quite on-, or off-, percussion beat threatened to bring on a migraine if he did not find something else to concentrate on soon.

"We can drink to Sybil's safe return," he said with more muster than he felt, breaking the silence. Still the tapping did not stop, in fact the tempo of the staccato only increased.

"I'd rather not. Anyway, there's no glass." If her tone was cold, Mary decided, it only reflected the way she was feeling. In truth, she felt cold down to her bones, the rigour that one often feels in the beginning of an illness- the feeling that you cannot get warm on the inside, no matter how many layers you may wrap around your outside. If only she had had more layers to wrap around her outside, protecting her insides…

Matthew took her reluctance to drink with him, her very demeanour since they left Crawley House, as confirmation of the fact that she blamed him for Sybil's injury. If he could only get her to stay and have a drink with him, he'd have time to apologise and explain the events of the evening. "Never mind that," he replied, gesturing to his water glass. "Here," he poured despite her protests, "have a drink with me."

She sat back from the table, folding her arms over her stomach- a physical barrier between them. "I really don't think I want to. Anyway Sybil won't be down again this evening- it may be days before Mama is likely to let her out of bed, so you'll be able to leave as soon as you've had your fill."

He chanced an opening and leaned a little closer, smiling at her softly, sincerely; "It might be sometime before I have my fill of the company."

Still she would not look at him and her focus was distant, somewhere over his right shoulder, and disinterested. The awkward silence returned and the clock ticked on without the nail accompaniment this time. In some ways it was worse- now, without the movement it was like she had completely shut down. Shut him out, at least. Nervous of her behaviour, and not knowing whether it stemmed from sullenness or anger, he blurted out the first thing that came to him "Are you at all political?"

Jolted by the suddenness of his voice after the blessed silence, she rolled her eyes to him with a peevishness sneer that he hadn't been subjected to for a number of wonderfully long months. She scowled and fairly huffed out; "politics is like marriage- promises made at the beginning are quickly forgotten, and everyone wonders why the bride picked her groom. It's the same with all public officials."

If he hadn't know her past Matthew would have laughed, but it was said with such dismissive force that it was a few minutes more- minutes in which Mary gazed fixedly over his right shoulder, perfectly poised but as far away from him, physically as well as mentally, as her chair would allow- before Matthew tried anything again. This time, he decided, there was no point beating around the bush. "Look, you must know that I'm very sorry Sybil got hurt."

Still dismissive, but not with visibly increased anger she replied, "She'll be perfectly fine you know."

"Yes, but if it hadn't been for me…" he trailed off, shaking his head in regret.

"Yes, yes Matthew, you we're very brave," an eye-roll accompanied her deadpan voice. "We're all so grateful to you."

"No, you know what I mean… it's quite the opposite. I was the reason she got hurt. If I hadn't opened my smart mouth she'd be fine."

That drew her now startled, questioning gaze to him "What?! She only told me you knocked a man down."

"I thought you knew..." he replied, puzzled in that case at what was so clearly angering her.

She tutted loudly and looked away again, this time with studied indifference, watching her hand brush across the tablecloth- an unnecessary movement given an undue amount of attention. "Well, you'll shatter Sybil's romantic sensibilities if you tell her all that. You must be careful not to break her heart. I think she has a crush on you."

Matthew scoffed, but she continued before he had a chance to formulate a reply to her absurd notion. "If you laugh with her, flirt with her, as you do me I will expect you to do your duty by her. She doesn't know, as I do, what games men play and I won't have you leading her on."

Finally Matthew saw her mood, her jealousy, for what it really was and slowly, slowly like a fire kindled from wet wood, a smirk appeared across his face.

A smirk! When she finally looked up to see his reaction to her words she was incensed! How dare he! How dare he play with Sybil's feelings?! How dare he play with her heart? Oh, but he was a cad! Just as bad as all the others…

She pushed up from her chair angrily, making to leave the room.

Her apparent ire spiked his, and he leapt to his feet behind her, tossing his napkin onto the table and jarring the cutlery. It was his tone rather than his words that stopped her in her tracks- low and filled with resentment, it was something she had never heard from him before, even in their early antagonistic days;

"I assume you speak in a spirit of mockery. First Edith and now Sybil," he paced to where she stood, glaring at the back of her neck, willing her to turn and face him if she was so determined to goad him into an argument. "You really do think I'm that desirable," he spat, his tone mocking, "that every woman I come into contact with would be falling over themselves for me. Don't worry, your mother and grandmother are safe from me."

"Are they? Is anyone? Edith was acting under orders- conforming to the fitness of things and doing what was expected of her, but I doubt Sybil is. She's young, she's a romantic and you punched someone for her. I'm only surprised she was knocked over, rather than swooning before she was carried in your arms…"

"Branson's arms."

"Branson's arms, then!" She snapped back. Finally she turned and advanced on him a pace, throwing her own arms into the air in frustration and to indicate the direction of her thoughts. "It's you she's up there dreaming about! From the minute she started to pin up her hair she's been looking for love- proper, romantic, happily-ever-after love. And in all that time I've tried to tell her what to be careful of- where the lies are, where the hurt comes from."

There was a hint of rage in his voice, now. "Then you can't imagine that any minor infatuation with me will move her in the slightest. Or me for that matter! Don't try and put me in the same category as Patrick, Mary, I don't deserve it." He turned from her and some of the fight went out of him. "Not from you. You, of all people, should have more faith in me, especially when I'm trying to help you. Especially when I…" He tailed off, his hand raking through his hair in frustration.

"When you, what?"

"Don't play with me!" He whirled back to her, his anger returning to mask his sudden and at once all-encompassing despair. She had likened him to Patrick. It was then that he realised the extent of this argument- one that had seemingly come from nowhere- and what it meant for them. What it meant for his endlessly frustrated hopes.

"What are you accusing me of?" she demanded. "How am I playing with you?"

"You know! You must know, and yet you want me to spell it out. I suppose then you'll have the choicest of remarks to ridicule me with, just as you did when I arrived here? For a while I really did begin to think we were on the same page, but perhaps you were right when you said I should pay no attention to the things you say…or do…or seem to feel!"

"Matthew I really have no idea what you are talking about!" By this point they were practically nose to nose.

"I love you!" He fairly shouted at her, his own pulse and heavy breathing now drowning out the tick of the clock in the sudden, jarring quiet.

And she kissed him.

Initially their lips met with a furious passion, both of them pouring the lingering anger of misunderstanding and prejudice into the kiss, the desperate hurt of moments ago gradually overwhelmed by growing joy. Hands that had initially clutched desperately at a collar, or grasped at a thin waist, slowly released and began to move higher, caressing, smoothing and twisting as lips softened, became gentler and the kiss sweetened, becoming a tender thing of mutual joy and blossoming feelings.

It was something Mary had never expected to feel again. If she had been able to think straight, she would have realised it was something she had never felt before either, although she was well practiced at the act. It was wonderful, he was wonderful and she was compelled to move closer- to feel more of him, to give more of herself.

As Mary shifted against him, Matthew pulled her closer, tucking her against his body more fully, sliding his hands around her back to cradle her softly as hers slid from his hair to around his neck. The now gentle movement of their lips came to a natural conclusion and he drew back slightly to look at her, his eyes darting endlessly between hers because they were pressed so closely together. All the fight was gone from both of them and only sudden contentment could be found in its place. "Marry me," he breathed.

She stared at him for a moment, her brain far from able to process his demand. "What?"

"Marry me," he repeated, slightly louder. Firmer. With more conviction.

She smiled in delighted amusement. "My, what did they put in those sandwiches?"

He smiled in return, tipping to press his forehead against hers. "I'm serious, Mary. I want you to marry me."

She quirked an eyebrow, which he felt against his own and promptly pressed a kiss to. "And yet you don't want to ask me, you're just going to tell me what to do."

Lips still pressed against her furrowed brow, his reply was no less fierce for being muffled. "Yes, because it's right. Why make it a question when nothing could be more right?"

And she tilted her head back and kissed him again.

This time it progressed, and quickly. After mere seconds she opened her mouth to him, inviting him in, her arms running the length of his as his slipped lower this time- the small of her back, and then dipping and rising with the delicious curve he found there.

Reaching his collar, her hands smoothed down his front, running over buttons and stroking at silk. There was so much strength hidden here, and she wanted to feel it all. She wanted him, wanted to be his…

…and he had just proposed. She could be his. Her knees buckled at the thought, and his hands slid low, catching her, cradling her at the back of her thighs and pulling her even further into him. She groaned low in her throat, once more caught in the moment, her thoughts falling away again...

…but now he was falling away, too, pulling away from her and panting desperately for breath. "My darling…"

She smiled up at him in wonder. "Matthew…"

"Mary, my darling, we need to stop."

Her smile turned naughty- there was no other word for it, and Matthew couldn't not kiss her again.

Lost in her once again, his mind was disengaged from his body as she led his hand from its place on her waist to cup her rib cage, to cup her…

He broke away quickly, watching his mutineering hand fall slowly back to a sham of propriety at her waist. He gave her a squeeze for good measure once he was not - there - in that place where he could get into all sorts of trouble. "You're not very fastidious about doing things properly, are you?"

Mary drew back further from him then, acknowledging his retreat. She still had a delighted, teasing smile on her face, but the question clear in her eyes. "Are you?"

"More than you might think. You see, Mary…I think we should wait."

This was taken with slightly less grace. She frowned in confusion. "Really, Matthew, I've been married before, it's not like it would be my first time."

"No, I know. You see the thing is that…" he trailed off on a shuddering breath. "…it would be mine."

Mary closed her eyes, inwardly berating herself. Of course. Of course he had never been with a woman, any woman, before. This was Matthew- proper, uptight, upright, sweet, adorable Matthew. Who wanted, fastidiously, to do things properly with her. Opening her eyes again to find him nervously studying her face she gave him a gentle, happy smile. "You really aren't like him, are you?"

His answering smile was happy, too, and he was reassuringly firm in his answer. "No."

In that moment, his shining countenance and earnest goodness made her realise she had to be completely honest with him. If they were to…to marry…if she was to be married, to anyone, again, there would be no secrets and no lies.

She took a deep breath and looked straight into his face, ready to open herself up to him in this way. "You really aren't like…them, are you."

Matthew's eyebrows rose, but there was no condemnation in his gaze, only perplexity. "Them?"

"There was another. I mean, it was nothing, but…you should know. There has been someone else. Just once."

"While you were marri…"

Knowing Matthew, and seeing where his thoughts were leading him, she raced to cut him off. "No! No, after. After."

Matthew couldn't cover the fact that he was relieved, and they shared a small smile in understanding. As a widow she was entitled to keep her own council on such matters, but she was honest with him- and he had long thought that she was defined by her honesty. Even though he would have understood her infidelity in a marriage such as hers, she had kept her vows and that meant something to him. "And he is…gone now? Out of your life?"

"Yes." Her answer was firm, and she hoped he never wondered how she could be so certain.

"Then it's in the past. You've had that life, and now I want you with me while I live mine. We'll live a very different life- together."

She nodded, and looked down. This was difficult. As much as she wanted to make him, and herself, happy, the reminder of Patrick and of Pamuk had brought her back to earth with a bump. "I want to, Matthew, but you must give me some time. To contemplate marriage again…" he began to interrupt, but she forestalled him, cupping his cheek in her hand "…even when I know that it will be different. You need to give me some time."

He stepped back from her. "Of course."

She grabbed his hand as he moved to put even more distance between them. "It's not a no," she assured hurriedly, worried that her hesitation was taken the wrong way.

He smiled, and stepped back in, kissing her reverently on her furrowed brow. "I know," he whispered against her skin, "I'm counting on it." Then he was gone, striding quickly from the room and away from the temptation he felt to let her lead him wherever she wanted to go.

She had waited at least half an excruciating hour and still Mary was not sure the flush had left her cheeks fully. She needed to speak to her mother, but Lady Grantham had been acting strangely all week and, even if she hadn't, this was something that had to be handled carefully. Timing was everything- O'Brien needed to have left, but her father couldn't be there. Not yet. If her mama was still under any illusion that Edith and Matthew should be together it would be better to get her to see things clearly as soon as possible.

Cora looked up from her book at the creaking of the door, and felt guilt and shame flood her as it had all week on seeing Mary. "Has Matthew gone?"

"Yes."

Cora watched her daughter settle on the bed. It had been a long time since Mary had last sought her out like this. Before she had become officially engaged to Patrick, even. Thinking back with a sigh, Cora recollected that the last time her eldest sat on her bed and spoke to her properly they had been discussing the colour of her sash for her court presentation. Since then Edith had made her curtsey, and now Sybil, who had been little more than a scamp when Mary was presented, was making her own preparations.

In that time Mary had spent two years in a miserable excuse for a marriage, with a miserable excuse for a husband, and more than two more as a widow. Now that she was aware of it Cora would not soon allow herself to forget. She had been so blind for so long but now, given the rare opportunity to study Mary alone and unguarded, Cora found herself surprised; it was curious that now she had an inkling of what had been going on with her daughter, Mary suddenly didn't look at all like a woman who had suffered, and was suffering, the fallout of an awful relationship. Frankly, this evening she glowed.

Without knowing how to press her daughter on any of the thoughts racing through her head, Cora settled on what was meant to be a triviality, knowing that if Mary had sought her out in this way, she had something particular to say and was unlikely to leave it unsaid for long. "Thank the lord he was there. I hope you thanked him properly."

Mary looked away somewhat sheepishly. Oh, how she had wanted to! If only he'd let her! she thought with amused wryness, feeling a shiver of pleasure shoot up her spine. "I got them to make him some sandwiches…"she hedged.

"Sandwiches," her mother scoffed in return, chuckling gently. "Well I hope they put something in them suitable for our hero."

"I dare say they were much appreciated."

"Well, it was nice of you to stay down and keep him company."

"I thought it was important- I couldn't leave him all alone after everything he's done, that would hardly be a suitable thank you. And, in the end I suppose we both deserved some time with…," she hesitated, capturing her mother's gaze, trying to will her to understand. "…the person we love."

It took a moment, a matter of seconds or minutes- Mary couldn't tell, before her mother's eyes widened in shock. It was a further, similar moment of silence before anything was said and when Cora finally found she could talk, her question was barely more than a hesitant, raspy whisper. "And you…do you love Matthew?"

"Yes."

"And he loves you?" Mary decided not to take offence at the question and the tone. Instead she allowed herself to be amused that her mother could still be so wrong.

"Yes. And he's asked me to marry him."

Mary eagerly awaited the reaction to this surprising statement, but it was nowhere near as violent, or comical this time, just a slow blink. "Well. My dear. Have you given him an answer?"

"Only that I'd think about it."

She really didn't know this girl of hers at all. When did Mary become so complicated? Where did all this secrecy come from? "Is there so much to think about? You just told me you love each other."

"Well for one thing," Mary breezed, "I know you want Edith to marry him, so that's a minor consideration."

Edith. Oh, what was she going to do about Edith? "What we want doesn't matter, I suppose." She saw Mary's sceptical look. "At least, it's not all that matters."

"That's not what I was led to believe when I was ordered to marry Patrick," Mary ground out with some bitterness.

"Yes well, perhaps what I wanted should never have mattered…Mary, I've heard some things…things about Patrick. My darling, why did you never tell me?"

Now it was Mary's turn to look stunned. This was not the way she had envisioned this conversation going. So, her mother finally knew. Exactly what she knew didn't really matter- Mary was sure she didn't know everything- but whatever it was, it was enough for her to finally admit that they had been wrong.

Despite her surprise, her reply was instantaneous. This was a conversation she had had mentally with either one of her parents over and over after all. "Tell you, Mama? I told you time and time again. Why didn't you see it?!" Mary bit out, keeping back the majority of her anger.

She's right, thought Cora, hearing that same, familiar bitterness in her daughter's voice that was always there whenever they spoke of Patrick. It was right there all the time. Knowing the truth, she found different meanings in the things Mary said over the years and, she realised with shame, her ever honest- sometimes brutally honest- daughter had been telling her the truth about Patrick and her own unhappiness for years.

"Oh, my darling girl," Cora reached to embrace her, her face crumpling with tears, but Mary was having none of it. She jumped up from the bed and began to pace the room.

"No!" she was fuming now. "You don't get to be upset about this and I'm certainly not going to comfort, or be comforted by you."

"Oh my darling…" Cora tried reaching for her hand again, letting her own drop to the bedspread as Mary purposefully strode to the end of the bed. She gasped as she tried to control her tears, hurt by, and for, her justifiably livid daughter. "You blame us?" she heaved out. It was her worst fear, and yet the way their conversation had unfolded, she already knew the answer.

"Yes, and I think perhaps I've wanted you to know it, too. I think I may have done for much longer than you can possibly know."

"But we thought we were doing the right thing," she pleaded for understanding. Mary scoffed. "We thought it was the answer to every one of our prayers and… we thought that you could be happy"

"Well, Mama," Mary fairly spat in return, "it was the embodiment of every one of my nightmares!" Now she was also holding back tears. "And because of that, even telling Matthew- a good man, a man that any girl would wish for and accept in a heartbeat, that I would think about marriage again is an advance on what it would have been a year ago."

The door on the other side of the room clicked, signalling the entrance of her father, and Mary whipped around to fully face her mother, compelling her with a look to hold her silence. She scrubbed hastily at her eyes and cheeks, and made sure her back was to him as she began her retreat, bidding them both a loud goodnight. Moving closer to the door, keeping her father behind her, she lowered her voice so that only her mother would be able to hear. "I was smart, insisting we slept in separate rooms, but I always secretly wanted a marriage like yours, where the bed was only ever made up in the dressing room to pretend you slept apart. If that's all there ever is with Matthew it would be enough, and I deserve at least that."

She clearly heard her mother's voice catch in her throat as she pulled the door shut. Her father's questioning, comforting rumble was less distinct as she moved down the corridor towards her own room.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. My notes always seem to be made up of endless excuses about update speeds but to be fair this has been the craziest year of my life and since the last chapter I have moved to my second new job and city inside of this year! On the (sort of) plus side I have no friends here yet, so lots of long, lonely winter evenings may make for faster updates, you never know.

I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know your thoughts.