A/N: This chapter deals with a character death, so if it isn't something you want to read, I completely understand. Trust me; it was not something I wanted to write. But sometimes you have to write something so that the idea will leave you alone. Such is the case here. Also, I want to point out that this is not intended to show Mary in a bad light. Quite the opposite, in fact. I speak from experience when I say that when a parent dies, our minds conjure up every regret we've ever had regarding that person. That is what is happening with Mary. I believe she adores her mother; she just doesn't really know how to show it. This is how I feel she would react to her mother's passing. I needed tissues to write it, so it's likely that you'll need them to read it. Do let me know what you think (even if it's to throw proverbial tomatoes at me).

January 1949

He'd found her sitting at her dressing table, her head bent as she dabbed the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. Her shoulders shook slightly as she wept, and the sound of her occasional sniffles tore at Henry's heart.

"Dearest," he asked, approaching her cautiously, "what is it? What's the matter?"

Mary lifted her head toward him, her dark eyes rimmed red, her lips pulled into a thin line in an attempt to hide the way they trembled. "It's broken again," she whispered, looking down at her hands.

"What's broken?" For the life of him, Henry couldn't think what could cause his wife such distress.

She turned to where he now knelt before her, her palms opening to reveal a delicate gold and diamond chain. "Mama's necklace. I had the clasp fixed a few months ago when we were in London. Just before she-" Mary swallowed around the lump in her throat. "But as I took it out just now, I noticed the chain had broken." Henry watched as his wife's face crumbled-the way she clutched the necklace to her chest-her tears beginning afresh. His heart broke at seeing her in such a state.

His mother-in-law had been gone for eight months now, and her absence had cast a shadow over the entire house; one which Henry sometimes feared would never lift. Robert was inconsolable, spending most of his days wandering aimlessly on the estate-anything to escape the emptiness that seemed to engulf every single room, and the small reminders of his wife that were everywhere. The family had not entertained guests since her death. No one could bear to take her seat, and Robert could not stomach the sight her empty chair from across the table. Dinner had become a much less informal affair, with everyone sitting where they pleased and not adhering to any strict social custom.

George sometimes walked with his grandfather. Although his stepson now had a wife and children of his own to distract him, he had adored his Granny, and her death had hit him especially hard.

Henry had not been surprised by the outpouring of grief that had accompanied the death of the Countess of Grantham. Cora had been beloved and admired by everyone in the village. The only one whose reaction had been unexpected in the aftermath was that of his own wife. Gone was the woman whose emotions were guarded; who only ever exuded poise and calm. In her place was a woman who cried at the drop of a hat, who could often be found sitting at her dressing table, watching scenes only her eyes could see.

"Mama gave me this as a wedding present when you and I married." Mary stared at the delicate piece, speaking more to herself than to her husband. "She said she remembered how I had enjoyed trying it on when I was a little girl. I thought her terribly sentimental at the time." She smiled sadly at the memory. "When Edith, Sybil and I were small, Mama would sometimes let us sit in her room as her maid dressed her for dinner, and she would lift us one at a time into her lap, letting us each choose a piece of jewelry to try on. I remember looking at her with wonder, jewels sparkling around her neck, and a tiara fixed in her hair. I thought she looked like a princess." Mary ran her fingers lightly and reverently over the necklace. "She was always so beautiful."

Henry nodded, thinking of his mother-in-law. Her beauty had always defied her age, and even in the final weeks of her life, after the cancer had ravaged her body, on her good days her smile could still light up a room.

"Everyone always told me I looked so much like her, but I could never see it; not really. All I could see were the differences between us. Not necessarily physical differences. The older I got, the more I could begin to see a slight resemblance in our features. But all I ever really saw were our cultural differences." She shook her head, her brow furrowing as she stared at some point on the other side of the room. "And I'm afraid she never knew how much I loved her."

And that was the crux of it, Henry knew. In the almost twenty-four years that he and Mary had been married, he had seen the fissure between mother and daughter; had seen Cora's failed attempts to bridge the gap. He heard the snide remarks that Mary would send her mother's way; remarks about her Americanness, and her inherent sentimentality. Mary had always refused to see herself as half-American, choosing instead to see herself as wholly English.

"I adored her, Henry." Mary's emotion-laden voice brought Henry back to the present. "But, I don't think she ever knew that. All she ever really got from me was rudeness."

"Mary-"

"It's true. Henry, I once called her a snob. Can you imagine? Mama, my darling mother, was the very opposite of a snob. And all because I disagreed with her. I was so blinded by the differences between us that I couldn't see how fortunate I was."

"Mary. Darling, I'm positive your mother knew how much you loved her." Mary shook her head, but Henry continued. "She did. I saw the way she looked at you; the way she smiled at you before she went. In spite of any differences or miscommunications, she knew."

- [ ] "I should have told her, Henry. Every single day. But it's too late now, and I- I regret so much the thought that I hurt her. So many things I said and did. So many times that I rolled my eyes, or sneered at her. I know how it hurt me when either George or Margaret would become cross and lash out at me. Mama had to deal with a lifetime of that from me. And she didn't deserve it." A sob tore from Mary's throat. "She didn't deserve it."