"Do you believe in destiny? That even the powers of time can be altered for a single purpose? That the luckiest man who walks on this earth is the one who finds… true love?"
― Bram Stoker, Dracula

Mary awoke slowly, hazy dream like images still holding her as though she was in a warm and safe cocoon. Thru bleary eyes she could see it was morning. Mary yawned and stretched her legs under the delightfully warm blankets. However, the blissful state she was in was giving way to confusion as she felt another body next to her own. Her bare feet retracted from brushing against the unknown source of warm flesh. And then she realized it was Matthew. She was in her husband's bed.

The dream she had last night returned to her, along with the three little words. Mary felt her throat constrict as a chilling thought asserted itself within her mind, you're not brave enough to say those words aloud. She took a deep breath before she bit her lip between her teeth. Their bodies weren't touching however she could still feel Matthew's presence in the bed. And as she opened her eyes she realized she was completely naked. Mary felt a patch of self-consciousness as she turned her head. Her bleary eyes met with Matthew's blue eyes, so alert and kindhearted.

"Good morning," he said quietly. His voice was low and soothing.

"Good morning," she returned feeling the concerns of her heart press against her.

"I must look a fright," she said almost nervously as she came more fully awake.

"You look beautiful to me," he said with assurance.

The dam burst inside of her as they stared at each other. Tears watered behind her eyes, she swallowed and took a deep breath. Dam her inner turmoil, Mary wouldn't be held back by anything including herself.

"I love you," she said candidly.

"You do?" Matthew said as though he didn't understand those three little words, the translation eluding him.

Mary nodded and smiled at how their feet once again touched under the covers. She was proud she spoke first, even though it seemed like he had something on his mind. Mary wanted to be the leader, she had always craved that much and in almost all scenarios of her life, it had been denied to her; except with Matthew.

"I do love nothing in the world so well as you, is not that strange?" He said gently with obvious affection in his tone.

"Much Ado About Nothing," Mary said playfully naming the source of his Shakespeare quote with ease. He was doing what she expected, simply allowing her to lead and it felt wonderful.

"You didn't say one quote to me yesterday," she said with a smile.

"I didn't need to when we had Florence to explore and Tosca to share together," Matthew said with contentment. He sighed as though he was going to speak again but was quiet.

"Something on your mind?" Mary enquired.

"Yes," he answered. Matthew gazed about the room but not at her. Mary realized something was wrong but she had no idea what that could be.

"So, you've forgiven me?" He asked hopefully.

Matthew's question bust into her reflection about his behavior, Mary noticed how he fidgeted with the blanket, his fingers moving idly over the material. She stared in her confusion at his strange question, but he wouldn't make eye contact with her. As she moved to sit up more properly in bed, she admired the tuffs of hair on his chest. Mary felt a wave of memories from their lovemaking the previous night.

"Where is the lily?" She thought to herself. For when she had woken in the middle of the night there had still been a flower in his hair, but now it was gone. Mary felt an ominous sense of dread at this simple observation. She did not want to be having this strange conversation, it was a precipice. Mary yawned and thus attributed his speech to a simple misunderstanding of what he was trying to say. Matthew lay quietly by her side, already propped up by pillows.

"What I mean is, you won't hold my lack of a pedigree against me? We've come so far since those three little words in Paris," he smiled before taking a deep breath.

Mary felt relief at this conclusion. Had he heard her confession? A part of her was upset he had concealed this knowledge from her, was this why he was pleading for forgiveness now? Why had he shown such reservation towards her during his recovery? She was adequately baffled. And yet more than anything else she was excited. Because she did love him with every breath in her body, she had felt completely trivial and incomplete at the thought of losing him. Mary was not proud of how she had acted in Paris. She was speechless as these thoughts plagued her.

"And furthermore," Matthew said earnestly, "Mary, I've forgiven you. How could I not after these last few weeks? I meant what I said, you're my Tosca, I think only of you," his words were fast and rushed as he rambled.

"I love you," he said gently and for the first time their eyes connected. The beauty of his words and the dazzle of his blue eyes, however, were lost to her. Mary was confused.

"And," Matthew continued, "I promise to keep endeavoring so that we can put these past hurts behind us and focus on our future together."

The uncertainty Mary felt suddenly transitioned into honest vexation. Matthew was rambling, his words spilling out as though they were part confession and a part riddle.

"What on earth are you mumbling about?" Mary said with agitation.

She felt defensive about his tone and his wording which forgave her. Perhaps the subject should be changed. Mary felt her precarious happiness on the brink of wilting. The sensations that Matthew had awoken in her had always scared her. What if questions flooded every corner of her heart and her mind, he had always been dangerous to her sensibilities.

"I heard what you said in Paris, when you found me…" Matthew said quietly. He reached and took her hand, his fingers gently caressing over her own. "Those three little words, I hate you, tortured me; it's true. But, I didn't have leave over my senses being so sick at the time. And now…"

Mary withdrew her hand as her mind made an unfortunate connection. Matthew's eyebrows rose at the rejection of his offered affection.

"All you think of me is that I would say such cruel words at such a time?" Mary put her hands over her face as she bit back tears. The person she loved most in this world was a villain. Of course, he would make everything about him! Why should she be surprised, that she didn't exist; she was only Mrs. Matthew Crawley, and Lady Mary had expired. His concession, the overture he was currently making was that he could still love her despite the fact he saw her as a vain and cruel woman that had wronged him.

"Did you not say them?" Matthew asked hopefully. He reached for her hand again and took it gently.

"Perhaps I'm wrong. And if I'm wrong I'm sorry."

"No, your right, I did," Mary choked out interrupting him. "I said those words….."

She was horrified that he not only didn't hear her loving declaration, but instead had even missed the context of why she had declared such a biting set of three little words. Matthew did not hear what was paramount. He was too wrapped up in his silly crisis. For this current shambles, they found themselves in was his fault. If he had told the truth, none of this would have transpired after all. Mary was his victim. She had preferred him over all others, over her lives very ambition to be mistress of Downton. And still he didn't tell her about his secret. Matthew was silent on this forbidden topic, except to forgive her. Mary had agonized, wept and pleaded for him, but all that remained were her harsh words not her vigorous love.

"Mary," he said gently. "Why are you so upset? Oh, my love don't cry…"

"So, this is what you really think of me. That I hate you?" Mary didn't wait for a reply as she pulled her hand free from him.

"You think I'm actress? Or worse…" She stopped talking as she wiped at her tears. How could he make such passionate love to her? All the while he had been thinking ill of her, that she was second rate. She yanked on the blanket and wrapped it around her naked body. He reached for her, but she evaded the touch.

Matthew stuttered on the word, "I…" before he could speak properly again.

"Mary, what have I done now? I don't understand," his words were desperately pleading and it grated on Mary's raw state of mind.

"You never understand, and it seems you never will," Mary bit back a sob as she fled from the room, her heart broken with a level of despair that was new to her.

"Mary!" She heard him cry as she slammed the door separating their rooms.

Her head leaned against the oak door and she wept freely. The hot tears stung her flushed face and her legs gave way beneath her. She knew beyond a lingering doubt why she cried, beyond the sting of his assumptions and misunderstandings. Matthew didn't see the real woman she was, he only saw what he wanted to see. He had put her on a pedestal and at the first occasion she fell off, he abandoned her. Was she so hard to love? She was a fool and he had taken every advantage of her. Furthermore, she cried because it was her fault and she could never take back those words in Paris. She had ignored his symptoms; she had banished him to a separate bedroom. He was right, she had been cruel to him.

Mary sank further against the door as he knocked. Her fingers reached up in a panic to lock the door. She hiccupped and with tear stained eyes Mary peeked through the keyhole.

At first there was nothing to see. Mary rubbed at her eyes as she sniffled. But, then she saw his naked bottom displayed as he walked away from the door.

Her David.

She wanted to scream in frustration as she wiped at her eyes again, but all she could do was continue to stare. As he sat on the bed, Matthew's hand traced the scar on his abdomen. Mary's hand went over her mouth as she wept fresh tears. Matthew punched his fist on the mattress before his head fell into his hands, and he wept too. What a horrifying realization it was that she could continue to feel such epochs of pain over this man. For a part of her hurt as he cried, they cried together and yet separately. She didn't want to be the source of his agony, and yet that seemed to be the role she filed; for once again she had left him alone to suffer. Mary felt as though she was sinking into the underworld. As though she was Persephone, doomed as the bride of Hades.

Sometime later, Mary's composure restored, she was rather embarrassed about her breakdown. She felt many emotions, but she brushed the majority away. Her conduct earlier that morning had not been proper, as a lady she should hold herself together with dignity and grace.

They had not discussed how long their sojourn into Florence would last. But, after the recent events Mary found she longed to return home. She looked out the window at the winter sun, it was bold and bright; hints of spring were already occurring in this landscape. Mary walked to the connecting doors and unlatched the lock.

After a deep breath, she knocked and called, "Matthew?"

From the other side of the door, she heard footsteps and his voice called back, so tender and eager.

There was warmth in the way he said her name, "Mary?"

She imagined him standing there, freshly shaved and dressed for another day of adventure. However, that could not occur between them anymore. Mary knew better than to hope for so quick a reconciliation. She opened the door but did not step through the threshold, so she stood in the archway.

"I'd like to return to Downton, as soon as possible," she said quietly.

"Of course," Matthew said politely although she could see the disappointment on his face, and hear a trace of bitterness in his voice. "Whatever you want, I'll make the arrangements at once."

"Thank you," Mary said and there was an uncomfortable silence between them. She wanted to say more about her breakdown earlier but couldn't now find the words. They stared at each other both seeming to feel the need to prove they were still brave enough to make eye contact.

"Excuse me," Matthew said with resignation. "I'll settle our bill and check the railway schedule."

And with that her husband practically fled from the room. Mary felt her chin quiver as she saw his distress. However, she marched back into her room determined to not succumb to her heartbreak again. A part of her mind couldn't help thinking that Matthew did everything right just as he also did everything wrong. It was strangely comforting. And then there was last night, and the events of the lovemaking that had lasted into the wee hours of the morning.

How could she stay mad after that?

"Oh memories," she whispered. "Not now, leave me be." And yet there they were. Everything had come crashing down around them. And she was so sorry, Mary was sorry that she was cruel to him at first, she was sorry she had manipulated their wedding and had not let him speak. She was sorry for not recognizing he had been sick until it was almost too late. That was the crucible between them, not his unorthodox birthing circumstances; whatever he may assume.

Mary walked to her vanity table and touched the precious souvenirs she had acquired on this honeymoon; the silk roses and Tosca pamphlet. She gathered her tokens together with her books. As she touched the spine of, "A Room with a View," she almost lost her composure again. George and Lucy fall in love in Florence, but they also fight and they separate; when they go back to England it is not on good terms. And they now had this common with their favorite novel too.

For most of all Mary regretted that the trust they had cultivated, could so swiftly taint their relationship with hurt and misplaced anger. She had seen in Matthew's eyes, a cruel candor in his sunken expression. Why had he only heard her most spiteful words? And yet the anger in her belly would not spark, it was there; with pain and resentment. And yet it didn't presently matter. She thought of their favorite book as she prepared to leave the city where it had taken place, and the words fell from her lips as though a prayer that she had to say aloud.

"It isn't possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal."

Mary exhaled with a sigh. I love you, Matthew, she thought sadly, you'll see. At least she had the comfort of knowing he loved her, that she didn't need to prove any longer; it was enough hope to cling to for now.

"Mi Scusi," a young maid said as she curtsied. She moved into the room and started to fold clothing with expert efficiency. Mary wondered where she had come from, until she saw Matthew had returned. The connecting door between their bedrooms was still open. He had his back to her as he gave instructions to a porter who was carrying his luggage. Presumably Matthew had sent the maid to help her. Had he heard her quoting from the book? Mary didn't dare hope for such a relief. Instead, she focused on the simple task at hand, all the while comforting herself with the knowledge of going home.

With remarkable speed, they were soon waiting together in the lobby of the hotel. A coach had been called to transport them to the train station. Mary felt the draft from the winter air each time the door was opened. However, she stood patiently disguising her distress.

"We are to catch the 2:00 bound north for Milan," Matthew said breaking the lingering silence. "And then we will transfer to the Orient Express, which stops in Paris. From there we can easily cross the channel," Matthew's tone betrayed little emotion about their travel arrangements until his final sentence, when there was once again resignation. "I've secured a two bedroom sleeper car for our journey," he concluded. "I need some time alone to think, and I know you prefer separate suites anyway."

"Thank you," Mary said, "Your presumption was correct." She continued to stare out the window at the traffic rather than at her husband.

"You're welcome," he responded politely. And once again the silence was maddening between them. "There is something else," Matthew said quietly.

With hesitation, Mary turned her head and met his forlorn expression. She nodded for him to continue.

"I'm," Matthew's speech faltered and he cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry. I'm a clod perpetually two steps behind. I can't stand that I hurt you, when I only meant to tell you I love you," he exhaled a shaky breath. "So, for whatever its worth, please accept my apologies."

Only the briefest of smiles graced her face as she nodded.

"So, am I," she said softly. "I'm very sorry too." But, Mary couldn't say much more without losing her composure. "You are a clod," she said while she latched her arm through his, hoping the physical contact would be enough for now. "But, you're my clod."

There was so much he didn't understand, so much that she couldn't tell him; and so much he hadn't told her.

"Signor," the concierge interrupted. "Your coach has arrived."

He nodded at the gentleman.

"After you," Matthew said waving for her to go first, a small smile on his face.

And Mary couldn't help lamenting further nostalgic thoughts as she looked around at the city landscape of Florence. But, they weren't defeated, they were simply in check. Yesterday everything had been golden but now it had gone to rack and ruin. And yet seated in the coach Matthew took her hand, and not only did she let him; she squeezed their joined fingers together.

"We are going home," she said quietly.

"Together," Matthew added his one word another olive branch for their tender hearts to contemplate.

"Yes," Mary said firmly. She took a deep breath of the Florentine air. "Yes, we are."

Nothing could break their spirits or separate them completely. They had that as their mutual comfort, until they could find the courage to speak again. Mary knew this man intimately in mind and body. But did she know herself as well? She swallowed an uncomfortable breath at this realization. Who did she truly need to forgive?

"Did you ever read the novel Dracula?" Matthew asked unexpectedly. The random question seemed completely out of the blue.

"No," she responded sharply. She was bewildered by his unsteady tone of voice, so anxious and yet determined; it mirrored her own feelings.

Mary's eyebrows rose as he squeezed their joined hands.

"Well, Dracula rode the Orient Express, that notorious villain, just as we will, so it can't all be bad," Matthew said kindheartedly.

"No, I suppose not," Mary said chuckling at his odd sense of humor as the train left the station. Read between the lines was the implication. Matthew was no villain, and he didn't think she was either. It was enough for now.

Thanks for reading!

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