Author's Note: Hi everyone! Long time no see. I bet you all thought I'd given up, didn't you? (Haha! You wish!)

26th March 1913

Another letter arrived for me this morning. Carson brought it into the breakfast room on a silver tray, along with the rest of the morning post and offered them to Papa.

"Two letters for me. It looks like one of them is from Murray." Papa grumbled. He doesn't like dealing with letters from Murray unless he can absolutely help it. Looking at the other envelopes, Papa's eyes narrowed. "One letter for Sybil and one letter for Mary." He eyed me suspiciously. "Mary, this looks like Matthew's handwriting."

I did my best to look startled. "That can't be. Matthew barely lives a mile away, why would he bother to post a letter?"

My confusion wasn't completely an act. Matthew's letters usually travelled to me via Moseley, and it did seem odd that this particular envelope should be sent via post. Although I suppose Moseley is entitled to a day off now and again.

Nevertheless, Papa regarded me through narrow eyes. He picked up the letter knife by the side of his plate and opened the envelope without so much as a second thought. Of course, as the head of the household Papa has the right to read any of our correspondence if he so chooses, but it's not something that he often does, (having little or no interest in the gossip of young women). Regardless of this, it has become a bone of contention among the family.

"You don't mind if I read it, do you Mary?" Papa said, rhetorically.

"I don't suppose it would matter if I did."

All I could do was watch my father's eyes scanning the letter. I hoped Matthew hadn't written anything too racy in it. For one horrible moment, I considered the possibility that maybe Matthew had alluded to our soirée romantique, but that fear was short-lived. After a few seconds, Papa cleared his throat and passed the letter to me, awkwardly.

"On second thoughts," he said, delicately, "perhaps it would be better if I didn't read it."

I accepted the letter and instead of reading it right away, I did what I normally did with my correspondence and squirreled it away for later. After breakfast, when I was alone in the rose garden, I pulled out the letter from my pocket and read it.

"Dearest Mary,

I love you. You have no idea how much. Please, please, please don't be cross with me. I don't think I could bear it.

Come to the Picturehouse with me, my darling. If nothing else, I owe you an explanation and I want so badly to have an opportunity to sooth your feelings and make it up to you. You mean so much to me.

Tomorrow, please. If you agree, I will pick you up at 7.20pm.

Love always,

Matthew."

To say my feelings are divided is an understatement.

It seems fairly obvious to me now that I'm going to make amends with Matthew, but every time I think about it I just feel sick with anger. The old Mary would want him to suffer just a little bit longer. The old Mary is very Old Testament in that respect. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, etcetera. He's broken my heart so I, (that is to say, the old Mary), would want to break just a little bit of his heart too. It only seems fair, after all.

Unfortunately, this newer version of myself is more sentimental. I can't stand the idea of Matthew getting hurt. Whilst at the same time I know – on a practical level – that I can't put off getting engaged any longer. I am a ruined woman, twice over. As Mama is fond of reminding me, my position is not going to be safe until the whole marriage thing is settled.

I hardly need add that I actually love this idiot. Of course I want to marry him. He's the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning and he's the last thing I think of when I go to bed at night. My head is full of Matthew. I wish it wasn't, but there you are. There's nothing I can do about it.

I couldn't finish my breakfast this morning. I felt so frightfully sick. I expect it must be nerves.

28th March 1913.

It's been a funny sort of day. It's hard to explain.

I was supposed to go to the Pictures with Matthew last night. But of course with everything that has happened, I haven't been sleeping properly – and then the night before last I had a dream about Kamal Pamuk coming back to life and trying to kiss me, and that, (combined with the fact that Mama had me planning a dinner for Lady Rothsburgh most of the day), meant that I was dead on my feet before the clock struck seven.

By the time I realised what time it was, I only had twenty minutes to get dressed and prepare myself for the outing, and - as Edith so helpfully informed me as I was walking down the stairs – I still had a sickly pallor to my skin. I stopped to check myself in the hallway mirror before I made my entrance, pinching my cheeks to no avail. I looked an absolute mess.

Matthew, of course, looked impeccable. He was so handsome it was almost insulting. And I saw him before he got a chance to see me, waiting by the front door and talking to Papa in hushed whispers, the darkening skies contrasting beautifully with his well-cut blue suit.

He saw me walking towards him and he smiled.

"You look marvellous." he said, as I approached. I didn't feel marvellous. I felt queasy and exhausted. Nevertheless, I gave him a small smile to let him know that I was grateful for the compliment. I took his arm without him even having to offer it, and tried not to think about Mags.

Papa seemed very well-pleased that we were stepping out. Especially seeing as I had taken Matthew's arm without any form of duress. His smug face was doing nothing to quell my churning stomach.

"Don't stay out too late, will you? Branson will drive you to the Picturehouse and wait until the film has ended to drive you home. You'll keep an eye on her, won't you?" his voice dropped to a whisper. "Cora doesn't tend to let the girls out much. They're not allowed to go to restaurants or theatres, usually – not without being heavily chaperoned. This is quite a treat for her."

As much as I love my dear Papa, at that moment I could have quite happily smacked him.I wasn't aware how hard I had been gripping Matthew's forearm until I heard him wince.

"Sorry." I muttered, as I loosened my grip. Matthew was unperturbed.

"I will guard her with my life, Robert." he said, and I tried to focus on William opening the car door before I said anything I would regret.

Matthew handed me into the backseat but the nightmare wasn't over as soon as all that. Branson had to get out of the car and turn the crank by hand before the engine could get started, and all the while Carson and Papa stood in the silhouette of the open doorway, watching Matthew and I sitting next to each other with misty-eyed sentiment.

"For god's sake," I grumbled as Branson climbed into the driver's seat, "why can't they just go inside and shut the door? We're just going to the pictures, it's not my blasted wedding day."

"I think they're just happy to see you two together!" said an impertinent irish voice from the front of the car. I glared at the back of his head, and in the rear-view mirror, Branson had the good sense to look embarrassed. Matthew, to his credit, said nothing.

There was silence throughout most of the car journey. I felt the back of Matthew's fingers brushing against mine, and I had to bite my lip to stop myself from reacting. Constantly, I had to remind myself that I was angry with Matthew. And I was angry. But his hands were so warm and so insistent, and it tugged on my heart. Slowly, I felt his fingers entwine with mine and I looked up.

"Are you alright?" He said.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I couldn't say. You're so quiet." his voice dropped, "I want to talk to you about the Mags thing. Before we start our evening together."

The Mags Thing. Just hearing her name was enough to set me off. I unhooked my fingers from his and folded my hands neatly into my lap.

"What is there to talk about?"

"It was perfectly innocent. You know it was."

"Do I?" I said, acerbically.

"Of course you do. I went to Manchester to ask Winston to be my best man, and he agreed only on the proviso that I break the news to Mags as gently as I could. So that's what I did."

"Really? So you took her to the pictures?"

"Yes. She enjoys the pictures."

"And explaining you're getting married takes two trips, does it?"

He grimaced. "It does if you're a coward." He groaned, "Oh god Mary, it was awful. She cried. I didn't know where to look."

I stared out the window, pretending to be unaffected. The old Mary wouldn't have cared if she cried. The old Mary would wonder what a chit like that would have to cry over. If Mags and Matthew had never been involved, why would she get so upset? I looked out the window at the passing scenery. It was getting dark now. Practically night-time. I wanted to go home.

"So," I said, casually, "Were you planning on telling me you were stepping out with another woman?"

"I wasn't stepping out. And of course I would have told you."

"When?"

"A couple of nights ago, at the dinner. I wanted to tell you but, uh..." Matthew's eyes flicked to Branson, and he had to moderate his tone, "I was distracted."

"Distracted." I huffed.

"You were wearing red." his lips were close to my ear, his voice dropping, "I like it when you wear red." My heart skipped. No, I decided, I wouldn't let him affect me.

"We're here!" said Branson, a little too loudly. I think he just wanted to remind us that he was also in the car. It took a moment for me to remember to breathe again and another moment to realise where we were.

"This isn't Ripon." I said, looking around at where we were. "This is a field."

It was so dark, but I could just about make out Matthew's amused half-smile.

"It's not a field," Matthew said. "there are too many trees. I'd say it was more of a copse."

"Matthew, I have no idea what a copse is but I doubt they're going to be screening films here. We're in the middle of nowhere."

"That's the idea. Come with me."

Branson held the door open for me and Matthew let himself out of the car on the other side. I was still bewildered. The night was warm for March, but it was it was getting late in the evening and the sky would only get darker. With no lights along the road, how would we be able to see? What was Matthew playing at? Slowly, I took Branson's proffered hand, and I noticed Matthew produce something from his coat pocket. It took me a moment to realise it was an electric torch.

"Branson," Matthew said, all business, "will you be alright out here by yourself for a couple of hours?"

The chauffeur shrugged, "I have a thermos of tea and some sandwiches. I'll be fine."

"Right." Matthew smiled at me, offering his arm,"Let's get going, shall we?"

"Going where?" I let him lead me towards the trees without any real idea of what he had planned. If I'd known we were taking a detour into the wilderness, I would have dressed more appropriately. I felt, rather than saw, one of my leather shoes sinking into the mud. "Oh dear."

"It's okay. It's not far."

As we disappeared into the trees, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Matthew's torch did little good, and after a couple of minutes I saw an orange light at the end of the trees, the smell of burning wood. When we reached another clearing, I saw that a camp fire had been started.

"Over here, Mr Crawley." I recognised that voice. It was Molesley, standing under an old oak tree and trying his very best not to look irritated that he'd been left to stand in the dark by himself for what must have been the best part of an hour. "Everything's ready, sir. Do you need anything else?"

"No, that's it. Thank you Molesley, I can take it from here."

It was a lot to take in. I could see now that there was a tartan blanket lying under the tree, and a basket next to with a bottle of something sticking out. Before Molesley has even left our sight, Matthew was over by the blanket and trying to wrestle a cork out of the bottle.

"Come on, sit down. Make yourself comfortable."

I did, to the best of my ability, but it's hard to relax on a blanket when a man is standing above you and fighting a losing battle with a bottle of wine. Finally, the cork popped and the resounding fizz told me that it was champagne.

"Glasses, darling." Matthew said, "they should be in the basket."

'Darling'. Even now, that word still gives me a frisson. I fished out a couple of glasses and let Matthew pour, the champagne spilling over the glasses and down my fingers.

"Well?" he said, "What do you think?"

I smiled, "This isn't the Picturehouse."

"It certainly isn't. Sorry to disappoint." And he kissed the sticky champagne from my fingers.

We were alone. Perfectly alone. Slowly, it began to dawn on me that there was no one else around – no one to talk to us about propriety. Nobody to tell us what we should or shouldn't do. That thought, combined with Matthew's hot mouth moving against my fingers, was enough to take my mind off things. The campfire was hot against one side of my face as I watched Matthew with rapt attention. When I inhaled, my breath was not as steady as I would have liked.

Matthew smiled against my fingers. "Thank you for coming with me. I've been sick with worry for days. I thought you weren't going to forgive me."

"Hold on," I said, "who said I've forgiven you?"

His face moved towards mine, pausing for just a moment. His breath against my cheek, his lips a fraction away from mine. Crikey. "Well, you have to forgive me now." he said, "We're in the middle of nowhere. I'm not taking you home until you're one hundred percent in love with me."

"Suppose they send out a search party?"

"It won't do any good." His lips brushed my cheek. "You're my hostage, I'm afraid."

I took a nervous sip of the champagne. Was it a good vintage? I couldn't tell you. I could barely taste it. I was vaguely aware of the bubbles dissolving around my tongue and down my throat but, now Matthew's lips were tracing a path to my ear and it was like a hot, thin wire was pulling inside me. I was suddenly aware of being too hot. Oh Matthew.

"I love you." I said, quite by accident. The words had risen to my lips like champagne bubbles, and just popped out expectantly. Matthew stopped kissing my throat, just long enough to kiss my lips – kiss me properly – before returning to his task.

"Oh Mary." I felt him breathe the words against my skin, "I love you so very much."

"Just tell me, please. Was there ever anything between you and Mags? I won't be angry, I promise. I'd just..." his kisses began to pool at the hollow of my throat. It was suddenly very hard to think, "... I'd much rather know."

He pulled away from me and looked me in the eye. This was my Matthew. My Matthew, who smiled shyly. Who was fussy and meticulous, and honourable and kind-hearted. My Matthew. It seemed stupid to have ever have questioned him.

"Never." he said, earnestly, "I swear. Mags has only ever been my friend's little sister. That's all. I didn't know what love was until I clapped eyes on you. My Mary."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that, so I just said, "Kiss me."

Much of the evening was spent like that, in each other's arms. I would pour warm champagne into his mouth and kiss the liquid as it dripped down his chin, and Matthew would laugh, and the more he laughed, the more champagne he spilt. His arms wrapped around my waist, and he whispered things into my ear, and all about us lay plates of strawberries and canapés, and neither of us ate a single bite. Eventually, the champagne ran out, and the campfire was dying, and we realised we would soon have to pack up and go. I couldn't tell you how long we had stayed there, in that little copse. Two hours, maybe? Three?

I began to fold a napkin, lazily. I didn't really want to leave but I suppose I had better make an effort or we'd be stuck out there all night. Matthew caught my actions, and immediately took my meaning. Time to go.

"Wait," he said, "there's just one more thing. There was another reason I went to Manchester."

I was lying across the blanket, and had to sit up on my elbows to examine him properly. Maybe it was the champagne, but it took my a moment to realise what he was talking about. It took me another moment to realise he was down on one knee.

"I've got a ring, Mary. It's not what you're used to – it's not encrusted with diamonds or sapphires. It's quite plain, like me. It was my grandmother's, and if you don't want to wear it Mary, then god knows there's no other woman in the world who I would want to give it to. But it's yours, if you'll have it."

He took one of my hands in both of his, and said. "Mary," he said, "will you marry me?"

"Of course I will!"

There was a moment of misty-eyed silence. Matthew instinctly reached for his pockets and started to fumble about for something.

"Just a moment." he said, "I know I have it here somewhere."

There was more fumbling. He checked one pocket, then the other, then he checked his trousers.

I sighed. "You've forgotten the ring, haven't you?"

"No! I definitely have it. It's... it's just..." realisation dawned. "Oh god, I gave it to Moseley."

I couldn't contain it any longer. I yell back on to the blanket and positively howled with laughter. Matthew looked at me like I had gone mad, but it wasn't long until he joined me in my hysterics, lying on the blanket under the stars and laughing until the muscles under my corset hurt.

"I'm sorry, darling." Matthew said, with a slight smile, "I did try so hard to make this evening perfect."

"And it was." I said, "It really, really was."

29th March 1913

A letter had arrived via the Moseley post this morning, albeit the man in question had the good grace to look shamefaced after hot-footing off with my engagement ring the other night.

I opened the envelope and a ring tumbled out onto my lap. It wasn't, as Matthew had described, plain. It was a single diamond on a band of gold – quite elegant, actually. Not too understated. And, I saw with satisfaction, Matthew had thought to get it cleaned before he left Manchester. That's my Matthew. Didn't I say he was meticulous?

The letter said simply:

"To my darling wife,

(I have to practice writing that, you see.) I enclose herewith the aforementioned engagement ring, as per our previous conversation. Too late to back out now, I'm afraid.

I've already told Mother, who is overjoyed of course. But not as overjoyed as I am. My darling, I have hardly slept. When shall we be married? Of course you shall have whatever kind of wedding you want, but I hope you won't make me wait too long before I can call you Mrs Crawley.

Mr and Mrs Matthew Crawley. That has rather a nice ring to it, don't you think?

I am going to call on your Papa later today before you have a chance to come to your senses. All being well, maybe we can announce the engagement over dinner, tomorrow? What do you think?

I hardly need add that I love you. I can hardly wait to kiss you again, my darling wife.

My darling, darling wife.

Yours,

Matthew."

I'm so glad I thought to copy that letter into my diary, because shortly after opening it Claudius sought about savaging it with the vigor and enthusiasm of a pit bull terrier. Honestly, I don't know what has gotten into him lately. He's been eating anything made out of paper. He mauled his way through most of the 'R's in Papa's library, ('R' being the only shelf he could reach), and now not only is he banned from the library altogether but Papa says he wants him re-homed by the end of the week. Needless to say, I won't allow it.

After all, with Claudius around, think about all the money we'd save on confetti for the wedding?