A/N: First, I have to tell you that this website has been having all sorts of problems, so if you subscribe to this story, and only check in when you receive an email, on more than one occasion in the past month, those emails have been delayed by days. What I can promise (unless something crazy happens) is that you can depend (unless something crazy happens) on a chapter every other day, usually at the end of the day on this side of the pond. So, if you are desperate for an update, and don't have an email, I would check to see if a chapter was indeed posted. Okay. Cool. Also, I must thank Faeyero, for her work. She works hard and deserves some street cred ;)

Chapter Thirty Seven

Mary could not remember feeling nervous at any point during her pregnancy with Gracie, other than the moment when she realized she was actually about to give birth and become truly responsible for another human being's life. She had been aware, of course, that even in the new and inventive twenties, when so many things were changing, pregnancy and labor were nearly as dangerous as they had always been. Maybe it had been the Lady Mary in her, the woman who thought nothing truly horrible could happen to her, that kept the nervousness, the fear, at bay. She doubted it, though, because by then, Lady Mary was very much aware that horrible things could happen to her. By then, horrible things had.

Instead, she thought now, it had been more a bartering with God. Surely He would not take her or her child, not after what she'd borne in the small library. She had a stronghold of confidence that everything would go as planned; surely the small library had earned her that. The only bit of true fear had come when the doctor wanted to use anesthesia during the labor. If her mother had been there, or one of her sisters, Mary would have allowed it, of course. But not when it was only the doctor and a nurse she did not know. Her baby had no one else but her. So she remained awake and very much aware throughout the process.

Now, waiting for Dr. George with Matthew beside her, Mary recognized not just a nervousness in the back of her throat, but panic in her belly. The last time she saw this man, he had been reassuring her sister that still born babies were not uncommon, that he and his wife (as fertile as they seemed to be) had even experienced it. She tapped her foot on the floor. She pulled at the bracelet on her wrist.

"Mary..." Matthew began.

She literally shrugged off his voice, as if it were too heavy upon her shoulders. "I know you want to say something kind and comforting but please. I just...please." What could he say that would be a comfort? Could he promise that at the end of this pregnancy, she would be holding a wriggling baby, with ten fingers and ten toes, and eyes that opened? Of course not.

So the room remained quiet but for the tapping of her foot. Why did a pregnancy have to take nine months? Why had no one invented something to make sure the baby had a healthy heart beat before twenty weeks? It was 1922 for God's sake.

Dr. George knocked softly at the door, then entered. "Hello, Mr. Crawley, Lady Mary." He smiled, but his smile was not as bright as it had been upon their first visit. "I must offer my condolences over your nephew."

Matthew thanked him because Mary could not. Her throat went dry and her eyes burned. It was not that she was angry at Edith; she only wished she could offer her sister condolences for losing her son.

Dr. George weighed her, as he had last time. "Well done," he encouraged; she'd made quite a fuss during her last visit about the amount of weight she'd gained. With an apologetic look at Matthew, he gently palpated her abdomen (which was more than her other doctor had ever done). Then he took her temperature and her blood pressure.

When he was finished, he took a seat in front of them and Mary moved back to her original chair. "Over all, I'm very pleased," Dr. George commented pleasantly. "The only thing is–and I know you don't want to hear this, Lady Mary, but–you could stand to gain a few more pounds."

Mary's mouth dropped open. "But my belly is bigger at three and a half months than it was during my last pregnancy!"

He acknowledged her comment with a nod but continued. "I did tell you that you would start to show earlier with a second pregnancy, but you also likely gained weight all over in your last pregnancy, and this time you are not. Essentially, the way your body is carrying this child is different. That's not unusual." He smiled. "You aren't underweight. But it wouldn't hurt for you to indulge in some of your favorite things. All in all, I believe things are coming along marvelously."

Dr. George and Matthew shared a look that had Mary watching the two of them very carefully. She was not slow-witted. "However," the doctor continued, "your husband had made me aware that you have been under a great deal of stress as of late."

She raised an eyebrow but didn't bother to look at Matthew. "Oh, has he?"

Dr. George smothered another smile. "He didn't go into particulars, of course, but what he did say had me a bit concerned for you and for the baby."

"Concerned?" she asked, in a hard voice. She threw up her hands, a very unladylike response. "Well, Dr. George, life is stressful. What should I do? Take a holiday?"

He nodded. "I think that an excellent idea."

"Well, I do not," she said stubbornly, recovering herself. "We have a daughter and responsibilities."

"I'm sure Mother could..." Matthew broke off when Mary's eyes flashed towards him.

"Lady Mary, let me be frank. I think you know–I think you've seen–that even with all the advances of the 1920's, pregnancy can still be a dangerous condition. From what Mr. Crawley has said...all I can say is that I am concerned and I think, just a few days, to relax and unwind would be good for you and the baby."

"Are you claiming that if I do not take this holiday that I would be putting my child at risk?" Lady Mary asked, arching her eyebrow and pointedly ignoring her husband.

Dr. George seemed unaffected by her pretensions. He let out a chuckle. "Of course I am not claiming that. But I do think that, given the amount of stress you have been under, a weekend away would do you a world of good. Do not forget, Lady Mary, that a pregnancy–even one with no complications–can be difficult on a woman's body. I am simply suggesting you give yourself a brief reprieve from the current difficulties in your life."

"I don't want to be coddled. I don't believe in it," she insisted. She would have stood but it seemed ridiculous when both men were only watching her patiently. "We would go away and come back to those same difficulties. What is the point of that?"

"The point is, your husband is concerned. I understand and share his concerns. As your husband, he has the distinct privilege of coddling you as he sees fit. As your doctor, I have the distinct privilege of recommending what I see fit." His answer was calm and patient but Mary, a stubborn person herself, recognized that he would not be one to relent.

"A few days?" she asked doubtfully, twisting her wedding rings around her finger.

"That's all. And it will be a very long time before you two are alone together. Don't forget," he said with a wink, "you're entering the second trimester. You'll know from your first pregnancy that you've begun the best part of the whole nine months. The sick is gone, your energy is up and you aren't uncomfortable as you will be later in the pregnancy."

"I know," she lamented. "I know." Then she realized what he was saying. She stopped playing with her rings and looked over at her husband and blushed.

"I can't force you to take a holiday, of course. I can tell you, though, as a doctor, a father, and a husband that I would go, if I were you. And..." his eyes twinkled, "if you do as I ask then we will schedule your next appointment at twenty weeks. It's more than a month away but I have no concerns other than your stress level, and you'll be able to hear the heartbeat at that appointment. Of course, you can always call or come in if need be."

Her eyes had brightened at the prospect of hearing the baby's heartbeat, and she saw that same excitement in Matthew's eyes. But by the end of his speech, her eyes had again narrowed. "Yes, apparently one can call you with any concerns one has. It sounds as if you and my husband are the best of friends." She smirked a little. "May I have a copy of the book you're writing, so that I may be included in the knowledge you men have of my pregnancy?" Matthew smothered a laugh with his hand and a pretend cough. There were moments, like these, when it was as if Cousin Violet's voice came from Mary's mouth. He wondered how the good doctor would handle Mary's version of her granny.

"Oh course," he chortled. "Though, please be kind. It's rough yet."

One of the cars from the Abbey was sitting in front of Crawley House when Mary and Matthew returned from the doctor. They looked at each other before hurrying up the steps. In the sitting room, Isobel was sitting awkwardly beside Cora, who held a rather unhappy Gracie in her lap; undoubtedly the little girl would prefer to be running through the house with Baby. It seemed as if lately Grace was never still unless she was on the brink of sleeping, or if the dog was in the mood for a cuddle instead of a chase.

"Mama!" Mary said, more than a bit surprised to see her, and reached back for Matthew's hand without realizing it. Visions of what this visit might entail filled her head, and Mary understood perfectly why Matthew thought getting away for a few days might be for the best. She almost wished they'd left directly from the doctor's office.

"Hello, Mary. Hello, Matthew," Cora demurred.

Gracie wiggled out of her grandmother's arms and ran for Matthew. "Papa!" He caught her on the fly and hefted her into the air so that she giggled before he gave her a kiss. "Lalou!"

"Say hello to Mama as well," he told her and she leaned forward to press her lips to Mama's, too.

"Hullo, Mama!" she cheered. She reached down as far as she could in Matthew's arms and patted Mary somewhere just below her breasts. "Hullo, Baby!"

Mary made eye contact with Matthew. She knew that he would do as she liked–stay for the conversation with Cora or leave them to speak privately. Mary gripped his hand. Something had shifted last night, as they discussed the last hypothetical question she could think of when it came to both of their children. Here was a man who knew her and loved her and would fight for her. She needed him and the thought did not terrify so much as comfort since the tension in the room was as palpable as a giant balloon that could pop at any moment.

In the meantime, Matthew and his mother communicated silently and she came and took Gracie in her arms. "Let's go play with Baby outside. Shall we, Gracie?" she asked cheerfully and Gracie threw her arms around her Gran, her Iz because this had been what she wanted the entire time Grandmama had insisted she remain on her lap.

"Iz! Iz!" Gracie chanted until her voice was quieted by the shutting of the back door. Cora flinched.

As Isobel passed, Mary got a good look at Cora's face. She'd seen that same look on Edith's face recently. Could it be–jealousy, envy–over Isobel's relationship with Grace? Could it really be something as simple and as complicated as that?

Matthew and Mary took seats in chairs across from the divan. "Thank you for seeing me," Cora said graciously, but there was a certain hardness behind her tone that gave Mary pause. Even when she had lived in the same house as Cora, it had always surprised her when her mother's voice had hardened like that. She certainly was a woman who picked her battles, who understood that much could be accomplished with sweetness. Her outbursts occurred when she could no longer wrap her feelings up in up in that sweetness. Cora was angry with them now, and must have been for some time to speak in such a way. But over what? Especially after what Papa had said. Mary felt awful for Matthew who would be less than knowledgeable when it came to the intricate familial dynamics of the Crawley women, and probably had no idea what type of conversation he was sitting in on.

"I'm surprised to see you, Mama," Mary murmured. "But you know you are always welcome here."

"Am I?" Cora retorted. She could not raise one eyebrow as her daughter could but she could lower both of hers, creating furrows in an almost entirely wrinkle free face.

"Just speak plainly, Mama. It has been a long day, a long week, a long month and I am very tired," Mary finally said, exasperated. She could not play this game. In many ways, even when growing up, even after she was angry with her Papa, he remained the one Mary understood. She'd never had much patience when it came to Mama.

"I wonder if Sybil told you that they moved into the Dower House with your grandmother today," Cora replied, her eyes on her lap. She missed the moment when Matthew and Mary shared looks of shock. "I tried to convince her to stay but she wouldn't hear of it. Not after what your father said. Of course, I understand your anger and Sybil's as well...but Isobel's and your grandmother's interference isn't helping matters," she sighed. "You must see that." Her cloying sweetness and feminine grace returned when she gave her entreaty.

Mary knew Matthew was watching her. She had to take a long breath and let it out before she spoke. "Isobel and Granny have been nothing but wonderful since we arrived and I am sure Sybil shares those sentiments. They have been very helpful with the children. I would not call their behavior an interference."

Cora dropped her tea cup to its saucer with a heavy clank and set it aside. "Well you see, that's just it. I would call it an interference when they are interfering with my role in my granddaughter's life. I am Grace's grandmother."

Mary nodded. "Of course you are, Mama, but..."

"I understand that your father has made things difficult. Believe me, I know. And I have spoken to him again and again. But why should I pay the price for his inadequacies? Grace is my granddaughter."

Mary felt Matthew stiffen next to her. She turned and looked at him quizzically, then sighed. "Mama...I have no quarrel with you..." she began, exhaustion threading through her voice. She remembered when Matthew had first come to Downton and her mother had wanted her to be kind to him, to encourage his advances, and her voice had come out of her chest, throaty and deep in a tone she'd never heard from sweet, sweet Mama: For once in your life, please just listen!

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mary." Matthew laid a hand on his wife's knee. "But I think your mother is trying to make a point. You might as well just say it, Cora." He did not deign to add the respect of cousin before her Christian name, not when he thought he knew why she was really here, in their house.

"Matthew, you are very good with Grace. I'm not trying to say that you aren't," Cora began patronizingly. "It's obvious that you care for her, that you are good to her. And I am thankful for that. But..." she pressed her lips together, "it just doesn't seem fair to me that your mother should know her better than..."

"Stop." Mary knew her voice was harsh. She meant it to be. "If you had come here to apologize for Papa, or even just to see Grace, I would have tried to find a way for you to know her, apart from Papa, since that is just...simply a mess. I see your point that our problems with Papa have kept you at a distance from Gracie, and for that, I am sorry. But you have insulted me by referring to a subject you promised, you swore," her lips trembled but her eyes were dry, "you would never speak of. How dare you talk to Matthew that way? How dare you insinuate...? To speak of Isobel like that? I thought you were better than that. I thought I could depend on you." She took a shaky breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was hoarse. "I thought you loved me more than that." She stood, hurt and enraged, a bit dizzy and swaying. Matthew reached for her but she regained her balance on her own and hurried upstairs, slamming the bedroom door as hard as she possibly could.

Cora was in tears. They fell delicately from her eyes. "I didn't mean–"

Matthew found it hard to be sympathetic. "I think you did mean it, Cora. I think you've grown more and more agitated as you've observed the closeness of my family, my daughter with my mother and with Cousin Violet." His mouth hardened. "I wish you had realized that we didn't come up to the house as often not because of you, but because of your husband. Most of all, I wish you had not just revealed how you really feel about my relationship with Grace, because now I'm afraid Mary won't want to see you at all–and you've certainly lost me as an ally."

"Matthew," she pleaded, stretching out a hand to him. "You have to understand. This was never what I expected or wanted or dreamed for my girls. Robert and I are trying to sort it all out. Perhaps we aren't doing it very well, but maybe someday when your child is born you will understand..."

"Cora," he said sternly. "I already have a child. Her name is Grace Violet Crawley. I understand what it means to have expectations but I hope, if there ever comes a day when Grace does not meet my expectations of her, that I will love her and support her anyway."

"I would do anything for my girls," she said hoarsely. For God's sake, she'd carried a dead man across the house. "You don't know what I have done for Mary," she added, an edge to her voice.

"Are we speaking of Mr. Pamuk?" Matthew asked calmly. "Yes, you kept that secret very well. I can only assume that Mary hoped–as did I–that you would treat Grace's parentage not as a secret to be kept but a fact. I am Grace's father..."

"Yes, I know," Cora interrupted, glad they could agree on something. "In every way that matters, you are her father. I only want to know my granddaughter. Should I be punished for that?"

He shook his head, pressing his hands to his eyes. "Well, it seems we've come full circle now, Cora. The reason we are so close with my mother and with Cousin Violet is because their answer to that question has always been: I am Grace's father in every way. Period." He stood. He knew perfectly well and had known since they received Cousin Violet's letter and his mother's card that Isobel knew Grace did not belong to Matthew biologically. But from the moment she learned that Matthew considered himself to be Grace's father, she had never once questioned him or Mary; she'd only been delighted to have a granddaughter. Then, his mother had learned of the small library. She was curious woman by nature and yet there had been no curiosity, only an unwavering devotion to Matthew, Mary, and Grace. Grace was her grandchild in every single way. The evidence of Isobel's love and pleasure in her granddaughter was everywhere–the way Isobel held Grace's hand, the way Isobel spoke to Grace, as if every conversation was a singular joy, the way Isobel watched the little girl when she was unawares, the smiled that played around Isobel's mouth. "I think you should leave now," he told Cora.

Her tears were falling more rapidly and he sensed she felt something like bewildered regret, as if she knew she had gone wrong but could not point out where. She and Robert had that in common, Matthew thought. But he suspected she also felt a sense of betrayal that he would force her to leave in such a manner, with so little respect, that Mary would stomp up to her room, like a child. And above all, Matthew could sense the hard lump of jealousy in her throat that Isobel was outside romping around with her granddaughter.

She stood, ever graceful, and wiped the tears from her face. He wondered how she would explain the red eyes to Robert–Grace's grandfather did not particularly want to know her and Grace's grandmother was angry she did not know the child better.

She did not slam the door as Mary had. No, the tiny click as it shut was enough to make a statement. Look how mature I am. I do not stomp. I do not slam doors. Yet, Matthew knew it was Cora who was acting like a child, making Grace a toy that she did not want to share.

Mary wasn't sleeping but she was burrowed in the blankets when she heard the door open, followed by the soft padding of little feet and Matthew's whispers. And then her whole world was in the bed, Gracie taking both of Mary's cheeks in her hands, giving her such a sweet kiss and murmuring, "Lalou, Mama."

"Tell Mama what we brought her," Matthew encouraged. He could see the evidence of earlier tears on her face. "Because even though she missed dinner," he looked at her significantly, reminding her of what Dr. George said, "we didn't want her to miss the dessert Mrs. Byrd made." He'd come up twice since she originally retreated to the bedroom. The first time, he'd hugged her as she apologized over and over again for her family. He could not tell her that she'd missed the worst of Cora's zingers. The second time, to tell her dinner was ready, he found her asleep and could not bear to wake her up.

"Cream," Gracie supplied.

Mary sat up and kissed Gracie all over her face until her giggles went on and on. "You brought me ice cream?" She continued to kiss her until the little girl shrieked.

"Papa, too!" she chirped.

"Papa brought me ice cream, too?" Mary asked Gracie, and the little girl nodded. So Mary leaned over and pressed her lips to Matthew's as well.

"Mo,'" Gracie demanded.

"Oh, you think Papa deserves more kisses than I've given him?" she asked her daughter with the curls that bounced as she bopped around and the silly smile.

"Papa thinks so," Matthew put in, and Gracie nodded along with him. "We took a vote, you see."

Mary took the ice cream he offered and set it aside on the side table. "All right. I'll give Papa more kisses, Gracie, if you'll help me tickle him!" The little girl leapt on top of her father and, though her hands were tiny, she was surprisingly adept at tickling his sides and under his arms while Mary pressed kiss after kiss all over his face, exaggerating the smacking sounds her puckered lips made. "All right," he said, laughing despite himself. "The ice cream is melting!"

Gracie and Mary–like mother, like daughter–immediately stopped their ministrations and Mary reached for the ice cream. "Do you want to share with Mama?" Mary asked, and Gracie rolled her eyes (what a perfect miniature of Mary she was!) as if to say: I believe that was the whole point.

The three of them enjoyed the ice cream, sharing the single spoon. After a awhile, there was a scratching at the door. "Ooooh, Baby!" Gracie cried. She turned to her mother. "Mama?" Before Mary could reply, Gracie was calling upon all her acting skills–her lower lip trembled, her dark lashes swept away tears.

"Oh, all right," Mary muttered, realizing she was fighting a battle she'd already lost. "Go and get Baby."

Matthew would have made a sarcastic comment that he wasn't the only soft hearted one but before he could Mary kissed him, her mouth cold and tasting of strawberries, lingering over his lips. Gracie struggled a bit with the door and the excited puppy ran through it so quickly, she skidded across the floor. "Thank you," Mary whispered. "For this. I'm sorry for my mother," she repeated.

"You're not responsible for her actions, Mary," he replied in an undertone while Gracie tried to lift an increasingly large Baby onto the bed.

"I never said that dog could get into bed with us," Mary said firmly. Gracie turned to her again, her lower lip quivering. "Oh, fine," she retorted before her daughter could negotiate with tears. "But only this once."

Matthew turned his face to hide a smile.

They fell asleep curled together, the three of them, four including Baby, the canine, and five including Baby, the human. Later, Mary stirred and woke, her stomach growling. She untangled herself from her blankets which, of course, woke Matthew. He lay watching her, silent and still, his eyes so blue in the dark. Finally, when she had finished extricating herself from the covers, he whispered, "Are you hungry?"

"A little, yes," she whispered back, which was a bit of a lie because she was, in fact, starving.

He smiled, but she noticed the sadness in his eyes and knew her mother must have struck several more verbal blows before leaving. Mary walked over to his side of the bed and knelt so that when he turned his face towards her, their noses nearly touched. "I love you," she said slowly and deliberately, her eyes on his. "I don't tell you enough, not straight out like that when I'm wide awake and you're not kissing me. But I do."

His hand found its way into her hair. "I know."

She touched her nose to his. "Still, it's nice to hear?"

He smiled. "It is that."

"And let's go away, like you suggested. I think it's a wonderful idea," she whispered.

"I must look very pathetic for you to sound so enthusiastic," he replied, the hand in her hair now finding the back of her neck.

"I love you," she repeated. "You're my husband and the father of my children and I love you. Do you know what a miracle that is considering the last ten years? And I don't care what anyone says or what anyone thinks."

"I know," Matthew replied. "And I can't tell you what that means to me." He tilted his head, his eyes steady on hers. "Still, sometimes people we love, people we respect, can hit a nerve. That's what happened today and yesterday as well." He frowned slightly. "I suppose that was just one more reason for you to stay away, besides the obvious."

"I don't understand them," she murmured. They were speaking quietly even though Gracie slept very much like her mother, deeply and enthusiastically. "Even when I didn't agree with them, I used to be able to understand them. But I don't anymore. And I'm glad of that. But Matthew," she reached out and cupped his cheek in her hand, "maybe they'll come around. With you. With me. With Gracie, too."

He knew it spoke to the extent of her love for him that she would be so positive when she'd been nothing but defeatist when it came to her father (and now, he supposed, that included her mother). "Maybe," he whispered.

She smiled and rose to go to the kitchen. He rolled to reach for Gracie and carry her to her crib. He pressed his nose to her hair. You are mine. You are ours. In the end, he had to carry a sleeping Baby to her crate as well since several attempts to rouse her failed. Mary seemed to be a devouring a feast in the kitchen so he returned to their bed alone and forced himself to sleep, though he could have easily spent hours worrying over Cora's words.

When he woke next, it was because moonlight was cutting across his face through a gap in the curtains, which had been opened just a bit. Then her voice was at his ear. "Now don't get too excited. And maybe if you could, kind of, squint when you look at me..." He turned to find his wife lying next to him, completely naked in the moonlight. He could see every part of her, and brushed a hand from her throat to her belly. "You're not squinting," she insisted, biting her lip nervously.

He leaned forward to kiss her. "You're naked," he said in wonder, "and I can see you."

She winced. "Yes, well. You did bring me ice cream in bed earlier..."

He rolled her gently onto her back, leaning up on one elbow so he could just take her in. He circled his fingers around her nipples. "These are darker," he observed, "than the last time you let me see you naked, which was ages ago."

"Didn't I tell you to squint? Do we have to take a bloody inventory of what pregnancy has done to my body?" she complained. He thought perhaps, with her cursing and complaints, that he'd never loved her more.

He nodded slowly, seriously. "I think I must." He dipped his head, lavishing one breast and then the other with his mouth, which she seemed to enjoy given the way her hands found their way into his hair and the moan that started in the back of her throat. Then he was pressing kisses down the center of her chest until he reached the swell of her belly, his breath warm against her skin, his fingers drawing designs upon it.

"Are you squinting?" she asked, but there was a breathlessness to her voice, and humor there as well.

"I love you," he told her–or perhaps it was the baby. Who knew? Wasn't it one and the same? He kissed her belly before moving back up towards her mouth and repeating the words: "I love you. Thank you for taking care of me."

"That's not what this is," she disagreed, perfectly serious, her eyebrow arching.

"Oh?" His tone matched hers; that she would try to spare his dignity meant a great deal. "So I'm supposed to believe it's just a coincidence that I needed a bit of cheering up, and after weeks of not letting me seeing you with a hint of light in the room, you're naked in the moonlight."

"No, I don't expect you to believe it is a coincidence." She smiled slyly at him. "You obviously have not read Dr. George's book as thoroughly as I have. I believe I am quoting chapter four when I say, As the fourteenth week begins, your wife may come to you in the middle of the night, open the curtains, and lie naked beside you."

He found it absolutely necessary to kiss her. "Well you certainly put a dent in the book you just got this morning."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm a quick reader. Now," she demanded, "am I to be the only naked one in this bed?"

"Oh, you want me to go and get the dog then? You finally want to make peace with her and have her curl up near your feet?" he asked so seriously that they both burst into giggles.

She rolled over on top of him and whispered in his ear, her breath warm there so that he ached, "Matthew, make love with me?" He was used to the ache; he'd been aching with need for her for years, but that he could do something about the ache still seemed miraculous. In many ways, though out of necessity they had "skipped" ahead on the marriage and family track, they were still newlyweds.

How could he deny her request?

Later, the both of them lay naked and tangled, too tired to fix the curtain. She'd nearly fallen asleep before she remembered and mumbled drowsily, "Let's go away. Like you said. I want to."

He was not as tired as she was. "All right. I have some things to take care of this next week-so the weekend after next."

It was very lucky indeed that she was too tired to ask what things he had to take care of.

A/N: Dun dun dun. What does the Matthew have to take care of? Press the review button and offer up a comment or a guess, and I'll PM you a clue. Unless you don't want a clue. In which case, please just say, "I do not want a clue." Thanks as always for reading and reviewing!