Welcome to the last chapter... phew it's been a bit of a ride! Hope you enjoy. Chapter is M rated.

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Glancing outside, Matthew gave an involuntary shiver as another gust of wind sent rain and sleet splattering against the bedroom window. It was a gloomy January afternoon. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, and he hoped that Mary would be home soon. It wouldn't do for her to be out driving the motor alone if it turned cold enough for snow. He turned to the fire, immediately cheered by its warmth and for a few pleasant moments he allowed himself to be mesmerised by the curling tongues of orange, yellow and blue, and the flickering light they danced along the walls. He stretched luxuriously on the bed, glad for the comfort of their beautifully appointed room, and glad too, that it was the weekend and he could stay exactly where he was for as long as he wished. Glancing out the window again, he was reassured to see it was now mostly rain. With a sigh, he tucked another pillow behind his head and reached for the legal file beside him to resume his reading. The firm had been approached about another large merger, and he wanted to be fully prepared for the client meeting that coming Monday.

Voices in the hallway sometime later alerted him to Mary's return, and after a few minutes the door opened softly and she came in.

"Oh, you're awake," she smiled. "Alfred wasn't sure if you would be, so I thought I should be quiet."

"Awake I am," Matthew put the document he was reading to one side and sat up. "I've been working," he said, stretching his arms and shoulders. "Your timing is quite perfect though. I was on the last page of the file I had to look through for our Monday meeting."

"The chemical companies?" Mary asked. "Is it likely to be as complex as the last one?"

"More so," Matthew frowned. "Two of the three companies have quite an acrimonious history. A bit of undercutting and stealing of each other's customers in their pasts. And whilst their respective Boards are keen, their managers are not. So I suspect it's going to take a whole other level of negotiation to get a new structure through."

"Well, they've come to the best, getting you and Alex," Mary remarked, shrugging herself out of her coat. "And do I take it you've negotiated a fee that recognises what it's going to take?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Of course," Matthew grinned. Charles Carter had taught him well: Push your worth and always sort the commercial arrangements ahead he could hear him saying. He stacked his papers and placed them on the bedside table. Glancing up at Mary again, he saw that she was yawning. "Have a rest, my dear," he said immediately, patting the bed beside him, and groaning a little, Mary sat down. She pulled herself back against the pillows and put her feet up, eyeing her shoes resentfully and wishing she could just kick them off.

"Let me do that," Matthew said, noticing her grimace. He moved down the bed to where he could reach, and with a grateful smile, she sat back and watched as he gently removed first her right shoe and then her left.

"Your feet look sore," Matthew said, noticing they were slightly puffy and a little red. "How about I give them a rub."

"That would be lovely," she sighed, suddenly realising just how tired she was. She reached forward to undo her suspenders, but Matthew motioned her back, and pleased to let him continue, she leant against the pillows and shut her eyes. Pushing up her skirt, Matthew deftly unbuttoned each suspender and slid her silk stockings off, the warmth and smoothness of her legs under his fingers sending a delicious wave of heat through his whole body.

Oh god. He had an overwhelming desire to take her, then and there. Stop it he chided himself. Mary needs some looking after. The exquisite shape of her lips caught his eye, and he felt another powerful frisson. Damn it. He needed a distraction. "Tell me how Edith was," he found himself saying, taking a deep breath to calm himself. He took up one of the stockings and began methodically to roll it.

"Edith?" Mary answered, opening her eyes to look at Matthew. "She isn't too bad. A bit uncomfortable now she's almost full term but keeping herself occupied with her weekly column for The Sketch. We spent most of the time talking about that, and her next topic."

"Which was?" Matthew inquired placing the rolled stockings on the bedside table.

"A commentary on that book everyone is talking about. Married Love by Marie Stopes," Mary gave another yawn. "The influence that it has had."

"She loves to step right into controversy your sister, doesn't she?" Matthew raised an eyebrow. "I shall look forward to reading it." Matthew enjoyed her commentaries. They revealed a sharp wit and a penchant for irony, and Edith was attracting quite a following among The Sketch's readership as a result. Strange, he thought. He had always imagined Sybil would have been the activist, but medicine and rehabilitation had become her all-consuming focus, and it was Edith who was now surprising them all with her modern views and fearlessness in sharing them.

Matthew placed Mary's right foot on his thigh and began to massage it, his firm but gentle strokes bringing relief to a particularly tender spot on the sole of her foot.

"Aaah," she breathed. She felt suddenly tearful. It was so nice to be cared for. And Matthew's attentions were reminding her just how much she missed Anna. Whilst Matthew had made it his business to see to her comfort as much as he could when he was home, she missed the care and constancy of Anna, and most of all she missed having a confidant. Indeed, Anna's absence had made her realise just how much more their relationship was than one of Lady and Maid: it was the relationship of close friends. Her eyes smarted again, and not wanting Matthew to see her tears, she squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to focus on the relief his strong hands were bringing to her body. His rhythmic stroking worked. By the time he had finished, she had fallen asleep.

He gazed at her sleeping form, one elegant arm folded across her rounded belly, the other resting at her side. Admired the perfect crescents of her dark eyelashes. And smiled at the shiny curls of hair that had escaped her careful coiffing to so enticingly frame her heart-shaped face.

His pulse quickened again. He imagined undressing her, then and there, and showering her body with kisses. And some. He touched her hand briefly, and she made a little sound in response. No. He must let her sleep. With a reluctant sigh, he reached for the quilt folded across the foot of their bed and spread it over her, and then he put on his shoes, got up and went to organise some afternoon tea.

The familiar tap of his sticks on the tiled floor alerted Daisy to his arrival.

"Mr Matthew! How may I help, Sir?" she said cheerily, straightening up from the oven where she was checking the meat. Alfred put down his polishing rag and leapt quickly to his feet to greet him also.

"Afternoon tea," Matthew smiled, motioning to Alfred to sit back down. "Just for myself for now. And if you could have some delivered for Mary to our bedchamber in about half an hour. She is having a nap."

"Of course, Sir!" Daisy said immediately, as she set about filling the kettle and fetching the cake tin. It was not unusual for him to visit them in the kitchen. She, like the other staff, had noticed that Mr Matthew preferred the personal approach to the bell when he could: In so doing, he also liked to take a few minutes with them to exchange the news of the day, something they had all come to appreciate. It made for a friendly household and a far less formal atmosphere than what most of them had been used to. And today was no different. Taking a seat in the high-backed butler's chair, Mr Crawley asked after Alfred's family, and then after Mr Mason, whom he knew Daisy had visited the previous day on her afternoon off. Matthew was pleased to hear from her that Mr Mason had decided to take on as his new farm hand, a former soldier Mr Molesley had recommended.

"He seems a nice lad," Daisy commented. "Andy's his name. He was up the ladder fixing the thatch when I got there. Hadn't even needed to be asked. Mr Mason was very pleased!"

"Isn't he quite young?" Matthew asked. "Enlisted underage or something?"

"He did," Daisy's voice was admiring. "Barely fourteen! They found out when he got to the Front. But rather than send him home they kept him on as a messenger boy."

"So he wasn't cannon fodder," Alfred commented darkly. "Bet that's the only reason he's come back alive." He had momentarily forgotten Mr Crawley was present, and when he realised what he had just voiced aloud, he froze, and his face went a deep shade of crimson. "Oh, Sir. So sorry Sir," he stammered.

"Don't be," a shadow crossed Matthew's face. "You are most probably right." And whilst Alfred was relieved, he was cross with himself for speaking as he had. Mr Crawley and too many of his friends would live with the consequences of the terrible war for the rest of their lives. There was a silence, and then Matthew enquired as to how Mrs Patmore was getting on without Daisy at the big house. At that, both Alfred and Daisy shared a smile, and Daisy found herself reciting one or two of the dramas that had unfolded for Ivy in her first few weeks working as Daisy's replacement alongside the irascible cook. "Things are getting better though," Daisy confided. "Ivy's only visited once this past week. Advice on béchamel sauce."

"Well, then. Let's all take that as a good sign," Matthew said with a wry grin. "I've been terrified she'll march in here one day and demand you back!" and they all laughed.

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"Ooh," Mary gave a little gasp. "What is it?" Matthew was instantly concerned. It was late afternoon the same day and they were lying on the bed reading. His concern evaporated when he saw her smiling. "Feel that," she placed his hand gently on her stomach. "Our baby is kicking!"

"Oh, my," Matthew's eyes softened, as he felt the movement beneath his hand, and all of a sudden, quite a definite kick. "That was a big one! Did it hurt? Our little one seems rather energetic today!"

"Not quite as uncomfortable as some," Mary said ruefully, smiling as Matthew kept his hand on her stomach, exclaiming each time the baby kicked again.

"I do feel for you," he commented eventually. "It's fun for me, having our baby kick, but you are the one doing all the work to grow and carry our child, and it's not without its discomforts!

"I don't mind," Mary hastened to say. "In fact I actually like it. A sign that everything is well," she leant across and kissed him.

"And not long to go now," Matthew gazed at her, rapt. He felt an overpowering rush of love for his wife and their unborn child.

Mary's skin prickled in the warmth of his gaze. She felt pleasantly relaxed after her rest and she was greatly enjoying this precious time alone with her husband. God she loved him. She ran a finger lightly across his hand. Fine those hands. Gentle. And strong: a good match for the man he was. She felt an ache deep in her groin, and her pulse quickened. And when she lifted her face to him and saw his need, her pulse quickened further. She glanced at the door. He followed her gaze and they shared a look of relief and then guilty pleasure in seeing that it was shut. She giggled, and with a growl, Matthew began kissing her, deep, full kisses and they moved together, holding each other tight. The taste of him, and the insistence of his tongue exploring her mouth aroused her further, and their kissing became more and more intense. But it wasn't enough. Mary wanted to feel his skin. Needed him inside her. Matthew was already unbuttoning her blouse whilst continuing to kiss her, and she helped him by shrugging her arms out of the sleeves. He pushed up her skirt, his hands stroking and kneading. She uttered a moan of delight and guided his hands to the buttons on the waistband, desperate now for her skirt to come off. He growled in assent and quickly undid it before pausing his kissing and sitting up to take it off up over her head.

"Oh, God Mary," the glow to her skin and the fullness of her pregnant body dissolved him in pleasure, and his fingers trembled as he unhooked her brassiere and slid her knickers off.

She turned on her side and eyed him mischievously. He loosened his own trousers, pushing them part way down his legs before tumbling alongside her. He spooned her, kissing the side of her neck, and nibbling her ear. She giggled and guided his hand to her breasts, enjoying his appreciative grunt as he began to tease her nipples. She could feel him growing hard against her. "Mmm," her voice was sultry, his arousal titillating her further. Hell, how she wanted him. Now. She pushed against him suggestively and shifted to give him access, and after a few breathy utterances to and fro as they tried to get the positioning right, Mary let out a little shriek of pleasure as she felt him slide into her and pull her tightly to him. They moved together, their rhythm building as their mutual need intensified. It was exquisite, and each was intent on prolonging their lovemaking for as long as possible. But they couldn't stay quiet. It was too damn good. Caressed and absorbed by her, Matthew shattered first and he swore into her hair and kissed her fervently about her neck. His rapture sent Mary over the edge soon after, and Matthew put his hand over her mouth to stifle her very loud shriek. Still joined, and holding each other tight, they giggled like naughty children, speculating as to whether they had been heard, and not caring a jot if they had. And when at last they calmed down, they talked softly and stroked each other, basking in their intimacy, two lovers replete. Until a little while later when Matthew said reluctantly, "I have to move. My arm has gone to sleep," and they finally pulled apart.

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Already worried about how the staff would manage as she approached her confinement, events at the office on a wintry January morning left Mary deeply unsettled. It began when Harry Cooke arrived late, simultaneously agitated and apologetic, his wife's face thunderous but fearful all at the same time.

"What happened?" Mary asked immediately, but the woman turned and abruptly left, without so much as the briefest acknowledgement. Huffing a little at her rudeness, Mary pushed Mr Cooke across to his desk and sat down beside him. "What on earth is the matter?" she asked crisply. Her tone made Stan White, their office secretary pause his typewriting and look up.

His head hanging in shame, Mr Cooke held out his arm, the wrist of which was wrapped in a rough bandage. The swelling in his fingers showed her immediately the injury wasn't minor.

"Oh," she said, her voice hushed. "You've hurt yourself. Have you seen the Doctor?"

He shook his head. "My wife…" he couldn't finish and looked away instead.

His wife wouldn't take him, Mary surmised. She felt another wave of irritation with the woman. She had thought her surly behaviour was now well in the past: she had been polite, even occasionally talkative to Mary in the past months, especially since Mary's pregnancy had become known – the birth of her own child, a child she had been carrying when Harry had returned injured from the war, seemed to have brought the couple closer, but for some reason this event had given her cause to revert to her previous surliness.

"You're not going to be able to write with that, are you?" Mary stated. Mr Cooke shook his head. "And it will take a while," Mary thought out loud, instinctively knowing it was either a bad sprain or a fracture.

"I'd be sacking me if I were the boss," Mr Cooke said miserably and he looked away.

"Which is why it's just as well that I'm the boss and not you," Mary snapped. She pushed herself up, walking to the cupboard to find her first aid supplies. "Suffering an accident and needing time to recover should never be reason for a sacking," she said crossly as she rummaged for the sling she knew was in the box. Returning with the item, her tone was gentler when she asked him to hold out his arm so that she could place and tie it. "There," she said when she was done. "Is that comfortable?" Harry nodded, his initial embarrassment at being attended to by his formidable Lady boss overcome as he remembered she had been a nurse.

"I'll call Doctor Clarkson and ask him to come in," Mary continued. "Your arm must be checked. We can't risk leaving a possible fracture untended. But for now, tell me your pain level. Do you think you are up to some work?" Harry replied vehemently that he was. "Very well," Mary replied. She turned to Stan White. "Mr White. As you can see, Mr Cooke has injured his wrist. May I ask that you be his writer today? And assist with anything else he may need. Fit your other work in when you can. Are we clear about that?" Mary raised her eyebrows.

Mr White nodded and gave a flutter of his hand, a gesture that all of them in the office had come to know meant that he understood. He got up and moved to Mr Cooke's side to await his instructions. Harry told him to open the ledger and fetch the day's mail from the correspondence tray. Glancing back towards Mary, he swallowed and said, "Thank you, m'Lady. I'll make this work."

"I know you will," Mary said crisply, but her eyes were kind, and clearly much lighter now, the young man turned back to Mr White, and the pair began the day's work.

"Good evening, Dr Clarkson," Mary greeted the Doctor as by chance their paths crossed as each was making their way home later that same day.

"Good evening, Lady Mary," Doctor Clarkson tipped his hat. Mary stopped, and realising she wished to converse with him, the Doctor did likewise.

"Thank you for coming in to see Mr Cooke. I was pleased to see his wrist properly bound when I got back from my lunch appointment."

"Quite a nasty sprain," Doctor Clarkson frowned. "I got his agreement for Nurse Clarke to help him at home for the next few weeks until it is healed. With her Aunt away, his wife is struggling to care for him. Her back hasn't been right since the baby," he went on, talking as if he expected that Mary already knew.

"Of course," Mary answered automatically, the woman's behaviour now starting to make sense.

"But it's not a good situation," Doctor Clarkson continued, his brow furrowed. "That fall down the stairs wasn't his first. I'm worried it will happen again if something isn't done to improve his living arrangements. Very hard for a maimed fellow to be tenanting a house without a downstairs bedroom," there was a hint of disapproval in his tone.

"He fell down the stairs?" Mary looked at the Doctor, aghast.

"Yes. My apologies, I thought he had told you," Doctor Clarkson said discomforted when he realised she didn't know.

"How ridiculous," Mary burst out. "Can't something be done? Could his landlord help and get the rooms reorganised?"

Doctor Clarkson looked even more uncomfortable and his face reddened slightly. "I must agree," he swallowed. "But tell me, Lady Mary. Were you unaware the property is one of yours?"

Mary was quiet at dinner that night. She pushed her food around her plate, still shocked by Doctor Clarkson's revelation, and wondering what to do. After her farewell to the Doctor she had retraced her steps back to the office, where to her relief, Mr Brougham had not yet left. As she had hoped, he was able to locate the file for the property where Mr Cooke lived. The surname in the tenancy agreement was Appilton, a name unfamiliar to her, and it explained why she hadn't put two and two together earlier. The property was one of their smaller cottages, and a cursory glance at the floor plan confirmed that without an extension, there was no feasible way to reorganise it to allow for a ground floor bedroom.

Reflecting on the situation over her meal, she was flummoxed. She knew if she did anything directly, Mr Cooke would be embarrassed, given he hadn't seen fit to tell her just how he had become injured in the first place. She cringed, just thinking of him having to crawl up and down the steep, narrow stairs she knew was the standard in most of their cottages, with only his one arm to rely upon. And how many other former soldiers, ill or maimed were in unsuitable houses, some of which might be theirs?

"Mary," Matthew's insistent tone broke into her reverie. "I've asked you three times now about Dickie Grey's invitation to join him and Mother for Saturday luncheon, but you're off in your own world! What is it? Did something happen at work?"

She lifted her face to him, a little anguished. "Yes," she sighed. "And Matthew, I don't know what to do!" and she proceeded to tell him the story.

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"I've news," Edward announced, walking into Matthew's office at the Carey Street branch of Harvell and Carter, from where he was working for two days that week. It was six o'clock. Alex had let Edward in: all the other staff had already gone home.

"Our favourite newspaperman?" Matthew straightened up, capping his elegant black and gold Parker safety pen and placing it back in its case.

Edward nodded and flopped into the seat on the other side of Matthew's desk. "They've announced the date for the trial. Finally!" he grinned. "April the Seventh. Seems that Howard and Hunter have exhausted all their options to delay it any further," he smirked. "Although we shouldn't complain, of course given what a godsend these extra months have turned out to be for us!"

"No we shouldn't," Matthew grinned, but then he frowned. "April 7? Dear God, that's the same week Mary's due!"

Eddie's face fell. "Oh my goodness. I hope this news doesn't upset her then." Whilst he had never been party to the exact details, he knew that Carlisle held information she continued to fret he might disclose.

"With a bit of luck, she will be too focused on the birth to worry," Matthew pursed his lips. Let's hope so anyway, he thought with a pang. At least there was a date, and if they were lucky, an end in sight to the shadow the family had been living under for such a long time. But as seemed the pattern now, the unfortunate timing signalled yet another ugly intrusion of the affair into their lives.

"And how is the case looking?" he asked, wanting a distraction from his concern over the trial date. He began sorting the papers on his desk. "I've been so caught up with this latest merger I haven't had a chance to look through what you sent us."

"Good. Very good!" Eddie responded, his face lighting up. "Whoever was our source with that last lot of evidence has done us a huge favour. And likewise, the mystery solicitor Mary's Uncle got acting for you through that intermediary. Managed to substantiate a lot of what she found out in New York with a very thorough set of statements and documentation," Eddie paused. "You know Crawley, I really think we will see the whole damn lot of them go down for war treason. It's a very tight case. Very tight indeed," and he proceeded to fill Matthew in on the details. Edward was part way through describing the evidence tying Lord Doncourt to the armaments company currently being investigated by the United States Congress for wartime corruption when Alex poked his head in.

"Ready to go, chaps? I want out of here," he entered, already wearing his hat and greatcoat.

"Listen to the end of this whilst I sort this final lot of files," Matthew answered. "And can you pass me my briefcase while you're at it," he added.

"Carlisle?" Alex raised an eyebrow and they both nodded. He brought Matthew's briefcase across to the desk and sat down next to Edward. His eyes widened when Eddie explained just how wide the net was cast that had enabled Lord Doncourt and his cronies to rake in well over a million pounds of illegal profits. An elaborate scheme, which amongst other criminal acts, had seen chemicals and nickel for use in arms manufacture shipped to Germany via Switzerland, a false paper trail making the shipments appear legitimate. "And they used their shareholdings in various newspapers to stifle publication of the scheme when journalists here and on the continent got a sniff of it," Edward finished.

"And then Carlisle got in on it all," Matthew explained to Alex. "Quite why he did is anybody's guess. Must have been money. But perhaps something else? Keeping hush hush on information is one thing. But having his top war correspondent abuse his position to seek out and then pass on classified military information to the Germans is quite another." The three of them looked at each other.

"Carlisle is a horrible piece of work," Matthew continued. "But Mary has always maintained this was beyond anything she could ever imagine him doing. And Kenneth Watson of course, who until this had held an unsullied reputation."

"We may never find out you know," Alex remarked. "Unless whatever it turns out to be is material to his confession, assuming, of course, that after all this he goes through with it."

"Don't remind me," Matthew groaned. "I still worry he'll change his mind. And renege on the promise he made to us about Mary."

"I don't think that's going to happen," Edward replied. "He knows what we have. And that we'll hand it all over if he doesn't. And more than that, confessing is his one chance at avoiding the death sentence. Try not to worry old chap."

Matthew ran his hand through his hair and sighed. He knew Eddie was probably right, but the matter continued to vex him, and he was resigned to the fact that it would remain vexing until it was all well and truly over. His head was beginning to hurt.

"How about we go now, eh?" he rubbed the spot on his forehead between his eyes. "I think I've had enough speculating about all of this for the night. And Eddie wants to join us for a drink."

"Marvellous!" Alex grinned. "If that's the case, should we go somewhere a little more upmarket than our usual?" he glanced at Edward. "Turn it into dinner? Clarissa's out."

"What do you class as upmarket?" Eddie raised an eyebrow: his and Alex's perceptions of 'upmarket' differed rather wildly.

"My club," Alex said promptly. "It's Thursday night and they put on a French meal. There's an excellent wine list." Matthew shot Edward a sideways "I told you so" grin as he shut the lid of his briefcase. Boodles was one of the more exclusive of London's gentlemen's clubs, offering a dining experience that was the envy of the very best of the City's hotels. And whilst their friendship with Alex had long afforded them many such indulgences, the novelty of being guests at that particular establishment had never quite worn off.

"But what about my clothes?" Eddie frowned looking down at his navy herring- bone suit and flamboyant paisley necktie. "It's a long way across town to fetch my dinner jacket."

"You can borrow my spare," Alex replied. Knowing his friend was tired, he walked around the desk to Matthew and slid an arm under his shoulders to help him to his feet. He handed him his sticks. "You all right just with these?" he asked.

"I should be," Matthew replied. "We're taking a cab, right?"

"Yep," Alex picked up Matthew's briefcase. "In case you hadn't noticed, it's raining," he grinned, and the three of them left the office together. Matthew was getting better at knowing his limits. He could manage at the office without needing his chair but risk any distance on foot and he would be wiped out the next day. And he had learned not to refuse help, which Alex in Barrow's absence had come to know exactly when to offer: the more energy he could conserve the better.

A few hours later, and fortified by a superb bottle of Bordeaux Chateau Latour Cabernet sauvignon, the Boodles dinner conversation of the three friends soon turned to women. Alex was keen to share news Clarissa had received a letter from her former university hall saying that Oxford was shortly to decide whether or not to confer its degrees to women.

"Which way do they think it will go?" Matthew asked. He still remembered the awkwardness of the day they had all graduated: Clarissa, despite outclassing a number of them in examinations, had been forced to stand by and watch as Alex and Matthew and their group of friends were awarded their degrees. She had been very gracious about it, joining in with the accolades they had received from the attending families and friends, but they all knew she was bitterly disappointed.

"In favour of the women students," Alex replied. "At long last. All that lobbying and agitating she and the others did seems finally to be paying off."

"Thank goodness for that," Eddie scowled. "It has been very unfair. The same study, the same examinations. For goodness sakes! The University of London has been conferring degrees for women students since the 1870's."

"Well, if it does come off, let's make sure we're all there when she gets it," Matthew vowed, and he raised his glass. "To Clarissa, and hoping the University Council sees sense!" and the other two grinned and raised their wine glasses to follow suit.

"I was sorry not to see her tonight," Edward commented a few minutes later. "She's been promising to show me that essay she had published in the Oxford Magazine on the poetry of Thomas Hardy."

"Well as chance has it, the very reason she's not home is that she's out with her women's writing group!" Alex said with a hint of pride.

"Fellow students from Oxford?" Edward looked immediately interested.

"Some of them," Alex thought of the women he knew were involved.

"Do they hold events, you know, poetry reading and such like?" Edward persisted.

"As a matter of fact, they do. Usually every other month. Alternate around each other's houses. Why? You looking for inspiration to pen something yourself?" Alex asked.

"No! But… well," Edward paused. "Any of them single?" and Alex and Matthew burst out laughing.

"So that's what's behind this!" Alex chortled, but he and Matthew abruptly stopped laughing when they saw the look on Edward's face. For Eddie was lonely. Early on in his war service, he had been heartbroken to receive a letter from his fiancé calling off their engagement: Escaping the spectre of the war, the family had emigrated to America where she had fallen in love with a Boston shipping merchant. Brutal as they had been, the years of war had proved a blessed distraction but now, with the war over and his life back to a semblance of normality again, he felt the loss acutely.

"What about that girl who was keen on you at work?" Matthew asked.

"That's the problem," Edward shook his head. "She's keen. I'm not! She, well… Oh for god's sake chaps. I need a smart woman. Like you both have. Charlotte's nice enough but she's not in that league." Edward frowned and took a large gulp of his wine.

"You know what, old boy," Alex said a little while later. "I'm pretty sure we're hosting the next writing soiree. How about you come along? And while we're on it, I never did answer your earlier question. Yes! A good number of them are still single."

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"Ohh," Clarissa exclaimed in delight as Mary showed her through to the Vicarage conservatory, the high-ceilinged space so thronged with lush foliage that she felt as if she had been transported to the tropics. "We are in England, aren't we?" Clarissa said, looking eagerly around.

"Alas it is only Yorkshire," Mary answered. "But if you must know, you have only yourself to blame!" she smirked. "We were so taken by the wonderful things in your conservatory at Chester Square that we were compelled to create an indoor garden of our own!"

"Well, you have done an excellent job," Clarissa ran an approving eye over the twin Grecian urns that overflowed with pink and white pelargoniums either side of the French windows. She could just detect their sharp scent beneath the fume of jasmine.

"We were lucky to find a good designer," Mary explained. "And our gardener had a background in indoor plants as well as outdoor. Just as well, as neither of us knew much at all!"

"We had a head start where all of that was concerned," Clarissa reflected, as Mary told her how the installation of the conservatory plantings had only just finished. "The vast majority of our specimens were sourced in the sub-tropics and brought to England by Alex's Grandfather many years ago. He was a true plantsman in the very best Victorian tradition," she reminisced. "Many pages in his diaries on each plant and what is required to care for them! All we have had to do has been to follow his instructions and it has certainly worked to maintain what he began, tiresome as it may be at times!"

"Tiresome my dear?" Alex questioned wryly. "You seem to take great joy in the hours you spend in there clipping and tidying and re-arranging! Honestly, I think sometimes, sack the gardener, you give him so precious little to do!"

"Perhaps. But until you and I finally settle on a property with a decent bit of land, I will continue to while away the hours in our indoor jungle," Clarissa replied, an unexpected edge to her voice.

"Which is why you are here, is it not?" Matthew said a little too hastily, and Mary surmised that her husband must have found himself in the middle of more than one such conversation concerning the couple's future living arrangements during his time at their London residence.

"It is," Clarissa replied the edge to her voice still there. "Finally a property we both might like," she rolled her eyes at Alex who gave a non-committal shrug.

"Well, do tell us about it," Mary said brightly, finding herself mirroring her husband in trying to placate the pair.

"It's Newton Hall, on the River Ouse," Alex explained.

"I think I know the place," Mary frowned. "Isn't it between Ripon and York?"

Clarissa nodded. "That's the one!"

"What a surprise! I had no idea it was on the market," Mary said. "The Stanford's have had that property in their family for generations!"

"Well, it isn't," Alex, replied. "But Lord Stanford is a friend of my fathers, and the last few months he has done nothing but talk about his worries for it, and his preference to up sticks and take a smaller home perhaps in Leeds or York. His wife, apparently, has been a lot more reluctant. Worried about what will become of her horses."

"Which is why he asked that we come up to visit," Clarissa chimed in. "Alex's father told him of my interest in a property set up for horses, and he got very keen. He then asked if we might meet with him and her together, hoping that if she heard our plans and our willingness to take it on as a going concern, she just might be reassured enough to want to sell up."

"It sounds a long stretch," Mary looked dubious. "She's not the most straightforward person to deal with," she said, remembering something Cora had once remarked about Lady Esther Stanford and her unpredictability. She stared at Clarissa and Alex for a moment, thinking. "You know, if you are looking for somewhere a little easier to obtain, you could make Papa an offer for Downton Place. It's in Eryholme, up near Durham," Mary ventured. "It has a fine set of stables."

Matthew cleared his throat. "My dear," his tone was slightly apologetic. "I did suggest that a while back," realising as he said it that he had never thought to tell his wife that he had done so.

"It is very kind of you to offer," Alex said quickly, as Mary fixed her husband with an indignant stare. "But like we told Matthew and Robert, we both felt it was a little too far north. We want to be within easy reach of both Ripon and York for my work. And to be closer to you both of course."

His placating tone mollified Mary somewhat, although she was still annoyed. Yet again something else that Matthew had said or done without her knowledge in the months they had been living apart: this time going so far as to involve her father! She was tempted to say something uncharitable, but then she remembered with a pang how she had hardly been much better: the choice of their kitchen range had been a case in point. Daisy, worried about the modern gas stoves many of the big houses were installing, had convinced Mary to instead equip the Vicarage kitchen with a new coal range.

"Why not a gas stove?" Matthew had said crossly when he found out. "It's much cleaner burning. And a lot less work!"

"It wasn't what Daisy wanted," Mary had shot back defensively.

"I cannot believe you took a young Cook's advice and went ahead and purchased such an expensive household item without consulting me!" Matthew had growled. "What's going to happen in a few short years when she suddenly realises the convenience of gas and demands we upgrade? Money doesn't grow on trees!"

"Says the man who is fast becoming one of the most highly paid lawyers in the north," Mary had rolled her eyes continuing to attack rather than admit they should have talked.

"That's not the point!" Matthew had protested. "Purchasing such an item takes time and consideration! Not a hurried chat with an inexperienced young cook!"

That had really set her off. "How dare you say it was hurried! It wasn't! We looked through a number of catalogues, and Daisy consulted with several of the cooks she knows in the district," Mary put her hands on her hips. "And since you are such a know-it-all on the subject of cooking, next time you be the one to try and convince Daisy her suspicions about gas stoves and their explosive vapours are all in her head!" And in her pregnant magnificence, she had turned on her heel and sailed out, leaving Matthew fuming.

Reflecting on it all now, she felt a little ashamed. She gave a heavy sigh and twisted her handkerchief. She knew such conflicts were inevitable when a busy couple were forced to spend so much time apart. Never again, she vowed. We must never be apart for so long again.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, she focused back on the conversation going on around her. Clarissa was still on the subject of horses.

"And of course this property gives us so much more than just well-equipped stables," she was saying. "Some rare breeds and experienced staff would be part of the package."

"So you are going to establish a stud farm?" Mary asked, realising she had missed something.

"That's the plan," Clarissa's voice was enthusiastic. "I've wanted to breed race horses since I was a girl."

"Well you will enjoy meeting Lynch then when we go up to the stables," Mary remarked. "He worked for a horse breeder for many years before coming to us." The chime from the clock made her look up. "Oh goodness. Speak of the devil. We'd better ready ourselves to go. He's expecting us in under an hour."

0-0-0-0-0-0

Patrick James Strallan was born shortly after midnight on February 9, 1920.

Being more than two weeks late, and with his mother then forced to endure a long and exhausting labour, it was with more relief than joy that the extended family finally greeted the young infant, who was a little grey and thin from his long gestation when at last he arrived. But within days he had become the apple of the eye of not only his doting parents but also his very proud Grandparents, who were soon finding any little excuse to travel to Loxley to spend time with the youngster, even if it were simply to gaze at him adoringly as he slept.

From the outset, he was a settled lad, and Edith took to motherhood with an ease that amazed her own mother, Cora, who had expected to see Edith struggle and complain at the demands the infant made upon her.

Instead, Cora could not help but feel pleased when she saw how her daughter doted on her precious bundle, handing him over to nanny only with considerable reluctance when it came time for her to see to her own rest. Anthony, too, was in his element, loving nothing more than to nestle his young son against his shoulder and walk him to and fro whilst humming a lullaby when the child began to fuss.

For Sybil too, helping out the new mother proved a most welcome distraction: she had been spending her weekends at Downton, the Vicarage or with the Strallan's since she had farewelled Tom on his work trip to Ireland, and she found herself constantly worried. The political unrest had continued to intensify in the time he had been away as tensions arose ahead of the second reading of the Government of Ireland Bill in the British Parliament.

"Now I understand how it was for you and Mary, those awful years your men were away fighting," she said worriedly to Edith one morning having just read of another violent skirmish between the revolutionaries and the RIC in yet another Irish county.

"Tom knows his country. And he'll not take unnecessary risks," Edith tried to reassure her, but Sybil remained unconvinced, and she was dismayed a few weeks later to receive a rare telephone call one Friday at work the day before Tom was due to return. He had told her, apologetically, that in light of the political situation his paper had asked that he extend his visit a further month, so valuable was the intelligence he was managing to gather for The Herald and its readers.

"I'm going to go mad with worry," Sybil wrung her hands, pacing about the Vicarage drawing-room late that evening. Barrow had just served her and Matthew a nightcap. Mary had gone to bed some hours earlier, exhausted after her busy week. Her confinement was now imminent, and she was busily trying to tidy things up.

"I can't bear being at home without him but when I'm here there's precious little to do, especially now Edith has her routine sorted," Sybil continued, still pacing. "I'm tempted to turn up at the hospital tomorrow and volunteer! Emptying bedpans would be preferable to this!"

Matthew, who was about to take another sip of his whisky, put his drink down and looked up at her. "Are you serious about wanting something to do?" he asked intently.

"Yes! Anything that will take my mind off Tom and that awful situation over there," her tone was plaintive.

"Did Mary tell you what was going on for Mr Cooke?" Matthew continued. "And what she's trying to engineer to improve his housing situation?"

Sybil shook her head, and Matthew quickly explained. "And just yesterday she was worried about who she could get to supervise the builders so that the alterations will work for him properly," he finished. "She was going to go down in the morning with some information from Doctor Clarkson, but what he's given her isn't very detailed. How about you do it instead? This is your area after all!"

"Oh! I'd love to. I wonder why she hasn't asked me earlier? I helped her with what we did here for you. I can't believe she has forgotten that!"

"Mary's got so much on her mind right now she doesn't always think clearly," Matthew explained. "But I'm hardly much better," he grimaced. "Anyway. Of course, you should be the one doing it. And while you're at it, talk with Mr Brougham about the other tenant properties housing wounded men. He could do with some advice on his plans for sorting them out as well."

0-0-0-0-0-0

Looking forward to the family's planned trip to Duneagle for Shrimpie's 60th birthday provided Mary with a welcome distraction now that she was into her confinement. She was missing going into the office, and despite there being plenty to do equipping and decorating the nursery, and advertising for a nanny and the last few staff they had still to employ, she felt restless and a little irritable. The trip would give her a welcome change of scenery and do her a world of good she thought.

But as the date of their departure drew closer, Matthew wasn't so convinced.

"Are you sure we should be going?" he asked her suddenly, the night before they were due to depart. Mary had had three uncomfortable nights in a row, and he worried how she would find the long trip north.

"I want to," Mary was vehement. "I haven't been to Duneagle since before the war, and to be honest, I've been struggling a bit, cooped up here for my confinement whilst you go happily off to work each day," she made a face. "This way I at least get to spend a precious week with my husband!"

"But what about Edith? It's still early days for her. Won't she miss having you around?" Matthew persisted.

"Edith, in case you hadn't noticed," Mary said drily, "Is coping very well! She barely lets her nanny do anything, and to be frank, Anthony is not much better. He seems completely charmed by the child. I've no doubt they will enjoy the chance to have their infant just to themselves for a while!"

"Oh, all right," Matthew, said at last. "I had been looking forward to it too. I just worry about you, my darling, travelling this late in your pregnancy."

As it turned out, Matthew was right to have worried. Barely three days into their time at Duneagle and Shrimpie's birthday celebration imminent, Mary announced suddenly to Matthew that she wished to return home. Her feet were swollen, she hadn't managed much sleep at all in the different bed, and the company of Susan was becoming an ordeal.

"You don't think you can manage another day to be here when Shrimpie celebrates?" Matthew frowned. The two of them were taking luncheon together on the grand terrace.

Mary shook her head. "I really don't. I will be sad to miss it but I can't continue like this," tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. She wasn't sure quite how to express why she wished to return immediately, nor just how badly out of sorts she felt. Frustrated, she bit out, "You've been able to escape! I so wish I could have been out riding with you and Shrimpie and Papa. Instead, I've suffered hour after hour of hearing Susan's monologue of her latest tiff with her husband and her worries that Rose is out of control!" Mary blinked rapidly. "I'm beginning to think she has no redeeming aspect to her person at all! It's almost like she wants to spoil his celebration this weekend!" her voice rose.

"Keep your voice down!" Matthew hissed, looking around. "She won't spoil it when she must be the hostess, surely!"

"You have more faith than I," Mary rolled her eyes. "You know, if I was Rose I think I would be out of control too with her for a mother," she scowled.

"Now, now," Matthew chided. "Don't be like that! Susan will have her reasons for this deep unhappiness. And we won't be party to what they are. It never pays to judge someone else's marriage from the outside."

"Why do I get the feeling you are parroting your mother?" Mary grumbled. Matthew shrugged. "Perhaps I am. So?" he looked at her with a wry expression.

"Oh, pfft," Mary threw her hands up in the air. "But I am going to go home. Anna is going to ride into town this afternoon to organise the train tickets."

"Well. If you are returning, then of course so shall I," Matthew said firmly.

"No!" Mary said equally firmly. "Stay here and represent our family for the remainder of Shrimpie's special week. And enjoy your first ever Ghillies ball! You've been so busy with your work again. And when the baby comes it's only going to get worse!"

"I'll do no such thing," Matthew said flatly. "I'm coming back with you. Ask Anna to purchase additional tickets for me and Barrow."

"But Matthew…" Mary began to protest. She frowned at him for a long moment, but the look in Matthew's eyes brokered no argument. "Very well," she sighed and conceded defeat. He would be returning with her. And deep down, she was secretly pleased.

Matthew's insistence he return with his wife was met with dismay. Shrimpie had been enjoying his company immensely, and even Susan seemed a little lighter and less dour with the talkative young man around.

Robert was initially disappointed, but then strangely pleased. He had grown to admire the way his son-in-law so often put the needs of his wife ahead of gentlemanly indulgences, something, he had come to realise a little uncomfortably, he hadn't done to quite the same extent in his own marriage. Catching him privately that evening, Robert said, "I'm sorry you are having to cut your holiday short like this. But of course, you must be with Mary. It is always hard for a woman this late in pregnancy. She will appreciate your company on the trip back in particular."

Matthew smiled. "Thank you for understanding Robert. I just hope Shrimpie doesn't feel too badly of us returning so early."

"Of course he doesn't. But he will miss the conversations with you about his experience at the first meeting of the League of Nations. It's not often he has someone so interested in it, nor a man quite so well informed!" He contemplated his son-in-law for a moment. "Perhaps I'll see if we can invite them all to Downton over the summer," he ventured. "Might give you a little more time to explain your rather more cautious view of the potential of the League of Nations to him in a more convincing manner!"

Matthew chuckled. "I would like that very much. Shrimpie is a wonderful enthusiast for the League, but with the hurdles it still has to overcome before America ratifies, I'm hedging bets for the moment."

"Hedging bets?" the men looked up to see Shrimpie approaching them with a smile on his face.

"Robert was just reminding me we still have much to talk about on the matter of the League of Nations," Matthew grinned. "He's cooking up a plan to get you to Downton in a few months time."

"Well well. I shall eagerly await such an invite. And Matthew. It's been a pleasure. I'm sorry we can't do that ride up onto the fells I'd told you about. You must come back. Next Easter perhaps?" he looked at Matthew expectantly.

"Mary and I would like that very much," Matthew replied, pleased. Duneagle's lush beauty had delighted him: the drifts of bluebells in its woodlands; the gentle music of the River Aray as its waters tumbled and bounced down the rapids; and the stunning views across Loch Fyne. "It is so very beautiful here. You really do have it all," he remarked enthusiastically.

He was surprised to see Shrimpie's face cloud. "It has its good points, of which the setting is one. But…" his voice trailed off. "Oh, never mind. How about a wee dram, we must toast each other and the coming birth of your first child Matthew," and he rang the bell for McCree.

0-0-0-0-0-0

The train trip back started off well, but midway in their journey, Mary's nagging backache began to worsen. And when the discomfort turned to unmistakable waves of pain an hour out from their arrival at Downton, Matthew called for the conductor to fetch Anna through from the third class carriage, and upon her arrival, she saw straight away that her lady was in the early stages of labour.

"M'Lady," she said firmly. "When we arrive we need to go straight to the hospital all right? I think your baby has decided that it is time!"

"Now?" Mary looked aghast, reaching for Matthew's hand. "I've still a month to go!"

"That may be. But little ones don't always abide by the rules!" Anna tucked a cushion behind Mary's back to give her a little more support.

Matthew looked equally aghast: An early baby? Would it be all right? And was everything ready? And why now, when Cora was back up in Scotland! And when was Mother due back? Was it yesterday? He couldn't remember what she had said. Oh, my goodness. How were they going to manage? Mother, please, please be back from visiting your cousin!

Another pain overcame Mary and she clutched Matthew's hand even tighter. "Lots of deep breaths, m'Lady," Anna said reassuringly. "We're not too far away!"

"And thank goodness for that," Matthew said fervently, his anxiety level climbing every time his wife experienced another pain.

"How do you know these things?" Mary remarked a short time later, as, after a particularly sharp pain, Anna suggested she stand, as it would help to ease her discomfort. Anna stood alongside to steady her against the rocking of the train.

"I mean, I should, of course," Mary continued. "I helped with birthing women who were unwell when I was a VAD at the hospital," she took another deep breath, "but they were all well into labour and had complications, so I never saw what happened in the early stages."

"I am an older child in a family of ten, m'Lady," Anna replied, holding Mary's elbow firmly as the train went around a curve. "Me and my sister attended at the birth of the two youngest. And we also had to help our Aunt with a couple of hers. No such thing as going to a lying-in hospital for our sort!"

"Oh," Mary was a little amazed to hear just how much Anna had seen. It was rare that she ever spoke of her childhood. But on the other hand, Mary realised with a sudden pang, how often had she asked her maid and friend about her early years?

"Well of course," she said brightly to cover her embarrassment. "You are a woman of experience! And I'd love to hear more about that," she winced and doubled over as another wave of pain began. "But perhaps not now!"

When the train arrived, Barrow hurried to find Robert's Chauffeur Mr Brickell and organised for him to drive Mary and Anna immediately to the hospital and then come back for the luggage.

Returning to the station platform, he found Matthew waiting for him by the station office. The conductor who had witnessed what was unfolding had helped him out of the carriage and accompanied him along the platform to see to their luggage.

"The station staff will keep an eye on our trunks until Brickell can see them home," Matthew informed his Valet. "You and I need to get up to the hospital."

They quickly decided going on foot would be faster than waiting for Brickell, and Barrow retrieved Matthew's wheelchair and brought it over to him.

"Did Mary get to the motor all right?" Matthew asked worriedly as they left the station, Barrow pushing him a little faster than usual.

"She did, Sir," Barrow reassured him. "Remarkably calm, all things considered! Anna helped of course. She's plenty of experience where birthing is concerned."

Shortly after they arrived, Anna came out to meet them in the waiting room. "Mr Crawley, Sir," she began. "Lady Mary's waters have broken. The baby is not going to be long! Do you know if Mrs Crawley is back from her trip? Lady Mary is asking for her. And she also asked if you could call her Ladyship."

What Anna did not say, not wanting to further alarm the already anxious Mr Crawley was that Dr Clarkson was still out tending a farm emergency, and Doctor Green, the only other medic on duty, had been called away minutes before they had arrived to attend a birth on the other side of the village.

Matthew gave a sharp intake of breath. "Of course. Thank you, Anna!" He reached for his sticks and stood up, returning to the reception desk to ask to use the telephone. Starting first with a call to Crawley House, he was enormously relieved that his mother was indeed back from her trip. Isobel promised to come as soon as she could. And now, Cora: Surprised at his own nervousness, Matthew had to work at keeping his voice calm as he asked the operator to put a call through to Duneagle, and to transfer the charge to the Vicarage. One of Shrimpie's footmen answered, and it was a few minutes before he was able to locate Cora and put her on the line. Cora was at once thrilled and concerned and promised to get herself on the next possible train.

Returning to the waiting room, Barrow was the only one there. "Would you like me to go home and organise the unpacking, or wait here with you Sir," he asked.

"Wait with me," Matthew felt a little lost. He sat back down in his chair. It was very different to how it had been with Edith: her labour had been long; at various points it had seemed the entire family had been keeping vigil: he had spent the final evening enjoying convivial conversation and more than a few glasses of Anthony's finest claret in the masculine, but comfortable drawing room at Loxley before the happy news was relayed downstairs to the men shortly before midnight.

The antiseptic white of the Downton hospital waiting room made a stark contrast, and there were no books, and no whisky or other tipple to hasten away the time.

He sighed and drummed his fingers together. "Barrow. What on earth am I supposed to do?"

"It's not a matter with which I am familiar," his Valet replied, his lips twitching ever so slightly. "But from what I hear it's a waiting game for the man, and hard work for the lady!"

Matthew chuckled in spite of his nerves. They chatted a bit, and at one point Barrow went in search of tea for them both, but most of the time was spent in tense silence.

Matthew was very pleased when his mother arrived, and she promised to check on Mary and then come back and let him know how she was going. She was smiling when she returned. "It's going very well. And it won't be too long now. Mary might ask for you. Will you want to be with her if she does?"

"Of course!" Matthew spluttered. "Will the Doctor allow it?"

"The Doctor isn't there, Matthew," Isobel replied brightly. "The duty midwife, Miss Dunne, is there, and she will take her instructions from the patient."

"Where is he?" Matthew was shocked to hear his wife had no Doctor in attendance.

"Attending an emergency at the Drewe farm I understand. A farm hand was crushed when a cattle beast was being moved," Isobel's face fell. "Don't worry, my dear. Miss Dunne is highly experienced. As am I, remember," she chided gently.

Matthew heard Mary cry out for him, followed by a blood-curdling shriek a couple of hours later.

He went pale and looked at Barrow. "Go!" said Barrow, gesturing the corridor, and Matthew needed no further encouragement. He arrived at the door to her room just as Isobel was opening it to come and fetch him.

"Take her hand," she instructed. "And for god's sake keep calm," she motioned him into the room and walked quickly back to where she had been supporting Mary.

"Matthew, thank god you're here," Mary said hoarsely. She was sitting, legs apart, on the edge of the bed her face red from exertion, and her hair untidy about her face. She was trembling like a leaf. She let out another bellow of pain as another contraction began, leaning back against Anna, and Isobel who was saying encouragingly, "Breath Mary! That's my girl!"

Matthew, meanwhile, had positioned himself on Mary's other side. The contractions were coming quickly now, and every time one came she shrieked and squeezed his hand so hard he half expected it to break. He was at once both alarmed and amazed. Here she was. His storm braver! Enduring pain that looked to him at least as bad as what he had suffered early in his return critically injured from the war. But going with it. Unafraid! Pain for something good.

Things began to happen, and Miss Dunne was saying calmly, "Lady Mary, it's time to push. Now my dear! One, two, three…" Matthew couldn't believe she could shriek so loud, and his heart went out to her as he saw how much more intense it had suddenly become. She was holding tight to both his hands now.

"And again!" said Miss Dunne, who was down on her knees now checking Mary's progress, towels at the ready. "Your baby is almost here," and then after one last huge effort from Mary, Miss Dunne exclaimed and Mary fell back exhausted.

And then there was another noise. A soft mewling noise and Miss Dunne was lifting a wriggling baby up and gently wiping the blood from its face. She wrapped the child, umbilical cord still attached, in a soft cloth.

"Lady Mary, Mr Crawley," she said softly. "You have a baby son!" and as soon as Isobel and Anna had Mary settled comfortably back against the pillows on the bed, she placed the infant on Mary's chest.

"Oh my darling," Mary murmured looking at her son her eyes wide with delight. "Welcome to the world!" And elated, thrilled and a little tearful, the new parents held each other and gazed rapturously at their new arrival.

Barely minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and Doctor Clarkson hurried in. "How is the progress?" he said worriedly. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here!" The frown on his face changed to surprise when he saw Matthew, and then pleasure when he realised the baby had been safely delivered.

"Doctor Clarkson," Miss Dunne was smiling widely. "All is well. Very well indeed! And here," she waved the scissors she had just uplifted from her tray. "You are just in time to cut the baby's cord!"

"I would be honoured," Doctor Clarkson smiled back.

When, a few hours later, the birth process and all that necessarily followed was at last complete, Mary and Matthew found themselves alone with their son. Matthew was entranced watching his son nursing at Mary's breast, and he chuckled when the infant broke off, gave a little snuffle followed by a delightful little yawn and promptly fell asleep. "My dearest little chap," Matthew reached to gently stroke his forehead. "I don't think you have any idea how much joy you have brought us!"

Mary pulled her shawl around her shoulders to cover herself and rearranged the baby more comfortably in the crook of her arm. "So very true!" she said softly "And just think how much joy you will bring the rest of your family as well!" she looked down at the child lovingly. "Your Grand Papa for one," she placed a finger in his tiny hand and smiled as his perfect digits wrapped around it. She looked at Matthew. "We've done our duty. Haven't we, Matthew? Downton is safe. Papa will be dancing a jig when he hears!"

"I'm dancing a jig! I feel like I swallowed a box of fireworks," the words caught in Matthew's throat, and he gazed at Mary, his blue eyes very bright. "You are going to be such a wonderful mother. Do you ever wonder how happy you've made me? I fall more in love with you with every day that passes," he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

"And you, my darling, have made me very happy too. And now look at what we have made together. We are a family now, Matthew!" Mary's eyes shone.

"I had the fun part. It is you who has done all the work," he quipped mischievously, and Mary giggled. "Oh, you are so very naughty, Mr Crawley! But yes! On this matter, I have done the lion's share. And for that, I think I've earned a decent kiss!"

"You most certainly have," her husband murmured, and he leant across and began to give her a very decent and very long kiss indeed.

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The early weeks with their new infant passed by in a blur of exhaustion and extreme happiness. Neither of them was prepared for the depth of love they would feel for what they regarded as their miracle child. They were unfazed by the interrupted nights being well used to broken sleep after the intense years of the war. And besides: what could be more pleasurable than waking to care for such a gorgeous little bundle that rewarded them with bright eyes and soft cooing?

After much to and fro, they settled on the names George Reginald, and on a still, grey spring morning, they gathered at the baptismal font in the village church for his Christening, returning afterwards for a celebratory morning tea at the Vicarage.

With Isobel's support and encouragement, Mary chose to continue to nurse George herself breaking with the tradition her mother and Grandmother had followed of assigning the task early to a wet nurse. Cora was initially disapproving, but after seeing the sheer joy and delight that Mary took in nursing her son, she changed her mind and became quite supportive of her daughter's efforts.

Matthew found it extremely difficult to leave them each morning for the office, and he loved nothing more than being part of George's bedtime routine when he returned each night.

Mrs Johnson, George's nanny, was initially taken aback by the close attention George got from his father, and Matthew's eagerness to help with all the baby tasks. He'd even insisted on learning to change his nappies, saying that as he and Mary took responsibility for George overnight, he had better know what to do. But secretly she was pleased to see such a doting father. "It's rare, that is," she said to Daisy and Anna, over luncheon one day in the Vicarage's sunny kitchen. "Most gentlemen have as little to do with their children as possible until they're walking and talking!"

"Mr Crawley's not most gentlemen," said Anna with a grin. "And I'll bet you. George will be a far better boy for it."

"I do believe you're right me lass," said Mrs Johnson. "Me own husband Archie, he liked to be hands-on with the bairns, and we're pleased as punch with our two loving sons, grown up as they are now," she said with pride.

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Sybil and Tom's reunion at Euston station one Friday late in March was a very happy one. Thrilled to see each other they hugged and laughed and exclaimed as the throngs moved around them on the platform.

"Just look at you!" Tom stood back and surveyed her admiringly. "You've got a new outfit!" he ran an approving eye over the well-cut blue coat and matching hat and shoes his wife was wearing. Sybil giggled. "One of the advantages of Mary needing something to do before the baby came," she explained. "She made me sit down with Esther Pearson for her to design me a new outfit. And then she took me to York to buy matching shoes!"

"Well it's truly lovely," Tom gave her an impulsive kiss. "That shade of blue shows off your eyes beautifully," he paused. "Speaking of Mary, I can't wait to see the new baby."

"Well, you won't have to wait long," Sybil replied. "We're going up to the Vicarage on the last train this evening. I checked with your work, and your next shift isn't until Tuesday," and linking arms, they headed towards the front of the train to retrieve Tom's luggage.

It was on that following Tuesday that Tom's colleague Jonty sauntered up to him at lunchtime and said, "You free for a catch-up? Something's coming up I thought you should know about," and mystified, Tom, fetched his hat and coat and the two men headed for the public house on the next street corner.

"It's in connection with Sir Richard Carlisle's trial," Jonty began in a low voice immediately the pair had taken their seats. "Very hush hush. If you look at the roster, you'll see all of us are down to work the night before. But the boss won't say why. He got cagey when I asked."

"How do you even know?" Tom asked intently.

"A man I've never seen before went into his office two days ago. I heard him mention Carlisle just as Lansbury was closing the door, so of course, my ears pricked up. And after he left, Lansbury went straight to Miss Wells to talk about the roster."

"Hmm," Tom frowned. Jonty had an uncanny way of knowing when something was up. "What's the word on the street?"

"Well, Benson thinks something similar is up at The Guardian," Jonty grinned. "Because a whole lot of their news staff had their rosters changed too! He said he's putting money on Carlisle changing his plea. But Lord knows why of course."

Tom gulped and an odd feeling came over him. Was it possible? Even remotely plausible that the investigations Matthew and Mary had done into Carlisle last year had something to do with this? He really wasn't sure. He hadn't seen them mention the man for so long now. Not since the awful affair with Robert. No. Surely not. But the odd feeling persisted and he felt strangely uncomfortable.

"What is it, Branson?" Jonty grinned. "See a ghost? You've gone all serious!"

"What? Oh. Nope. This business just reminded me of how careful I had to be in Ireland with the information I got. Clean desk, locking files and all that!" he raised an eyebrow.

"Yep. Well, I'm all ears," Jonty smirked. "Quite a coup you got, two months in a hotel and all your meals paid! And I heard from Smithy you got chased by the Black and Tans! And then your photographs saw them charged with assault!"

"Aye," Tom grinned. "Something like that, although it wasn't me who got beaten up," he frowned. "Thugs they are. Do you know that? War damaged, I'll bet. A pretty sick way to employ former soldiers if you ask me," he scowled. "Sending them to Ireland to make trouble! But don't talk about it outside of work, will you? Sybil doesn't know, and I'd like to keep it that way."

0-0-0-0-0-0

As the week of Carlisle's trial approached, Matthew felt his anxiety begin to climb again. The combination of broken sleep, a heavy workload and extra duties helping out with the estate decision making in Mary's absence was beginning to wear him down. Even news from Lord Gillingham that Mr Green had finally agreed to make a statement that added further to the evidence against the Marquess of Doncourt did little to cheer him.

Mary, to his relief, was a lot less worried: she seemed genuinely not to care, so focused she was on their new child.

No wonder then that he ended up unwell. Here he was. At home, in bed, nursing a heavy cold on the first day of Carlisle's trial. Trust that it had to be this week, he thought darkly. He had been looking forward to it. Closure at last on the tawdry affair that had dragged on for more than a year now.

Barrow had sent him to bed, insisting he stay there until he was properly well. "You can't risk this going to your chest, Sir," he had said firmly when Matthew had protested.

"As if!" Matthew had grumbled. "This is a head cold, through and through," and even as he said it he felt another sneeze coming on.

But now, into the third day, and still feeling very much under the weather, he was glad of Barrow's caution. He had a dull headache and his eyes hurt. And he was missing George: Despite Mary suggesting a cuddle would be all right, Matthew hadn't let her bring him in: he didn't want to risk his precious young son catching what he had. All in all, he felt very grumpy and sorry for himself.

Barrow had left him a cup of tea and the morning paper, and with a handkerchief at the ready to dab at his streaming eyes, Matthew made himself read the headline on the front page of The York Herald.

CARLISLE ON TRIAL ON TREASON CHARGE; Newspaper Baron Sir Richard Carlisle Is Arraigned Before the Old Bailey for Plotting with the Enemy. DEATH PENALTY IS POSSIBLE Trial Is Expected to Last Some Weeks.

His annoyance at not being there grew as he read the rest of the article. He attempted to read some of the other news items, but his eyes began to stream again and he was forced to lie back and rest them once more. There was nothing for it. He would simply have to wait. And hope it all went as they expected.

0-0-0-0-0-0

He saw the man a good few minutes before he recognised him. Something about the slightly furtive way he entered the Court's foyer had immediately caught his attention. He watched him idly as he came closer, weaving through the throng of people. The Court was busy this morning. And no wonder: the long anticipated treason trial of Sir Richard Carlisle, newspaper baron, and Mr Kenneth Watson, previously esteemed war correspondent, was shortly to begin. The man disappeared up the stairway, and it was only when he reappeared at the top of the stairs opposite where Edward stood did he realise it was Roy.

"Roy, old chap!" Edward straightened up and his face broke into a smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Ah, well… dropping something off," Roy stared at him, frowning a little. "You here for the trial?" he asked. "Representing someone?"

"Hell, no," Edward grinned. "Boss said I should come and watch. A trial this sensational is a rare thing. A chap can learn a lot from seeing the seasoned experts do it."

"Of course," Roy answered distractedly, and Edward had the odd feeling Roy hadn't heard anything he had said at all. He seemed nervous. He kept glancing at him and then away again as if he wasn't quite sure what to do. "Roy, are you all right?" Edward began. "You…"

"Just give this to my father," Roy interrupted. "You'll see him. He'll be in the gallery somewhere. Just give it to him. Say it's from me. He slid a small envelope into the top of the leather folio Edward had clutched to his chest.

"Of course. But…" Edward suddenly realised he had absolutely no idea what Roy's father looked like. In fact, he couldn't even remember the man's name.

"Please. That's all I ask," his tone was almost pleading, and Edward felt an acute sense of unease. He swallowed. "Roy, what's going on? And what does your father…"

"Thanks. Thanks, Eddie," Roy interrupted and he was already turning to go. He took a few rapid steps back towards the stairway where he paused and looked back. "You've been a good friend Eddie. Remember that," and then he walked rapidly away.

"Roy!" Eddie called after him frustrated and now certain that something was very wrong. "Roy! I don't know his name!" He tried to follow him but found himself caught in the throng of people pushing towards the gallery entrance.

Edward glanced at his wristwatch. "Damn," he muttered feeling torn. The trial was due to start in less than five minutes and he did not want to miss a single minute of it. He looked in vain for Roy again, and couldn't see him; his progress now at a stop such was the crowd. "Damn!" he muttered again. I'll call in on him later, he sighed and promised himself. Roy's home was only a few miles from the Court and he could do so when the session finished. Tightening his hold on his leather folio, he followed the remaining stragglers into the Courtroom. To his relief, there was a single seat remaining on a row near the front, and it was only seconds later that the gavel was banged and the Courtroom brought to order.

"The prisoners will stand," the words were loud in the wood-panelled chamber, and it was to Sir Richard that the first indictment was read.

"You, Sir Richard Mark Carlisle of Brompton Road, Chelsea, London stand accused of war treason for passing classified British military information into German hands. You are charged on three counts:

On the first, information as to the intended movements of the Third Army III Corps and IV Corps in November 1917 at Cambrai. On the second, information on the intended tactics of the Fifth Army's First Edinburgh division; the Liverpool Regiment and the East Yorkshire Regiment at Arras and St Quentin in March 1918; and on the third, the movements of the 40th Division at Lys in April 1918.

The Crown alleges that you and your co-defendant Kenneth Watson organised for the retrieval and exchange of this information through the blackmail of Lieutenant Lewis Maynall junior military attaché, now deceased, to General Sir Hubert Gough.

"Should you be found guilty on these charges, you are liable to be sentenced to death.

"What do you plead?"

There was a sudden hush in the Court. Sir Richard Carlisle felt the eyes of every single person in that crowded chamber trained on him. He swallowed, a little surprised at his own nerves. He kept his eyes on the Judge, well away from the confident stares of the group of well-dressed gentlemen seated in the public gallery slightly to his right. And well away from his two lawyers, who had their files open and pens at the ready. Pity all their hard work.

He took a deep breath and readied himself. It was time.

In the stillness and tension of the moment, Arthur Farnham's eyes flicked furtively around the courtroom, searching again for the four gentlemen he had only ever seen in photographs. This time he finally recognised them, in the gallery far to his right. The tall, white-haired man with his elegant top hat had to be the Marquess of Doncourt. And the greasy haired gent next to him, all chin and jowls, was surely Viscount Trent. He thought he recognised Lord Windemere too, but try as he must, he couldn't identify Viscount Rochester. He had to be one of the men near the rest of them, surely. He felt a shudder of distaste. What a nasty lot they were. And soon to be exposed, although quite how, and whether it would occur today or at some point later in the course of the trial, he had no idea. His head jerked up as he heard Sir Richard Carlisle clear his throat and he looked back at him expectantly.

"Guilty." The words rang out. Loud and clear.

The court erupted in an uproar. The wigged and robed Messrs Howard and Hunter leapt to their feet in alarm. The members of the jury turned to each other in surprise. And up in the public gallery, Edward saw to his immense satisfaction that the colour had drained from Lord Doncourt's face and the faces of several of the men around him.

"Order. Order!" the Judge was forced to bang his gavel several times. "Order!" A Court clerk hurried over to the Judge and handed him a note. Donning his spectacles, the Judge quickly read it, and then peering back at Sir Richard Carlisle, he said, "I have here a note from the public solicitor. I understand that you wish to have read to the Court a revised statement of facts. In light of your plea, I see no reason not to allow it," he looked at Sir Richard Carlisle's lawyers, both of whom looked at each other and then shook their heads slightly. A little annoyed, the Judge turned back to Sir Richard.

"But as it appears your change of plea is a surprise to your own barristers," he continued, "Do I take it that you wish to read your own statement of facts?"

"That is correct, your Lordship," Sir Richard bowed his head, and his hands shaking slightly, he waited for the Clerk to hand him his statement and then he began.

Arthur found himself growing hot as the prisoner read the revised statement of facts. His face burning, he looked down at his lap, lest someone recognise the words as his own. For it was Sir Richard Carlisle who was his secret client, and the statement he was reading out word for word, was Arthur's careful summary of the facts. He couldn't believe it. The man was reading evidence against himself. He'd wondered if it might be Mr Kenneth Watson, who had far more chance of a fairer hearing by the Court, or perhaps Lord Browning or Viscount Chesterfield, the newspaper shareholders that had found out and managed to stop further leaking of military information, but at the cost of their reputations when Carlisle had later begun a smear campaign in retribution. At the point at which Sir Richard read out from his statement the names of the four gentlemen whose illegal business interests he had been forced to protect, there was again an uproar in the court.

"The man is lying! Stop him!" Viscount Thomas Trent thundered, his outburst having the unfortunate effect of drawing immediate attention to the fact that the gentlemen to whom Carlisle was referring were actually in the Court. The uproar grew louder, and the press that was present began to take photographs before court officials threatened them with expulsion unless they stopped.

"Order. Order!" the Judge thundered, banging his gavel once more. "Order!"

And when finally there was silence, he said, "The prisoner will continue."

There was a crush leaving the Court when the Judge adjourned the proceedings after remanding Sir Richard Carlisle for sentencing. With Kenneth Watson's arraignment still to go, Edward had the unmistakeable feeling it was going to be a long and very exciting afternoon. He knew from what Alex Green had said in his statement, that yes, he had threatened to kill Mr Watson's family, including going so far as firing bullets into his family's living room to scare the war correspondent into seeking out and leaking the information. Also in Alex Green's statement, were the two men who had put him up to it: Lord Doncourt and Sir Richard Carlisle. And Edward knew that information would have somehow made it into any revised statement of facts Mr Watson would read out if indeed he did as Carlisle had, and changed his plea to guilty.

Lost in thought, he didn't realise that the crowd leaving the court had stopped suddenly, and he tripped on someone's foot and lost his grip on his folio as he put out his one functioning arm to break his fall. To Edward's dismay, the folio burst open spilling the papers onto the floor. The crowd lurched forward again, shoes stepping on the paper and ripping some of them. Horrified, he saw the envelope that Roy had left for him to give to his father tear slightly and burst open as someone's shoe dislodged the wax seal.

"Blast!" Edward exclaimed as he tried frantically to rescue his papers, pushing against people's legs in the process. Seeing what had happened, a young man bent down next to him and began to help, and shortly all the papers, some ripped and dirty, had been retrieved.

"Thank you," Edward said, at last, breathing hard, as the young man handed him back his folio. "I've never seen a crowd in this Court behaving like this!"

"Well, that's why old chap," the young man jerked his head toward where they could now see a group of police officers busy handcuffing the Marquess of Doncourt, Viscount Thomas Trent and two other gentlemen that had been sitting with them, the names of which Edward always struggled to remember. "I have a feeling this will go down as the trial of the year!" the young man was saying.

Edward stared, and a minute later he uttered, "Oh, for heaven's sake!" For one of the men in the process of being handcuffed had just spoken, and something about his voice and his mannerisms reminded him immediately of Roy. Viscount Rochester. Of course. How could he have forgotten? Fucking hell! Viscount Rochester was Roy's father. Should he give him the note? It was what Roy had wanted, wasn't it? Shaking, Edward stumbled towards a nearby bench. Sitting down, he placed his folio beside him and began rifling through it, looking for the battered envelope. The note had fallen out of it, but thanks to the helpful young man, both note and envelope had been safely returned. Opening it flat, he tried to smooth the note out with his fist, hoping to tidy it enough to hand it on. And it was then that he saw what was written and he inhaled sharply.

"No," he muttered as he read, growing more and more alarmed. "No, Roy. No!" and leaping to his feet, Edward began to run.

Papa.

When you receive this I will be gone. I must be gone, as I cannot live and have to face Mama when she finds out it was me whose evidence has put you behind bars for treason. You and your fellow death merchants. You make me ashamed, Papa. Your deceit. Your duplicity. A 'patron' for our village's war effort whilst you raked in illegal profits at the expense of me and every other British soldier that fought: In a war that you were complicit in prolonging.

Rot in hell, Papa. And before God sends you there, know every day that you have left on this earth that you have my blood and the blood of every other British soldier who died on your hands.

Roy

0-0-0-0-0-0

"It's been a good day, lads," George Lansbury smiled widely at his team of newsroom journalists. "The phone has been running hot from all our agents wanting further copies, and even with that extra run late this morning, the news agent's are saying they've sold out!" The article, its headline reading "Peers Accused of War Treason: Why we confessed" had been published under the penmanship of Mr Kenneth Watson and Sir Richard Carlisle, with the hurried surrounding commentary hastily put together by The Herald's journalists overnight. Mr Lansbury was right. It was, in no doubt, the read of the year.

Tom could not stop grinning. He had no idea how, but he knew that his wife's sister and brother-in-law had played some part in bringing it all about, and that made him proud. He also knew that to say so publicly was something he could never and would never do. Instead, he joined in with the celebrations, toasting the demise of the 'death merchants' as Mr Lansbury proclaimed them. It had indeed been a good day. For peace, and for justice, and for the rule of law.

0-0-0-0-0-0

"They found him," Evelyn announced, walking back into the drawing room, where Matthew, flushed and obviously unwell, was propped up on the sofa under a rug. Evelyn looked pale and drawn, and Matthew feared for the worst. He had arrived an hour earlier after Barrow had telephoned, saying Matthew was asking could he come immediately: an upsetting call from Edward - something about their friend Roy.

"Is, is…?" he bit out, unable to complete the question.

"He's alive," Evelyn replied quickly. "He's not well. But the Doctors think he will be all right," he sat down tiredly. Looking across at Matthew, he continued. "They found him semi-conscious in his car," Evelyn swallowed. He'd put a hose on the tailpipe," his voice cracked a little. "Luckily it was a soft top car, and it wasn't a very good seal," Evelyn gave a heavy sigh. "So once they got him out, they were able to revive him quite quickly. He's in hospital. Eddie and Alfred are there with him now."

"Good God," Matthew swallowed. He was vaguely aware he was shaking. "Viscount Rochester. It was his father. Doncourt's partner in crime."

"That's right," Evelyn's voice was stricken. "The poor bastard. Four years in hell. Invalided back with a body full of shrapnel, and then the last couple of years battling nightmares and depression about the men he lost. To then find out that his dear Papa was colluding with the Germans," Evelyn's voice trailed off and he stared into the distance. "I mean. Can you imagine that? Really imagine that? What faith would you have left? Your own father?"

"I…" Matthew's voice shook. "I… I can't imagine. It's just too fucking awful."

"Neither can I," Evelyn said grimly. He took a deep breath and looked at Matthew with a serious expression. "But dear old Roy, brooding and melancholy as we've only ever known him, thought only of his mother and feared that she would feel betrayed if he outed his father. Thought his own death was the better way out."

"And of course he had no idea of knowing it was Carlisle who would use the evidence he found, and that in Carlisle confessing, his role in it could stay a secret," Matthew reflected.

"But he will know that now, won't he?" Evelyn pressed.

"I imagine that Edward will tell him everything once he is recovered enough to take it in," Matthew replied. "I just hope he can find a way back through this darkness. Face life again," he shook his head sadly. "I can't bear the thought of the blasted war and all the ugliness that came with it claiming another victim," and Evelyn soberly agreed.

0-0-0-0-0-0

"What are we supposed to do with this tripe?" Tom could barely contain his rage as he and Mr Lansbury looked over the papers that had arrived anonymously alleging that Sir Richard Carlisle had engaged in lewd sexual acts with a young boy who had later disappeared. Two grainy photographs, showing them both leaving a hotel, were part of the sordid package.

"The man's dead, for god's sake," Tom bit out. "Is this all the Marquess of Doncourt can cough up in his own defence?"

Mr Lansbury sighed. "Looks like it. I guess we just need to decide whether or not to take the bait," and the two men sat back, contemplating the drama that had unfolded in the weeks since the sentencing at which Sir Richard Carlisle and Mr Kenneth Watson had had their sentences commuted from death to penal servitude. A significantly shortened prison term had been awarded, Mr Watson.

And it was now a week to the day since the Marquess of Doncourt, Viscount Trent, Lord Windemere and Viscount Rochester had appeared in the dock at The Old Bailey charged with high treason. And a week to the day upon which Sir Richard Carlisle was found hanging in his cell.

"What do you think, Branson?" Mr Lansbury asked at last. "We're getting good coverage with that series you've been doing on arms profiteering following that case going on in America. And of course the on-going stories on the Irish situation. Jonty's got good stuff underway on the socialists. Do we need this?"

"You know," Tom said thoughtfully. "If we were one of Carlisle's own papers, I'd probably say yes. But our paper? No. I don't think so. Why kick a dead man? He can't defend himself. If you want my opinion, Sir, I say let's not. Let's not take the bait. We've enough to sell the papers without this."

And across town, it seemed that The Guardian had decided to do the same. And Benson, of course, had let them know.

0-0-0-0-0-0

"Hello, darling!" Mary greeted her husband as he arrived home from work one warm fine evening in early June and found her sitting in the sun on the terrace. "You're home sooner than I thought. How was the day?"

"Full on," Matthew replied tiredly, lowering himself into the cane chair opposite her with a groan. "Three back to back meetings, two of which were tough going," he leant back and closed his eyes momentarily. "So when the last one finished I decided to call it a day," he yawned. "Anyway, how was your day?" he opened his eyes again and looked at her.

"I've had a few visitors," Mary smiled. "Isobel and Granny this morning, as usual. Edith and Anthony for luncheon, and then an unexpected visit this afternoon! And look what my unexpected visitors gave us for George!" she unwrapped a small package beside her on the patio table and lifted up some baby clothes to show him. "Any guesses as to who they were?" she asked playfully.

"No idea," Matthew said, admiring the knitted jacket and matching bonnet.

"The Cooke's," Mary smirked. "Mrs Cooke made these," she stroked the soft green wool with her finger. "And she spoke too! More words at once than I think I have ever heard her utter in all the other times I've seen her put together!"

Matthew began to laugh. "Harry is in the new cottage finally, I take it. Am I right?"

"You are," Mary smiled, and then sighed. "In there a month now. And what a difference it's made. And will keep making."

"How did Mr Brougham manage it?" Matthew asked, interested. "Knowing how stubborn Mrs Appilton has been about not wanting to move, and of course how proud the Cooke's both are."

"Well, Mr Brougham gave Mrs Appilton a choice. He showed her a cottage like hers that had been fixed up and explained that was what was planned for hers, and that her rental would increase only slightly after the refurbishment. He then took her down to the larger cottage and made a bit of a thing about how it would cost a little more again, but as there was a child now he thought having an extra bedroom might be helpful, and that's why as landlords we felt we should be offering up such a different property. He told me she was barely in the front door when she said yes!"

"So your sneaky little scheme came off," Matthew's lips twitched. "And who brought the flowers?" he eyed the bunch of pink roses that Anna was busy arranging into a vase.

"They were from Harry," Mary smirked. "He's thrilled about the raised gardens, and he told me proudly that they were their very first blooms."

"You did so well with it all," Matthew smiled.

"Oh, it wasn't just me!" Mary countered. "The paving and the raised gardens were Sybil's ideas. She's got a real way about her you know! Got Mr Brougham to do some nice little extras like that which made all the difference," she continued. "French windows, instead of a back door and a window off the kitchen were another one of her brainwaves. Mrs Cooke wouldn't stop talking about it. Said it's become their favourite room."

"Come here and kiss me," Matthew held his arms out. "Them visiting is a reward. For your kind-heartedness!"

"Oh pfft," Mary stood up and moved across to him. She arranged herself carefully in his lap and leant her head against his. "The reward for me was hearing her and Harry talking about having more children when they were admiring George. And when I think where Harry was a year ago, and where he is now, well," Mary swallowed the lump in her throat and she leant closer into Matthew. "That's my reward."

0-0-0-0-0-0

It was early morning. Mary had been up to change George, and returning to bed she sat up and nursed him, but rather than settle back to sleep as was his usual pattern after this feed, he cooed and gurgled and looked about happily from her lap, waving his arms and legs.

"Don't know where he gets his energy from," she said sleepily to the motionless lump next to her in the bed. She sighed and began to re-lace the bodice of her nightgown. "Now, am I going to try and settle him, or are you?" The plaintive tone of her voice cut through the delicious half asleep haze Matthew had been enjoying, and with a little grumble and then a groan he sat up slowly, and eyed the pair of them. Midweek she would never push, but the weekends were a different matter, and despite the inviting warmth of the covers on this cool June morning, he felt a fatherly obligation to do his bit.

He reached for the spare pillows and arranged them behind his back, and once he was comfortable, he lifted George out of his wife's arms and stood him gently on his lap.

The dark hair he had been born with was long gone now, and in its place wisps of soft gold were appearing. "Just like you at this age," Isobel had reminisced to Matthew when she had first noticed it a few weeks prior. He was bonny, too, "just like you," which much to Matthew's chagrin, Isobel seemed far too keen to point out to whoever was admiring the youngster: George grew chubbier by the day thanks to his mother's nourishing and plentiful milk. Mary, for one, was pleased: George was a picture of health and after only a few months of nursing, she was already able to fit back into many of her clothes.

"Now George," Matthew jiggled him slightly. "Five o'clock on a Saturday morning really isn't the time to be seeking your parent's attention," he pretended to scold. "Your Mama, for one, needs her beauty sleep!"

"Beauty what?" Mary blinked in disbelief, flopping back against the pillows for effect. "Black circles permanently under my eyes, my hair starting to fall out in great handfuls and my figure gone to the pack?" whilst she spoke in jest there was an unmistakable edge to her voice.

George cooed and waved his little hands too.

"That's right," Matthew continued, landing a quick kiss on his son's forehead. He held George up in front of him and jiggled him again. "Take no notice of that nonsense," he glanced sideways at his wife. "Because despite what she might say, your Mama IS very beautiful. Now. Before. Always!" George gurgled and blew some bubbles and Matthew began to laugh. "You agree with me, don't you little man? And I'll tell you something else. She's most beautiful of all when she's naked. Completely naked. With her hair down and no silly clothes to get in the way."

"Matthew!" Mary's eyes widened in shock. "You mustn't say that in front of our child!"

"I can, and I will," he said irreverently. "I figure I've got until he's a year or if I'm lucky maybe eighteen months before I run the risk of him parroting the wrong thing to one of the Grandmothers." He kissed George again and eyed her mischievously.

Mary stared at him, speechless. She opened and shut her mouth. Finding her voice, at last, she said, "You!" and her lips began to twitch. "You. Are. A wicked, wicked man!" and she gave a most unladylike snort of laughter. Matthew grinned and then to their complete astonishment and delight, little George chuckled. And as if pleased by his sound, he continued. His first ever! A bubbly little laugh, so infectious that Mary and Matthew began to laugh too. And they all continued to laugh helplessly until George gave a snort and then a choke and a cough and his laughter turned into a wail of distress as he tried to catch his breath.

"My dear little chap," Matthew blinked the tears of mirth from his eyes as he patted him soothingly against his shoulder, "Your first laugh! What a priceless moment!"

Mary leant in close to Matthew gently shushing George and kissing her young son on the forehead. "Thank you for saving that special moment just for us," she said softly. "Your Mama, and your Papa! I don't think you know yet just how much joy you bring! But know that you do and that you are so very loved," and Mary wrapped her arms around Matthew and George together.

"Have you ever known such happiness?" Matthew's voice was all depth and warmth. Mary shook her head slightly as she leant into him. "Oh no. No! And so very much more to come," and they held each other and their firstborn close, knowing that this was a moment they would remember and cherish forever.

Fini

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Historical Notes:

Third Army III Corps and IV Corps in November 1917 at Cambrai; Fifth Army's First Edinburgh division; Liverpool Regiment and the East Yorkshire Regiment at Arras and St Quentin March 1918; and the 40th Division at Lys in April 1918 - they were all battles in which the Allies initially took a hit (trying to match reality to my fiction...)

Oxford University conferred its first degrees for women (including many retrospectively) in a ceremony in October 1920. If I write another fic I hope to include Clarissa's day of triumph in it!

Author's Note:

Thank you SO much to all you have reviewed, favourited, followed and read this story, including those who have shared / liked / commented via Tumblr.

That's it! And I do hope you have enjoyed the ride - all two years of it…

I've learned more than I ever dreamed about WWI, society, economy, medicine & rehabilitation, the Irish struggle for independence and of course the British aristocracy at the time doing the research.

Always appreciate reviews … am still wondering about possible sequels so ideas and suggestions welcome!

Thanks again for following and reading Made Different!

MMarieRose April 2017