A/N: Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I appreciate it very much!

The Lady in Black

Chapter Eight

By the time Rose's coming out ball had come and gone the following summer, Mary was on better terms with her cousin, had long since smoothed out that quarrel with Branson (though it wasn't to say they didn't occasionally engage in a spirited yet good natured debate now and again), and learned that Charles Blake was in line to be a baronet. In a way, it made things clearer to her. Mama and Papa certainly approved of the time they spent together more now that he was in line to be a baronet, though Mary suspected they would have preferred she set her cap at Evelyn Napier instead.

It was a regular occurrence for him to call her up on the phone at least once a month, asking if it would too much of an imposition to stay at Downton; therefore, she wasn't surprised when he asked. "Not at all," Mary told him, smiling. "Though I must warn you that Lady Anstruther has decided to pay us a call that day. She's staying with friends nearby but we'll be expecting her at some point."

"Oh, that's no bother. I don't know her but it's you I'm coming to see."

"And here I thought it was Edith you were interested in," Mary said wryly, checking over her shoulder to make sure none of her family was lurking behind her to scold her for mocking her sister. She had been glum and gloomy since returning from the continent.

In some ways, Mary wished he was after Edith. She had been so downcast lately. Mary had hoped her trip to Switzerland with Aunt Rosamund would make her stop moping about after Mr. Gregson (who has mysteriously disappeared sometime last year) but she came back in an even worse state than she left. As much as she liked Charles, she wasn't ready for anything serious yet, and maybe someone could come along and cheer Edith up... then he could take her off Mary's hands and Branson's talk about them being on better terms might come true.

Lady Anstruther's visit was certainly full of excitement. According to her, her car had nearly broken down as it had pulled into the driveway. Mama, being the gracious hostess she was, offered her a room for the night, which Lady Anstruther accepted. Mary learned through the grape vine that Branson had taken a look at it and found nothing was wrong.

"I feel so guilty, pushing in like this," she lamented once she joined Mary and Charles in the drawing room, though she didn't really sound that sorry at all.

"You'd be an ornament at any gathering," Charles told her politely, while exchanging an amused glance with Mary.

"Oh, how nice. Thank you," Lady Anstruther said as she accepted a drink from Molesley, before frowning. "No cocktails? I thought everyone had them now."

"Not at Downton. Our butler tried them once and he hasn't recovered," Mary said, wearing an amused smile of her own. She did love Carson, but he was rather hesitant to accept the changing world. Mary knew she wasn't much better when it came to some things, but she didn't mind a cocktail every now and again.

"Oh, look at your parents. Someone told me they've been together almost thirty five years," gushed Lady Anstruther, glancing over to Mama and Papa, who looked happy and in love as ever. Mary was silently mulling over how little time she had with Matthew when their guest continued, "I'd never manage it. That's the advantage of an older husband. One gets an early release!"

"I'm not sure I'd call it that," said Mary coldly before she could remember her manners. She felt rather embarrassed, especially when Lady Anstruther looked rather guiltily. Not everyone was as lucky as her and Matthew, to be in love with the person they married. No doubt Lady Anstruther's marriage had been something hoisted upon her, an Anthony Strallan scenario that she had once feared when she was younger. It was why she hastily made her excuses and migrated to another part of the room, seeking out Rose.

The rest of the evening, however, moved along more smoothly. Soon it was just her and Charles left to their own devices once dinner was through and everyone had gone to bed. It didn't take long before he said, "I'm glad to have caught you alone."

"Oh?"

"Theres something I need to say to you." Charles rose to his feet before walking over to fetch himself a drink.

"Well, I'm all ears," Mary said, impatient and intrigued.

He didn't speak until after he'd had a generous sip of brandy. He turned around, a façade of confidence. "I don't think it's a secret that I've fallen in love with you."

It wasn't a secret but Mary was surprised he was saying it all the same. Unlike with Tony Gillingham, however, she suspected Charles meant it. She had known him a little over a year now. He certainly had taken the time to know her before making such bold declarations. Unfortunately, however, these feelings were not reciprocated. She liked him very much and found him quite attractive but she was nowhere near love. "Charles..." She began, hating that she needed to break his heart.

"I'm not finished." Charles raised up a finger, rendering her silent. "I love you, Mary. Very much. I... I would like to call you my wife someday... but only when you are ready for it." He drew in a deep breath. "All you need to do is say the word."

Mary was stunned. "I don't know what to say," she admitted. She found herself wishing she had a drink of her own.

"Well, that's just it. You don't have to say anything. Not yet." She glanced over to him, noting the earnest look on his face. "You can wait as long as you need before giving me your answer."

"That could take some time." She thought about those words Branson had said, about finding the kind of man who would fill Matthew's shoes adequately. It was advice she'd taken to heart. Charles was decent man, a good one, but Mary wasn't in love with him. Not yet anyway.

"Than take as long as you need. I want you to be sure that you want to spend the rest of your life with me."

Mary wasn't certain when she would be sure. Marriage still seemed eons away... But Charles was a lovely man. She didn't want to risk losing his companionship and she did enjoy the time she spent with him. Once day, perhaps, in the distant future, but not yet. "How long are you willing to wait?" asked Mary, meeting his eye.

Charles smiled, a little bashfully. "I'll wait until you're convinced I'm the one who will make you happy. However long that takes." He drank the last of the liquid in his glass. "On that note, I'll say goodnight and leave you to your thoughts."

Mary watched him go, stagnant until the door closed behind him, and then she was on her feet to pour herself a drink. After that conversation, she needed one.

Mary debated mentioning it to Anna when her maid came up to help her change for the night but decided against it. She was still a little too shocked to really fathom what had happened. She simply answered Anna's questions about the dinner, Lady Anstruther's mysterious car problems, and if Mr. Blake was doing well. It was tempting to blurt it out then, her own resolve be damned, but Mary decided to restrain herself.

Rest is what she needed. A full night of sleep, before she said anything to anyone... She spared a single glance at hers and Matthew's wedding portrait. Would she ever be ready for that again? Going on dates was one thing but marriage came with its own set of complications. She had no idea what Charles would be like as a husband. She thought of Lady Cunard's daughter, Cecilia, who had given Mary a graphic detail of her premarital exploits. It was more vivid than she was used to hearing from one of her peers but it did make her realize that there were often things about a person one didn't learn until they were married.

However, as tempting as it was, Mary doubted she would ever take a lover before marriage again. Part of it was out of some residual loyalty to Matthew, yes, but Mr. Pamuk has created rather a headache for her... not that any of that was her fault. Nevertheless, she didn't fancy another scandal on her hands, even though she saw the logic in it. It was an important part to a marriage and one was never certain on what it would be like until the ring was already on your finger. She had been lucky with Matthew, but who was to say she would be lucky again? It seemed to be in argument in favor of remaining unmarried.

"Fire!"

She jolted upright. Surely this was some sort of prank... But she heard the shout again, more urgent this time. Mary leapt out of bed, finding her dressing robe and wrapping it around herself. Perhaps it was stupid and utterly ridiculous, but Mary found her stuffed dog and hers and Matthew's wedding photograph to tuck in the pockets before vacating her bedroom entirely.

Mary followed the scent of smoke down the hallway, horrified that it was coming from the family wing and from her sister's room, no less. Mama and Papa near an unconscious Edith and a weakened Barrow, who looked as if he had gone in to rescue her. Mary recognized then that it was his voice she had heard raising the alarm.

"What's going on?" How has this happened? Her eyes fell to Edith, who was limp and unmoving, though her chest rose and fell.

Papa paid her no mind. "Barrow, get Edith out of here— I'm going tell Lady Anstruther—"

"I can do that, milord—"

"Where's George?" demanded Mary, watching the smoke pour out of Edith's bedroom.

Papa now seemed just as horrified as her. "Barrow, wake the Lady Anstruther, I'll go get George— Cora, Mary, try to get Edith out of here—"

"I can do that." Charles's voice was behind and suddenly he was pushing past her, lifting up her sister as Barrow staggered towards the hallway where the guests were staying and Papa ran to get his grandson.

Mary couldn't stay still. Once she was confident Charles could manage Edith, she chased after Papa. She met them halfway to the nursery. "Oh, thank God!" cried out Mary, tears springing to her eyes as she took him from her father. She kissed the top of his head, holding him tightly to her chest. He was safe...

"Get him out of the house," ordered Papa.

"What about you?"

"I'll fight it off until the fire department gets here." Before Mary could protest, he was exclaiming, "Go, now!" She didn't hang around a second longer, heart pounding and clutching George tightly.

The night's air was cool as Mary stepped outside. The gravel was unpleasant against her bare feet and she wished she had at least put on a pair of slippers before venturing out of her room. George's arms were wrapped around her neck, using her to shield his face from the rest of the world. Mary was still taken aback by just how big he was now. One moment he had been a small baby, the next he was walking and talking. She kissed his blond hair again before joining her family.

Mama was next to Edith, who was awake now and seated in a chair, though looking dazed and disoriented. Mary couldn't help but feel relieved. She had looked rather bad there. Charles was nearby, hovering over her, checking to ensure she was alright. All the servants seemed to be out here— Poor James looked as he had been in the middle of changing out of his livery before being told of the fire.

"How's George?" Mama asked when she finally approached.

"A little shaken up, I think," said Mary, but truthfully she wasn't sure. Perhaps she was projecting her own anxiety onto him. "But he's alright."

"Do you want me to hold him?" asked Mama. Mary was hesitant to hand over her son so easily, especially when her protective tendencies were still on high alert, but she reminded herself Mama had been worried about his safety, too.

Soon, Mary was distracted by the fire truck pulling up by the house and Anna and Bates appearing. She spoke with them, assuring them that everyone was fine. Bates offered to go help and Anna dashed off after him, leaving Mary to wander back over to her mother.

Movement out of the corner of her eye drew her attention to a new figure entering their midst. Mary turned to find Branson, dressed in his pajamas, hair free of his pomade, and looking as though he had ran all the way to the house. For a brief moment, all she could think was how dashing he looked, his hair undone like that... before reminding herself that wasn't the sort of thoughts she should be having about a chauffeur, and especially not when her beloved home was on fire. Still, she couldn't pretend she wasn't touched by his desire to make sure all was well with them and Downton. She smiled at him, tipping her head into a nod to acknowledge his presence. She couldn't go over and talk to him, not really, so she stayed put. Besides, she doubted he was there to see her.

It was a relief when Papa emerged from the house, all covered in soot but unharmed. Everything seemed to pass by in a blur until he announced it was safe to return in the house. By this point, Mama had handed George back to Mary.

"Well," Charles said quietly, lips drawn in a smile. "It can't be said that there's ever a dull moment at Downton." It was intimate, as though they were sharing an inside joke.

Mary laughed. "No," she agreed, "there's certainly not." She managed a smile. "I do apologize for my sister. No doubt your sleep was disturbed by her carelessness." Now that she was certain Edith was alive and well, she could go back to being put out and annoyed by her.

Charles shook his head. "If you think I could sleep easily after baring my soul, I'm afraid you're mistaken."

Ah. That. Mary looked away, shifting George in her arms. She offered a feigned smile and said, "I'd best make sure all is as it should be." She walked over towards Anna again, chatting with her for a while and surveying her surroundings. James was loitering near Lady Anstruther and Branson was still here, standing by Mrs. Hughes. Satisfied everything was in order, Mary returned to the house.

"We'll head back to nursery now, darling," Mary murmured to George. She felt dead on her feet, utterly exhausted after all the excitement.

George, however, had other ideas. As soon as Mary brought him up to Nanny in the nursery, he began to wail. "Mummy!" he cried, face screwed up and tears falling from his eyes, arms reaching out towards her. The sound stabbed at her heart. She couldn't bring herself to leave, trying to soothe him as best as possible.

Eventually, it became too much to deal with. "I'll bring him with me to my room tonight, Nanny," said Mary, too tired to stand here for much longer. She picked up George out of his crib, whose tears magically turned into sniffles. He held onto her tight. "I am afraid Master George has had a horrible fright."

Nanny merely smiled. "Very good, milady. I agree it might be best for him, knowing his mother is close by." Mary said her goodnight to the woman before carrying George to her room. They passed by Edith's bedroom, which still reeked of smoke and made George cough.

Mary wasn't quite certain of what to do once they were in her room. It was highly irregular; she had never ventured into her own parents' room at night as a child. She was, however, accustomed to a young Sybil crawling into her bed after a nightmare, even after Mary had grown too old for the nursery.

This was much the same, she realized, as George curled up beside her. Even long after his eyelids fluttered shut, Mary was awake, watching him. It surprised her, to some degree, that he sought out her comfort. She wasn't exactly an involved mother: of that, she would freely admit. She did love him dearly but it was easier concentrate that love into preserving Downton for him instead of hugging him and buying him gifts.

Showing affection didn't come easily to her— at least, not amongst others. Matthew understood that. Perhaps their son did, too. Maybe there was a part of George that understood his Mama cared about him, even though she didn't always necessarily show it.

It was these thoughts that consumed her as she drifted off to sleep, instead of the fire or the proposal.

Three weeks had passed since the fire. Ever since that night, Tom had found himself feeling disoriented, as if he were standing uneven ground. It was why he found himself entering the servant's hall in search of Mrs. Hughes, displeased to find it entirely vacant.

There were voices near the staircase. Tom stepped closer, quiet, only to hear Thomas— or, that is, Mr. Barrow's voice. "Where are they?"

"Where are what?" It was Jimmy. Tom didn't know him well, personally, trying to stay out of the love rectangle developed amongst the kitchen staff and footmen (though he had observed it all with some amusement). He was surprised nevertheless at the man's defensive tone. There hadn't been any animosity between them for years, not since the incident at the fair.

"Don't play games. Tell me where they are."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"The pills, Jimmy, my blasted pills!" Thomas sounded frantic. Tom wondered if he ought to make his presence known and intervene but found himself standing in place, rigid and silent. "Tell me where you've bloody put them!"

"Perhaps you've misplaced them."

"I haven't!" Thomas sounded desperate. Why would Jimmy hide medications, especially when Thomas had looked so ill the past couple of weeks? His father had been sick, and Tom had wondered if he had caught his illness during his visit home. He didn't know specifics— he and Thomas weren't exactly bosom friends. "Look— I won't be mad if you've hidden them. Just— Tell me where they are." There was a stagnated pause before he said, "Please."

Nothing. Tom began to consider walking away and coming back later, certain he shouldn't be heading this conversation when he heard Jimmy ask, "Have you got rid of the injections?"

Injections? How serious was his illness?

"I asked first."

"No, I asked first. A few days ago. Where are those injections?"

"It doesn't concern you. Where are my pills?"

This was beginning to sound quite serious. Tom wasn't prepared for Jimmy to heartedly respond, "Alright. I took your stupid pills and I flushed them down the sodding toilet. You're welcome. And I'm going to find those injections, too, and take them to Dr. Clarkson—"

There was a shuffling sound, as if a fight had begun. Tom stepped forward, ready to charge in, only to find Thomas and Jimmy were grappling against one another. Tom reckoned Thomas had started it, judging by the abrupt end to Jimmy's previous sentence, but both men were shoving one another, Thomas trying to push Jimmy against the wall.

"Hey, now!" Tom shouted, but that didn't get Thomas's attention. Jimmy glanced up over Thomas's shoulder but continued scuffling with him, teeth bared as he tried shoving back. Knowing he needed to break it up, Tom grabbed Thomas by the shoulders to pry him off.

"You had no right!" Thomas exclaimed, unnoticing or uncaring that Tom was here and was now airing out his dirty laundry for all to hear. Tom could see Daisy had ceased working to witness the argument from the kitchen, watching the scene with horror as he held Thomas back. "Those weren't yours—"

"I'm not sorry! I'd do it again, and I will if you're fool enough to get anymore!"

"I haven't the money for more!" Thomas looked close to tears, at his very lowest. All the fight had gone out of him. He had never seen Thomas so haggard and pitiful, not even when Carson was going to sack him without a reference. "I spent it all— and now you flushed it away!"

"Good!" spat Jimmy. "Maybe next time you won't be so bloody stupid!"

Now Thomas was crying... actually, really crying. Tom sorely wished he wasn't here, wished Mr. Carson was here to at least maintain order. He might as well have been invisible, by the way they were acting. "You've been poisoningyourself!" Jimmy yelled, leaning against the wall, weak in his knees and blond hair hanging over his eyes. He pushed it back before all before pleading, "What was I supposed to do?"

Poisoning himself? What on Earth did that mean? But before he could really contemplate that, he heard Jimmy stiffly saying, "Thanks, Mr. Branson, but we're done here now," as he straightened up his livery.

Tom loosened his grip on Thomas, who truthfully didn't need to be restrained anymore. "Are you sure you don't need any help?" The poisoning comment sounded severe...

Jimmy shook his head. He glared at Thomas, whose gaze was fixed on the floor, tears dripping down his nose. "No sense in botherin'," he scoffed. "He clearly doesn't want it." He stalked past Tom, their shoulders bumping as he pushed past and began stomping up the stairs.

Thomas had blinked back his tears, wiping his pale face free of them. Tom stood hesitantly, uncertain if he should say anything. "I don't know what that was about," he said finally, "but— if you need money to replace those pills—"

"I don't want your charity. Just mind your own business, Mr. Branson," spat Thomas, albeit with not much bite as he too ran off, heading towards the servant's yard. Tom figured he would probably be out there a while, stewing in his rage and smoking a cigarette.

You tried, Tom told himself, standing in the

now empty hallway. It was quiet, but he could still hear sounds from the kitchen— vegetables being chopped, Mrs. Patmore shouting orders, the sounds of pans clinking and clanking. Daisy had ducked back in at some point. He sighed before turning, walking down the hallway where Mrs. Hughes's office was.

As it was, it probably was good Thomas hadn't been open to accepting anything from him. He wasn't sure what would happen in the coming weeks and whether or not he would sorely need his own money.

He hoped Mrs. Hughes was in as he rapped twice on the door. "Come in," she called out, her voice muffled behind the door.

Tom stepped in. "Mr. Branson!" She stood up at her desk. "To what do I owe this fine pleasure?"

"I need someone to talk to." Mrs. Hughes had been a maternal figure in his life since he had come to Downton. Her balance between being warm and caring and stern and strict had reminded him of his own mother a great deal. When something in his life was wrong, it was her he turned to.

She gestured to the chair in front of her desk. "Have a seat." He took it as she sat back down at her desk. "What's troubling you this time... hopefully not another housemaid?"

If only she were a housemaid, he thought. Then maybe he would stand a chance. He shook his head before saying, "I'm thinking of leaving Downton."

Her eyes widened. "Leaving?"

"I've been here for far too long. I always wanted to make something of myself and I feel like I'm stuck in a rut." The words were true but Tom felt like he was just trying to convince himself by saying them aloud. "I never wanted to be a chauffeur forever, but I feel like a might be if I don't get move on it."

Mrs. Hughes couldn't hide her sadness. "You're a bright young man, Mr. Branson, and as someone who has done it, I can assure you a life spent in service isn't for everyone." She paused, tilting her head to side. "I'm sure you'll do a great many things in the world. Where are you planning on going?"

"America." At her startled expression, Tom quickly explained, "I've a cousin in Boston who sells farm machinery and automobiles. He's talked about letting me come work for him. I think now might be the time." He met her eyes, adding, "It wouldn't be right away. I would need to sort things out first..."

Mrs. Hughes nodded. "I assume you've told Miss Bunting already?"

His cheeks flushed. Sarah. Why was it he always kept forgetting about Sarah? "Not yet," he admitted, shrinking under her gaze. "You're the first one I've told."

She let out a sigh. "Tell me... do you see a future with her? Miss Bunting?" She clarified needlessly, but even as she said her, Tom's mind had immediately strayed to another woman.

"I don't know," he admitted. Sarah was a nice girl; she was intelligent and knowledgeable and they agreed on many things. She was the sort of girl Mam would be pleased to welcome as a daughter-in-law and Tom knew that she cared about him greatly. It was why he felt so guilty now.

"I suggest you had better figure it out," said Mrs. Hughes, folding her hands on top of her desk. "Then she can have enough time to get over you or plan to start a new life in America."

Tom nodded, considering her words, fairly convinced of what the outcome would be already. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes." He rose to his feet. "You've given me plenty to think about." That in itself was something to give her thanks for... maybe he could distract himself. "I'll let you know as soon as I have decided things."

Mrs. Hughes stood up as well. "If you decide to go, the first person you should tell is Mr. Carson. You're under his jurisdiction, not mine. But I do wish you the best, Mr. Branson, whatever you decide to do." She gave him a warm smile before he shuffled out of her office.

It started with that fire.

No— it probably wasn't the fire. It had probably started long before that. To Tom's knowledge, it could have started any time between his arrival to Downton in 1913 up until the fire. Perhaps it was when he had asked her that day about Lady Sybil in America and thus began their friendship— because even though neither of them said as much out loud, it was a friendship— or maybe it happened when she came into the chauffeur's cottage to sit with him after his brawl with Green... or maybe it was when Tony Gillingham had the gall to propose to her. Even back then, listening to her talk about going for horse rides and dancing with him in London had irritated Tom. He had thought it was because she was so recently widowed and perhaps it was, but in light of certain revelations, it seemed pertinent to inspect everything with a fine toothed comb.

Either way, it must have been before that row about Lady Rose and Jack Ross. Something about her dismissal of Mr. Ross has rankled at Tom and he knew he had taken certain remarks more personally than he ought. He'd felt compelled to try and change her mind for reasons that were inexplicable to him— after all, it wasn't as if he knew Lady Rose or Mr. Ross personally. But arguing with her had made him feel out of sorts... as had her declaration that she would no longer bother him with her problems.

It hadn't occurred to him until he walked Sarah down the drive that Mary probably thought he disliked her... which couldn't be further from the truth. He enjoyed her company; in fact, some of the brightest spots of his days were their morning drives. Tom knew he had been harsh with her over the matter of Lady Rose and Mr. Ross and resolved to apologize the following day. If she didn't think Lady Rose was really prepared to give it all up for Mr. Ross, then perhaps she was right. She knew Lady Rose better than he did.

Then there was Mr. Blake, of course, who made frequent visits to Downton. He seemed a nice fellow but Tom found himself growing more and more irritated each time he picked the man up from the station. He wasn't as bad as Tony Gillingham but Tom thought it was in bad taste nevertheless, to be actively pursuing her like this, when she was still clearly mourning Mr. Crawley... but perhaps that was just an excuse. Perhaps he just didn't like Mr. Blake pursuing her, period.

There were plenty of hints, scattered across the past year... But the night of the fire was when he knew for certain.

He had been lying awake in bed, unable to sleep. The heat was damn near oppressive— he had thrown his shirt across the room, hating the way the material clung to his skin. Tossing and turning, Tom had just about ready to crack open another window when he heard the unmissable scream of a siren. It was loud— louder than it ought to be.

He had thrown his shirt back on, stepping into his slippers, and raced out the door, kicking up gravel as he ran faster than he ever had in his life. He saw the fire truck pull up in front of the Abbey, heart in his throat. Not her, was his only thought. Oh, God, not her.

Tom's relief was palpable once he saw her standing next to her mother, dressed in her nightgown with a dressing robe covering her. Her brown hair, which he had only ever seen pinned up, was hanging in a long braid down her back. His footsteps slowed. She was safe... she was alive and she was safe.

Mary had turned around, making eye contact with him. She smiled, ever so slightly, nodding before turning back to her mother. Thank You, he thought, eyes turned up to the starry sky, more of a prayer than a thought, before walking over to Mr. Carson to concoct some legitimate reason for his appearance. The butler was in the middle of reprimanding Jimmy, who claimed to have been helping Thomas on the gallery when Thomas discovered the fire.

He glanced over to Mary a few more times as he lingered outside the house, as if to make sure she was truly well. Each time his worry over her waned and the glances became more in the interest of admiring her. He'd never seen her like this before... but she looked beautiful.

Tom knew he was in trouble. He had been aware he thought of her far too often, more often than he had any real right to. When he was in the garage, fixing things, his mind would stray to conversations they'd had earlier in the day. He would replay her laugh in his mind before he went to sleep at night, smiling to himself and pleased he had been the one to accomplish such a thing.

Tom tried to tell himself it was nothing. It would all go away...

But now he knew, with startling certainty, that his newfound feelings for Lady Mary Crawley weren't going away. His own fear for her safety had determined that.

So if the feelings wouldn't go away, he needed to.

Tom had decided it, last week, when Mary confided in him during one of their rides, "I've had another proposal of marriage... this time from Mr. Blake."

Tom blinked. An irrational part of him was angry at this. Nevertheless, Tom stared straight ahead, refusing to let it show apart from the tightening of his mouth, which he knew she wouldn't see. Mr. Blake was a decent fellow and respectful enough, and he clearly cared about her... if he wanted to propose to her, he certainly had the right to. More than Tom did, at any rate. "You have rather a talent for accumulating those."

"I can't tell you what it is that attracts these men," said Mary wearily.

Tom supposed he could provide insight... but she wouldn't appreciate that. Not one bit. "So what answer have you given him?"

"I haven't given him one. Not yet." She was gnawing on her lower lip in an absentminded way... Tom averted his eyes back forward, refusing to think about how endearing her found it, how maddening it could be... "I'm still not quite certain if I'm ready to marry or not or if we'd even be right for one another."

Tom swallowed. "Just follow your heart, milady." It was horribly trite and had no real sincerity behind it, but Tom had become used to helping her solve her problems. When she confided in him, he always helped her. It was something he was always glad to do it. As it was though, he couldn't really give her his honest opinion this time.

"I would, if I knew what it was saying. For all I know, it's speaking German." Her lips quirked up.

The laugh that escaped him took him off guard. She was funny— clever and witty, she always somehow knew what to say to make him chuckle. Until they had begun talking to one another, Tom had never been able to appreciate her dry wit.

Back in the days of the war, Tom recalled many a conversation with Lady Sybil about her older sisters. She was full of complaints about her family and their way of life, which she never spoke aloud to anyone else, and would often make him swear secrecy, even once going so far as to bring out the Communist Manifesto for him to swear upon (Tom had assured her a Bible was fine for him— he was a Catholic, after all, and it seemed more traditional).

Tom hadn't believed Lady Sybil when she told him stories about Lady Mary reading her bedtime stories or terrorizing a nasty governess... it sounded too fantastical for it to be the aloof, prim and proper Lady Mary he was acquainted with. The idea of Lady Mary sneaking boxes of chocolates in her room to share with Lady Sybil or jumping into the pond with her clothes on was a stark contrast to everything he knew about her.

But now... well, now he saw it all. She was a mess of contradictions— sharp tongued yet fiercely kind to those she cared for, distant yet incredibly loyal, severe yet she had a wicked sense of humor... the list could go on and on.

Falling for her was easily one of the worst things he could put himself through, especially since he knew where she stood on the matter of marrying someone socially below her. Still, Tom was certain it was happening, whether he wanted it to or not... and he couldn't stick around and watch her marry another man when the time came.