A/N: Thank you so much for your lovely reviews! This is another long one— buckle up, because things will take a turn in the next chapter!
The Lady in Black
Chapter Sixteen
Despite having left employment at Downton some time ago, Mr. Molesley remained a fixture in the servant's hall. After a long day of educating the village children, he made the trek up to the house to pick up where Sarah left off, teaching Daisy mathematics and helping her study history.
There was another reason as well.
"He's sweet on Miss Baxter," Jimmy informed him in the servant's yard after offering him a cigarette. Tom declined but he didn't turn away the company. "Seems mutual... but neither of them will say anything."
It seemed there was a lot of that going around... Tom frowned. "Are you friends with Miss Baxter, then?" He couldn't recall ever seeing them together, save for the time he drove Thomas down to the hospital.
Jimmy hesitated, then shrugged. "Not really. She's nice but I don't know her. She's close to Mr. Barrow. They've known each other since they were kids. She was his next door neighbor."
Tom's eyebrows shot up. "Strange thought, Thomas as a child," he said before he could stop himself. He felt somewhat guilty; Tom was no psychologist but he'd tended to notice that when the people he grew up with came from a bad home stricken by worse plagues than poverty, the children usually carried it with them as adults. He recalled a handful of conversations early in his employment at Downton where Thomas mentioned his mother but nothing about his father until the man reportedly became ill that one time. Either way, Tom was willing to bet it hadn't been a pleasant childhood.
Jimmy nodded, apparently unbothered. "I ought to ask her about it. Sure she'd have some interesting stories." A slow smile spread across his face.
Tom chuckled. "I'm sure." He half hoped Jimmy would... and then he could share.
"Don't tell anyone about it, yeah? Thomas wouldn't like it getting out."
"Course not," said Tom in reply, wondering who he could even tell. There was Anna, of course, or Mr. Bates, but he doubted they would be curious. There was Mary, too... she would likely be curious. He could practically hear her now, drilling him for questions and trying to figure out more. Tom sometimes wondered if she really was interested in servant's hall gossip or if she simply enjoyed talking to him, even if it was inane gossip. Something told him it was the latter. "But why are you telling me?"
Jimmy shrugged. "We're mates, aren't we?"
Mates. Is that what they were? It came as a surprise to Tom.
"Look, you're not a half bad bloke—"
"Thanks," Tom injected dryly, though he wore a smile. Jimmy laughed too.
"You know what I mean. Besides, not a crime to have more than one friend."
"No," Tom said slowly. "It's not."
Jimmy let his cigarette drop to the ground. "Right. I better go in, start polishing the silverware. Carson'll have my head if he thinks I've been wasting time. Too bad Molesley won't put his livery and help me out again, eh?" Jimmy jested, heading towards the door. "Thanks for the chat, Mr. Branson."
"Course," Tom replied. He hesitated, making up his mind when the other man had his hand on the door knob. "Jimmy," he called out, attracting the other man's attention. "You don't happen to know if Mr. Molesley's father sells his flowers, do you?"
"No... why do you ask?"
"No reason," said Tom nonchalantly.
Jimmy let go of the door knob. "Yes, there is," the other man said, wearing a devilish smile. "You fancy someone, don't you?"
Tom didn't like lying— and furthermore, he wasn't good at it. Still, he didn't want to give anything away. He remained silent, Jimmy's smile only growing.
"I knew it! Who is she, then?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Course it matters! What's she like?"
Tom hesitated. Jimmy said they were mates... but he didn't want to be too obvious. How would he know? A voice in his head asked. Nobody here knew Mary quite like he did. "She's smart," he started off.
Jimmy nodded. "Makes sense. You do seem to go for the brainy ones." When Tom said nothing, he nodded again. "Oh, go on."
"She's funny, too. She makes me laugh harder than anyone else he—" Tom cut himself off, realizing he had almost given away the fact she lived here.
"What's she look like?"
"Brunette. And she's beautiful. But that's not what I like most about her."
"Of course not. You seem like the romantic sort," Jimmy said.
"Suppose I am," Tom said, shrugging with a smile on his face. "There's nothing wrong with it, you know."
"I know," Jimmy said hastily.
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Do you? I didn't think so, not after the whole fiasco with Ivy."
"A leopard can change his spots," Jimmy said defensively, crossing his arms. Then he added, "But there's nobody for me right now."
Tom nodded... even though he wasn't quite so sure, because when he made his excuses to go inside again he added, "And Mr. Branson? If you get an answer about the flowers, let me know." Before Tom could ask who it was for, Jimmy hastily said, "For Lady Anstruther. My former employer. I like to keep in touch, you know."
Tom simply nodded, though when he was left behind in the courtyard, though he strongly suspected that wasn't the truth.
The flowers ended up costing more money than Tom had intended to spend but when he saw them in Mr. Molesley's garden, he knew it would be well worth it.
The idea of it hadn't occurred to him until Christmas. He wondered if he ever would have if it weren't for The Foundations of Leninism, which currently sat on his nightstand, a red bookmark sticking out between its pages even though Tom had already read it twice since receiving it.
There was a tradition maintained each year at Downton, where the family gave out gifts to the servants. Tom usually received some sort of practical gift: a scarf, a pair of gloves, that sort of thing. It was impersonal, a way of saying they appreciated and acknowledged his services, but didn't care to know the man who performed them.
However, when he approached the family, Lord Grantham presented him with a wrapped package that was unmistakably a book. "We don't have this one in the Downton library, Branson," he said, somewhat gruffly but not without kindness. "I don't know if it is exactly to your liking or politics, but hopefully you'll enjoy it."
The uncertainty of his response made Tom fairly convinced Lord Grantham hadn't picked it out. Then who...
He glanced down the line up of the family, watching Mary smile as she handed Anna something. He knew instantly what he would find, once he opened it up, without needing any confirmation. "I'm sure I will, milord," he answered Lord Grantham with a smile, feeling light and gleeful, before stepping back into the line up of servants.
It wasn't until later in the evening, when they were all standing about the Great Hall, that Tom had an opportunity for a moment alone with Mary— well, at least a moment where nobody was hovering near them. She had her back against one of the columns, lazily observing the party in full swing, and Tom approached her. He knew she noticed as a smile spread across her face with each step he took her way, even as she faced straight ahead.
"Thank you," he said, as quietly as he could over the band who was playing Christmas songs.
"What have I done warranting thanks?"
Tom had to wait a moment before responding, for otherwise his reply would have been much too honest. Sometimes, in moments like these, he took her questions too literally. Had he answered them, he would have been saying, For everything. For being my best friend. For being the woman I've fallen madly in love with. For loving me too, even though you can't say it yet with words.
"You know full well," was his light hearted response, though it still carried some weight. "Nobody else would have thought to buy me something like that."
"I must admit, I had a devil of a time convincing my father that I wouldn't be inciting a revolution by gifting it to you," she told him quietly. "I threatened to read it myself, just so it wouldn't prove to be a waste of money, and he didn't care for that at all." Her dark eyes glittered with amusement.
Tom's heart felt wholly full for the first time in his life. The fact she had gone through such efforts, just to make sure he received something he liked on Christmas... It was indescribable. He truly felt that with every day he knew Mary Crawley, with each tidbit of knowledge she granted him, the harder he fell. "Did you?"
"No. It's much more your sort of thing than mine," she replied, and he realized she had misinterpreted his question.
As grateful as he was for the book, as much as it meant for him to know she cared, there was one thing he felt he had to say: something he needed to make clear and solidify his intentions towards her. "You didn't have to buy it for me, you know."
"Don't you like it?" Mary was concerned now, brow furrowed and finally facing him.
"Very much," he assured her, granting her a genuine smile. He watched her features relax, mellowed and less tense. "But... I don't want you to feel as though you must... buy me things. I have my own money."
"Which you weren't planning to spend on a book that you knew you would enjoy," she countered. "I don't understand. Is there some sort of problem?"
"Not at all!" Tom wasn't used to this at all— he was too worried about saying the wrong thing...
But, he realized now, he was saying the wrong thing. In his effort to remain vague and not spell it out, he was giving her the wrong impression. He thought about all the compliments he had bestowed upon her, all the times it seemed he might scare her off, but she didn't seem to mind them at all. Perhaps they had finally reached the point where he didn't need to be so ambiguous about how he felt.
"I only am trying to say that... what we have is more important to me than anything money can buy," he managed to choke out, fighting against the newfound voice in his head that urged he was speaking out of turn and that she wouldn't appreciate his candor.
For a moment, Tom worried that voice was right, for Mary stood there, agape and eyes widened. She blinked before letting out a shaky laugh. "Well," she began, not quite composed but desperately trying to put up her front of aloofness, "That's very kind of you to say."
"It's the truth." When things finally planned out, when she was finally honest with him about how she felt, Tom didn't want anyone— and especially not her— to think he had ever pursued her as a financial incentive. She was wealthier than him; she would always be wealthier than him, no matter what he did with his life once he decided to give up on being a chauffeur. But he wanted Mary, not the money. She would always be more than enough for him.
"But you don't need to worry. It isn't like that," she continued, jaw jutting out in resolve to make her position clear. "Christmas was approaching. You wanted that book. You weren't going to buy yourself that book, so giving it as a gift seemed the sensible choice to me."
Tom strained his memory back to the day they were in the bookstore. It was late September... which, by his estimation, wasn't exactly the time Christmas was approaching. Either she had hung back that day to buy it for him along with Lady Sybil's gift or she had remembered it for months and purchased it closer to Christmas time. Either way, Tom supposed it didn't matter; it proved the same point.
Nevertheless, that gift had made him think of things he could give her, means in which he could give her that warm feeling of delight when she received something from him. He couldn't afford much; he was a chauffeur, after all, and he had been trying to save some of his money for when he left service, but he wanted her to feel what he had felt that day.
So he handed over the money to the elder Mr. Molesley, feeding him some story about a suitor of Lady Mary's enlisting him to carry out a Valentine's Day surprise. He wasn't sure if the older man believed his story or not but he couldn't prove he was lying, either. He accepted the money and promised he would send a boy from the village with the delivery. "She'll like them," he promised, a twinkle in his eye. "I promise you that."
Valentine's Day was always an exciting holiday at Downton. Anna was unsurprised by the anonymous card she received, for she knew full well was from her husband. However, there were some surprises downstairs. Mrs. Hughes received a Valentine and Mr. Carson was casting her surreptitious looks, face pink. It made Anna smile to see how happy they were. The wedding date hadn't been announced yet but all seemed to be well between them.
"What is that, Mr. Barrow?" Anna asked, noting that the man had something in his hands.
He held it up. "It's a flower."
Anna peered at it curiously, noting its white petals. "It's a gardenia," she told him with a smile. "It seems you have a secret admirer."
"You know flower meanings?"
"Of course I do," Anna said with a smile.
"Hm," Thomas said, twirling the stem between his fingertips, though he didn't seem particularly curious... though he was smiling. "Wonder who it could be."
But everyone was soon distracted by the second delivery. "This is for Lady Mary, sir," a young boy, maybe twelve years of age, squeaked as he presented Mr. Carson with the bouquet. Several of the servants gasped after catching sight of it.
"Who is it from?" inquired Mr. Carson, inspecting the impressive bouquet.
"Don't know. All I know is Mr. Molesley said I had to deliver it today."
Mr. Carson nodded. "Very well. Be on your way, then." He glanced down at them again, seemingly perplexed before being distracted by a ring of the bell. "That's you, Mr. Bates."
"Yes, Mr. Carson." Her husband rose his feet but not before catching Anna's eyes, grinning. She returned the smile, thinking of secret she was guarding. It was too soon to tell, but she was hopeful this time she would have good news for him by the end of the month.
"I wonder who sent that bouquet to Lady Mary," Anna wondered aloud. She had seemed quite taken by Mr. Talbot, the man she had met at Brancaster, but thus far he had failed to contact her. Lady Mary didn't seem terribly disappointed, which seemed to support a burgeoning theory she had about her mistress and the chauffeur who was seated next to her.
The man in question seemed to solidify it as he muttered, "Who indeed?" When Anna glanced over at him, she found him wearing an exceptionally pleased smile.
When Mary awoke on February the fourteenth of 1925, she felt exhausted already. She stared at the empty space beside her in bed, reaching out to touch it with closed eyes. You should be here, was her first thought, something she wasn't sure Matthew could hear wherever he was, but directed at him regardless. With a weary sigh, she rang for Anna and plodded over to the window, staring out into the misty green of the grounds.
This day was always such a difficult one for Mary, for a number of reasons. Romance and love weren't exactly high on her list of priorities at the moment; there were no handsome men on the horizon, looking for the opportunity to snatch her up... which was both a relief and disappointment. She already knew there were few men who could ever hope to match up to Matthew but at the same time it was hard to pretend she wasn't lonely. She didn't notice Anna's coy smiles as she dressed her, too absorbed in her melancholy thoughts.
Breakfast wasn't exactly full of festivities, which came as a relief. She and Edith seemed destined for lives of spinsterhood, content with that, and Mama and Papa clearly had tact enough to exchange any cards or gifts away from their single daughters. The topics of conversation revolved around the upcoming livestock fair in April and Edith's problems with her editor. Mary had just suggested she sack the man when Carson entered the fray.
"Milord, if you don't mind, there's a delivery downstairs for Lady Mary."
"Delivery?" Papa gave her a look. "What sort of delivery?"
"It appears to be something for Valentine's Day," Carson said, somehow sounding both disapproving and pleased for her at the same time.
Mary couldn't help but feel excited. "Well, I can't wait to see it," replied Mary. It had been some time since someone had last given her a Valentine.
"Well, that's certainly exciting," Papa said, wiping his mouth off with his napkin. "But I didn't realize you had a new beau."
"I don't," answered Mary. "But clearly I've caught the eye of someone." She didn't miss Edith rolling her eyes across the table but chose to ignore it.
Mary had anticipated on some card but was shocked when Carson entered the room with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. "Heavens!" Papa exclaimed, but Mary could scarcely hear him. Her eyes were focused on the bouquet, made up of a variety of red and white roses. The red roses weren't exactly the kind that Matthew had given her but similar. The petals were darker and more full.
"These are beautiful," she found herself murmuring, wondering who could have known she liked roses so much. She didn't see a card anywhere, so she turned to Carson to ask, "Who did these come from?"
"I couldn't say, milady. It was sent anonymously and delivered by a young boy from the village, under the instructions it be sent to you."
"Do you suppose the young boy could be your secret admirer?" Papa asked, grinning.
"I doubt it," replied Mary, dazedly. "I expect a delivery boy couldn't possibly have enough money to afford this."
"My money's on Henry Talbot," said Edith, sparing a smile. "He was awfully keen on you when we were at Brancaster."
"Don't be ridiculous," Mary said, though not harshly as she might have normally. "I haven't heard a thing from him in months."
"Suppose he's trying to reestablish contact? And what better way then sending you flowers on Valentine's Day?" Edith pointed out, not taking offense as she normally did. It was... Well, nice. After all the unpleasantness and feuding from only a few months ago, Mary much preferred this.
"At any rate, it certainly seems as though someone is throwing his hat into the ring," Papa surmised.
"Well, I wish I knew who it was, if only to thank them," Mary said genuinely, inspecting the flowers once more. They really were beautiful... whoever it was had guessed well. "Thank you very much, Carson. Would you give these to Anna and instruct her to put them in a vase in my room?"
"Certainly, milady." Carson accepted the flowers back. Mary looked forward to returning to her room, pleased to have something to brighten it up.
Mary couldn't deny being surprised when Branson asked, "Did you like the flowers?" during their drive without her even telling him about her bouquet.
"How did you know about that?" For the briefest of seconds, Mary contemplated that perhaps he had been the one to send it to her, before dismissing it. That was a silly thought to have...
"I saw them being delivered in the servant's hall." He was grinning from ear to ear.
"How do you know they weren't Lady Edith's?"
"Well, she doesn't have a beau, does she?"
"I don't, either," she pointed out, wondering if Anna had mentioned Henry Talbot to him. She hoped not. She hadn't even so much as uttered the man's name to Branson. Unless it was something of consequence, she didn't feel the need to draw it to his attention. They had more interesting things to discuss than the state of Mary's love life. "You don't happen to know who sent them, do you?"
"Why should I?"
Why should he, indeed. Mary wondered why she even asked. Of course Branson wouldn't know. She felt foolish for even voicing it. "I don't know," she admitted, glancing down at her lap.
"You didn't answer my first question," Branson pointed out. When she looked up again, confused, he asked, "Did you like them?"
"Of course. They were lovely. I only wish I knew who sent them," Mary said. Edith's theory made the most sense, logically, but Mary couldn't shake off the feeling that something else was at play here.
So absorbed was she in these thoughts that it never even occurred to her to wonder why Branson was so invested in knowing her answer.
February turned into March and Tom recalled Jimmy's offer of a favor from back when he drove Thomas to the hospital. He figured now was the time to cash in that favor: by inquiring about birthday gifts. "Your girl, then?" Jimmy asked knowingly.
Tom didn't answer to either the affirmative or the negative, though hearing Mary referred to as his girl made his heart flutter. "I just don't know what to get her," Tom mumbled. Mary had more than enough money to buy herself anything she pleased. He wanted to think outside the box, give her something she wouldn't think of on her own, but practical, yet also full of meaning.
"Well, what did you give Mrs. Bunting for her birthday?"
Tom shrugged. "Nothing. We went to York for a rally. It was something we had in common."
Jimmy frowned. "I take it she isn't political?"
"Not exceedingly so." Tom liked to think he had helped broaden her horizons, but Mary wasn't passionate about politics like he was.
"Well, maybe you could take her somewhere. Spend time with her. If she's as mad about you as you are about her, then I'm sure she'd like that."
Tom nodded. It wasn't a bad idea... Mary did enjoy spending time in their field. She still came up with excuses to go there with him, even as she balanced the weight of the estate on her shoulders. Truthfully, Tom felt it was good for her, to have time where she didn't have to strain herself nor maintain the façade she presented to the rest of the world. She could just be Mary and he Tom, sitting on a blanket off to the side of the road, unencumbered by the roles they had to play and simply existing with one another. He looked forward to the day where things could always be like that.
Still, Tom felt she deserved something more than that. He had used a significant amount of money on the flowers and didn't want to stretch himself too thin. He loathed to spend more so soon but he desperately wanted to give Mary something special for her birthday.
When the idea finally came to him, he was forced to wait until his day off to select the gift for her. He couldn't help but think it seemed somewhat fitting, considering what she had bought him for Christmas. They complemented each other, mused Tom as he handed over his money to the man behind the counter, just like him and Mary.
A few days before Mary's birthday, she found herself in London, accompanied by Anna. It was under unusual circumstances, one Mary had never foreseen, but one she was glad to help with.
"Milady... are you quite sure you don't mind?" Anna asked nervously as they waited for Dr. Ryder.
"If I minded, would I have suggested we come here?" Mary asked.
A few weeks prior, Mary had gone upstairs to change for dinner, only to find her beloved maid in tears. It was a stark turnaround from the sunny moods she had been in only a few days ago. It worried Mary, remembering her drastic change in the days after Mr. Green tried to attack her. When she asked about it, Anna had confessed she had suffered a miscarriage... and that it wasn't the first time.
It grieved Mary deeply to see Anna in such pain. Considering how long she had been a loving yet firm figure in Mary's life, Mary knew Anna would make a wonderful mother. It was a dream she knew the Bateses shared for some time, which made it all the more unfair and it reminded her of her own struggles with infertility. Why was it the couples who sorely longed for a child who always struggled to conceive?
But Dr. Ryder had remedied Mary's issue and now she was a mother, just as she and Matthew had wanted. She was so pleased she had followed Mama's advice and gone to him. She only hoped he could help Anna and Bates, truly convinced she deserved it.
"It seems a long way to come, just for me," Anna fretted, gnawing at her bottom lip.
"It's more than worth it, if it gives you a chance to have something you truly want," Mary insisted. "Besides, how could I spend my time on anything better than helping a friend?"
Anna's eyes widened but she said nothing. Mary hadn't forgotten the way her maid teared up when she confessed that she viewed her as dear friend more than a servant. It had surprised Mary when she said it but she realized it was true. Anna had been there for her during the good times and the bad. She had been willing to leave England behind and follow her to America when Carlisle threatened to publish. She had even helped Mary carry a dead body through Downton, for heaven's sake. The least Anna deserved was knowing how important she was to Mary— and to know if it was possible for her to have a baby.
"I don't know. Doesn't Mr. Talbot live in London?" Anna inquired.
Mary was surprised to hear the man's name mentioned. "I think so," said Mary, glancing down at the grains in Dr. Ryder's desk. "But I don't know where, and we haven't exactly spoken since Brancaster. I'm sure he has forgotten all about me." That last part wasn't exactly true, but Mary realized she wouldn't be disappointed if he had. He seemed like a nice man— and a very handsome, charming one at that— but his profession was something that she balked at the longer she considered him as a romantic interest. She doubted anything with him would ever be substantial.
Besides... she had things under control with Branson. After a long night of tossing and turning and replaying a moment earlier in the day when Branson had tipped his head back and laughed, eyes crinkled, Mary came to the conclusion that while her interest in Branson might be concerning, it wasn't anything to be worried about. She had come complete control over herself. Even if her brain was suggesting she do something reckless, Mary knew she was disciplined enough to stave off her impulses.
"You don't think anything will come of it, then?"
"No," Mary answered, knowing full well Anna was referring to Mr. Talbot, though her mind had certainly strayed. "I don't think it's even possible."
"Do you have any appointments for your birthday?" Branson asked Mary the day after she returned to London.
"No. Should I?" Mary asked, biting back a smile. It was Branson's unique way of asking her if she wanted to abandon Downton for a few hours.
"I thought it might be nice."
"It certainly would be," agreed Mary, warming to his idea immediately. "What time is this appointment?"
"It's your birthday," Branson shot back. "What time should it be?"
Mary mentally tried to remember everything going on that day. There was a livestock fair in two weeks that she was preparing for and she needed to stop by the Drewe's farm at some point and see how her pigs and their piglets were faring, along with the usual paperwork. "2 o'clock, I think."
"You think?" Branson asked.
"I might need to bounce it around, depending on my schedule," Mary said. "I'll let you know if things change between now and the twenty first."
"Alright, then. 2 o'clock on the twenty first," said Branson, affirming their date and time. Mary bit back yet another smile, more excited about this than anything her family could have possibly planned.
It was an impulse decision, bringing George along to the Drewe farm on her birthday, but it suddenly occurred to her that this was something they could do together. After her visit to Matthew, she told Branson to swing up to the house first instead of the farm. "I'm going to bring Master George with us," she said, somewhat excited. Her work and George's schedule rarely coincided but Mary found herself more eager to spend time with him as he grew. He wasn't a baby any longer and was developing a distinct personality.
He reminded her of Matthew in so many ways. George bore such a striking resemblance to his father that it was hard to remember there was once a time Mary had worried about him taking too much after her. He was sweet as well, polite, and beloved by nearly everyone he met. She credited it all to Matthew, knowing he certainly hadn't inherited any of his sweetness from her.
It was why she should have expected George would ask, "Mummy, can't we bring Marigold with us? Please?" He gave her those irresistible puppy dog eyes, pleading with her.
Mary hesitated. She glanced over at Marigold, who was currently sitting on Nanny's lap, staring at her and George and sucking her thumb. Mary hadn't spent much time with the little girl but George was very glad to have a playmate in the nursery. Besides... perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea. She likely missed seeing the Drewes. It would be a wonderful opportunity for them to see one another. As far as Mary knew, Edith hadn't let her go down to see them yet.
"Well, Miss Marigold," Mary said, addressing the little girl politely. "Would you like to come with us to see the piglets?"
Marigold glanced shyly between Mary and George before finally nodding. "Very well, then. We won't be gone for long," she informed Nanny.
Mary was right that they very much enjoyed the visit down to the Drewe farm. As soon as they exited the car, George and Marigold were tearing around, chasing each other and trying to see the pigs. Branson stepped out of the vehicle as well once they arrived, which surprised Mary. "I'd like to see them," Branson replied when Mary asked him what he was doing. "You're so proud of them, I'd like to see the efforts of your hard work."
She felt her face grow warm suddenly. He stated it so plainly with no artifice whatsoever, just a genuine desire to see something she cared about. "Well, you can come along, certainly... though I hope you don't mind playing the role of Nanny. I need to speak with Mr. Drewe and it would be nice if someone was keeping an eye on the children. I know it isn't within the purview of your job description—"
"I don't mind," Branson answered readily, no hesitation. In fact, he seemed rather glad. It made Mary smile for the briefest of moments.
Mr. Drewe noticed their arrival and greeted Marigold with a sad smile and asked her if she remembered him, to which she nodded silently and hugged his legs. He patted her head in response, clearly emotional even thought he was trying to put up a front of composure. Mrs. Drewe was even more affected than he was, bending down and fussing over Marigold. "Are you having a nice time up at the big house?"
"Certainly," Mary answered for Marigold. She was coming to see that she was a rather bashful child, even with people she spent a great deal of time with. "I think it's safe to say that Miss Marigold is beloved by everyone. We're all quite taken with her."
Mary was in the middle of discussing Mr. Drewe's plans for the future (which, much to her horror, included a potential move away from Downton) when George began tugging on her skirt. "Mummy," he whined, "I can't see the pigs!"
Before Mary could say anything, Branson said, "I can give you a lift up, Master George," but he directed it to Mary with questioning gaze.
Mary nodded her assent. "Thank you, Branson. That's a very generous offer."
Branson grinned before hoisting George onto his shoulders. Mary diverted her attentions back to Mr. Drewe, but she kept finding herself distracted by her son's delighted shrieks as he clung to Branson, arms wrapping around his head as Branson sat him on his shoulders. It came as a mild surprise that she wasn't worried in the slightest about her son's safety when it came to Branson. He was speaking quietly to George and she found herself wondering what they were talking about. She would have ask later.
Mrs. Drewe was resistant to say goodbye but she released Marigold after some coaxing from her husband. It was rather bizarre but thankfully George diffused the tension when, upon being lowered back to the ground by Branson, grabbed her hand and cried out, "Come on, Marigold! I'll race you to the car!"
Without a second thought, Marigold raced forward, not sparing a second glance for Mrs. Drewe and giggling loudly. Mary and Branson trailed behind them, walking in step as the children ran and laughed.
It was very strange, but seeing George with Marigold made her feel strangely melancholy. Even though her and Matthew had been eager to provide Downton with its heir, George was never intended to be an only child. Matthew was especially fond of the idea of filling up the nursery. Mary was less enthused by his talk of having half a dozen children but she couldn't deny that she had always wondered what it would be like to have a daughter... or even even another son.
Mary was shocked to realize that those longings of motherhood had been stirred once again. Marigold was the closest thing George had to a cousin and he was marvelous with her, bringing her out of her shell and making her feel welcome. She had a feeling he would make a marvelous brother, if given a chance.
But they wouldn't be Matthew's, a voice in her head reminded her when she began dwelling on the thought of hypothetical siblings for George. She bit back a sigh. Of course they wouldn't... but if she ever decided to marry again, she knew now she wouldn't be opposed to adding a crib to the nursery.
She decided to tear herself from such a strange, sentimental thoughts by averting her gaze to Branson, who was looking ahead at the children as well. She wondered if he was thinking about his own future. He said once that he wished to marry, which presumably indicated he had visions of children as well. A part of her wanted to ask but another part felt it impudent.
Branson turned his head ever so slightly, meeting her eyes, a soft look in his own. Mary's mouth went dry, almost convinced she had been correct. The realization they had been sharing the same thought in that moment was a strange one. It felt as if her heart stopped beating and for a moment her steps staggered, coming to a brief half. Branson stopped as well, slowing without acknowledging it, and they shared a small smile before resuming forward.
"I win! I win!" George crowed by the car, jumping up and down in a circle. A smile tugged at Mary's lips. Perhaps there was some of her in her son; she had always been fiercely competitive, determined to beat Edith at everything.
"George, Mr. Branson was kind enough to lift you up to see the pigs. What do you say to him?"
George's victory was ended as he turned to Branson with a large grin. "Thank you, Mr. Branson."
"You're very welcome, Master George," Branson said, managing to sound exceptionally sincere. It only him all the more endearing to Mary, tugging at her heart strings. She never realized he had such a soft spot for children.
Marigold seemed to have warmed up to Mary thanks to their outing. She sidled up to Mary on the ride back to the house, sucking on her thumb but looking up at Mary often. She gave made her sure give her plenty of smiles, finding that Edith may have been right about her being a darling girl.
However, nobody was smiling after they pulled up to Downton and found Edith waiting there, face pinched and looking frantic. "Auntie Edith!" George cried out, barreling out of car the moment Branson opened the door. "Marigold and I saw baby pigs today!"
Edith ignored George, glaring at Mary, who was carrying Marigold out of the car. "Give her to me," she demanded, reaching forwards and seizing Marigold from Mary's arms.
Mary blinked, stunned, but let Edith take Marigold, not wanting to upset the child. Her sister's focus went to the little girl, checking her over frantically before she rounded in on Mary. "Why did you take her without asking me first?"
"I wasn't aware I needed your permission," Mary replied, well aware she was being snide but she didn't care for Edith's tone.
"She's my—" Edith stopped herself before spitting out, "—ward. You cannot take her places without asking me first! And I don't want you bringing her to the Drewe farm ever again! Do you understand me?"
"That's funny. I thought she was our ward. The whole family's." Certainly Edith was the one most invested in her future and using her money to pay for the addition nanny and clothes and all that, but whenever she was mentioned, they always said Marigold was the family's ward. "George wanted her to come along. I kept a close eye on her. I don't see what all the fuss is about."
Edith scoffed. "Of course you wouldn't. You don't care about anything or anyone else. You're just so concerned in your own business that it never occurs to you to think about the rest of us!"
Rage festered inside Mary. "Thank you very much for the kind birthday wishes," she told Edith cooly.
Edith let out a huff. "Oh, yes. Happy birthday, Mary," she said sarcastically, turning around and stalking back towards the house. "Don't take Marigold without consulting me first."
An insult— several, actually— were on the tip of her tongue and she was ready to say them when she suddenly felt a gloved hand on her arm. Mary was rendered speechless, any sound dying in her throat thanks to that touch. She knew who it was before she turned over her shoulder to find Branson, who was gazing at her imploringly, silently telling her not to do this. Mary held his gaze, battling her own instinct to snap at her sister when she felt herself cave. "I can only assume you're agitated about something and taking it out on me. Since I don't expect an apology for your monstrously rude behavior, please tell Mama and Papa that I have an appointment in York at two."
Edith didn't respond but Mary doubted she would fail to tell Mama and Papa where she was if they asked. She was just insisting on acting childish. Mary glared at her retreating miracle before Branson's hand slid to her wrist, gently tugging her back to the car. Mary let him, not shaking out of his grasp and merely climbing into the car, silently seething but grateful she had not uttered any of the hurtful thoughts tumbling about in her mind.
Mary worked in the office for an hour or two before Branson came to pick her up again for their "appointment". After a long day of dealing with tedious paperwork and Edith screaming at her, Mary was looking forward to an opportunity to simply be released of all obligations.
It was a relief when she heard a knock at the door, tearing her eyes away from a report. Mary glanced over at the clock, which showed her it was time for her to leave, and she smiled to herself. Branson was standing by the door, waiting for her. "You'd best hurry up, my lady," he said wryly, wearing a wry smile. "We don't want you being late for your very important appointment."
"Certainly not," she agreed, mock serious. "I'd never dream of it." She locked up the office before they walked back to the car with one another. Already she was in a much brighter mood.
"I know it's your birthday, but I have one request," Branson said from the front of the car after they had set out.
Mary sighed. "Very well. But make it a good one."
"No talk about Lady Edith and what happened earlier," Branson said. "You don't need to let her bring you down today of all days. I'll let you rant tomorrow to your heart's content."
"I think I can abide by that," replied Mary. "Thank you, by the way. I was about to say something I would regret later."
"I know. And you're welcome." She could head the smile in his voice. "Now can we move to lighter topics?"
"Please."
There wasn't anything particularly special about their appointment to the field that day, nothing that set it apart from their other visits. Mary spoke ad nauseam about her plans for the estate, so long that she was quite certain she was boring him, but Branson listened with rapt attention. She turned the conversation to him after that, asking him about downstairs gossip and polite inquiries on his family.
The only thing that set it apart was when Branson reached into the pocket of his jacket. "I wanted a chance to give this to you. Before we leave." He pulled out a small package, wrapped in brown paper. "It isn't much, but I hope you'll get some use out of it."
A gift. Branson had purchased her a birthday gift. Mary was struck mute, eyeing it. This man, who wouldn't even buy a book he sorely wanted for himself, had given her a birthday gift. She was struck silent, too amazed to begin protesting that he needn't do this.
The package nudged her hands. "Open it," he urged, his eyes not hiding his excitement. Mary accepted it, unwrapping the package carefully, eager to see what it was.
It was a small, brown book without a title. Mary opened it, finding it blank. "I thought it might be useful," Branson began, nervous. "Now that you're the agent. I know you've been relying on your memory to keep track of things but I thought maybe this might help. Or you could use it to write anything. Figures, information, anything you need it to. I hope—"
"Thank you," Mary interjected, not tearing her eyes away from the book, startled by the choked way her voice came out. She looked up, meeting Branson's eye. "This is— This is wonderful. Thank you."
She wasn't the effusive sort at all, not one for heaping praise or lavishing someone with compliments, so Mary found herself quite unable to describe the slew of emotions hitting her all at once. She was touched; she couldn't deny it. A gift was quite unnecessary, especially when she knew how much it meant.
"Do you like it, then."
"I do. Very much." She let herself look at him finally, watching as a smile of relief spread across his features... and she wondered to herself if seeing that was the true gift.
Her birthday was one of the last days of peace. Come April, preparations for the livestock fair were underway, which consumed a great of Mary's time. Most days were spent like this one, in her office and typing away or scheduling genuine appointments. Regrettably, it meant less personal time to do the things she wanted to be doing... but it also meant less time to potentially be doing things she knew were no good for her.
Since nothing had panned out with Henry Talbot, Mary resigned herself to the fact nothing would come of their brief flirtation at Brancaster. She wasn't broken-hearted over it by any means, but it meant she was all the more aware that she was growing closer to Branson. As much as she enjoyed spending time with him, she was irked there was nothing to hold her back from potentially making any mistakes other than her own resolve. Even though she was confident in herself, she also was well-award that she was own worst enemy and tended to be the source of her own problems. Therefore, spending days in her office meant she was incredibly productive and she could relish in the sense that she wasn't doing anything foolish.
Her relationship with Edith had deteriorated in the wake of the fight on Mary's birthday. Edith had made a half-hearted attempt to apologize prior to dinner but Mary saw the lingering contempt in her eyes and replied cooly and sarcastically, which meant their relative peace-fire had ended. It was nowhere near as tense or as severe as before but the general warmth she had felt towards Edith had cooled significantly, and vice versa.
Mary came across a point of note as she scanned through reports— something she ought to mention to Papa later. She reached into her handbag and pulled out the small, brown book, already filled with ink stained pages. She used it as a diary for plotting out important dates she needed to remember and also as a means of jotting down various pieces of information that she may need to recall later. It served her well— almost as well as the man who had gifted it to her.
The day of the livestock fair was one of excitement. The village was certainly busy, with a number of stalls and activities in addition to the livestock. Tom was staying close to the family for two reasons, the first being the fact he would be the one to drive them home and the second so he could be near Mary. She had been working hard for the past two months preparing for this and he wanted to see her in her triumph.
Of course, Mary's pride over winning an award for her pigs was soon overshadowed by Miss Marigold suddenly going missing. Lady Edith was worked up into a frenzy, close to tears as she called out for the little girl. Lord and Lady Grantham seemed anxious as well, but nothing like her. Tom aided in the search for her, scanning through the crowds, and more convinced than ever of his theory surrounding Lady Edith interest in Miss Marigold.
At first, he had little to go on. After Lady Edith disappeared after Mary's race, Tom had been confused when the Dowager Countess was ordering him to drive her to Yew Tree Farm without explanation. Tom waited in the car as she approached the Drewes, who were in the process of taking care of their laundry. Though the car was a distance away, Mrs. Drewe seemed immensely saddened.
The next curious thing was spotting Mr. Drewe at the station when he went to pick up her Ladyship and Lady Edith. He saw the man walking towards the station and he left shortly before Lady Edith and Lady Grantham arrived, this time carrying a little girl who Tom knew hadn't gone in with him. Even more perplexing was when Lady Edith announced her intentions to take in their adopted daughter, who was the same little girl Tom had seen leaving the station with Mr. Drewe.
And then, one day, it made sense. Tom was going to drive the family to the station for their train to Brancaster. His attentions were mainly focused on Mary, who was bidding farewell to her son, but he found his eyes drawn to Lady Edith as she said goodbye to Miss Marigold... and then he saw the similarities. The hair, the face... and then he thought back to her nearly year long trip to Switzerland and started to realize the child resembled Mr. Gregson as well.
And then, of course, was the look in Lady Edith's eyes. It was the same one he remembered Nuala having when she cradled the baby she claimed was her sister: a mixture of love and heartbreak in equal measure.
Given the way Mrs. Drewe had been clinging to Miss Marigold on Mary's birthday, Tom suspected Lady Edith had reasons for not wanting her daughter to go to Yew Tree Farm, but he couldn't deny being upset when she had yelled at Mary that day. Still, he couldn't do or say anything to stop her, only hold Mary back from hurling insults. And it seemed Lady Edith's reasonings for keeping Miss Marigold away were founded, for soon Lord Grantham was hastily approaching Tom and requesting, "Branson, give me the keys to the car!"
Without hesitating, Tom began rummaging through his pockets, procuring the key. "Do you need me to drive you somewhere, milord?"
"No, I can handle this, Branson," said Lord Grantham. Seeming to realize Tom would want some sort of explanation, "We've found Miss Marigold. She is at Yew Tree Farm. Please let everyone else know so they can stop searching."
"Very good, milord," answered Tom. Lord Grantham didn't stick around long, turning around and jogging in the direction of the car.
When his Lordship said we, Tom had presumed he was talking about the entire family, which would naturally include Mary. He hadn't anticipated on spotting her carrying George several meters ahead of him once he left the village, walking alongside the road behind the rest of the servants. Without even thinking, he called out, "Mary!" and hastened his gait to catch up with her.
Mary stopped in place, turning around to see him. She smiled even as she said, "I see you were left behind as well."
"Your father felt like driving, it seemed. It's definitely strange to be walking up to the house," admitted Tom once he was beside her. "But at least we can keep each other company."
Mary's lips pursed. Tom was about to ask what was wrong until Mary glanced up ahead. Tom followed her gaze and then thought, Of course. The other servants and various villagers were walking up ahead. About seven meters in front of them were Anna and Mr. Bates, walking arm in arm. Surely it would seem strange, seeing them walk together... but Tom knew Anna would never do anything to jeopardize his and Mary's secret, even if she knew nothing explicitly. "Very well," Mary decided after taking an inventory of the situation and seeming to conclude there was no harm in it. Tom couldn't resist smiling as they walked side-by-side.
They made it out of the village before Mary sighed, lowering George to the ground. "You're getting much too big," she told him, sternly but with a smile. "I shan't be able to carry you much longer."
"I could hold him," Tom suddenly volunteered, glancing down to George. He knew how much George meant to her; therefore, that made him important to Tom as well. Truthfully, he hadn't many opportunities to spend much time with George, but he wanted to know him better. "If you'd like," he added.
Mary shook her head, though she smiled. "It's alright. George can walk by himself. Besides... perhaps the brisk walk will help him take his nap for Nanny when we return."
"But I don't want a nap," whined George, petulant and staring up at her. Tom couldn't help but laugh.
"You'll need one. I'm sure Marigold will too, once she gets home."
George grumbled to himself but ran ahead, far enough away for Mary to safely mutter, "Though I still don't see what all this fuss is about." As if he didn't know what she was referring to, she added, "About Miss Marigold."
"You don't?" Tom murmured back, surprised she hadn't caught on or been told. He assumed she must have, at some point.
"What is there anything to be worked up about?" Mary asked, exasperated. Oh. So she really didn't know... "I mean, who cares if Mrs. Drewe has Marigold? She cared for her well enough the past few years, what's wrong with her watching her for an afternoon? Everyone is acting as if the world's ended. Edith's much too overprotective."
"Wouldn't you be concerned if someone had taken your son without asking?" asked Tom, nodding ahead to George.
"Well, of course I would," Mary said dismissively. "But Marigold isn't her daughter."
Tom was quiet, wondering if he ought to voice his theory... which, based on the events of the day, probably wasn't far off from the truth. Clearly Lady Edith hadn't told Mary, so she probably wanted it to be kept secret... but at the same time, how could Mary expect to understand why she was so protective? Perhaps it wasn't his secret to tell, but it didn't seem right that he should know and Mary shouldn't, not when it was her niece. Besides, he hated the though of Mary discovering he was hiding something from her. After much deliberation with himself, he asked, "Are you so sure about that?"
"What are you insinuating?" Mary was baffled.
"Think about it," said Tom, slowly laying out the facts. "Lady Edith goes to the Continent for the good part of a year. It's supposed to be a way to cheer her up but when she comes back, she's more blue than ever. She goes away for a week or a few months after her return, then she starts spending a great deal of time at the Drewe's farm to visit a little girl who she had mysteriously taken a shine to... and then she ends up adopting the girl, even though the Drewes had been doing well enough taking care of her."
"They couldn't afford another child," insisted Mary.
Tom knew he wasn't a parent but he did know what it was like to grow up without much money. The Drewes weren't wealthy by any means but Tom knew that even with several children, they were in better fortunes than his own family was at different points in his childhood. Families with that much love and financial stress would resort to desperate measures for their children. "Were they ever late on their rent?"
Mary considered it and he could see the cracks beginning to form in the story Edith had told her, the story she had been internalizing. "Perhaps they were prioritizing rent over their own comfort."
"No," Tom said, shaking his head. "Think of how Mrs. Drewe was looking at her. Mr. Drewe, too. Do you really think they would let a child they care for that much go away? Especially when they've spoken of moving away? Don't you think they would have considered that first, before giving away a child? No... I think Lady Edith has proof she was the child's mother and they hadn't legally adopted Miss Marigold, so she was able to take her back. Presumably Lady Grantham helped craft the story about them no longer being able to care for her so that Lady Edith could be with her own child at Downton. And," added Tom, "I can see a resemblance. To Lady Edith. And a little of Mr. Gregson, even though I only ever met him the once."
Mary stopped walking, stunned. George ran several feet ahead. "So you're saying that Marigold is my sister's illegitimate child?"
"How else would you explain why she was so upset with you for taking the children down to Yew Tree Farm without asking? Why is she so invested in Miss Marigold? Why would she suddenly go off to Switzerland?"
"Mummy!" George called out, apparently having stopped. "Hurry up!"
"I may be wrong," acquiesced Tom as they began walking back up to the house. "But it all adds up."
"I'm still having a hard time believing Edith capable," murmured Mary.
"I know you won't like me saying it, but she is intelligent. She could pull it off."
"Well, she didn't do very well, considering you saw right through it!" Mary insisted.
"But she fooled you," Tom pointed out. When she frowned, Tom said, "And you know her well... and you're also very clever. If you couldn't see it until I pointed it out, who else would figure it out?"
Mary sighed. "I suppose you are quite clever," she said, making his heart thump in his chest. "But it seems mad to me. Edith with a child."
"I might be wrong," Tom repeated again. "Maybe she isn't. Perhaps there's no blood connection. There's nothing that says someone can't love a child who isn't theirs biologically. But either way, Lady Edith clearly sees her as a daughter."
Mary nodded. "As much as I hate to admit it, I think you may be right. Now that I think about it..." She trailed off. "Does anyone else know?"
"I don't know. There's no gossip in the servant's hall, if that's what you're asking, but there's plenty of people who have good eyes. Your parents might know, if they went with her."
"And nobody felt to tell me," Mary mused, though she wore a smile as she said it.
"I'm sure it was nothing personal."
"It's me and Edith. Of course it's personal." Her expression softened. "If Mama, Papa, Aunt Rosamund, and Granny know, then she's purposefully keeping it from me. She probably thinks I would be stupid enough to tell."
"You wouldn't?"
"Do you think me capable of it?" Mary asked. She didn't sound offended but Tom wondered if she truly was and simply hiding it.
"You're anything but predictable, Mary."
She smiled at that. "No. At least, I don't think I would. If it were common knowledge, our whole family's reputation would be in tatters. It wouldn't just be her that would be affected— Miss Marigold would, too. Even though it would be nice to give her a taste of her own medicine."
Tom frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Only that Edith's shot herself in the foot before," Mary replied cooly. Tom sensed she didn't want to discuss it, so he shifted the conversation to lighter matters, like the possible romance between Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley.
"I don't understand why he doesn't just tell her how he feels," Mary said, a touch brusquely, though he knew it wasn't intended as such. She was still fired up about Edith and her secret.
All the same, Tom couldn't help but relate it to their situation. "Maybe he has. Maybe she just hasn't been able to hear what he has really been saying." He looked at her the whole time he said it.
Mary hummed to herself before replying, "Then perhaps it's time to be more obvious about it. Being straightforward is what pays off in the end."
Tom nodded. Perhaps it was time to be brave and simply state how he felt, without any adornments to distract her from what he truly meant. He knew she loved him; what he didn't know was if she was aware of it. He was quite confident she wouldn't send him away should he admit to it, but he couldn't help but hate the thought of being rejected a second time, especially now that he was even deeper in love than before. He didn't know if his heart could handle it.
He glanced over to the woman beside him, wondering when that right time would come for him to be wholly honest with her.