A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely comments! I truly appreciate it!

I'll be going on vacation this week with my family, so there may be a delay before the next update! I'm sorry it's falling at this particular point in the story but I promise we're getting there!

The Lady in Black

Chapter Twenty

It had been four days since Mary had last spoken to Branson. Four agonizing days spent berating herself, four quiet days of wishing she could ease into the familiar backseat and share all her thoughts with him, and four long days of sleepless nights followed by long walks to the cemetery.

But Mary wouldn't cave. He had made it perfectly clear to her that he wanted her to stay away; she wouldn't torture him by putting them in such close proximity when it was unnecessary. She owed him that much.

"Are you sure you want to walk today, milady?" Anna asked as Mary finished readying herself. The sky was a light shade of grey but there were foreboding dark clouds looming ominously in the distance. "It looks as though it may rain."

"Quite sure," insisted Mary, inspecting herself in the mirror. Her black mood nor the overcast clouds were a good enough reason to abandon Matthew. In fact, going to see him was one the few bright spots in her shadowy existence now.

"Are you sure you don't want me to ask Mr. Branson?" Mary stilled. "I know things are still difficult between the two of you but he wouldn't want you to be caught in the rain."

No— no, he probably wouldn't. You've made my life better. Still, she didn't want to risk upsetting him even further. "I'm sure I can handle it," Mary replied resolutely.

Anna sighed. "Well, at least take an umbrella." She turned around, rifling through Mary's wardrobe before procuring one for her. It was black with a wooden handle, good and sturdy.

"I will. Thank you," Mary said, not sure if she would carry it along with her or not. On the one hand, Anna was right; rain seemed imminent. On the other hand, Mary doubted she would be gone long enough for it to bother her.

Anna broke the silence by asking, "Milady... are you alright? Truly?"

Mary met her concerned eyes. She couldn't lie, not to Anna, not in this moment, at least. "Not really. But I don't think it matters much, do you? I have to carry on regardless." With that, she left the room.

Anna was growing worried— and not just about Lady Mary. She looked gaunt these days, almost as though she were haunted by something. Anna knew she wasn't sleeping as she should— she either summoned Anna early in the mornings or stayed in bed until Anna roused her, dark circles under her eyes regardless of when she came up. She was so discouraged these days, so downcast, it made Anna's heart ache. She had noticed the transformation to Lady Mary since coming out of the shadow of Mr. Crawley's death, aware how she had become more open, less guarded, making jokes with her. She had been so happy... and now she seemed to have reverted back to her former state. Seeing her like this hurt her more than she could describe.

If there was only some way to cheer her up! Mr. Branson had somehow managed it after Mr. Crawley's death but now he was the source of her woe... though it was unfair to imply he wasn't struggling as well. In fact, he was just as disheartened. Anna supposed there was no point in trying to place blame on anyone, not when it wouldn't do either of them any good.

As Anna walked down the servant's stairwell, she couldn't help but think of her conversation with Lady Mary the day things had come to a head. Lady Mary had never said she didn't love Mr. Branson, only that she couldn't marry him. While Anna had a difficult time imagining Lady Mary giving up on Downton to be Mr. Branson's wife, as it seemed highly contrary to her pragmatic nature, it was clear she was happier when she could be around him. She wished that society could be more forgiving or perhaps Lady Mary a bit braver or perhaps Mr. Branson less honorable, so that he might give himself permission to leave.

It was frustrating to be in the middle. She was the only person who truly knew why they were so miserable of late but saying anything would only jeopardize Mr. Branson's position here, something that would undoubtedly cause more despair for them both. If only one them would bend! But their biggest problem was that they were both far too stubborn. Neither of them were making any steps to change the way things were, remaining in a sort of purgatory.

Mr. Branson was seated at the table in the servant's hall when Anna arrived downstairs, engrossed in some pamphlets. "Will Lady Mary be home for luncheon?" Mrs. Hughes asked her. He looked up from his readings at the mention of her name.

"I think so," replied Anna. "With the weather being what it is, I doubt she'll go to her office this afternoon. I think she'll stay here." And if she tried to go during the storm, Anna would put her foot down and insist she stay put.

"Very good," said Mrs. Hughes, brushing past her. "I'll let Mrs. Patmore know, then."

Mr. Branson met Anna's eye, asking the same wordless question he had for days: Does she need me today? Anna shook her head, hating to see his face crumple for a moment before he returned to flipping through the pages of his pamphlets.

Anna joined him at the table a short while later, yarn and knitting needles with her. Lady Mary had been consciously lightening her workload, even though Anna was months away from giving birth, which meant she had enough time to start on some projects. She was currently working on a blanket for the baby. "How is she, then?" He asked quietly, pretending to flick through his pamphlet.

Anna sighed, making sure no one was looking before saying, "I wish you would ask her that yourself."

"Hard to do when she seems hellbent on avoiding me," he murmured back.

"You know she is only doing that because you asked her to."

Mr. Branson shook his head, looking up to meet Anna's eye for a brief moment. "I didn't ask for that. Not at all."

It took all of her self restraint to not scream her next words. "Then what did you ask of her? Because I am afraid that's what she believes." It was certainly what she had told Anna when she exasperatedly asked her why she was insisting upon keeping a distance from him. I've done more than enough damage, she explained. He asked me to keep a distance. I have no wish to inflict any more pain.

"I asked for nothing." Branson swallowed, head hanging down. His eyes weren't even on the page now. "I only told her things couldn't return to the way they were before. I know— I understand now, that things were different for her, but I can't pretend it didn't happen for me. That's not who I am."

Anna bit the inside of her lip. "You can't even go back to being her friend?" She felt wrong, asking it of him, but things had to change— for them both. This separation wasn't doing him any good, either. Lady Mary might technically be the only one in authority but Mr. Branson wasn't the sort of person to just stand idly by. He had clearly tested plenty of boundaries if he and Lady Mary were regularly picnicking and talking.

Mr. Branson hesitated. "Maybe. Once I've had time to let the wounds heal."

Anna blinked. "Will you really stay here, then?" She had thought maybe he had said that to appease Lady Mary— she figured it was only for her sake that he had remained at Downton for so long. Truthfully, Anna had been wondering for some time why he had stayed on for so long before slowly coming to realize it all had to do with her. Now that it seemed nothing would develop between them (at least, not without some sort of divine intervention), it didn't seem impossible to her that she would walk up to the house one morning and find him gone, replaced by a stranger wearing his uniform.

"I promised I would."

"Even now?"

"I won't break my word." He turned back to his pamphlet. She wondered why he was even bothering, acting as if he were reading when she could plainly see he was always a million miles away from them. "I'll stay as long as she wants me here."

Anna shook her head. "Mr. Branson, I hope you know you've become a friend to me. I like having your company and I think you are good man... but Lady Mary is my friend, too. And— well, I've never seen either of you so miserable!" His eyes widened and the pamphlet lowered. "I don't know what the right solution is, but it isn't this. It's killing you both."

"I can't make her love me!" Branson exclaimed, a touch louder than what was necessary. Mrs. Baxter, who was down the on the opposite side of the table, looked up from her sewing with a frown.

"Mr. Branson, keep your voice down!" Anna whispered back. She doubted Miss Baxter had gleaned anything from their hushed conversation and it was unlikely that she would tell Mr. Carson even if she had... but unfortunately she suspected she would share it with Mr. Molesley, who might in turn mention it to Mr. Carson, which might result in a series of awkward inquiries for Mr. Branson. "I know you can't, but I don't think you've really thought any of this through." When he stared back at her, jaw set, Anna continued, "Have you thought of what you'll do if she marries Mr. Talbot?" She didn't relish in watching the blood seemingly drain from his face, nor the way way his lips seemed to curve downward. "What if they have children? Can you really stay here and watch that happen?"

He wasn't looking at her anymore. Anna wished she hadn't said it, but at the same time she knew he needed to examine things carefully, to be sure he was making the right decision for himself. "Do you think she will?"

"I can't say. I don't know her mind," Anna told him honestly... though truth be told, Lady Mary hadn't mentioned Mr. Talbot for some time, not since she returned from London. She had learned by now never to assume when it came to Lady Mary, for she was always full of surprises, but Anna didn't seem him as a viable option for marriage— that is, if Lady Mary ever did decide to marry again. "Though I doubt she has thought much about him, what with what's going on between you two." He remained silent. "She might marry Mr. Talbot and she might not. She might marry some man we've never met or she may never marry again... and I hate to upset you like this, but I think you need to consider every possibility before you commit to a decision."

Branson let out a shuddery breath— Anna realized then that he was trying not to cry. "Let me ask you this," he said, voice raw. "What if you told Mr. Bates you loved him and then he said he didn't feel the same but asked you to stay at Downton anyway? Would you leave right then or would you stay so you could at least catch a fleeting glimpse of him everyday?"

Anna swallowed. It had been a long time since she had thought about those early days when everything was so uncertain. She had been so young, never feeling braver or bolder than the moment where she told Mr. Bates how she felt. His rejection at the time had stung, even when he had cushioned the blow with his kind words. Anna remembered all the tears she had shed and the sleepless night when he told her he was going back to Vera, never having felt something so painful in her life than to have all her dreams in her grasp one second then torn away the next. Still, she couldn't regret any of those moments; without them, she would never have him.

"That did happen. With me and Mr. Bates," she told Mr. Branson. "And things worked out."

He smiled self deprecatingly. "That's the difference. Things worked out for you... but they'll never work out for me. But I can't just leave her." He rose to his feet before stalking out of the servant's hall. Anna ignored the questioning look she received from Miss Baxter, unable to tell if she had helped him gain a new perspective or if she had only twisted the knife even deeper.

Mary felt the raindrops before she even left the cemetery. With a sigh, she opened up her umbrella, pleased Anna had selected something that matched her attire. She thought of nothing as the wind picked up, nor the steady drumming of raindrops hitting the umbrella. Mary felt absolutely exhausted— sleep had been harder and harder to achieve these days and she scarcely had any appetite. She focused mainly on putting one step in front of her, then another, then another...

But the flicker of lightening in the distance was impossible to ignore. The flash of light snapped Mary from her trance, fingers losing grip on the umbrella for a brief second. Everything was gray, the village dark. Still, Mary pressed on. If things became dire, she could always take refuge at Granny's—

But soon Mary was out of the village, by the wood of the estate when the rain began pounding down from the heavens. The umbrella was useless as the wind blew ice cold rain drops under the brim, pelting Mary. It became harder and harder to see in front of her through the rain. Thunder rumbled just as a sudden gust blew the umbrella from Mary's hand. Mary whirled around, watching as it flew through the air, bouncing on the road twice as it rolled away. It was too far now for her to begin thinking of retrieving it.

Now exposed completely to the uncaring elements, Mary stood in the downpour, soaked to the bone in a matter of seconds. She squinted and brought a hand to her forehead, trying to protect her eyes from the sharp, stinging droplets. Taking shelter beneath a one of the nearby trees wasn't an option unless she wanted to take a chance to be struck by lightening...

Mary trekked down the road, stepping into mud puddles and trying to see in front of her until she happened across what appeared to be one of Papa's storage sheds on the outskirts of the wood. Figuring it was as good a place as any, Mary staggered towards it.

It was by no means glamorous— there was a gaping hole in the roof, letting rainwater in, but as long as Mary kept to the opposite end of the shed, she was sheltered. Exhausted, cold, and longing for a change of clothing, Mary sank to the floor, leaning against the wall. Breathing deeply, Mary let her eyelids shut. It was just until the rain died down...

Anna glanced outside, taking her eyes away from her task of polishing Lady Mary's shoes. She was glad her mistress had taken the umbrella in the end; she hated the thought of her facing that downpour on her own.

Mr. Bates had joined her with his Lordship's shoes, telling her about a conversation he and Mr. Molesley had about the local school. Anna knew he was thinking about their baby and where he or she might go when the time came. She smiled, contented.

But half an hour later, when the rain hadn't let up, she became concerned. Lady Mary still hadn't rung for her yet; if she had been caught in the storm, she surely would have rung for Anna by now to change into some dry clothes. She abandoned her task at hand to slip upstairs.

Anna knocked on Lady Mary's bedroom. "Lady Mary?" No response. She knocked harder. "Lady Mary, it's me." Nothing.

Anna was relieved when the door knob twisted open easily. She burst into the bedroom, disappointed to find no one. She checked the bathroom as well and was dismayed to find it empty.

Had she returned before things became bad? Mr. Carson, Thomas, Jimmy, and Andy were serving the family tea— one of them could give her an answer.

She waited by the door on the ground floor, startling Thomas when he came through. "What're you doing here? You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Is Lady Mary with the family for tea?"

"No," said Thomas, confirming her worst fears. "Isn't she up in her room?"

"Oh my God!" She staggered forward, gripping his wrist to stop herself from sinking to the floor.

"What? What is it?"

"She never came back from her walk!" Anna cried out. "Tell his Lordship she's missing!"

The servant's hall exploded into chaos. "Mr. Branson, bring the car around! Immediately!" Mr. Carson ordered, face flushed and looking as though he might be sick. Thomas, Jimmy, and Andy were trailing after him, wearing varying expressions of concern. "Mr. Barrow, you can take another car, Lady Edith will be taking the third—"

"What's going on?" Tom asked, nearly banging his knees against the bottom of the table as he stood up. Something was wrong— Thomas actually looked panicked, Andy was similarly rattled—

Anna emerged from the doorway, looking as if she'd been through a war. There were tears swimming in her eyes. Oh God— the baby—

Tom didn't think there could be anything worse than that— that was until Mr. Carson announced, "Lady Mary is missing. She never returned from her walk this afternoon."

Tom felt as if the room was spinning around him. Mary. If it weren't for the direness of the situation, he might have broken down then and there.

"Mr. Carson, is there anything we can do?" Mr. Bates asked.

"You can join us in the cars— Mr. Molesley, you come, too," he said to the other man, who was rising from the table, tutoring session with Daisy abandoned.

"I want to go," said Anna, looking shaken. "I need to go."

Mr. Carson looked unconvinced but nodded. "Very well. You can go with Mr. Branson— his Lordship and her Ladyship are going with Lady Edith. I will go with Mr. Barrow—"

Tom was already moving to the door. He could care less about coordinating who was riding with whom, not when Mary was God knows where. Anna followed after him, at impressive speeds for a woman in her condition.

"Mr. Branson, slow down!" She cried out when they reached the garage.

"I can't just leave her out there!"

"I know!" Anna grabbed his wrist, her surprisingly tight grip bringing him back to himself. "I know, Mr. Branson! But you can't lose your head! You won't be doing her or yourself any favors if you forget yourself!"

Tom hesitated. She was right— he needed to keep a level head, no matter how panicked he was. He nodded, gulping. Dear God, please keep her safe, wherever she is.

The past few days of sleep deprivation had finally gotten to Mary. It must have been a rush of adrenaline, an instinct of survival driving her to find this shed for now she felt utterly exhausted. She slumped against the wooden wall of the shed, arms wrapped around herself as she shivered, eyes falling shut. Perhaps, if she just had a minute of rest, she could be well enough to walk back up to the house after a while.

The three cars drove in a line to the village, retracing Mary's trek. Lady Edith led the pack with her family and Mr. Bates (who had insisted upon accompanying his Lordship once he saw the state the man was in), followed by Tom and Anna, then Thomas, Carson, Molesley, and the footmen.

Tom's heart was racing in his chest. If something had happened to her...

"I shouldn't have let her go," Anna croaked beside him. She had been battling tears for a while now, but shortly after leaving the gates she had broken down. "I wish I hadn't let her go."

Tom wished she hadn't, either. Still, he knew that it wasn't fair for anyone to be blaming Anna— especially not herself. "I doubt you could have persuaded her to stay. When Mary puts her mind to something..." he trailed off. It was one of the things he loved most about her, her determination. "If anything, it's my fault. If I hadn't opened my bloody mouth—"

"No," interrupted Anna. "Please, don't blame yourself." She sighed. "Neither of us are at fault. You're right— Lady Mary would have gone anyway, even if God Himself was ordering her to stay home."

Tom still couldn't help but hold himself accountable, at least to some degree. If he had agreed to put his feelings aside and let things return to normal, she wouldn't have felt the need to stay away, he would have been the one driving her, and she would home by now. What were his bruised feelings compared to her safety?

Lady Edith suddenly slammed the brakes on ahead of them. Tom stomped on his own, hoping to God that Barrow had quick reflexes. The under butler slowed to a halt behind him and Anna as his Lordship jumped out of the car, holding onto his hat before running in front of Edith's vehicle.

"I wonder what's going on..." Anna murmured beside him.

Their question was answered a moment later when his Lordship returned into view, brandishing a black umbrella. "Oh my God," Anna whispered beside him. "That's hers, I sent it with her—"

Oh God, oh God, oh God... His Lordship opened the back door of the vehicle, talking to her Ladyship before using the umbrella to shield himself and walk to them. Tom's hands clenched the steering wheel. Oh God no, please God no...

"Anna!" His Lordship shoutered, trying to be heard over the storm. "This is Lady Mary's umbrella, is it not?"

"It is!"

The older man look devastated. "She was definitely through here... I think we'll swing into the village to make sure she didn't turn around and go to my mother's or Isobel's. Would the two of you drive back the road we've already taken, on the off chance we missed her? Thomas and the rest can drive the rest of the way and check in the village."

"We can!" agreed Tom. "I'll just need Barrow to pass me before I can turn around!"

Lord Grantham nodded. "Thank you, thank you both!" He yelled before advancing towards Thomas's vehicle.

He and Anna sat in silence before Mr. Barrow passed them, Mr. Molesley's face staring out at them through the window. His Lordship ran beside them, so Tom began backing up. Lady Edith had already driven off before Tom finished turning the car around.

"We'll find her," Anna insisted, even as the clouds grew darker and the rain fell harder.

Tom gripped the steering wheel. "You don't know that." Where could she possibly be? His mind was racing a mile a minute, thinking of the endless possibilities. Either she had sought shelter from the rain somewhere, or she was hurt, or someone may have abducted her, or perhaps she had decided to run away—

No. She wouldn't run away, not without good reason. She would never leave her son or Downton behind, not like that.

"Well, that's what I have to believe," Anna said, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of rain pounding against the windshield.

It was then Tom noticed a small shed in the woods, peeking through the trees. It wasn't a far walk from the road. Could she have...? Tom stopped the car, parking it off to the side of the road. "I'm going to check that shed!" He told Anna, pointing to it before climbing out.

The sharp edge of the door hit Mary's shoulder, causing her to groan as she awoke. She had begun growing used to this— the shed was hardly cozy, but at least there hadn't been more than one draft and she hadn't been in physical pain.

"Mary! Oh, God, Mary, are you alright?"

She opened up her eyes, hardly daring to believe the voice she was hearing. It seemed at some point she must have slid down to the dirt floor of the shed for she was eye level with a pair of thick, black boots— she tilted her head upward, only to see a knee covered by dark green trousers descending, the shine of brass buttons, and then finally Branson's face, etched with concern. "Branson?" She croaked.

"I'm here, love, don't you worry." One of his leather gloves fell on her midsection and before Mary could question what he was doing, Branson was placing a warm, bare hand on her forehead. "Your skin's like ice," he professed, reaching for his glove again, fingers inadvertently brushing against her stomach.

"What're you doing?" She murmured a moment later, confused as he began unbuttoning his jacket. The fog of sleep still had yet to clear.

"It's damp, but it's drier than your clothes. It'll be warmer, too." Soon, he was left in just his shirt and vest, holding his jacket with both hands. "Can you sit up for me, love?"

Mary pushed herself off the floor, arm shaking as she did so. She couldn't tell if it was from the exertion or the cold until she sat up and he draped the jacket over herl shoulders. Though it wasn't strictly necessary, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders as she maneuvered her arms into the sleeves, desperate for more warmth. She wasn't certain if he was simply trying to keep her balanced or if he just wanted to be near her, but Mary wasn't about to shake him off anytime soon.

"I'm going to pick you up now," Branson informed her once she was finished, still crouched by her side. Mary was about to insist it was unnecessary when he scooped her up, one arm under her knees while the other wrapped around her torso, his fingers aligning with her ribs.

For one horrible moment, it occurred to Mary this might all be just a fantastical dream— that Branson wasn't really there, that she would wake up in the shed, alone and weak... or maybe even in her own bed. But when they stepped out into the rain, the chill and the sting of the heavy droplets beating down on them served as a return to clarity. He was here... he was really here. He had come to look for her. In spite of everything, Mary allowed herself to feel glad for one feeling moment. Maybe this was an olive branch, a sign that he hated being apart from her as much as she hated being apart from him.

"I can walk," she insisted, arms wrapping around his neck when he stepped on a large stick and nearly lost his balance, but he ignored her, grip on her merely tightening. Mary did the same, fingers clenching about the damp fabric of his vest as if to hold on better.

Through the downpour, Mary could see the Model T, a slight figure in the passenger's seat. As they approached closer and closer, the figure jumped out, as Branson yelled, "Open the back door!" Soon, Mary could see that it was none other than Anna.

Branson blessedly let her down right in front of the car door, allowing her a moment of dignity to climb in of her own accord. It wasn't until then that the mortification began sinking in. What sort of imbecile was stranded in the rain? She was truly at her weakest in this moment. She was reduced to nothing more than a damsel in distress as she weakly pulled herself into the back of the car, Anna's comforting hand on her back. She didn't even have the strength to ask Anna to let go— truthfully, if it weren't for the gentle pressure of her hand, Mary may have faltered.

"I'm so glad you're alright, milady!" Anna gushed as she joined Mary in the backseat. Mary slumped over inelegantly, somehow more exhausted than ever as Branson jumped in and started the car up again. "We were ever so worried!"

"My apologies," she murmured, closing her eyes and propping her forehead across the cool window, even though she desperately craved the warmth. It was as if she couldn't hold herself upright, suddenly boneless.

Anna was a bundle of nerves, asking Mary an endless stream of questions and concerns. Answering her took an embarrassing strain on her but she managed to explain what had happened to the best of her abilities. Finally, she turned her attentions to Branson, asking, "Shouldn't we let the others know we've found her?"

"Others? What others?" mumbled Mary, incapable of really being much louder.

It seemed neither of them heard her. "Not until we get her home and safe," said Branson, practically shouting to be heard over the rain. "Once you get her inside, call Dr. Clarkson. I'll pick him up in the village while I go tell the rest."

"What's going on?" Mary asked again, speaking louder this time. "What do you mean the rest?"

"Your family and all the men," answered Anna. Mary closed her eyes. As if it couldn't get any worse... naïvely, a part of her believed she could conceal this folly when it was just Anna and Branson... Everyone being aware that she had been a complete idiot was significantly worse than just them knowing.

And it meant they hadn't embarked on this mission alone. If Papa and Carson were involved, they must have ordered him to go out look for her. This wasn't a spur of the moment, spontaneous situation in a desperate attempt to save her and mend their fences, it was a part of his job as well. It wasn't that she doubted he cared, for she knew he did very much, but it meant that by tomorrow morning, nothing would have changed. Life would return once more to the same, monotonous routine that had been developed over the past couple of days.

"Are you alright, milady? You look unwell."

"I'm fine," Mary lied, closing her eyes. "I just want to go home."

"We're getting you home. Just as quickly as we can." Anna placed a hand on her arm.

He hadn't said anything to her. Not a word. Not since helping her out of the shed.

It would have been easier if he was to yell and scream at her for hurting him. It would have been painful, but that she could deal with. It would be easier if she could ever possibly harden her heart against him, to hate him, let him fade into the backdrop of her mind as a minor irritation. But instead all her thoughts were concerned with his wellbeing. How he must be feeling, how she wished he could just be happy, how much she wanted to tell him everything... it had consumed her the past couple days. But no: instead of treating her cruelly or responding with anger, he was nothing but loving. Saying the kindest things, calling her "love"...

And then ignoring her.

And that was something Mary really couldn't bear.

To say Mary was mortified by the whole affair was an understatement. She was confined to her bed immediately by Anna. Mary remembered once telling her that she was like an older sister, and it seemed her maid had willingly stepped into that role, wasting no time being firm or fussing after in a way that wasn't too overbearing. Dr. Clarkson was called, her family crowded her bedroom to make sure she was alright, and Mrs. Patmore sent up some chicken broth that nearly scalded the roof of Mary's mouth when she tried consuming it.

"Draw her a warm bath and let her soak in it and make sure she gets plenty of fluids," Dr. Clarkson instructed Anna, her self appointed caregiver. "And remember to eat something to keep your strength up," he told Mary disapprovingly, who now regretted mentioning her lack of appetite over the past few days. "She'll need plenty of rest, but I think she'll be feeling more herself by tomorrow. If that's not the case, don't hesitate to send for me."

"Yes, Dr. Clarkson," promised Anna, who went into the bathroom almost immediately to start the water running for Mary's bath.

Her family lingered about for a few minutes, with Mama fretting over her, Papa awkwardly standing in the corner, and George interrupting Mama to try and tell her all about some game he and Marigold invented. "Perhaps we ought to let Mary rest," Edith finally said, reaching for one of George's hands. "After all, Dr. Clarkson said she needed it."

Maybe for the first time in her life, Mary was immensely grateful to her sister. She was certain she would owe her some favor in future for it but right now she was simply relieved to hear Mama say, "You're probably right. Do you need anything before we leave?"

"I'll be perfectly alright, Mama. Anna is more than equipped to the task." Mary doubted that she would be allowed to leave this room until Anna had deemed her well enough... which may be a problem come morning, but she would worry about it later.

When she was left alone, Mary's fingers found the brass buttons of Branson's jacket, which was still wrapped around her shoulders. She knew she would have to remove it soon, once Anna fetched her for her bath but she wasn't quite ready yet. It was still warm— warmer than the sheets on her bed.

It was a heavy jacket— she wondered how he could stand to wear it on hot summer days, with his shirt and vest on. Maybe that was why he always found an excuse to take it off in the garage, pushing up his sleeves to reveal those arms Mary always found her eyes drawn to. Still, for days like today, it had worked perfectly... though he must have been terribly cold, driving around without it after carrying her through the woods in the rain... unless he had changed into another jacket. He was bound to have spares...

Mary paused. Why was she so concerned by Branson's clothing? She had half a mind to slip it off, but reminded herself Anna would be back in a couple minutes for retrieve her for her bath. Besides, she might as well savor it. It was unlikely she would see him tomorrow morning, let alone be near him, and this would be the closest she would be for some time. She supposed that when she bathed, Anna would return the garment to him, never to be given to Mary again. Would it smell of her when he received it? Mary slipped one arm through the sleeve of the jacket, bringing it to her nose as she inhaled deeply. Motor oil, black tea, soap... all things she associated with Branson, no trace of herself.

"Lady Mary?"

Mary dropped her arm, eyes wide and heart racing at being caught out. Anna stood in the doorway between her bedroom and the bathroom, looking concerned. "Are you alright milady?"

"Perfectly alright."

Anna hesitated. Mary prepared herself for another interrogation regarding her feelings about Branson, only to be met with, "It's alright to admit when you are feeling blue, milady."

"I'm not feeling blue," insisted Mary, rising out of her bed whilst tugging the jacket off of her. It was a lie and she knew Anna knew it, but she wasn't of the same mind as Anna. There were issues that arose when one admitted they were feeling down... for she knew full well she shouldn't be so distraught over such a thing in the first place. "Is my bath ready?"

When she awoke the following morning, Mary was feeling better than she had felt following her misadventure... physically, at least. She was still exceedingly humiliated by the whole affair. She doubted her family nor Anna would approve of her leaving again when she hadn't fully recovered, but she wasn't about to forgo her daily ritual.

"Are you sure it's wise, Lady Mary?" asked Anna when Mary insisted upon it when she came to dress her.

"Maybe it isn't wise, but I need to see Matthew."

Anna nodded. "Of course you do."

It was still early, so Mary dressed, ate her breakfast, and then inspected herself in the mirror. She grabbed her umbrella, thoughtfully returned by Papa, even though there was no calls for rain. At least she would be prepared for any sort of weather.

What she was not prepared for, however, was for Branson to be already waiting out front for her, back door to the Renault already open. "Get in," he told her. "You're in no state to be walking down there today, and it's awfully cloudy. We don't need a repeat of yesterday."

Mary's jaw tightened. Somehow he knew what words to say to get under her skin and make her come back to life again. Gone was all the anguish and longing of the past few days, replaced by indignation and a sudden fire. She straightened her posture before saying, as icily as possible, "That's not necessary, Mr. Branson. I'm sure you've better things to do."

"On the contrary, I think it's essential. Dr. Clarkson told you to rest."

Mary felt mild irritation. Clearly someone (and she was willing to be it was Anna) had shared the details of the doctor's orders. "I'm feeling much better than I was yesterday, thank you. I'd prefer to walk."

"Very well. I'll just drive alongside you in the car the whole way there and back," Branson said, shrugging his shoulder nonchalantly. "Whichever you prefer... though if it were me, I'd just climb into the car."

Why was he being so difficult? Mary was still half tempted to walk there out of sheer spite, knowing he would hate to drive so slowly, but the thought of him slowly creeping behind her in the car sounded like a nightmare. She said nothing before she stalked towards the car door, slamming it behind her. She caught a glimpse of a smirk on his face before he climbed in, no doubt pleased with himself for having won out in this battle of wills.

Soon, her anger and humiliation from before ebbed away during their silent drive to the cemetery. Despite their conversation (or disagreement, whichever was it was easier to categorize it as) before Mart climbed in, it seemed that once they were in the vehicle, a wall had been erected between them. He hadn't even bothered to leave the glass partition open, a physical barrier that clearly said one thing: I don't wish to talk to you. The quiet was as stifling and as painful as she feared it would be.

"I made a fool of myself yesterday," she whispered to Matthew, wanting to be absolutely certain Branson wouldn't overhear her. Mary swallowed. "I seem to be doing a lot of that lately."

Matthew's silence was understandable; Branson's was not— at least, not in her eyes. Surely it must be as agonizing for him, not being able to engage with one another! He'd had no problems speaking to her yesterday, of being so achingly kind to her, no hesitations in going against her today. Her fingers traced over her late husband's name.

What did he think each day, watching her pay tribute to her dead husband? Matthew had lost Lavinia, of course, but her situation hadn't really been comparable to Branson's. He visited her, yes, every so often on the anniversary of her death, but he usually invited Mary along. Nevertheless, whatever love he had harbored for her was nothing compared to the love which she felt for him. Did Branson envy Matthew? Did it hurt him to watch her be like this? These were questions she had never asked herself before, never even realizing they needed to be asked. A part of her was dying to know, personal as it was, eager to have a glimpse inside his mind once more.

But when Mary returned to the car she said nothing. That glass partition was closed: she wasn't privy to that information anymore.

They settled in their routine again— if it weren't for Matthew, Mary wouldn't have bothered and simply stayed home. Her parents had practically forbidden her to walk to village during her period of recovery— "What's the point of you walking down when we've a perfectly good chauffeur?" was one of Papa's impassioned outcries— and they were incredibly vocal in their gratitude towards Branson himself for rescuing her. If Mary was the damsel in distress, it seemed Branson was the shining white knight. Though Mary despised being told what to do, she would grudgingly admit that she wasn't really in a fit state for long hikes to the village. Her week of sleep deprivation, poor eating habits, and ordeal in the rain had knocked her flat on her back.

It was almost torturous, being so near him and being unable to speak to him. She knew it must be a million times worse for him. While she was relieved he hadn't left, Mary was still astonished that he would stay behind and live this half life solely to honor a promise he had made to her so long ago. Anyone else would have left by now, promise be damned. But that wasn't who Branson was— he was a man of his word. Mary couldn't help but admire him all the more for it.

If she were selfless, Mary would have set him free. He deserved to live a life far from here, maybe in Ireland or America, where despite his protest he might find someone worthier of him. Perhaps he could even stay in England, running for office or even a political reporter. Branson had a sharp mind, he was fully capable of such a thing...

But Mary was selfish. And she would keep him here as long as she possibly could.

The idea of letting go was incomprehensible.