A/N: Thank you so much for your kind comments and patience! I had a great time on my vacation and am glad to be returning to this story!

The Lady in Black

Chapter Twenty One

Mary recalled all their rules from when they first began their friendship. She had been the one to break them at the start.

Now they had a new set of rules. The first and most important rule was that there was no talking. No "hellos", no "thank yous", nothing.

The second rule as that they didn't make eye contact. Not when she met him outside each morning nor in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were kept down, only allowed to flicker up every once in a while.

The third rule was that they never sought one another out. Anna was their go between, and when she was busy, someone else was sent to summon him to drive her where ever she needed to go. The third rule would, she supposed, would be violation of the first.

Marry had broken them the first time. It made sense; the rules were founded on her terms, therefore when she broke them, she acknowledged they served no purpose anymore. She waited for him to break them the second time, that signal things were ready to return to the way they had been.

So when he didn't, she took matters into her own hands.

Her specific violations were rules one and three. Feeling as though she was slowly being driven mad, Mary snapped the book she was vainly attempting to use as a distraction shut before marching out of the library, through the hall, out the door, across the drive, and into the garage.

Mary didn't see him at first— she nearly let out a sigh, thinking he must be in the servant's hall and her pursuit was in vain— until she heard the sound of water splashing. Mary followed the noise until she saw Branson, back to her, standing over a sink full of water.

Mary felt like a fool, standing there silently. She had come here to say something, so why wasn't she saying it? She was just standing there. Branson hadn't taken any notice of her, using the water to wash off his grease stained arms and hands. Her eyes roamed over him, mouth dry, breath catching in her throat.

Finally, Mary managed to regain control of herself enough to call out to him. "Branson!"

He whirled around, eyes wide, and looking as if he had seen a ghost. His lips were parted slightly, chest rising and falling. Soon, the startled look morphed into something a touch more relaxed, eyes darting over her. As if he didn't believe she were real.

Mary steadied herself, shoulders back, exuding confidence she didn't feel. "I'm going down to my office." There was a pregnant pause, where they simply stared at one another in silence. "I need you to drive me there," Mary clarified, realizing she hadn't exactly explained her intentions.

Branson nodded, mouth closed now. "Uh, do you mind if I finish washing up, milady?" It was the first words he had spoken to her in a week. "I'll meet you out front once I'm finished."

"Of course," said Mary, still standing there, as if she were rooted to the spot. Another gaping silence passed before she said, "I'll just go wait there, then," stepping back before leaving the garage.

Well, you behaved like a perfect idiot out there! She chastised herself as she walked back up the house, the gravel skidding beneath her hasty footsteps. She had broken their rules (his rules, she corrected herself), stood there saying nothing like a moron gaping at him—

Pull yourself together, she told herself disapprovingly, finally standing in front of the door. She needed to compose herself before he came back...

When the car pulled up, Mary put her mask in place. When Branson stepped out of the car, he didn't look right through her— instead his eyes seemed to trace over her, touching and caressing her. "Thank you," she told him, meeting his eye before climbing in.

There was a silence but it didn't stretch on for eons... though maybe it was because it was such a short ride. Mary thanked him again, walking towards the door.

"What time do you need me to pick you up, milady?"

Mary was taken aback by two things— firstly that he was actually voluntarily speaking to her and secondly how strange the word milady sounded passing through his lips now— which was only an indication of how lax she had become when it came to him using her name. She hadn't even realized how often he used it. "Around four," she answered him, unnerved by her own thoughts. Still, she plastered a cordial smile on her face before saying, "Thank you, Branson."

She was pleased when he returned at that exact time, so pleased she didn't even bother hiding her smile when he appeared. She was more successful the following day, when he asked her on the way back from the cemetery if his services would be required to take her the office that afternoon.

They sidled back into the familiarity of it, the silence between them much less tense. Still, always felt like she was being haunted by the ghost of happiness each time they were together, their drives now a pale imitation of what she knew they could be.

It was daring, Mary knew, but when the opportunity arose, she figured she would see it.

"Branson," she said one afternoon, as the bright sun beat down upon them in the Renault, "Might I ask for your professional expertise?"

Branson seemed as though he might swerve the car off to side of the road as he swiveled his head back, evidently shocked she was speaking to him. He realized his folly immediately, turning back to the road. Mary watched, heart racing fast from fear yet amused, as his neck and ears turned red. "I'm sure you don't need my thoughts, milady."

"I may not need them," she agreed, though she wasn't how true that statement was, "but it would be most appreciated."

"Why?" His voice was flat. Then, a touch of bitterness as he said, "I'm just the chauffeur."

Mary rolled her eyes, not bothering to conceal how vexed she was. "You aren't just anything, Branson. You're exceptionally clever and I know you know it. It isn't endearing to pretend you aren't."

His leather clad fingers flexed on the wheel. Mary's eyes followed the line of his jaw as it clenched. He let out a sigh and she knew she had won. "What is it, then?"

"I wondered if you had any ideas about how I might be able to maximize the profits on the sheep at the Agnew's farm," said Mary, tilting her head to the side. "Mr. Agnew is a perfectly nice man, but he is having a difficult time with the lambs. He pays his rent on time, but—"

Mary continued on, providing him with all the pertinent details. As she did so, she observed him closely. His shoulders relaxed, fingers unclenched from the steering wheel, his voice softer even when he asked questions.

"Perhaps you could send Andy down to assist him with the harder work," he suggested in the end. "He's been quite eager to help Mr. Mason at Yew Tree Farm. And I spotted him with a book on sheep just the other day—"

Mary thought of the gangly young footman. He had seemed eager at Mason's— and if he was reading up on things—

"Does he take a great interest in farming?"

"I believe so. Like I said, he had a book about sheep the other day, and I know Mr. Mason sent him a whole stack of books. He's been working his way through them."

Mary pondered it. "Do you think he would be agreeable to farming full time?"

"He might," said Tom. "I gather he has said as much to Mrs. Patmore and Daisy."

"I hope so," she said, a plan forming. "This might very kill two birds with one stone."

"What do you mean by that?"

Mary couldn't help but grin. It felt like the old times. "Just between the two of us, Papa has been eager to make some staffing cuts," she spoke lowly, even though there was no one else there. "Don't worry— you are quite safe. We'll always need a chauffeur, even if Papa and Edith can drive now. But it's quite impractical to be employing so many footmen. Papa has been trying to persuade me to give Barrow his marching orders, but I'm not keen on sending someone out who is perfectly willing to stay on. If Andrew were to take up farming full time, we would be left with Thomas and Jimmy., which I think we can manage."

They had pulled up to the office now. "Thank you, Branson," she said before she had even stepped out of the car. Everything seemed so clear now, everything made right. She had found a solution to her problem and she was on speaking terms with Branson again.

She wondered if she should even say anything... it took a moment for her to decide, but Anna finally commented, "You seem in much higher spirits of late, milady."

"Do I?" asked Lady Mary, who was trying to be coy but failing miserably. Anna was almost certain she knew it but wasn't saying a thing.

"I'm glad to know things have improved," Anna told her with a smile, helping do up her dress. She recalled Lady Mary's reticence to admit what she felt for Mr. Branson... "Mr. Branson seems much happier as well."

Her lips twitched. "Is he? Well, that's a good thing I suppose." Lady Mary pushed her gloves up her arm, still hiding her smile.

Tom was coming to collect his laundry when he heard a whispered exchange in a doorway. "Mr. Carson almost caught us last night. He saw me coming out of your room." He stopped in his tracks, vaguely recognizing Andy's voice.

"Well, we'll have to be a little more careful next time." Was that... Thomas? He knew he shouldn't listen in, but... "Try and be more quiet."

"Why can't we do it earlier in the evening?" Andy practically whined. Tom felt his face grow pink. He should make his presence known... and soon.

"You don't want anyone else finding out, do you?"

"Yes, but I'm tired, Mr. Barrow. I feel like I'm dead on my feet."

It was now that Tom close to clear his throat loudly and step into the doorway. Andy cast him a skittish look, and he merely received a cool glare from Thomas. He would have thought Thomas would be more alarmed, having been caught out but Tom said nothing, merely passing by.

A part of him wondered if he ought to tell Jimmy. They were friends, after all... not the closest, but friends nonetheless. He didn't know the particulars of what his and Thomas's relationship, of course, and perhaps he would only incur Jimmy's wrath if he even insinuated there was more than a friendship between them, but it sounded like something he might want to know about.

As horrible as it was, Tom was relieved for a distraction. Now that Mary had started speaking to him again, it was hard for him to not replay their conversations in his mind. It felt so much like the way it had been before... only now Tom wasn't certain how anything could possibly happen now.

Tom wondered why he was staying. He could hand in his notice this afternoon, pack up his things, and leave. Some days it was a tempting idea... but then he would think of Mary and remember that heartbroken expression on her face when he had contemplated a move to America. Furthermore, he had made a promise to her. He couldn't break it.

But sometimes (usually late at night when he was in his cottage and trying to sleep) Tom wondered if he could keep that promise. Anna's words about her marrying Mr. Talbot and settling down haunted him constantly. Could he watch her marry him? He didn't doubt the pain would be unparalleled but as long as she was happy...

But it would still hurt.

Not for the first time, Tom wondered why Mary was so desperate to keep him here. He deluded himself into thinking it was love, but he'd been wrong about that. She spoke sometimes of their friendship, but surely she had plenty of friends more interesting than himself— friends that she wouldn't have a problem telling her family about, friends who owned manors like Downton Abbey.

Tom chastised himself. Mary had more substance than that. She wasn't wholly consumed with inheritances and mansions and all those other things. It wasn't fair to insinuate such a thing, even only in the confines of his mind, just because he was frustrated with her.

What made this all the harder was the fact nothing had changed. She still spoke to him and asked for his advice and told him about the blossoming romance Edith and Mr. Pelham, her thoughts on the match, and made jokes... All of it virtually indistinguishable from the way things had been before. It stung, knowing that his romantic efforts meant nothing to her and were merely a sign of a friendship. Their courtship hadn't existed at all, simply a figment of his imagination.

Perhaps it was his own fault, for not spelling it out clearly to her, but it didn't mean his heart didn't ache all the same. Each time she told him some amusing anecdote about her grandmother at dinner or made some offhanded comment about how she "needed his expert advice" with no trace of irony, it reminded Tom of what he would never have. If he could, every single day would be spent talking to her like this, side-by-side and not from the front seat of the car he was driving her in as her chauffeur.

But it wasn't to be. Tom saw that now. He had been a fool to think otherwise— women like Lady Mary didn't marry chauffeurs. It was time to stop dreaming.

Mary found herself quite agitated when she realized Branson had started clamming up once again. It wasn't anything dramatic; he simply started replying to her using the fewest amount of words possible. All the same, it bothered her.

Mary was very nearly at her wits end. She knew why he was going this; he had already told her that it was hard for him to slip back into friendship. Even so, she couldn't keep living like this— it was like walking on eggshells, and she knew he wasn't thriving before, either. She truly hated the idea of chasing him more pain, yet, for some reason that escaped Mary, she found herself drawn to him the way a moth was attracted to a flame. There was a constant voice in her head, urging her to stay silent, telling her that her questions and observations were akin to poking an open wound, never allowing it to heal. But a part of her needed to talk to him. It was as if he were the only person she could talk to and know she would receive a wholly honest answer from. Even Anna, who she trusted a great deal, was known to sugarcoat things.

But Branson was strangely reticent in a way he never had been before, even long before their friendship began. His answers became monosyllabic, only extending to full length sentences when prompted by Mary to elaborate. There was a tenseness in his shoulders that had been absent before, a flintiness in his eyes she couldn't remember seeing.

As off putting as this was, it was nothing compared to when he decided to stop speaking altogether. Mary had been disheartened by the results of the past few days and hadn't spoken to him during the drive to the cemetery. She expressed her frustration to Matthew, quietly. "I don't know how I am supposed to fix this," she whispered, glancing every once and a while to Branson. He was paging through a book, not even looking over at her. Nevertheless, there was a stillness today in the village and she was worried he might overhead her.

It suddenly struck her as absurd. Why was she talking to her husband about the chauffeur? Not just any chauffeur, but the chauffeur who was in love with her. A bitter laugh escaped her. Had anyone bothered to tell her about the trajectory her life would taken in 1920, she would have said they were mad. It was ludicrous.

But no matter how nonsensical it seemed, Mary couldn't pretend that it didn't matter to her or that she was unbothered by it. It troubled her a great deal— more, Mary was willing to admit, than it probably should.

She stared at Matthew's name, tracing the letters in her mind. "I wish you were here. Really here." She swallowed. "Life was so much simpler with you."

It took her a moment before a choked laugh escaped her, without much humor. "No, not simpler— things were never simple with you, my darling. But I'd be willing to bet my life would be happier." She wasn't under any illusions that her marriage with Matthew would have been serene or perfect by any means, but she would hardly have to worry about suitors and love struck chauffeurs, would she? If it weren't for that promise Branson made in the garage that she selfishly clung to, Branson would have left Downton some time ago— a promise that never would have been made had Matthew been alive and well.

But even now, Mary couldn't say she regretted anything. The love struck chauffeur, for all the pain she now felt as a result of letting things progress too far, was important to her. She felt foolish for not engaging him in conversation sooner, learning about all his attributes, befriending him shortly after he came to Downton. It had taken her ten years to see what was before her. Ten years of wasting a marvelous opportunity at a friendship.

She detested crying, especially in public spaces, but it couldn't be helped. She hadn't done so since the day Isobel discovered her at this very spot, during those black few days when life had been utterly devoid of anything good. It had been a more common occurrence in those early weeks when her grief was still fresh, but Mary hadn't wept like this in some time. She had no handkerchief, forced to use her gloves to wipe away the tears. Perhaps she might have hid them, had she not been so focused at glaring at Matthew's name.

"Why did you leave me?" she demanded. If he hadn't died and left her, none of this would be happening. But Matthew remained silent, offering her no answers. He never would.

She waited until her cheeks were dry before kissing her fingertips. "Goodbye, my darling. I love you." She brushed them across the stone. Then, struck by a strange urge, she added, "I always will. That will never change."

She stalked back to the motor, heels clipping against the stone at a quicker pace than normal. Branson helped her into the vehicle as always. She was in too poor a mood to instigate any conversation, content to let him drive quietly. Her throat was sore and she didn't to give away her heightened emotional state— though she suspected Branson could tell, even though her eyes and nose were no longer pink, if the pitying look he gave her for a fraction of a second was any indication. He always seemed to know.

And how? Mary knew she had allowed him to see more of herself than she typically permitted others, but surely not to that degree? It was perplexing, to say the least. How could he have gleaned so much from car rides back and forth to a cemetery?

Mary didn't even notice that he said nothing to her when she thanked him upon returning home, too exhausted to pay it much attention. All she needed was a lie down. She was worn out from her journey.

Carson found her just before noon in the library, rifling through some of Papa's papers. "I am truly sorry to disturb you, milady, but Mr. Branson was wondering if his services would be needed today. He said that you hadn't mentioned anything about the matter this morning and he was worried it might interfere with her Ladyship's visit to the hospital this afternoon."

Mary blinked. She had forgotten. "Please thank Mr. Branson for his consideration. As a matter of fact, I do need him to take me to the office. He can drive me down now. I was just collecting some papers to take there myself."

Carson bowed his head. "Very good, milady." He stepped out of the room.

Mary organized the papers as best as possible as the car pulled up in front of the house. Not wanting to waste time, she gathered them up and hurried to meet him out front.

"I'm sorry, it completely slipped my mind earlier," she told him when she met him out front. "I wasn't feeling well and I completely forgot. Thank you for telling Carson."

The only acknowledgment she received was a nod of the head before he helped her into the car. Mary didn't bother hiding her sigh. So— it was to be one of those days. Mary settled into the backseat as Branson started up the car.

Nevertheless, she was undeterred. She waited until he turned down the drive to the office to say, "I'm going to have a real time of it today, I'm afraid. Sometimes Papa's handwriting is illegible. But I need to sort this out for the sheep."

He still said nothing. Mary stared at the back of his cap.

"I might need your help in future. Not with decoding my father's handwriting, of course, but with the sheep." Then, deciding to be even more direct, she asked, "Would you be amendable to that?" Surely he couldn't avoid her questioning him.

But ignore it he did. Branson stared straight ahead, as if she hadn't spoken at all.

Mary was incensed. A part of her wished she could sharply demand a reply, reminding him of her rank but she knew she couldn't do that. That wasn't who she was anymore; at least not with him. It would have been underhanded, not to mention horribly wrong. Once upon a time she might not have hesitated to use that hand, but she had grown and changed. He had changed her. That fact frustrated her a great deal.

She made one last attempt, one born from her aggravation. "Are you going to say anything or am I simply wasting my breath?"

He responded only with silence.

Well. There she had it. Mary mustered up all her anger, all her resentment, and found there wasn't much to be had. Instead, the predominant emotion was that of hurt. Sadness. Dismay. All those softer feelings that she didn't speak of to anyone.

Being ignored by him was worse than those stilted, one word replies. In fact, Mary wished he had used the opportunity to call her every name in the book, for it would have hurt less than being nothing at all.

Perhaps he didn't love her at all anymore. Maybe he realized his folly or maybe her rejection of him had caused all those feelings to dry up. Or maybe having to rescue her from a bit of rain made her appear ridiculous to him.

Mary should have been glad, if Branson had somehow been cured. The last thing she wanted was for him to pine after her for the rest of his life. Perhaps now he could find someone suitable for him— though preferably not another Miss Bunting. He could marry, just as he professed her wanted to, and have a family.

But she wasn't glad. The thought made her feel hollow, like everything inside her had been scooped out and left behind a hardened shell. The worst part, aside from hating the feeling, was not knowing why she felt it... but having a vague idea. An idea that, if it were true, would be impossible.

As they approached the office, Mary jumped out without Branson even having a chance to help her. That awful feeling was clawing at the inside of her and she worried about what might happen if she dared look at Branson. The door slammed behind her as she walked towards the office door, balancing all her papers.

"What time will you want me to pick you up today, milady?"

Oh... so now he was going to deign himself to speak to her? Sudden, inexplicable anger bubbled up inside Mary as she approached the office door. She didn't say a word, pulling out her key.

"Milady?"

She found the right key, placing it in the gold. She twisted the door knob.

"Don't be like this."

Her temper won out against the small voicing urging her to be silent and give him a taste of his own medicine. She whirled around. "That's rich, coming from you!"

She expected him to look exasperated, given the tone he had spoken with moments prior, but Branson wore the unaffected mask of a servant. It only served to upset her further. It was as if she weren't allowed to see the real him anymore. "Forgive me, milady, but I don't think it's proper to speak on matters that don't relate to my job."

"You've never cared a fig for propriety before," pointed out Mary. The only reason they were in this mess was because he had ignored propriety and opened his mouth a few years ago. Had he never done that, they never would have become friends, she wouldn't have... she wouldn't have come to care for him.

"I was wrong."

Mary wanted to scream. "May I ask what changed your mind? Or will you simply ignore me if I ask?"

She had succeeded in finding the chink in his armor. Mary felt somewhat gratified in knowing that while he knew how to prod her, she was just as adept at prodding him. There he was, the real Branson, lips twisting and pressing together in a vain attempt to remain calm. "I already told you that we couldn't carry on talking to one another. I answered you because it felt rude to ignore you, but I think it's equally as rude, if not more for you to ignore what I have asked of you! So unless it has something to do with my job, will you please leave me out your life?"

The gratification fizzled away and was replaced by a sudden hurt. Though the blow was an emotional one, she felt it potently as she would a physical wound, stinging even now. His words were a knife to her heart and her mouth fell open in shock and dismay.

But she closed it in short order, not wanting him to see it. She could wear a mask, too. "I see. Thank you for spelling things out clearly, Mr. Branson. You may go." Mary turned on her heel and marched back towards the office.

"What time will I be needed?"

"You won't be. Don't worry. I won't bother you anymore with my silly questions. There's no calls for rain, so I won't burden you with my presence this evening." Without another word to him, Mary closed the office door behind her with a slam: not out of anger but in her haste to flee.

Mary leaned against the door, heart beating fast, eyes closed, and breath coming out in pants as she struggled and failed to gain control over her turbulent emotions. The papers were clenched in her hands, creasing under her tight grip. Her breathing only evened out long after she heard the roar of the engine as Branson went back to the house.

Moisture had gathered in her eyelashes but Mary paid them no mind as she sat down at her desk to work. Her eyes scanned over her father's scrawl, eyes already scanning the words— did that say grass or green?

Mary soon realized this was a futile task— not deciphering her father's handwriting, but working all together. The harder she tried to throw herself into work, the more she thought about Branson and what he said and the worse she felt. She wanted to be angry but in truth she was dismayed. Dejected.

Of course he wouldn't want to listen to her prattle on about estate things when he abhorred the whole concept of an estate. He didn't want her in any capacity anymore; he was trying to earn a living and she was burdening him by continually trying to inject him into her life.

Having come to these conclusions, Mary was shocked when she heard several short raps against the door several hours later. A cursory glance at the clock told her she should have set off for the house ten minutes ago if she wanted to be there in time. With a sigh, she called out, "Just a minute!" and gathered her things. She wasn't anticipating any visitors today; whoever it was would have to make it quick.

When she opened the door, she was stunned to find no one there... at least not, at the doorstep. However, there was a car parked in front of the office, which Branson was leaning against. When he spotted her, he opened up the back door. "Mr. Carson is about to ring the dressing gong in any minute now. You'd best climb in."

It was as if the conversation— or rather, the confrontation— from this afternoon had never happened. Mary stared at him incredulously before finding her voice. "I already told you— I won't impose your good nature anymore." Without another word, Mary began marching towards the house. She had no doubt he would follow through on his threat from the other morning about driving behind her, but the walk to the house wasn't a long one... not to mention she knew he hated driving slowly.

"Mary!" She didn't turn around. "Mary!"

She was close enough he could have easily chased her down and dragged her to the car if he so desired, but he didn't do that. Instead, she heard him mutter, "Dammit," before his feet kicked up dirt and stone. She managed to reach a young sapling before she heard the car roar to life behind her. Branson didn't reach her until she had taken another ten steps. "Mary, I'm sorry. That's not what I meant at all. Will you please just get in the car?"

She ignored him. Now you know how it feels, a spiteful part of herself thought, intentionally ignoring all the times she herself had been guilty of such a crime in her youth. She used to barely look at him and now her feelings were bruised and mangled all because he wouldn't reply to her. How had she changed so drastically?

"Why must you be so stubborn!" He cried out in exasperation.

"I could ask the same of you," she shot back.

He pleaded with her for another three minutes, rolling slowly, before finally saying "Your parents will suspect something is wrong if you walk up to the house and I'm in the car."

That was enough to stop Mary in her tracks. As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. It was one thing to lament about the state of their personal relationship (which Mary would begrudgingly admit shouldn't really exist in the first place), but it was another to let her antics put his job in jeopardy and arouse her parents to suspicion that they shared more of a bond than a lady and chauffeur ought.

Branson wore a cocky grin on his face as she approached the car. Triumphant, he climbed out, holding the door open for her. "Don't think I'm amused," she told him tonelessly. "I dislike my hand being forced."

"No one is forcing anything," he said innocently.

"I mean it." She slammed the door shut, jerking the handle out of his hands. The startled expression on his face was enough to give her a moment of temporary satisfaction.

A minute of silence passed as Mary stewed on the backseat. She was longing to return home when Branson interrupted her thoughts. "Please don't think yourself a burden to me." She waited with bated breath as he said, "You're one of the best things that has ever happened to me. Nothing about any of this hasn't an inconvenience to me, not at all... I was worried about you. I don't think I've ever been so scared in my whole life when Mr. Carson told me you were missing." Then, a few minutes, softer, "I'd do it again in a heartbeat as long I knew you were safe."

She was at a loss for words, wondering what she could possibly say in response to that. What was there to say that could possibly measure up to that? She was too consumed with trying to reign in her emotions and decipher just what she was feeling. His words made her feel things she shouldn't.

It was there, the undeniable truth, lurking in her subconscious for so long and now resting on the tip of her tongue. If she just said it, she could alter her life irrevocably.

But if she said it, it would make it true.

Mary barely had time to entertain the notion when Branson pulled up to the house. Her heart sped up as he opened the door for her. When she took his hand, her bare skin against the leather of his well worn glove, she let her eyes follow his arm, over the curve of his shoulder, up to his face.

The look he gave her was one that a chauffeur wasn't supposed to give a lady. It was the sort of look Matthew used to give her. She felt stupid now, for just this afternoon believing he no longer loved her. It was so obvious from this look alone.

But there was more there than just love. There was longing, a desperate desire that she would throw all caution to the wind. A plea.

She was still holding his hand. She was still aware of it, uncertain if he was. Her lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them, taking in a deep breath...

"There you are!" Mama's voice effectively shattered the moment. Mary's mouth closed and she dropped Branson's hand as though it were on her fire— more for his sake than her own. "I was beginning to wonder about you! Carson's about ready to ring the dressing gong!"

"I was caught up in my work. Branson had to knock at the door to pry me away."

"Well, thank you, Branson," Mama said, addressing him, "for not allowing Lady Mary to overwork herself."

"It was no trouble, your Ladyship." He sounded all wrong like that— deferential and without any of his fire. She didn't glance over at him but she was willing to bet her was wearing that emotionless façade he had worn just that morning.

Mary began walking towards to house, to her mother, away from him. There was sense of finality to it all. If she walked into the house now, that meant any possibility of saying the words she wasn't allowing herself to think would be obliterated. It would be making a choice.

But what was she supposed to do? Turn around? Say any of this in Mama's presence? There was no possibility of that. She felt her heart sink.

"By the way, Mr. Talbot wrote to your father."

Mr. Talbot. Oh, God, she had forgotten all about Henry. Her stomach churned.

"Oh?" She heard Branson move behind her, gravel crunching beneath his feet and a car door opening.

"He's invited us all to Brooklands to watch him race. Your Papa has already accepted... and I'm sure you're looking forward to seeing him again."

Why had she asked that in front of Branson? Couldn't she have waited? The worst part was knowing he was waiting for an answer. That was why he hadn't started up the motor just yet.

But what could she say? Mama was looking at her with an expectant, excited grin and Mary knew what she must say... but why was it so hard?

"Of course I am."

The car started up.