Ghosts don't haunt us. That's not how it works. They're present among us because we won't let go of them.

SUE GRAFTON

THURSDAY—THE LAST DAY.

10:00 a.m.

A/N: Thanks to all readers, reviewers, and followers especially: MMfan1 I'm going to start updating this fic every Saturday morning or afternoon. More about that at the end.

As you'll see in this chapter, Downton now has a family mausoleum just outside one of the churches. And actually, we don't know for sure that there ISN'T one there. 😉

Anna opened the door to Edith's bedroom and walked in as quietly as she could, carrying a tray holding a glass of cool water and a twist of headache powders. Edith was lying down in her bed, the room darkened, a cold cloth on her head. "I'm here, m'lady," Anna whispered, setting down the tray. Carefully, she helped Edith to sit up and tip the powder out of the folded paper, washing down the bitter taste with a sip of water. "Is it another one of your headaches?" she added.

Edith nodded, the movement stiff and brittle, as if even the small motion hurt her head. "Will you brush my hair, Anna?" she whispered back. "I always feel better when you do."

"Of course," said Anna, picking up the brush from the bedside table and beginning to run it through Edith's long cascade of reddish-blonde hair. Such a pity she can't wear it down outside of the bedroom, thought Anna. It's such lovely hair. Edith gave a long, soft sigh.

"Is that better?" asked Anna.

"Yes… yes, it is." Edith lapsed into silence, staring out into the darkened room without seeming to see anything in it.

"Will you be all right, my lady?" Anna asked after what seemed like a very long time had passed.

"Yes. It's just… I dreamt I saw Patrick again," Edith said in a low voice.

"Oh." Anna kept brushing, unsure of what to say.

"Would you like to hear about it, Anna?" asked Edith.

Anna was so startled that she almost dropped the brush. It wasn't the first time she'd heard Edith mention this particular dream, but she had never offered any details before. "I…"

Edith reached out and laid a hand on hers. "Please." Her hazel eyes were enormous in the darkened room.

"Of course, my lady," said Anna.

Edith began to speak, and she drew Anna into the dream at once, exactly as William had done with his story about the dinner on the night of Mr. Pamuk's death, but even more so. Lady Mary is wrong, thought Anna. Lady Edith should write. She has a gift.

They swayed in each other's arms on the dance floor. The orchestra played softly in the background, a soft, sentimental waltz. There was a vague murmur of voices in the background, like the buzzing of bees on a warm summer day in a garden of roses. But that didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the man in Edith's arms, her dearest love, her man, her Patrick.

"Don't leave me," she breathed in his ear, smelling the spice of cloves and musk that always seemed to hover round Patrick Crawley. There were no words, no thoughts, even, for her joy at holding him near..

He put her back from him a little way, his face serious. "But I must leave you, Edith. I've no choice."

"No—no, I won't let you go!" She reached out her arms to him, scrabbled towards him, but his handsome face was already fading and a great crack was appearing in the floor between him and her. She cried out in panic, falling, but the bottom of the ship had dropped out under her feet, and she was rising.

Edith drifted above a cloud, watching the scene below in a vast expanse of ocean. The water was a clear, glassy, motionless dark sheet. Patrick clung to a piece of wood, his grip slipping. Behind him, a massive shape was tilting up into the sky, lights still blazing through its rows of windows, smoke still drifting from the three stacks. His eyes were wide and desperate, his fingers white and nerveless.

Edith… Edith… my darling, my dearest, my love. At last, he called her all the names that he had never spoken in life.

He was reaching for her, but she could not get to him. She stretched her arms as far as she could, until she almost thought she felt the tips of his fingers, but then his hand slipped away. She had to watch him sink, simply close his dark blue eyes and droop and fade beneath the surface of the water. And she could only hover where she was, a ghost trapped in a dream, forced to watch tragedy again and again.

"It's always the same," said Edith in a low voice as she wound up the story.

Forced back to the present, Anna felt a twinge of pity. Her own loyalties lay with Mary, and always would. But she knew how deeply Edith had really felt for Patrick Crawley. She much had slipped through her fingers at his death, so many hopes and wishes and dreams dashed. Perhaps she had even made a plan or two with the former Downton heir. Anna knew that Edith and Patrick had talked privately more than once during the year before the Titanic went down, although nobody in the family seemed to be aware of that fact. She herself wasn't sure how far things had really gone between Edith and Patrick, but his death had turned the middle sister more bitter and sad than ever before.

Mary didn't understand at all, and Anna knew that Edith was determined not to enlighten her about profound her own feelings had really been for Patrick Crawley. But it was salt in the wound for Edith to know that Mary hadn't even wanted to marry him, that their family had pushed her at Patrick and overlooked Edith's bond with him. Anna wasn't at all sure that Edith would ever truly get over the loss.

"Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?" asked Anna, feeling how inadequate her words were.

"I don't know," said Edith, lying back on the bed again, her eyes closed. "It's a dreadful day to have one of my headaches… I wanted to take Matthew round the old churches, perhaps the mausoleum. I's been far too long since I played the tourist. I wanted to do it today, but it's not going to be possible." She sighed. "He said he might go round on his own, but…"

It won't work, thought Anna. It was a pity in a way, because she'd known of other cases where the oldest sister rejected a suitor and then a younger sister scooped him up. But in this case, Edith simply would not succeed. She wasn't right for Matthew, or him for her, they would do nothing but clash. Whereas with Mary… oh, she couldn't let her thoughts go down that track.

"Try to rest, my lady," she said, and she went out, closing the door softly.

An hour later, Anna was searching for Sophie with little hope of finding her. The undermaid was probably not long for Downton once Gwen left. She wouldn't be willing to pick up the extra work; she couldn't seem to manage what she had. Sophie was supposed to be dusting the library before lunch, but Anna would wager that she wouldn't be able to find hide nor hair of the younger girl. Richer by some imaginary sum, Anna stooped over the table the small library and sighed. She ran her finger over the surface and winced. That dust is an inch thick! Oh, that Sophie ought to be let go, she really ought…

As she debated whether to go back downstairs and get all the cleaning supplies to do the work herself, she heard footsteps coming down the corridor outside, and she recognized Robert Crawley's voice, saying something she couldn't quite catch. His wife's voice murmured something in return. They paused at the door and began to speak more clearly.

"I'm a bit concerned about something," said Robert, sounding awkward.

An instant of silence, no more than half a breath.

"Whatever would that be?" Cora asked, her voice just a bit brittle and guarded.

"Let's go into the library to discuss it," said Robert.

Oh, no, thought Anna. O'Brien had surely been pouring honeyed poison into Edith's ear the day before, she'd decided on that, but had the lady's maid already spread the news even further? As obtuse as the earl could be, even he could not possibly have missed as straightforward a statement as that. It would be much worse than the fact that the countess already did know. Cora's words came back to Anna, the ones from two nights earlier. We will not tell your father… it would probably kill him, and certainly ruin his life.

But, wait… flat out telling him about my sleeping in Lady Mary's dressing room wouldn't be O'Brien's style at all. She likes to tell things to Lady Cora, who then passes them on to her husband—and I can't help thinking that I wish the countess had more sense, sometimes. She wouldn't tell this, though, and no mistake about that. So he can't know, Anna assured herself. He'd be out of his mind if he did. But does he suspect… something? Is that possible?

The door was starting to open. They were going to see her within moments if she kept standing next to the table. The only thing to do was to quickly and quietly leave through the side door that led to the central great hall. But somehow, Anna found herself darting to the little closet next to the fireplace and slipping inside. I'm absolutely mad, she thought, even as she pulled door the nearly but not quite, closed. I have every reason to be in the library, but the closet… that's another story.

The footsteps continued into the library. This was her last chance to get out; there likely still was enough time. What she was doing was a terrible idea. How on earth would she explain why she was crouching in the back of the library closet if the door suddenly opened and they saw her? Could she claim to be cleaning it? She shifted on the floor, feeling the layer of dust against the boards. Maybe that actually would work. That girl Sophie—this closet clearly hasn't been swept out in weeks. But then why would the door be closed in the first place? No, it'd be clear that I was hiding. Oh, this is the worst idea I've ever had. I'd lose my place… no, I can't believe the Crawleys would do that to anyone. But they might foot the bill for a nice long stay in Bedlam! Perhaps I need one.

But if she stayed, she could find out what the earl really wanted to tell his wife. And that was something that she had to know, for Mary's sake.

As she debated with herself, they both came all the way into the small library and closed the door, stopping at the table next to the fireplace. Robert turned, and the small closet was directly in his line of sight. It was too late to leave, Anna realized. She peered through the crack in the door and saw that Robert and Cora had stopped almost exactly where she herself had been standing. She had a perfect view and would be able to hear every word clearly.

"What is it, Robert?" asked Cora, a brittle smile fixed on her face.

"Well…" Her husband shifted position awkwardly. "I'm not quite sure. But…"

Cora's eyes widened like those of a frightened horse. 'Robert, if you have something to say, can't you just go on and say it?" she nearly snapped. Anna winced. Robert Crawley was not the most subtle of souls, but even he had to realize that something was not quite right here.

He sighed. "All right. I'm worried about Mary."

Cora froze. In her hiding place in the closet, so did Anna. Oh, no…

"I can't put my finger on it," Robert went on. "But something doesn't seem quite right with her in these past several days." As Cora remained silent, he fidgeted, fingering the upholstery on the back of one of the chairs.

This is bad, thought Anna. Very bad. Robert loved his daughters, but he had the trait of so many aristocratic men. He could be so oblivious to what was going on with his family's inner lives. It wasn't his fault, of course; it was how all the men in his code and class were trained, and his heart was warmer than most, but the emotional cross-currents at Downton simply went over his head. Not this time, though. And that was what frightened her. if even he felt that something strange was going on, if even he sensed that was something was not right with Mary…. She shivered.

"I don't know what you mean," said Cora, breaking the silence at last.

"I'm not trying to say—I just don't know, really. A mother would know, of course. Only she's looking so pale, and she's been so quiet."

"You think so?" asked Cora, her lips so tight that Anna was amazed she could get any words out at all.

"Yes. Dash it all, she seems so unhappy," fumbled Robert. "Perhaps we ought to, I couldn't say… send her to Rosamund for a bit? Change of scene?" He looked at his wife appealingly, very much an uncomfortable bull in a china shop. Again, Anna thought that if even Robert knew that Mary was desperately unhappy, if he was willing to step into Cora's domain over her daughters, then things were even worse than she herself had thought.

"She'll be all right," said Cora firmly. ""It was only the shock of the death."

"Oh. Mr. Pamuk. Yes, I suppose." Robert looked troubled.

"Just give her time. What happened was quite unpleasant, and such a shock."

"It certainly was that. You're sure?"

"Quite sure."

Robert gave a long sigh, clearly relieved. "Time," he said sounding eager for the solution. "That's it. She just needs some time, and she'll be right as rain."

"I suppose that we should keep things quiet for a bit," said Cora. "No more dinner parties, don't you think?"

"No," said Robert. "After what happened to poor Mr. Pamuk, I mean. It's not cricket. Not quite right." He gestured helplessly with a hand.

The Earl understood certain social subtleties, not consciously, in the way that Cora did, but knowledge of the mores and manners of his class were bred into his bones, thought Anna. He knew that they ought not to have had even a family dinner invitation extended to Cousin Matthew and Isobel directly after a death in the house. Cora did not quite feel the wrongness of it. She would always be an American, from wealthy and yet socially humble beginnings.

Cora bowed her head slightly. "I suppose I shouldn't have had that last one at all. When we invited Cousin Matthew and his mother." So she does know that much, thought Anna.

Robert touched her hand. "It's quite all right," he said softly, his love for his wife shining in his eyes. It was an intimate moment, and Anna squirmed, knowing that she should not be witnessing it.

"It was just dreadful," Cora went on. "And only a year after… well."

Robert sighed heavily. "Yes, I did think of that. There's been so much death in this house in the past year, hasn't there, whether it's actually happened here or not."

"Quite enough, I should think," said Cora. "After James and Patrick—" She shut her mouth tightly, but Anna did not miss the pain that flashed across Robert's face. He sank into one of the overstuffed armchairs next to the fireplace, and Cora stood behind the high back of the chair, her hand on his shoulder.

"Do you know, I've had so many dreams that they survived," Robert said softly.

"Oh, Robert, are you still having those?" She sounded distressed.

He shrugged, looking back at her. "Sometimes. They're always the same, and I always dream of young Patrick, not James. Isn't that funny? I'm searching the house, knowing that Patrick is here, somewhere at Downton, but I can never find him. He's around every corner; he's behind every door. If I turn quickly enough, I know I'll see him. But I'm never quick enough to catch him. And then I wake up."

"I'm so sorry, my dear."

"Right after it happened, there were times when I even wondered if he could have possibly survived. I know it sounds mad, but no-one ever found a body. I never felt that way about James, somehow; I've no idea why. Sometimes I imagine that Patrick will simply turn up one day."

"Perhaps you're right," Cora said soothingly.

Well…" Robert turned back towards her. "We'll hold off on dinner parties for a bit, the Friday to Mondays as well."

"Of course. Oh, that shooting party on the twenty-first… well, there's time enough to let everyone know we won't be having it. I'll write to the Cavendishes, and Lord and Lady Butler. Lord Branksome too, without Evelyn Napier this time… he wanted us to invite William Melville, by the way; he's a cousin of the Napiers, but he can easily be put off."

Robert snorted. "I should say he could be. Man's a jumped-up police detective. Yes, yes, I know he's the head of the Scotland Yard's Special Branch, he once foiled the plot against Queen Victoria's life and saved us from the anarchists and all the rest of it, but I've yet to have a policeman at the dinner table at Downton, and I don't mind keeping it that way. I picture him trying to ferret out crimes over the entrée, and questioning our guests over their whereabouts on the night of a murder as the crème brulee goes round. Can't we invite him to lunch instead?"

Cora gave a little start. "I'm sure we can," she said abstractedly, her mind clearly on something else.

He gave Cora a searching look. "Is that all, then?"

"Er… yes. That's all for now." Cora did not quite meet her husband's eye, Anna noticed.

"I suppose it's quite enough to be going on with," said Robert, not looking satisfied. "Let's hold a small dinner in about four weeks."

"I'll see to that, of course," said Cora. "Perhaps just a family party. I'll invite Cousin Matthew and Isobel."

"Yes… Cousin Matthew," said Robert. "If only Mary would give him a bit of encouragement."

Cora shook her head. "No." Her voice had a finality that made Robert blink, but he nodded in agreement.

After they had gone, Anna let herself out of the closet and left through the side door, heart hammering. She knew that she had taken another step into trouble, and that she was getting more entangled all the time. She also knew that for her, there was no choice. Her primary loyalty was to Mary, not her lady mother, not the Earl of Grantham, and even as she realized this, she knew how wrong this feeling probably was. But this deep personal bond was too much a part of her to eradicate I am as I am, she thought. I've got to help Lady Mary, no matter what. If even the earl is becoming suspicious about what's going on with her… everyone else in the house will figure out soon that something is very wrong, if they haven't already. But if I can only tell Mary the truth about what happens, if she goes back to behaving normally, then maybe there's still time. But how on earth am I going to find out anything more? Maybe J—Mr. Bates will learn something else today. I'll ask him if I can find him; he doesn't seem to be about the house today at all.

A/N: I know, it's kind of an abrupt place to stop the chapter, but it was getting REALLY ridiculously long. So about Edith and Patrick Crawley. The next book in the Mysteries of Downton Abbey series focuses on these two. A man showed up in 1916 claiming that he was the lost Patrick. Was it true? Or was he only an imposter named Peter Gordon? Or does the truth lie somewhere between the two? We Have Always Lived At Downton Abbey explores the secret of what was really going on in the Peter/Patrick storyline, taken directly from hints and clues in the unused script and scenes that were filmed but cut. So we will find out more about this plot point. The new fic will start being posted right after Ccomp is done,a nd we have about 4-5 more chapters. So believe it or not, this fic is drawing to an end!

I want to start posting the rest of the chapters every Saturday, and I THINK I can do it. But I need your thoughts on how the story is going. REVIEWS are VERY INSPIRING.

In the next chappie… Mary and Matthew meet, and the sparks fly. And remember, reviews are VERY INSPIRING. 😉