A/N: Hello everybody! Welcome to the first chapter of my newest fic! I've been working on this one for some time, probably since last summer (where it was originally intended to be a one shot, then just a couple chapters, then ten, etc.), and I'm very excited to share it! There are still a few things that need to be worked out before I can start positing regularly, but until then, here is the first chapter!

A few quick notes: In this AU, Tom is still the chauffeur in S4 and he and Sybil never had romantic interests in one another.

"No one wants to kiss a girl in black."

—Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess of Grantham

The Lady in Black

Chapter One

After the first month, the days blurred together. Still, Mary kept count of how many days had passed since it happened— to her, the only significance to this particular day was that it was one hundred and seventy seven days since Matthew had left her. It was also, she supposed, George's one hundred and seventy seventh day alive, but she didn't focus on that too much. She kept track of the months, though that was more of a side effect of the events taking place around her. The auburn leaves signaled the close of September, whereas the presence of the great pine in the hall meant Christmas was coming to Downton.

It was only when confronted with it that Mary realized which particular day it was. Anna hadn't breathed a word of it to her (which was probably a good thing), not one word from her: "Good morning, milady. Did you sleep well last night?" to Mary's: "Tell Branson to bring the car 'round."

In fact, it never registered to Mary until she met Edith on the stairwell.

"What's that?" she asked, noting something in her sister's hand. It was pink, something with lace along the edges, and it clearly made her happy, based on the wide smile on her face... even though Mary had a hard time imagining what there was to happy about.

"Nothing," said Edith hurriedly.

The pink, the lace, it was February... "Of course. It's Valentine's Day."

Edith had the decency to look ashamed. She probably was expecting Mary to bite her head off... and had she the energy, Mary might've. However, Mary chose not to remark on it; Edith could punish herself for her own thoughtlessness.

"When are you leaving for London?"

"I'm catching the ten o'clock," answered Edith, still eying Mary warily.

"Have fun," Mary told her flatly before descending the stairs again.

Branson was waiting for her outside, as he did each morning. Like clockwork, opened the door and offered her his hand so all she needed to do was climb in. "Thank you, Branson." It was impersonal, cool yet polite.

Branson climbed into the front seat. He didn't bother asking her where she wanted to be driven; he had stopped after roughly the first week when he realized the answer would be the same each time. They had a tacit agreement, the two of them, to remain silent the duration of the journey, aside from Mary's "Thank you"s. Mary had no idea what Branson thought of their daily ritual; it suited her just fine and she had no desire to change it... though today might have to be an exception.

"I wondered if you might take me to the flower shop in the village first," she said. The man jumped slightly, his eyes flickering up to the rearview mirror as if to ascertain that Mary had been the one to speak... though she supposed she couldn't blame him. It was highly abnormal behavior from her.

"Of course, milady," replied Branson. He continued their drive into the village. Mary turned her head away from the window to prevent the rising sun from shining in her eyes. There was a terrible glare, even though several thick, grey clouds obscured most of the blue sky.

Mary strained her memory until she entered the flower shop. She returned to the car with a bouquet made up of red roses and carnations before Branson took her to their usual location.

Bouquet in hand, Mary walked the narrow path she knew so well. The gray stone was a new addition; Papa and Isobel had selected it when Mary was presumably still in a grief stricken daze. Now that roughly six months had came to pass, it had been placed over the grave she had visited daily.

Matthew Reginald Crawley

Beloved son, husband, and father

1885-1921

Mary sat the roses down beside the stone, the vibrant red petals contrasting against the subdued grey. "You bought me these last year. I thought I would return the favor." There was the lump in her throat, the same lump in her throat that had been there since she had begun making her daily sojourns to visit and speak with Matthew. "Happy Valentine's Day, my darling."

From there, Mary updated him on all the goings on at Downton in the past twenty four hours: progress on finding a replacement for Miss O'Brien ("We've a maid..." she gesticulated with one hand, trying to remember her name, "Emma or something like that, who is eager to be taken on, but I gather Mrs. Hughes is somewhat reluctant."), George's teething ("Nanny says she saw a tooth poking through yesterday."), and Edith's Valentine ("You'd have thought she would have more tact... I promise not to start an argument over it, but honestly! It's tasteless, it really is.").

When she had exhausted her options of things to talk to him about, Mary kissed her fingertips, letting them trace over his first name. She preferred this— before the stone, she had settled for blowing a kiss to mound of earth, which felt morbid and awkward in equal parts. "Goodbye, my darling. I shall see you tomorrow."

Branson saw her approaching and was already opening the door before Mary made it to the car. She climbed in with another perfunctory, "Thank you, Branson."

The drive back was silent. Mary looked out the window without really seeing anything and didn't return to herself until Branson was opening up the door in front of the house. Another "Thank you," as he helped her out of the vehicle, this time with the omission of his name to prevent excessive repetition, before she trudged back to the house.

The most tedious thing about being in mourning was being constantly babied. Mary would inquire after the affairs of the estate, to which Papa would shake his head, give her a pitying look that she hated, and gently say, "We can discuss it some other time. When you feel yourself again." Mary always had to hold her tongue to stop herself from telling him that she would never be herself again when half her soul had been smote from the world.

Mama was no better. She would tiptoe around topics she felt would send her daughter spiraling into grief. Whenever Matthew's name was uttered, the offender would receive a scorching glare from the lady of the house. Anytime mentioning the accident was unavoidable, Mama would always speak of euphemisms: "Since the awful tragedy last summer..." or "The family has undergone a great loss recently..." Mary felt it would be unhelpful for her to point out that it was superfluous to call it an awful tragedy when all tragedies were awful by nature.

Their efforts to shelter her from the pain were just as bad as Edith and Rose's carelessness. Edith played Mama and Papa's game without any real commitment— as if refusing to mention Matthew or his untimely demise obliterated all her long phone calls and trips to London to meet her beau, Michael Gregson. She rubbed her newfound romance in Mary's face by playing coy to draw her attention to it instead of yanking her by the hair and forcing to observe it. All her actions were conducted in plain sight, though whenever Mary happened upon her sister simpering about how she was "desperate" to meet up with him again in London so she could meet all his impressive literary friends, she would always turn pale and act as if she had been caught out in her own production of Romeo and Juliet.

Rose, however, was the one who pretended the least that she was trying spare Mary's feelings. "I so wish that I had a Valentine," she sighed melodramatically after joining Mary, Mama, and Papa in the library. She had taken her place on the sofa, face in her hands and glum.

At once, Mary felt Mama and Papa's eyes fall to her. "Rose, I'm not sure if now is the best time to dwell on such things," Papa scolded, as if Mary wasn't there at all. As if she didn't exist.

"I quite agree," Mama piped up. "Besides— there are plenty of things more important for a young woman like yourself to be focussing on. Your Season is rapidly approaching—"

"Oh, but that's months away!" lamented Rose. "And anyway... I just wanted a card. I've never had anyone send me one before." She let out a sigh. "I would be happy with any sort of Valentine... even if it came from Daddy or someone..."

Mary could sympathize with Rose— she had once been that girl who dreamed of collecting Valentines. In fact, she had prided herself with the number of cards she received, lauding them over Edith like first prize ribbons. But Mary was a girl no longer and was growing weary of Rose's wingeing on and on. "I'm rather tired," she said, ignoring the dismayed looks that crossed both Mama and Papa's faces. "I think I will have a lie down."

"Of course," Mama said, injecting as much sympathy into her voice as humanly possible. "Take as long as you need."

Mary didn't need to hover outside the door to know Rose was receiving a tongue lashing for being so unthinking of Mary's plight. She could practically hear Mama's stern voice as she carried herself up the stairs: "Need I remind you that while you go on and on about not receiving a single card, your cousin will never receive a Valentine from her beloved husband ever again?"

Mary was glad of the silence of her room. Everyone in her family was just so... loud. Even when they didn't say a word, their actions were akin to shouting. The only people she found herself tolerating these days were Granny, Isobel (who had made herself scarce recently, but at least didn't put on performances for her sake), George, Anna, and Branson.

That wasn't to say George wasn't loud. In fact, for someone so small, he had a healthy pair of lungs on him. With teething came fits of crying from the pain of it all... Truthfully, Mary admired her son. Though he could not speak, he was unafraid of letting everyone know how he felt and he didn't have to worry about ridicule or judgement. She sometimes wished she could abandon her pride and do the same, before reminding herself that once she let it all out, she would have a hard time getting it back in where it belonged.

Mary suspected if Sybil were here, she would fall into the category of people who didn't make life difficult for her... but she wasn't here. She had sent Mary several letters that had gone unanswered. Her lack of response wasn't out of a lack of desire to communicate with her younger sister, only that there wasn't much to say. Things were roughly been the same for her since the last time they had been together at the funeral. The updates Mary provided to Matthew were easily covered in Mama's letters; anything else she disclosed to him was too personal for Mary to dream of telling a living soul.

Mary sank into her bed. Though she had made the excuse to steal away from her family, she genuinely was exhausted. Missing someone was a dreadfully tiring business. Sleep was merely the all too brief interlude between the fatiguing, timeless monotony of her days.

Mary toed her shoes off, letting them fall against the carpeted floor. If it weren't for the effort involved, she would have let her stockings join them. She wasn't sure when, but they had become a burdensome thing to wear— especially on rainy days, when they seemed to soak into the fabric, even when they hadn't come into direct contact with the precipitation.

Mary let her eyes close. It was the only way to pretend she was in a world happier than this one.

"Here's the little prince," cooed Nanny, handing George over to Mary. Her stomach clenched unpleasantly. She wasn't sure if anyone had told Nanny that it was the little moniker her and Matthew had used before selecting his name. It hurt to hear it. "If you peek into his mouth, you'll see the tooth I told you about."

Mary looked down at her son with a modicum of interest. "Thank you, Nanny. I'll ring if I need anything."

Once the door clicked shut, Mary carried him over to the rocking chair near the window. It had begun to rain; Edith had left for the station about half an hour ago. Mary wondered if her sister had made the train before it started... before wondering if she even cared.

George Matthew Reginald Crawley, on his one hundred and seventy seventh day of life, had a head of thick, brown hair atop his head, a small nose, and wide blue eyes. Mary wished there was more of Matthew in his features— she had said as much to Isobel during one of her rare visits, who had informed Mary that Matthew's hair had lightened with age and that George's present hair color rather resembled his at the start. Still, Mary couldn't help but worry that too much of her was in him.

Mary gazed outside, watching the raindrops race each other down the windowpane. George was quiet this afternoon, content to simply watch his mother. Considering they only spent an hour together each day, he might have been trying not to impede the short time he was allowed with her by crying or fussing. Historically, Mary hadn't dealt well with it. Usually it meant Nanny was on standby, hovering nearby to change his diaper or burp him.

The car pulled up in front of the house. Mary frowned until she saw Branson step out. He waited in front of the car, standing patiently for whoever had ordered the car around. Mary watched, her interest captured more by this than the landscape of the estate. However, Mary was forced to avert her eyes once Branson, evidently growing restless waiting for whoever it was, tilted his head upward and almost met her gaze. She turned away immediately, focusing her attention to George, who was still staring up at her with Matthew's eyes.

Mary didn't look out again until she had counted to thirty, at which point Mama and Rose had appeared. Branson was holding the door open for them. Mystery solved and Mary's idle curiosity sated, she returned what little attentions she had to her son.

The following day started off as an ordinary one. Anna arrived at her usual time, helping her into another black dress and pinning up her dark hair. These days, Mary preferred something more utilitarian than fashionable, usually wearing a matching black hat to complete the look.

"Did you sleep well last night?" Anna asked. It was her standard question; while her and Branson's arrangement relied upon saying nothing at all, the one between her and Anna revolved around a series of questions. They were the same each time, if not in wording than in sentiment.

"Well enough, I suppose," replied Mary flatly. She hadn't had dreams— those nights were the worst. Whenever it was a pleasant dreams, she awoke with a profound aching in her heart and a longing for the past or for a future that was never meant to be. Nearly all these dreams centered on her, Matthew, George, and sometimes a number of other children (all imaginary), living a perfect, happy life. They were just as bad, Mary thought, as the nightmares. Visions of her husband and her son as bloodied, mangled corpses haunted her into waking life. She wished there was a way to wash them from her mind.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Anna, running a brush through Mary's thick hair. In the old days, this was a task Mary would have done herself. However, since Matthew's death, maintaining the proper level of personal hygiene seemed pointless. If it weren't for Anna practically dragging her from the bed to the bathtub, Mary wouldn't have bathed at all during those first few months. Though she knew herself perfectly capable of brushing her own hair, it was simpler to let Anna do it. "Will you breakfast here or join the family this morning?"

"Here, I think. And I shall eat once I return from the village," replied Mary, already knowing the next question. "I haven't an appetite at the moment, though I am sure I will once I return." It was a lie— Mary usually didn't have much of an appetite these days. The only reason she continued to eat was for a simple need of sustenance.

"Very good, milady." Then, "Any news from Lady Edith?"

Mary shrugged as Anna stopped brushing, reaching for the pins. "I gather she reached London safely... which is a relief, I suppose." She didn't intend to sound so uncaring, but Anna wouldn't have judged her even if she had. It was one of the things she liked most about Anna; she always reserved judgement.

Mary met Branson outside, stepping into the back of the car. He drove on to the village, the only sound the dull roar of the motor in the automobile.

When Mary went to Matthew, she found her flowers exactly where she left them. "Hello, my darling." This was her usual greeting. "Yesterday, I'll admit, was terribly dreadful and lonely without you..."

She proceeded to complain about her family, rejoiced in Edith's absence (not out of malice, but solely so there wasn't another person in the house to test her nerves), then informed him of Rose's dress fitting in York.

"I know she can be quite wild, but I doubt anything she has picked will even compare to Sybil and her harem pants." She smiled at the memory, forgetting the shock she had felt. "Do you remember? Oh, Papa was furious— though I do wish she could have hired a photographer to capture the looks on all our faces— I'm sure I would laugh if I could see it now." And you'd be in it, too, she thought, and I'd have another reminder of you and what you used to look like. Still, that seemed awfully personal to say aloud, even to Matthew, so it remained spoken only in her mind.

She kissed her fingertips when she was through, recited her, "Goodbye, my darling," and walked down the path.

Everything was as it should be; Mary sat in the back as Branson drove on. She had become so used to everything about these journeys: the scent of leather and wet dirt clinging to the bottom of her shoes, the little bumps in the road that Branson could never manage to avoid, the repetitive sputtering of the engine. It was something she had grown comfortable in...

Which was why she was startled by the sound of Branson's voice.

"Have you heard from Lady Sybil recently?"

Mary stared at the back of his head, stunned. She couldn't have possibly heard him correctly... in fact, she couldn't have heard him at all. Why would Branson be speaking to her? He never spoke to her, not after the first week; by that point, Branson had understood that she would always be requesting to be driven to the cemetery.

In spite of Mary's reluctance to believe that Branson had actually spoken to her, the question hung in the air, stagnant and waiting to be answered. Her lips parted, eyes darting to the mirror. A second later, she saw his blue eyes there, silently inquiring if she would respond or not. "Not recently, no," Mary found herself saying, almost without her own permission. "She's been quite busy. Schoolwork and all of that."

Branson nodded. "I'm sure she must be. Where is she studying again? I forget."

"Barnard College."

"That's right." After a small silence, he asked, "Does she like America, then?"

"I think so." She certainly liked the freedom of America— or, perhaps, the freedom from the reins of control harnessed by Mama, Papa, and English society in general. Always a rebel at heart, Sybil had seized the opportunity to properly fly the nest when it seemed Mary would be leaving to ride out the storm of scandal with Grandmama in New York. Mary had been comforted to know that, while Anna would stay behind to help free Mr. Bates, she would have a beloved sister with her, even if she would be involved with school and coursework... but then Matthew had proposed, which meant Mary could stay behind. Sybil, however, would not.

"I think it's wonderful that she chose to pursue an education," proclaimed Branson in the front, almost sounding proud.

"She always wanted to," said Mary without even thinking. If she had been, she wouldn't be discussing her sister's private affairs, and certainly not with the chauffeur. "Even before the war and the nursing. Granny thought she was mad..."

"Your grandmother can be reluctant to embrace change."

"That's a generous way of putting it." Branson laughed. "And I'm not sure she ever embraces change so much as she holds it in between two fingers at an arm's length away."

"That does sound more like the Dowager Countess," agreed Branson with unmistakable amusement. "But even she seems proud of Lady Sybil."

"I think she is. It might not be the sort of life she envisioned for a granddaughter of hers, but she cares far more about our happiness than she'll ever let on."

They were encroaching upon personal territory. Seeming to grasp that, Branson turned the subject back to the one before, asking, "How close is Lady Sybil to completing her degree?"

"I'm not quite sure, really," said Mary, trying to think. The first couple of semesters had been difficult for her sister— their educations had been expensive, though not extensive. At the start, Sybil had scheduled too many courses for herself and been forced to drop two in order to receive passing grades. A tutor had been hired to help her through the areas their governesses hadn't covered and Sybil had gradually worked herself up to a full schedule. The first few letters from America had pained Mary at the time; she hated hearing Sybil so disheartened and had been almost ready to go to America to rescue her baby sister. In the end, she was glad she hadn't. Sybil persisted and had done well for herself. "There's certain classes that must be taken before they are allowed to graduate and so many credits... but she's hinted at going to medical school once she's finished."

"So there might be a Dr. Crawley in future?" Branson asked, simultaneously teasing and genuinely pleased.

"Perhaps... though I'm certain everyone here will insist she be called Lady Dr. Crawley," said Mary wryly.

"Does this mean Dr. Clarkson shall find himself out a job should she choose to return to Downton?"

"I'm not sure she will, if I'm being honest." Sybil had been too busy with school to come for Mary's wedding, and Edith's wedding from Hell had fallen on the week of her final examinations. Sybil had returned home that summer, encouraging Edith's budding career in journalism and joining Rose for mad adventures in London during her first stay at Downton, and she left shortly after the cricket match. She'd come home the Christmas of 1920, but since then her visits had been few and far between. Her last visit had been for the funeral, and she had returned to America three days later, citing that she needed to get back in time for the fall semester. "She likes New York. She has a life there— I'm not sure she sees that for herself here. She wants to move forward, not back."

Branson nodded again. "Well, I wish her the best of luck." It was now that Mary realized they were in the driveway. "She was always kind to me. I hope she succeeds."

Mary remembered Sybil's kindness towards the chauffeur all too well. She was jerked back into reality, the one where she didn't speak to Branson on family matters, and aghast at her lack of discretion. How unprofessional! She wouldn't report him to Papa, of course, no matter how improper it was, but she remained stunned by his actions. Why was he asking after Sybil?

Their routine was altered once again, for when Branson opened the door for her, she didn't say "Thank you."