July 27, 1914

John Bates was in His Lordship's dressing room putting away some shirts that had just been cleaned when he heard a scream coming from nearby. Her Ladyship's bedroom, to be precise. He'd heard a door slam, but sometimes the wind moved through the house in an odd way. But a scream was something else entirely.

Alarmed by what that could mean, Bates hurried as quickly as his bad leg and cane could carry him through the door connecting the two bedrooms. The bedroom was empty. But the door to the bathroom on the far end was open.

"Lady Grantham?" Bates called out. Despite the scream, he would not enter a lady's bathroom unannounced.

But it was not Her Ladyship who appeared. It was Anna. Her face was pale and terrified. "Mr. Bates, help, please!" she begged, her voice cracking.

He accompanied her back in the bathroom and found the Countess of Grantham in the bath and shaking violently in the water. She kept slipping down under the water, and Anna was struggling to prevent her from drowning.

"I don't know what's happening," Anna said desperately.

But Bates knew. "She's having a seizure. She's got to be out of the bath. Fetch a towel and then immediately call for Doctor Clarkson," he instructed.

Anna did as she was told, moving away from the bath to get a towel. Bates dropped his cane to the side and bent over to scoop up Her Ladyship. Anna put the towel over her for a bit of modesty. Bates didn't hesitate or even think about it as he carried Lady Grantham out of the bathroom and to the bed.

"The doctor, Anna!" Bates shouted, grimacing over the pain in his leg his efforts had caused.

Thankfully, Anna sprinted from the room. Bates used the towel to cover Lady Grantham as best he could and turned her to her side so her airway could remain clear until the spasms stopped.

And then everything went quiet.

Mary Crawley stood in the bedroom of her Aunt Rosamund's house and stared out the window at the Belgravia street. Carriages with horses and a few automobiles here and there. People walking by, some in pairs, some carrying packages. People with places to go and things to do.

Oh how she envied them.

Things had changed for Mary so drastically in the last two years. In the beginning of April 1912, she had been engaged—of sorts—to marry Patrick Crawley. He was the son of Papa's heir and he was nice enough, and the family all liked him and they got on. And Mary would become Countess of Grantham one day. That's what had been promised to her, that's what had been planned. That's what she had been prepared for. And then the Titanic sank, taking James and Patrick with it. The estate succession was thrown into chaos, and Mary's life with it.

That was the thing, really. Mary had always known what to do in life. She'd had a defiant streak in her because she'd been allowed to. She knew where the lines were and while she flirted with them, she never crossed them. Not until she was suddenly without prospects and without fiancé and without a clue of what she was supposed to do. She'd ruined her life with Kemal Pamuk, letting the man take her virtue before he had died in her bed. And the whispers still followed her more than a year later.

The only person who had ever taken Mary for who she was and not who he thought she was or who he thought she was supposed to be was Matthew. And Mary had grown to love him for it. She loved him more than she would allow herself to admit, even to herself. And it scared her.

She had wanted to say yes to Matthew right away, but she needed to be sure. She was promised to Patrick, and she would have married him and done what she was supposed to do, but his death had set her free. Suddenly she had choices. She had to decide what would be best for her future, what match would give her a life she could live with. It was one thing with Patrick, someone she'd known her whole life and who would allow her to continue living as she always had at Downton Abbey. Matthew would presumably grant her the same life, it was true, but knowing that she could marry someone she wanted had given her pause.

Did she really love him? She thought she did. She just…well, she wasn't sure. She wasn't sure of anything anymore. She must love him if she was this bothered by the idea of accepting his proposal under false pretenses. She couldn't lie to him. She couldn't marry him and not tell him about Kemal. She couldn't do that to him. Not to someone she loved.

Yes, she did love him. And she wanted to make him happy. She just wasn't sure that she was the one to be able to do it. Matthew deserved someone good and kind and wonderful. Mary Crawley wasn't any of those things.

And now, of course, things were even more complicated. Mama was pregnant. Terribly foolish of her and Papa to still…oh she wasn't going to think about that. The two of them slept in the same bed every night. They weren't fooling anyone. But still, having a child at their ages was absolutely ludicrous. Mary herself should be having children, not her mother!

Regardless of how ridiculous it was for Mama and Papa, it gave the chance that Matthew's prospects would change. The baby might be a boy, and Mary's little brother would be the heir. The baby might be a girl, and Matthew would remain as he was. And there was no way to know until the baby was born.

Aunt Rosamund told her to put Matthew off until the birth so she'd be able to accept or decline the proposal in full knowledge of the facts. That was all well and good for Rosamund to say. Rosamund had a distinct lack of sentimentality in most things. She had shirked men of good breeding in order to marry a millionaire. She was still Lady Rosamund, daughter of the former Earl, but she could have been a Duchess if she'd married properly. Instead, she was a lonely widow with only her millions to keep her company. Mama, who wasn't usually known for gossiping, had let slip once that Rosamund's husband, Marmaduke, had been so madly in love with her and she with him, and Rosamund's heart had turned cold after he died. Mary did not really have any memories of her uncle, but everyone except Granny had only lovely things to say about him.

And now Rosamund was the one telling Mary she wouldn't be happy as the wife of a country solicitor. That comment had annoyed Mary to no end. What did Rosamund know about it? What did anyone? Why were people so convinced that Mary Crawley could never accept any life other than as Countess of Grantham. Until Patrick's death, Mary had never had any choice in the matter.

As she looked down at the people on the street, Mary thought once more how she envied them. They had a purpose to whatever it was they were doing, wherever they were going. For Mary, it felt as though everything was spinning around her. And Mary herself was just standing still.

Elsie Hughes stood in her sitting room off of the servant's hall, utterly gobsmacked. She was speechless. Miss O'Brien, the proudest lady's maid anyone could have ever come across, had just quit on the spot. She had not given notice. She just left. She announced she was leaving, to inform Her Ladyship, and that she was going to take a bag and send someone for the rest of her things.

Mrs. Hughes couldn't understand it. The disdain with which Miss O'Brien had referred to Her Ladyship was unheard of. Though perhaps not from O'Brien. She had always looked down on the kind American Countess as being unworthy of her position and undeserving of the work the servants did for her. Mrs. Hughes had her own moments of wondering if any of the aristocracy deserved the work the good people downstairs did for them, but she never resented any of them. And she liked the Crawleys. Not as much as Mr. Carson, but no one could ever love a family the way Mr. Carson loved the Crawleys.

With a little shake, Mrs. Hughes returned to reality. Miss O'Brien would be gone, and while no one would really be sorry to see the back of her, she was an important member of the household staff. Mrs. Hughes herself would have to step in and serve Her Ladyship until they could get a new lady's maid. And apparently the Dowager was in need of a lady's maid, too, according to the cook at the Dower House who had given Mrs. Hughes the news earlier in the week.

Oh what a bloody mess. Mrs. Hughes had half a mind to collapse down in her chair and hope it all went away by the time she got up again.

"Mr. Carson! Mr. Carson, can you use the telephone to call for Doctor Clarkson?"

Anna's voice in the corridor caused Mrs. Hughes to forget all about her own worries. She hurried out and asked, "Anna, what's going on?"

"It's Her Ladyship, I don't know, Mr. Bates is with her, we need the doctor," Anna cried hysterically.

"I can call," Mr. Carson offered.

"Tell him I'm on my way with the car." Branson appeared, obviously having been enjoying a cup of tea in the servant's hall.

With that in hand, Mrs. Hughes decided to go upstairs and see if she could provide any assistance to Mr. Bates with Her Ladyship. Something had happened. Something terrible enough to put poor Anna in such a state. And with O'Brien leaving as she had, well, there was no telling what Mrs. Hughes would find.

Richard Clarkson did not think, he only acted. He did everything his training told him to do. He checked heartrate and breathing, did a cursory physical examination, shined a light in the eyes to check pupil function, palpated the abdomen to check for any rigidity. And when all that was done, the adrenaline of it all subsided.

"Well?"

Doctor Clarkson smiled. "Everything is fine, Lady Grantham."

The Countess exhaled in relief. "You're sure the baby is alright?"

He nodded. "As sure as we can be. There's no bleeding, no signs of any trauma."

"What happened to me?" she asked.

"Why don't you tell me what you remember?"

She frowned, furrowing her brow as she thought back. "I was in the bath. O'Brien had left to get my clothes. I was lost in thought, I wasn't really paying attention. And then I heard a door slam, and it startled me and…I don't remember anything after that. Not until I woke up here to see you."

The doctor nodded again. "You woke up before that, according to Mrs. Hughes, but you faded back into unconsciousness rather quickly, she said. Mr. Bates described what he found when Anna came in and screamed and called for help. He was correct in thinking it was a seizure, I think, brought on by the way that door slammed to startle you. The pregnancy at your age, Lady Grantham, is not without its risks. The potential for developing anemia and other blood difficulties and even epilepsy or stroke is greatly increased."

"You mean this might happen again?" she asked, frightened.

"I can't guarantee it won't. And it will take you some time to recover from this one. I want you to remain in bed and rest for a week. I'll come by to check up on you each day. And if you're doing well at the end of that, you will still have to take things very easy and be careful not to overtax yourself. I think weekly checkups after that will be the proper course," he explained.

She sighed. "Yes, alright. I suppose I couldn't expect to be pregnant at my age as easily as I was twenty years ago."

Her words triggered something in his memory. "I didn't arrive in Downton until Lady Sybil was about three, but I understand you had some difficulty with her birth."

"Yes," Her Ladyship answered. "It took more than a year for me to fall pregnant with Mary, and then Edith came right after, and both of those pregnancies and births were without problems. And then we had a little trouble after that with Sybil coming three years later. Apparently the more babies you have, the quicker the births, but it took almost two days after my waters broke for Sybil to be born, and when she did, she came out feet-first. The doctor was very good, and she's been in perfect health her whole life, but I had thought that whatever happened with her birth was the reason I never got pregnant after that."

Not for lack of trying, Doctor Clarkson thought to himself. It was a very well-known fact around town that Lord and Lady Grantham were quite affectionate in public, and there were rumors that they slept in the same bed, which was unheard of for the peerage.

"Doctor Clarkson, do you think this baby will be alright?" she asked. The worry was etched all over her drawn, tired face.

"I haven't seen anything today that gives me cause to worry about your baby, Lady Grantham," he told her truthfully. "But we'll keep a very close eye on things. If you feel like anything is wrong, you call me right away. A woman's intuition about these things is usually right. Don't let anyone tell you you're wrong about it. I'll be sure to tell Mr. Carson as well that the second you mention any problem, they're to call me," he insisted.

"Tell O'Brien, too, if you see her."

"Of course," he answered. He hadn't seen O'Brien, actually, and he had expected she would have been on hand during this episode. Strange, actually, that it was Mr. Bates and Mrs. Hughes who had been in the room when the doctor arrived.

"And Doctor, if it isn't too much trouble, could you wait in the library to explain everything to Lord Grantham? I'd like to see him first, before you speak with him."

"Of course, Lady Grantham. I'll send him up to see you now."

"Thank you."

The doctor went to leave the room and spared a final glance at the countess. She was smiling, but he had never seen her look so tired. And not just in need of sleep. Bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that he had seen in middle-aged farmers who had done hard labor for their whole lives. The body was a strange thing, causing such a reaction in someone well known to be warm and gentle and radiant. Those were certainly the words Doctor Clarkson would usually use to describe Lady Grantham. Though now he had to add 'tired' to that list as well. And one other word, too: lucky.