A/N: Thank you for the lovely review's last chapter! I'm not sure if I'll be able to update next week, as I will be very busy, but until then, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

The Lady in Black

Chapter Two

Mary awoke the following morning long before Anna had even begun her walk up to the house. Nevertheless, it took her maid entering the room to rouse her from bed. Used to her mercurial moods, Anna didn't bother with pleasantries that morning. There was no need to ask Mary how well she had slept when the dark circles under her eyes spoke for her.

After picking at her breakfast and dressing for the day, Mary met Branson in front of the house. She hoped that the conversation from yesterday was an isolated incident. Though it was obviously inappropriate for Branson to discuss such things, it was natural he would be curious about Sybil and her adventures in New York City. They had shared a peculiar friendship, born of their similar politics and it had only blossomed during the war. Mary had been afraid it was something more, only Sybil had always vehemently insisted it was purely platonic.

It wasn't that Mary disliked Branson; he'd never given her any reason to find dislike with him. She had merely been concerned as an older sister that Sybil would see the youngish, good looking chauffeur as an escape route from their way of life, especially when she had always complained about the conventions and rituals they lived by. When she had found them one day, talking lowly in the yard, Mary had felt as if she was standing over an abyss— one where Papa would be furious and Sybil lost to them forever as she followed Branson somewhere they couldn't follow. For maybe the first and only time in her life, Mary had been pleased when she had been proven wrong. It meant she hadn't lost a sister and the family hadn't lost a decent chauffeur.

Blessedly, Branson was silent during their drive to the village. Mary was on edge, tense as they wound down the familiar road, just waiting for him to open his mouth. It wasn't until they reached the cemetery that Mary was able to relax. Clearly, his impertinent inquiries were a one time thing. "Thank you, Branson," she said, stepping out of the car, feeling warmer towards him than she had earlier in the day. Branson graced her with a smile and silence, for which she was immensely grateful.

However, the second half of their journey wasn't as lucky. Mary had settled back into the comfort of her surroundings, taking note of the Dower House as they passed it, when Branson's Irish brogue interjected her reverie. "Have you read any interesting books lately, milady? Only I noticed you check plenty out from Lord Grantham's library."

Mary stiffened. Oh... so this was to be something he sprung upon her in the second leg of their journeys? Mary might have said something then, only she felt too weary to muster up her usual sharpness. She hoped that her silence would be enough to make him realize she wasn't in the mood— or even better yet, that yesterday had been an anomaly that was never to be be repeated.

But her lack of response did not seem to deter him— if anything, it spurred him on. "I don't read novels much— I stick to my history and my politics, but I don't mind a good suggestion every now and then."

Again, Mary didn't reply. Hopefully he would get the hint— she didn't wish to speak with him. At all.

Luck wasn't on her side. "Though perhaps you might enjoy some of the things I read," he continued. "I'm not sure how political you are or if there's any causes that interest you—"

"Has it occurred to you that I'm not in the mood for conversing?" She said, a touch harsher than intended, though it succeeded in silencing him.

Well... for a moment or two, anyway...

"It had. But I thought it might do you some good." He seemed unshaken by her icy tone.

Mary's lips pressed into a thin line. She oughtn't say anything more, but... "Is it your place to be concerned about whether or not something is good for me?"

"Probably not. But I'm not much one for playing by the rules." He took a right turn with the car. "But you're the one who determines whether or not it's an offense grievous enough to be sacked for."

It was harder and harder to conceal her growing irritation with him. She didn't dislike Branson, but she didn't know him, either. Mary was starting to think that was a good thing. "Don't be ridiculous. You won't be sacked for talking to me."

Branson said nothing for another minute or so. However, Mary wasn't convinced he was done. It was with little surprise that he spoke again, quieter this time. "I only remember what it is like to grieve, that's all. And I know conversing with others helped bring me back to the world of the living." It was a surprisingly personal declaration. She didn't know what to say, so waited until he added, "And you don't feel like talking, I can fill the silence all on my own.."

Mary was certain he could. She opened her mouth, ready to tell him that while she appreciated the effort, she really must decline out of propriety, but instead found herself sighing, "Oh, very well."

Branson could hardly seem to believe it. There was a blessed moment of silence before he launched into a synopsis of his latest find in Papa's library. Mary managed to tune most of it out, though she wasn't completely annoyed by it. In fact, she admired his passion, in a way. She remembered being excited about life once.

There came to be an unspoken set of rules between the two of them.

The first rule was that there was to be no discussion of the family. Mary made her stance on the subject clear and Branson didn't question it.

The second rule was that there was no talking from the house to the cemetery. Mary was often still sluggish and tired, which would have made her a poor conversationalist anyway. Branson never spoke to her, aside from verifying any orders she had given him.

Third, he was the one who started the conversation. Mary could join in if or whenever she chose to, but Branson always set the tone. If she felt too beleaguered by the weight of her grief on a certain morning, Branson wouldn't comment on it. Instead, he would ramble on about whatever he had chosen to speak about until Mary returned to the house.

Much to her surprise, it didn't bother her. In fact, the only thing about the arrangement that did bother was how little it bothered her. If she were more herself, she would have been shut down his attempts to speak with her immediately.

But Mary wondered if she would ever be herself again. Her mind was never far from the memory of Matthew's last words to her, about how she would always be his version of Mary Crawley... but sometimes she wondered if that part of herself had ever existed at all. The only time Matthew's Mary appeared was in the cemetery each morning. She made no appearance any other time of the day. There had once been multiple facets of herself that existed, but they had all seemed to die with her husband, leaving behind the empty shell of who she once had been to grieve for him.

Now there was a new version: the version of her that only appeared when she spoke to Branson. Not Branson's Mary, as she belonged to no one now, but a part of herself only Branson was allowed to see. She made witty jokes, wry remarks, and occasionally asked questions (though she mainly only did this when he gossiped about the other servants). At the end of the day, she knew nothing more about him than she had the day before, and he hadn't gleaned anything about her.

Nevertheless, the arrangement suited Mary. It was nice, not having to be herself for a while and having no expectations on how she should act placed upon her. Her family meant well, truly, but they had this annoying tendency of assuming what she must be feeling. Her parents acted as though her mental state was a precariously stacked house of cards, ready to tumble and give way at any possible moment if someone so much as breathed in her direction.

And it did help, like Branson had said. As utterly pointless as their conversations were in the grand scheme of things, when Mary could listen to Branson recount some plot to a book he read or she told him about some humorous story from a ball years ago, she could forget about her misery for a while. It gave her something else to focus on besides her own loneliness.

It became their new routine. Talking about current events, books, gossip from the servant's hall... sometimes, when Mary was feeling loquacious she would reminisce about her travels abroad as a girl. It was an escape— from the house, from her family, and from her life.

"Sorry," said Mary, frowning as she tried to get the facts straight. "So... Alfred likes Daisy—"

"Alfred likes Ivy. Daisy likes Alfred," corrected Branson. His eyes were shining with amusement. "And Ivy likes Jimmy."

"Goodness," said Mary, "that sounds rather confusing." She remembered similar situations when she had been a young debutante, when too many men and women were interested in the wrong person. It always made dinner parties quite interesting (and usually amusing) but Mary very much doubted it led to a productive work environment. "And who is Jimmy after, pray?"

"He doesn't say," replied Branson.

"But you have an idea?"

"I do... but I could be wrong."

"It's no fun if you don't share, Branson," she said, leaning back.

"Well, if I ever get any concrete evidence for my theory, you'll be the first one I tell."

"You had better." Mary crossed her arms, resisting a smile. She wasn't put out— not really. Still, she couldn't help but be somewhat miffed. While the love triangle (or perhaps a rectangle or pentagon might be a more apt shape to describe it) downstairs was nothing that truly interested her when she had no real knowledge of these people, it was fun to gossip about others. James (or Jimmy, as she had learned from Branson, as he was called downstairs) was at least someone she saw several times a day. She knew he was handsome and perhaps a little full of himself, so she was curious as to whom Branson felt met his standards if a pretty kitchen maid wouldn't do.

Mama was waiting outside the house for her when they pulled up the driveway. Damn, Mary thought, her high spirits plummeting drastically. It seemed as if she was about to be bombarded with something or other. Mary's fingernails dug into her skirt, pushing deep into her thigh as she breathed deeply.

Branson held the door open for her and she thanked him before turning to her mother. "Is something the matter?" Her eyebrows furrowed in simultaneous confusion and concern.

"No, not at all." Mama smiled. "Branson," she called out, just before the man climbed back into the car. "Will you be available to drive Lady Mary into Ripon tomorrow at three? She has an appointment at Madame Swann's."

Mary wasn't sure which part of her mother's statement take offense to— scheduling an appointment for her without consulting her first or ordering the car for her as if Mary was a three year old. She felt her cheeks burn as she glanced over her shoulder of Branson.

"Certainly, your Ladyship," he said, bowing his head ever so slightly before jumping into the car and driving off to the garage.

"I'm not a child," she informed her mother as soon as Branson was out of earshot. Her eyes narrowed as she said, "I can schedule my own appointments and order the car myself."

"I know that," Mama said, mystified and somewhat hurt by her daughter's reaction. Mary immediately felt guilty though she didn't show it. "But you seem so much lighter lately. I just thought it might be nice for you to go get fitted for some new dresses... and I knew you would be home any moment..."

Mary felt sick. New dresses... Mama wanted her to switch over to half mourning. The family had already made the transition to some color several months prior, leaving Mary behind in her black, but two hundred and six days had passed... which meant everyone would be expecting that of her now... especially now that she was no longer as miserable as she had been. How cruel that a few moments of sunniness came with such a cost.

"Besides," said Mama, tone soft, "Your birthday is next week. Consider it my gift."

Her birthday... God, was it her birthday already? She would be thirty one years old... Mary could hardly believe it. When she married Matthew, she hadn't expected to spend another birthday without him— at least not until they were both old and grey. "Thank you," she murmured, too numb to process it all entirely.

Instead of lying down in her bedroom as she was wont to do these days, Mary decided to put in an hour with George. Nanny West handed him over to her, cooing as Mary held him close. "You can leave us now, Nanny," Mary told her, desperately longing to be alone... well, alone with her son. George wouldn't ask questions or assume too much of her. "I'll ring if I need anything."

George looked up at Mary with his bright blue eyes, tongue sticking out. His little hand reached out towards her nose, clenching the air in front of it. Mary smiled at him, charmed, before shifting him slightly and sitting down in the rocking chair. He had grown quite big now— he would turn seven months old on her birthday.

If Mary closed her eyes, she could pretend Matthew was standing behind her, admiring their son. She could imagine the smile on his face, the look of awe, even the sound of his voice— "He's just the most perfect little chap, isn't he?"

But when she opened her eyes, he wasn't there; it was just her and George, all on their lonesome.

She wasn't ready yet— she wasn't ready to signal to world yet that she was coming out of mourning when in reality, she wouldn't be, not for some time. It would be a lie to pretend otherwise. Matthew might be dead but he still lived on in her mind, in her heart, in her son... and she wasn't ready to give him up just yet.

A teardrop fell from her eyes onto her son's cheek. He blinked in surprise. "Sorry," Mary said in a choked voice, using her thumb to wipe it away. It was with a start she realized these were her first words to him— she had spoken to others when he was present, of course, but she had never directed any of it to George.

She bit back a bitter laugh. Her first proper words to her son were Sorry. That didn't exactly bode well for their future relationship.

Mary studied George carefully, who was still looking up at her. "I know I'm not much of a mother," she told him wearily, figuring she might as well be honest with him, "but I do love you."

George said nothing, merely reaching out with his little hand to squeeze her index finger. She knew he couldn't possibly understand what she had just said... but she liked to think maybe he might.

A letter arrived during luncheon:

Dearest Mary,

I hope you are doing well. Mama said in her latest letter that you seem happier now than you've been ages. I'm so glad to hear that— I've been worrying myself sick for months wondering how you were faring and if you were doing any better.

I have some good news myself— My friend Clara and I shall be moving into a flat this summer! We found a nice place in Manhattan, not too far from Central Park! It's absolutely gorgeous— perhaps if you are feeling up to it, you might come visit us! I cannot say enough nice things about America and a little excitement might be just the thing you need!

As I'm sure you can gather from my letter, I'm not planning on returning to Downton this summer. I'm sure it must come as a disappointment and I so wish it could be avoided, but that way of life no longer suits me. I don't think I could bear another summer of Mama shoving me at well-to-do bachelors when I can't even fathom the idea of marrying now. Nursing is only the beginning— I mean to become someone extraordinary and I don't see how I can achieve that as Lord So-and-So's wife.

How is my favorite nephew doing? I'm sure he must be getting big— Mama told me about the adorable sailor costumes Nanny dresses him in. I wish I could see him in them! Oh, Mary, won't you please have his picture taken so I may see it? It sounds too sweet for words.

With all my love,

Sybil

Mary tucked the letter back into its envelope, picking at her meal. She wondered if this would join the pile of unanswered letters or if she would actually respond this time.

A pile of purple and mauve dresses were laid out on Mary's bed when she arrived to have a lie down. The sight made her mouth go dry.

"Milady! I wasn't expecting you so soon!" gasped Anna, who was standing in front of the open wardrobe, removing dresses.

"What's this?"

"Her Ladyship told me to take out all the clothes. For half mourning." Anna glanced at her nervously, bottom lip between her teeth. "She said you would be getting some new ones soon and to take out all the ones you didn't want or didn't fit into anymore to make room."

Her eyes roved over them... Mary let her fingers trace over the skirt of the dress she had worn when the Duke of Crowborough had come to Downton all those years ago. It was hard to believe that it had been that long since someone in their family had passed. They had been lucky during the war, the house left unscathed save for the passing of William. Lavinia had come after that, but a prolonged period of mourning hadn't been expected for her then.

Looking at these dresses now made her stomach churn. Bile burned at the back of her throat. "Get rid of all of them," she said, drawing her hand away. "I won't wear them again."

Anna seemed surprised but nodded. "Of course, milady." She began gathering the dresses up and Mary turned away, walking to the bathroom. She felt as though she might be sick.

The following afternoon found Mary in the back of the car heading towards Ripon, the bumpy road jostling them about. Branson muttered something about how the road needed to be mended as Mary's teeth snapped together with every bump.

"Are you alright this afternoon, milady?" Branson finally asked once the road evened out more.

"Of course I am. Why do you ask?"

"You only look as if you're about to commit murder," he said bluntly. Seeming to realize that was too candid, he hastily began saying, "Sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"That's alright," Mary assured him, irritation quelled slightly. She would need to school her face into something resembling indifference if she didn't want to frighten Madame Swann and the shop girls. She was rather glad he had brought it to her attention. "The truth is I'm rather frustrated."

"Oh?" Branson raised his eyebrows. They almost met the brim of his hat.

Mary hesitated. Normally she could voice her annoyances to Anna, but she hadn't felt comfortable doing so when her maid had unfortunately been tangled up in Mama's well meaning scheme. She needed someone to talk to... there was always George but he couldn't exactly provide advice to her...

"I probably shouldn't tell you," she said, thinking of their unspoken rules. She sense this would be too personal.

"Well now I'm intrigued."

If she told him, she would be crossing a line. That, Mary knew. But she felt she couldn't keep it in any longer. She decided to bite to bullet. "It's this stupid dress fitting."

"I thought you liked shopping for dresses."

"I do, only Mama..." Mary trailed off. She wasn't supposed to discuss Mama. She never discussed her parents, aside from the odd mention as background characters when she told him about the trips to Cairo or Nice in her youth. But there was no way around it... "Mama thinks it's time to come out of mourning. Full mourning, that is. She wants me to move on."

Branson met her gaze in the mirror. "But you aren't ready for that yet." It wasn't a question. Mary supposed he of all people knew how deep her devotion to Matthew still ran. He could understand how the mere idea of insinuating that she wasn't still grieving his loss was a fallacy.

"Not in the slightest." It felt good to be able to say those words aloud— Mary felt like a caged dove, finally set free and allowed to stretch out her wings.

"You and Mr. Crawley had a great love. Not many people are lucky enough to have that. It's perfectly natural you wouldn't be ready yet." It was nice to be heard for once, to be understood. "Have you told your mother this?"

"She wouldn't listen," said Mary. She could already hear the arguments that would spring up should she speak her own mind. "The way we feel isn't enough justification to abandon rules and traditions."

"Maybe for your family," agreed Branson. "Maybe it's the only way they can carry on and live with their feelings. But I don't see why you must follow them if they make you uncomfortable."

"I wish it were that simple."

"It could be," Branson told her, just as they entered the town properly.

Mary didn't know what to say. Branson was far too idealistic... what was he proposing she do? Order him to turn the car around so she could talk to Mama? The shop was already in sight now...

"Just think about it," Branson said when he opened up the door, not even giving her a chance to reflexively thank him.

Mary was too flummoxed to contemplate answering. Think about what? What was she supposed to do? She brushed past him, heading into the shop, mind whirring.

Before long, Mary found every inch of her being measured. Mary began listing off several styles she felt might work, resigned to her fate.

"And what colors would you like, milady?" asked Madame Swan herself, a small handheld notebook in her hands.

Mary couldn't believe it hadn't come to her sooner.

Dearest Sybil,

Thank you so much for your letter. I apologize for not having returned them sooner. To tell you the truth, I have felt better of late. I cannot begin to say why but I have.

I am pleased to hear about your apartment though terribly sad to you won't be joining us this summer... though I can hardly blame you. Mama has been testing my nerves of late so I quite empathize. I am afraid the idea of heading to America for a summer doesn't exactly sound like my idea of a relaxing holiday, so I'll have to decline. I'm not quite ready for a big adventure just yet, especially not with George so young.

Enclosed is a picture of George in his outfit. It hasn't been taken yet but it will be once you receive this letter— I've booked an appointment at some studio in Ripon. I'm going to pick up some new frocks next week and I thought it a perfect opportunity. I'm looking to hire a new nanny for him; Mama won't tell me why she fired the last one, only that she was "saying things she shouldn't". I managed to find out from Anna that apparently my parenting wasn't up to snuff for the likes of her. At any rate, she's gone now, which is a relief, and Mama is singing Barrow praises for telling us of Nanny's true nature.

How are classes going? You must be pleased to be nearing the end of the semester, just to have a break. Have fun but not too much during your summer— and be sure to tell Clara I say hello.

Love,

Mary

"Oh!" Anna unwrapped the dress from its packaging. She met Mary's gaze. "This isn't quite what I was expecting."

"I'm sure it wasn't," said Mary. "But I'm afraid no other color agreed with me."

Anna held it up, studying it. She glanced at Mary, a little sadly, before helping her into the dress for dinner.

When Mary entered the drawing room, she was greeted by the sight of her parents and Granny. "Oh, good. You're here. Now we just have to wait for Rose and Edith," said Mama. Mary hummed in response as she went to take her seat next to Mama, who remarked, "I'm surprised you aren't wearing one of your new dresses this evening."

"Oh, but I am," said Mary pleasantly. "Didn't you notice the new design?"

Mama's brow furrowed. "But... but it's black."

"Precisely."

Mama was clearly baffled, blinking rapidly as she surveyed the dress. "I don't understand... you seemed to be doing much better recently. What's changed?"

"That's just it. Nothing's changed. That's why I'm still wearing black." Mama was still looking at her with confusion. "I miss him, Mama. I won't pretend otherwise... and I certainly don't want the rest of the world to think so."

"But Mary," Mama chided, her tone reminiscent of the one she might use to scold Isis, "It's been six months."

Unable to keep her polite façade going any longer, Mary rolled her eyes. "I don't think the human heart puts a time line on these things."

"Maybe so, but you know how these things are done." Mama was clearly vexed. "Am I to take it that all of your dresses are the same?"

"I'm afraid so," said Mary, not bothering to hide her amusement. Honestly, why was she so worked up? It was only a dress!

Granny and Papa, who had been speaking amongst themselves, only tuned in to the second part of conversation. "What's this?" tittered Granny.

"It seems Mary isn't transitioning into half mourning after all," Mama revealed with a lofty, disapproving sigh.

Papa gave her a severe look, looking as though he was ready to chastise her, but Granny simply said, "Well... I suppose if it was good enough for Queen Victoria to mourn Prince Albert the rest of her days, than we can hardly complain."

"Thank you, Granny," said Mary, not sure if she should take it as approval or not, but pleased that she had an ally. "It's nice to know that at least one person is on my side."

Mama remained displeased, standing up to go talk with Papa, who seemed equally disapproving. Granny was lowering herself into a chair when Mary quietly said, "I mean that, you know."

"Of course you would. It isn't like you to be sentimental." Granny gave her a smile. "Which is why I know that if you are willing to admit that you aren't ready to move forward yet, than you are being truthful."

Mary stared down at her lap. Granny was right, of course... When it came to Matthew, there seemed to be a shred of softness still left in her, a small part of her that remained totally vulnerable.

"You were very fortunate, my dear," Granny spoke up again.

A bitter laugh escaped her. "Am I? I don't feel very fortunate."

"You knew a great love," continued Granny, ignoring her cynicism. "In families like ours, that's a rare feat. At most, you may tolerate one another, but that was it." Her voice grew quiet as she said, "When your grandfather passed... I must confess, when the time came to switch to half mourning, I was quite ready for it."

Mary wasn't wholly surprised by this admission; she only had faint, foggy memories of her grandfather. She never remembered her grandparents standing close to one another or exchanging dewy eyed looks across a room, as Mama and Papa still did. In fact, most of her memories of the two of them consisted them of sitting on opposite sides of a room from one another and busting themselves with the others.

"So what I am saying, my dear, is that you had a gift that so few people are given." Granny sounded quite serious now. "So don't be bullied into moving along until you are quite ready to do so. Treasure what you had for as long as you like... and I shall gladly serve as your ally."

Mary blinked rapidly. "Oh Granny... anymore talk like this and I shall grow quite weepy."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" Granny said with a laugh. But thankfully, as Edith entered the room, she asked instead, "Now tell me, how is dear little George coming along?"