A/N: Thank you for the kind reviews! I greatly appreciate them!

A quick note: this chapter mainly covers events from S4E3. I've been sort of following canon, but I will say that in this chapter, I've taken full advantage of the fact this is an AU and changed the outcomes of certain storylines.

I hope you enjoy!

The Lady in Black

Chapter Four

Dame Nellie's arrival to Downton brought forth a number of changes that Mary had never anticipated upon. The singer dined with them at dinner before performing a small concert. Mary, a singer herself (though not nearly as skilled, she would grudgingly admit), was entranced by the music. Some of the songs were so haunting and sad that it reminded her of everything she had lost again... and her discontentment was only exacerbated by the fact she felt Tony's eyes lingering on her the whole time.

Feigning a headache, Mary went to bed early to stop herself from potentially being cornered into a flirtatious conversation with Tony, eager to speak to Anna and vent her frustrations. She always knew what to say... which is why Mary was simultaneously surprised and disheartened when Mrs. Hughes was the one come after Mary rang the bell. "Where's Anna?"

"She isn't feeling well tonight, milady," said Mrs. Hughes, smiling even as she delivered the bad news. "I hope you don't mind."

Mary shook her head. "No, of course not. Poor Anna." Her problems didn't seem nearly as bad now— probably because they could hardly be considered problems. In a way, Mary was glad Anna wasn't here to listen to her wingeing on about Tony and her conflicted feelings towards him. "I hope she recovers soon."

"I'm sure she will feel right as rain soon enough."

But the next day, when Anna arrived to her room, Mary was taken aback. "Anna! My goodness, what's happened?" Her maid, her dear friend for so many years, was missing her sunny smile, looking morose. One eye was purple and swollen, a jagged cut on top of her head. It wasn't fresh— Mary assumed it had at least a night to heal— but it looked exceptionally painful.

"I wasn't feeling well last night, milady," Anna stated tonelessly, eyes downcast. "I had a headache, so I went down during the concert for some medicine and— and I must have fainted and hit my head on the way down."

"You poor thing," Mary said, still eyeing the cut on Anna's forehead. She wasn't about to dispute her story, for she hardly doubted Bates would ever bring harm to his wife, but something about her story wasn't adding up. "Should I send for Dr. Clarkson?"

"No!" The exclamation erupted from Anna and even she looked surprised by the violence of her reaction. "No," she repeated, quieter this time, "It's not all that bad. I can see to it myself."

Mary was wary but said, "Alright... but only if you are sure."

"I am."

They didn't speak of it the rest of the morning, even though Mary could tell by the small winces Anna made periodically that she was in pain. She tried to encourage Anna to have a lie down for the rest of the morning, but she steadfastly refused and Mary wasn't able to see how she could really force her.

Much to Mary's surprise, Branson was silent during their drive. While she wouldn't have said he was always chirping away, he usually engaged fully in their conversations. Mary couldn't help but feel put out by his lack of responses as she asked him about the concert and regaled him about her ride with Tony. She was startled when he asked, "So you've given more thought to whether or not you like him?"

Mary nodded. Finally— they were getting somewhere! Those were the most words he had spoken in succession since she climbed into the car. "He's... well, he's a perfect gentleman but I don't think I'm quite ready for what he wants. Not yet." It was far too soon to consider him a romantic prospect— and he needed to stop being so eager— but Mary could easily see it as a maybe in the distant future... that is, unless Miss Lane Fox was in the picture. Then he would be decidedly be out. "But I think he will make himself a good friend and he's the sort of man Mama and Papa want for me," she said with a sigh. "Maybe someday, but not now."

Mary was unprepared for Branson saying, "With all due respect, milady, but I think it would be best if you were to cut your losses with him as soon as you can."

Her head snapped up. "I beg your pardon?" She could not possibly have heard him correctly.

"Lord Gillingham isn't the right man for you."

Now she knew that she must be hearing things— that, or Branson had gone completely mad. "Last I checked, your job to drive the car, not offer me romantic advice!" Mary exclaimed hotly. "Who I am interested in is none of your business!"

His gloved hands tightened on the steering wheel. There was a long pause, leading Mary to be convinced that maybe he would remain silent just as he said, "He's not a good man."

"Forgive me, but I don't believe you are as well acquainted with Lord Gillingham as I am!" He was absolutely infuriating! What right did he have to act this way?

"Maybe not," Branson relented, "but you can tell a lot about a man by the people they employ."

Mary rolled her eyes. Suddenly this was making more sense. "Well, I'm sorry if you've had a disagreement with Lord Gillingham's man, but I'm certain his political views or whatever it was you argued about don't reflect on the character of a man my father deemed worthy enough to stay in our home!"

Branson let out a scoff. "I don't know what Mr. Green's politics are, but I know when it comes to morality and an understanding of the law, we don't see eye to eye."

It took Mary by surprise. An understanding of the law... had Tony's valet done something illegal? She might have asked, but as soon as they pulled up in front of the house, Branson said, "Forgive me, Lady Mary, but if you want to choose someone to fill Mr. Crawley's shoes, you had better make sure he is a good man— for your sake and Master George's."

The mere mention of Matthew and her son caused Mary to gasp slightly. Tony's valet's crime was forgotten in wake of Mary's unmitigated rage. When Branson opened the door for her, she did not thank him— she didn't even spare him a second look before stomping into the house.

Mary felt Tony's eyes on her as she stirred her tea in the library, torn between being flattered and uncomfortable. It was nice to be reminded again that she was a young, attractive woman, especially by a young, attractive man... but she wasn't fully convinced Tony was the man to be reminding her of that. With his possible pending engagement and the all too recent passing of Matthew, it seemed inappropriate. She liked his company, she really did, it was increasingly obvious he didn't have purely friendly intentions. It was almost like Mr. Pamuk all over again, leering at her across the room and flirting with her over dinner...

Then there was the issue of his valet. Branson had almost insinuated he may have broken the law... or at least tried to. Had he attempted to steal something? Maybe she ought to at least mention something about it to Tony, if for nothing else than to make sure he wasn't robbed in the middle of the night.

Yes, Mary thought, as Tony began advancing towards her from across the room, her spoon scraping against the grainy lumps of sugar at the bottom of her cup that had yet to dissolve, she might just tell him.

But any conversation that might have taken place between them was interrupted by Carson throwing the door open, red faced and panting. "My apologies, my Lord, for this intrusion," he said between gasps, "but there's been a situation downstairs— Dr. Clarkson is already on his way—"

"What do you mean a situation?" Papa demanded, leaving Mama's side to stride across the room. He wasn't angry, merely concerned. "Is everyone alright?"

Mary thought of Anna.

Carson shook his head. "Mrs. Hughes went out into the yard and found Mr. Branson and Mr. Green fighting one another. Mr. Bates, Mr. Barrow, and I had to pull them apart—"

Mary gasped when he said Branson's name, inadvertently jostling her tea cup as she did so and spilling a drop onto her lap. The liquid seeped through the material of her black dress, but Mary neither noticed nor cared. Her fight with him that morning was all but forgotten. "Are they alright?" She asked, but what she really meant was Is he alright?

"It's hard to say," Carson said, looking shaken. "There— there was a lot of blood," he revealed, much to Mary's horror. "I sent Mr. Branson to his cottage. Mrs. Hughes is tending to him now and Mr. Green is in the servant's hall."

"I must to see him." Tony was already heading to the door as he spoke, looking very determined.

"I'll come with you," Mary said, needing to know how bad it was— and needing to know if he would be alright. She sat her teacup down and followed him and Papa out of the room.

"Do you know what the fight was about?" Papa asked as they approached the door to the servant's stairwell.

Mary could barely make Carson out as they began to climb down the stairs in a queue, but she saw the top of his grey head shake back and forth. "Neither of them will say— though I suspect that might be because they are both in a great deal of pain."

"Well, I for one don't give a damn what it was about!" Tony exclaimed as they reach the first landing, causing Mary's eyes to widen at both his loudness and hostility. "My valet's been attacked!"

"We don't know who instigated it, my Lord, but it's clear both parties were equally involved," Carson said. Mary felt a rush of gratitude towards him.

Tony didn't seem to hear a word he said. "Well, if it was your chauffeur, Lord Grantham, then I'm afraid that I'll encourage Green to press charges."

Papa and turned around, looking at Tony with incredulity. Before he could say anything, Mary injected herself into the conversation. "Tony, I understand you are upset, but Branson has been with our family for years and this sort of behavior is not at all in his character. If he has— that is, if he was in fact the one to instigate this—" as Mary feared he might have been, given his uncharacteristic rancor that morning, "—I doubt it was unprovoked."

"Even so," Tony said, agitated as they reach the last few steps, Papa and Carson blazing forth into the servant's hall and leaving the two of them behind. "Provoked or not, it's no excuse. Besides, he's Irish, isn't he? They're known for their tempers," he informed her.

Mary stared at him in horror, wondering where the kind gentleman who went riding with her had gone. Clearly, yesterday had only granted her a glimpse of one side of Tony Gillingham; this morning was offering a rather different view, one she didn't much like. She might have been ignorant of Mr. Green's crime, but she certainly understood now what Branson meant in the car that morning.

And she figured he deserved an apology.

"Branson is rather a pacifist, actually," she told Tony cooly, injecting as much coldness into her stare as possible. Mary watched as clarity set in and Tony slowly came to realize he had rather misstepped, if he had ever wanted to win her hand. "And I find making generalizations is only something foolish people do."

Tony looked as if he were ready to apologize but Mary ignored him, storming forth and entering the servant's hall to survey the damage for herself.

Carson warned them about the blood but Mary was astonished by how much was smeared across Green's face. He was laid atop a bench in the servant's hall, staring up at the ceiling. Thomas was already kneeling down by his side while James looked on, simultaneously horrified and fascinated. "Your nose is broken," said Thomas with authority. It was then Mary remembered he had been a medic during the war. A part of her wondered what Sybil's role would be in this proceeding if she were her. Knowing her, she wouldn't be content to stand on the sidelines. "But I don't think there's any other damage, apart from the superficial wounds."

Green groaned in response. As Daisy ran into the hall with a bowl of water and a cloth from the kitchen, Mary noticed Anna and Bates huddled near the door leading out to the yard, the former looking at the scene with abject apathy. No concern, no horror, not even revulsion at the blood. Her eyes were blank, lacking any trace of the Anna Mary knew so well.

"Daisy, clean the blood off his face," instructed Thomas, rising to his feet. "Gently, and stay clear of the nose. I'll go see to Mr. Branson now."

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow, but Dr. Clarkson is already on his way," Carson intoned. "I'm sure he will survive until then." The under butler looked disgruntled before pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and walking to the rocking chair in the corner. Papa pulled Carson aside, speaking lowly as Tony assumed Thomas's former stance to kneel down and question Green. Mary took the opportunity to slip out the back door, passing by Anna and Bates and overhearing their hushed conversation as she did so. Neither of them seemed to even notice her, despite her close proximity.

"I just can't understand why Mr. Branson would do such a thing," Bates said, still looking at Green. "Can you?"

"No. No, I don't." There was no emotion in her voice as she walked away from her husband, oblivious to the way he stared after her retreating figure forlornly.

Mary stepped into the yard, avoiding the small yet concerning spot on the ground that was slick with blood. Considering Branson was able to make it back to his cottage with only the help of Mrs. Hughes and the fact the main crowd was gathered around Green, Mary was hopeful Branson's injuries weren't nearly as severe.

It was funny, Mary thought, as she approached the chauffeur's cottage, how she had never once stepped foot into the dwelling. Considering Branson had been occupying the space for almost a decade, maybe it wasn't so shocking, but it still struck Mary as strange, since she had acquainted herself with nearly every other part on the grounds of this estate. She stood on the small porch, unsure of herself. Then, with a sigh and an internal reminder that she had every right, as a partial owner of the estate, to be there, Mary knocked thrice on the door.

At first there was nothing. Mary was beginning to think she ought to go back when the door opened up, revealing the housekeeper. "Lady Mary!" She cried out with surprise. "What a surprise! I thought you might have been Dr. Clarkson!"

"I'm afraid not, but I gather he is on his way. Carson informed us of what happened and I thought I would try to be of assistance as best as I can," replied Mary, trying to come up with a legitimate reason for being here, realizing only then how irregular it was for her to appear at the door of a servant. "I can sit here until Dr. Clarkson comes and help him while you assist Carson back at the house."

Mrs. Hughes pressed her lips into a thin line. "I don't wish to be impertinent, milady, but do you think it's appropriate?"

The truth was that it probably wasn't and Papa would no doubt be scandalized if he learned she was here alone with Branson, but Mary didn't care. She could come up with some excuse later on to defend herself... one that preferably didn't allude to a burgeoning friendship with the chauffeur. The last thing she wanted to do after being abominably rude to him to have him fired because her father felt it inappropriate. "Certainly. I may not be up to Lady Sybil's level, but I remember enough of nursing from the war."

Mrs. Hughes nodded, fears clearly alleviated. "Very well, milady." She Joe es the door wider, allowing Mary to step into the cottage. "Mr. Branson," she called out, "you've a visitor!"

Mary surveyed the modest home, studying it carefully. There was a wall facing her immediately, with several hooks. A black coat hung on one, along with his green chauffeur's jacket, and various hats. She turned to her right, following Mrs. Hughes into a space that was about the size of her bedroom that contained the kitchen, a table with a single wooden chair sitting near it, and a sort of living room. There were two doors off to the left, with one slightly ajar— the bathroom and bedroom, Mary presumed, her suspicions proved correct when Mrs. Hughes opened the one door wider.

When she entered the room, Mary was pleased to see that injuries did not seem to be as serious. Branson was propped up in his bed against the headboard, shirtless with a (she assumed, based on the rag he was pressing against it) a split lower lip. There was a chair, probably from the table in the kitchen, beside his bed where Mrs. Hughes must have been sitting. He only seemed moderately surprised by her appearance.

"I hope you don't mind," Mary found herself saying, mouth dry and heart beating erratically inside her chest. This wasn't a situation she ever thought she would find herself in: not only just the fact she was visiting him in his cottage, but also the fact she never counted on seeing him in such a state of undress. She couldn't even remember seeing him without his jacket on. To say this was a drastic change was an understatement. "I just— well, I remembered my days from the war and I thought I might be of assistance whilst Mrs. Hughes helps up at the house."

Branson shook his head. "I don't mind at all," he said around his rag. He removed it and Mary was pleased it wasn't as frightful as a sight as she initially feared. "Thank you, milady. That's very kind of you to offer."

"I trust you are in good hands, so I'll take my leave now," said Mrs. Hughes, giving him a warm smile. "Remember, Mr. Branson, to rest," she told him, sternly yet warmly, almost like a mother, before leaving.

When Mary heard the front door close to the cottage, she hesitantly took her place at the chair next to his bed. It felt strangely intimate. Now that she was closer, she could see what looked like the beginnings of bruising near his ribs. It was then that Mary was promptly reminded of the ordeal he had been through. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been more comfortable," he admitted, shifting one of his pillows around as best he could. Mary, realizing that it was causing him pain, reached out and did it for him. Her eyes focused on the white edges of the pillow until she drew away, letting her eyes flicker to his. Branson was staring at her with amazement before saying, "Thank you."

"I'm sorry," she blurted out.

Branson shook his head. "It's fine. It isn't your fault—"

"Not about your injuries— though I am sorry about those, too. I'm sorry that I was so rude to you this morning." He met her eye and for once, Mary felt as if they were on the same playing field. It was rare that they spoke like this, face to face and at the same level. "I have come to realize that you were right about Lord Gillingham. He's... well, he's not as good of a man as I once thought." There was no need to repeat his words to Branson. "And even though I don't know what his valet did, I'm sure he thoroughly deserved to have his nose broken."

Branson laughed at that but winced, his hand coming up to rest on his chest. Mary noticed his knuckles seemed bruised as well. Mary wanted to apologize again. "Well, I forgive you." Mary didn't realize how good it would feel to hear him say that. "Did I really break his nose?" He asked, curious.

"Thomas says you did," Mary informed him.

That got a smile out of him. "I didn't mean to do it. I don't like violence, under most circumstances... but I can't say as I'm sorry."

Mary allowed herself to feel pleased at his more cheerful spirits before asking, "What happened with you and Green? I mean before the fight." Branson simply stared at her, so she further elaborated, "Only you seemed to insinuate he had done something illegal. Did... did you catch him doing something he shouldn't?"

Branson was silent for a moment, still looking at her. He appeared conflicted. Mary wondered if he would ever respond when he finally said, "No. No, I didn't. But I— I caught him attempting to do something. I managed to stop him, but..." he trailed off, and Mary could read his thoughts by the pleading look in his eye: Don't make me say anymore.

The dots connect all at once. Mary felt sick to her stomach. She thought about Mrs. Hughes dressing her, the injuries marring Anna's face, and her lack of concern over Green and the blood. "Does it— does it have anything to do with Anna?" If that man had harmed her in any way, Mary vowed to throw him out herself.

Branson hesitated, reluctant. "Like I said, I can't tell you, milady."

It wasn't a confirmation nor a denial but it was all Mary needed. She didn't need to know the specifics— what ever happened, it was bad enough. Her blood simmered beneath her skin. She only wished now that she could have relished at the sight of Green's injuries more before coming to the cottage. "Of course. I shouldn't have asked." She paused as she tried to regain control of her emotions. "How did it start? The fight, I mean."

"I punched him." Mary wasn't prepared for the bluntness of his response, nor the laughter she had to stifle. Branson seemed to sense it, grinning until he winced, applying the rag back to his lip. "I was in the yard and he came out— he just looked so smug and he started gloating... and I knew that he didn't feel any remorse for— for what he tried to do, so I punched him." He shifted again and Mary leaned forward to adjust his pillow. "Will I be sacked, then?"

"Of course not," Mary replied immediately. "I won't allow it."

He twisted his head up. "You won't allow it?"

"You've been a loyal employee for many years now," she told him. "And in all that time you've never given us any problems. Besides," she added, "I'm sure that if were aware of all the details, I would have punched him, too."

Branson laughed at her unladylike pronouncement. "And here it was because I thought you might like me," he said, laughing again, less pained this time.

"I do like you." The words startled them both. She hasn't counted on admitting something so personal... though Mary supposed she hadn't realized until today just how much she did like him. Knowing the fight had been for the honor of her beloved maid only seemed to make her esteem for him increase. Branson tried to meet her eyes while she steadfastly forced her gaze down at the sheets on his bed. "You're... you're a good driver."

Before either of them could say anything else, there was a frantic, insistent knocking at the door. "Maybe that's Dr. Clarkson," said Mary, rising to her feet. She was relieved to get away for a moment, still wondering what possessed her to disclose her fondness for Branson.

It wasn't Dr. Clarkson. A blonde woman with a round face and piercing eyes stood on the porch, looking determined. She wore a black uniform... Mary realized belatedly that this must have been the maid who replaced O'Brien. Was she a friend of Branson's? Nonetheless, friend or not, it did seem strange and improper that she was appearing at his home.

Before Mary could ask, the woman said, "I need to speak to Mr. Branson. Urgently."

"May I ask what about?" Mary asked, as politely as possible, though there was something about her that rubbed Mary the wrong way.

"It's personal," she said, jutting her jaw out.

"Then I'm afraid it will have to wait," said Mary. "Mr. Branson isn't well and needs to rest until Dr. Clarkson arrives."

Mary was stunned when the maid tried to shove past her. Mary swung the door so that it was only open a crack, letting it hit the other woman, before leaning all her weight against it. The woman was disgruntled yet undeterred. "If you leave, I'll be gone in a few minutes."

Mary realized now why she disliked the woman— she didn't understand the meaning of the word No. "Are you forgetting who I am?" Mary asked, in a voice she knew to be lofty and superior. "If you want to keep your job, I suggest you go back to the house and wait until Mr. Branson is better before visiting him." She took more satisfaction than she ought to have from the maid's murderous scowl before slamming the door shut. For good measure, she locked it as well, not wholly convinced the woman wouldn't try to break in.

"It wasn't Clarkson, I'm afraid," Mary told Branson as she reentered his room.

"I know," he said, wearing a curious expression on his face. "I could hear." Of course he did, thought Mary. "Thank you. For not letting her in," he clarified. He did sound grateful.

"You've never mentioned her before in your stories... I don't even think I know her name," Mary observed, taking her seat once more. "Is she a friend?"

"Her name is Edna. Miss Braithwaite, that is," Branson hurriedly corrected himself. "And... no. Not exactly."

He seemed shaken, disturbed. Mary sensed he was reluctant to speak about it... but still, she couldn't help but wonder. "Do you know why she might have wanted to speak to you?"

"I am afraid I might." There was no humor in his voice, none of that easiness from before.

Mary bit her lip. She wanted to know, so badly... but she understood that it wasn't her place. She had her secrets and it was obvious Branson had his. "I can tell we aren't quite close enough yet for you to tell me what is the matter," she said lowly, examining her hands, which were now folded on her lap. "But you ought to speak to somebody about it, because I can tell it's troubling you."

Branson's parted in astonishment. "Thank you, milady. I'll bear that in mind."