Hand and Glove

A/N: Good morning! Upon rewatching 1x04 today, and getting predictably excited at *that* adorable scene in the hallway and later in the library … well, inspiration suddenly struck at the shot of that lingering handshake. I decided to write this one from Mary's point of view, for a change – although I find Matthew's thoughts far easier to write.

Anyway, here goes … hope you like it!


"To break the entail, we'd need a private bill in Parliament?" Mary demanded incredulously, the tiny hope she'd foolishly allowed to take root and blossom in her dark heart crumpling like a papery leaf. Cousin Matthew had, it seemed, taken it upon himself to investigate the legal nuances of the entail – damned thing – apparently upon the behest of her Granny, and had very kindly informed her that there was no possible way she could, or would, ever inherit Downton. She strode over to summon Carson, her ivory gown swishing in her wake like a peacock's tail, shimmering in the rosy-gold, flickering firelight.

"Even then, it would only be passed if the estate were in danger – which it's not," he said. He looked downcast, even apologetic, but it failed to soothe her crushing disappointment, the despairing loss of what was hers – and yet would never be. Her own father thought it was worthless fighting the entail, investigating the tiniest chance that she might be his heiress after all – but he hadn't. And now, Cousin Matthew had confirmed it beyond question. Find a husband and get out of the way … that's what she was meant to do, wasn't it, snag the most eligible bachelor in every ballroom (who, at the present moment, just so happened to be the man standing before her). She didn't matter, not to Parliament, not to Papa, not to anyone.

"And I mean nothing in all this?" she asked, her arms dropping hopelessly to her side, her dark eyes fixed with an unprecedented look of helplessness, the vulnerability and simmering hurt veiled in the glowing, shadowed chestnut shades.

"On the contrary, you mean a great deal," Matthew said, and there was – something – about the way he'd said it, uttered those words, almost like a reflex. Her eyes met his in the dimly lit library, his fingers flexing at his sides agitatedly. "A very – great deal."

She stared at him, the only sound in the room the quiet crackling of the flames licking the grate. You mean a great deal. In all her life, she could not remember anyone telling her she meant anything to them. At the age of twelve, Papa and Mama had quite calmly and straightforwardly explained to her that it was expected of her to become the queen of the county, Downton's future mistress, and she was to marry Cousin Patrick when she became a woman. You must be grateful, darling, Mama had told her with a soft, placating, reasonable smile, you will have position, and power, and a title. And you will be expected to be obedient to your future husband. That is your role, and your duty.

Even then, her bewildered, girlish heart had stung with rebellion, the words that stoked the fire of the stubbornness that was so deeply a part of her. Expected. Obedient. Duty. What she wanted, what she desired, clearly did not signify in the least, the realisation scorching her heart.

Ever since then, she'd made a concerted effort to be as dismissive and indifferent to Cousin Patrick as politeness and propriety allowed. He had never appealed to her much, anyway – she shrugged off his mild flirtations, his weak attempts at wit … she had no time for him. A rather mousy creature, who had no spirit, no passion, no fire, no match for her in any aspect that mattered … she quite failed to understand how or why Edith could spend years of her life mooning after him.

But Matthew – Cousin Matthew, the middle-class interloper who had marched into her life unwelcomed, uninvited – who she had taunted with cutting words and icy barbs from the minute they had laid eyes on each other, who she had done her best to wrong-foot at every turn, who she had riled her heart against with every ounce of ferocity and fierceness she could muster, who she had vehemently refused to accept … he had told her she meant a great deal. Her chest heaved imperceptibly, as she stared at him, the few words spiralling in the empty air between them. She had done nothing to warrant them, she didn't deserve them in the slightest; the low, murmured words, that she was of value to … him …

Her eyes dropped to his black jacket, slightly crinkled after a day's work (how very middle-class of him … and yet she couldn't condemn him for it, not any more) and after their excursion at the fair – to the obscured white shirt and the scarlet tie against his chest, to the chained pocket watch that glinted gold in the white glow of the electric lamp. It all fitted him, she thought, quite becomingly, almost … endearingly …

The unexpected click of the door broke the silence – the strangely intimate tension that had blossomed so briefly between them – and Carson marched in.

"You rang, my lady?"

"Yes, Carson. Mr Crawley was just leaving," Mary said, in smooth, practised, polite tones. "Do you know where His Lordship is?"

"Gone to bed, my lady. He felt tired after he put Lady Grantham into the car."

"I bet he did," she said, a wry smile curling her lips. Dealing with her Granny did have rather an exhausting effect on people. "Thank you, Carson."

He bowed and left, the lingering silence sweeping through the library again, only … them; alone.

"I'm sorry – I wish I could think of something to say that would help," Matthew said, licking his lips, his paces uncertain.

Something to say that would help … but there wasn't, was there, Mary reflected bitterly. Nothing on earth anyone could say, least of all Matthew, would ever calm the tempest raging within her breast, the injustice of her beloved home having slipped through her fingers, and there was no way on earth that she would ever get it back. And yet … it was the first time, a small voice whispered in the untouched corner of her heart, that a man had taken the trouble of considering … her feelings, had apologised for lack of better news … the fact that he had bothered investigating the entail at all had touched a part of her she did not want to acknowledge … Matthew, Cousin Matthew – who everyone wanted her to marry, so everything would be settled neatly –

No. She wouldn't.

"There's nothing. But you mustn't let it trouble you," she said coolly, with an elegant shrug.

"It does trouble me," he replied quickly, and there was a tender plea vibrating beneath the simple words, willing her to comprehend what his heart was saying that his voice could not. "It troubles me very much."

"Then that will be my consolation prize," Mary said, striding forwards. If it troubled him at all, the whole ghastly business would be well worth it. "Good night, Cousin Matthew," she said, daintily offering her hand, the delicate skin shrouded by a white glove.

"Goodnight."

Her fingers entwined with his, in a warm clasp – shockingly warm! – and for a brief, fleeting moment time seemed to still. They fit together like … like hand and glove, bared flesh connecting with smooth white silk. She could feel his fingers, skin and blood and flesh, through the thin white silk, and it was … electrifying, a sudden heat surging in her belly, shooting up her arm … the contact was burning her, as in her peripheral vision the gold fire twinkled in the grate. Bejewelled dark eyes met sapphire, and she noticed again, more clearly than she had in nearly eight months of their acquaintance, just how attractive he was. Her breast heaved beneath the tightly laced corset, the unexpected wave of passion parting her lips; the delicate pearl necklace suddenly cold against her warm skin. His deep blue eyes shimmered with a sincerity she had never before witnessed in any man – anyone, for that matter – the intense look in them, painted with an expression she could not read … the unsettling feel of his fingers (incredibly gentle) threaded through hers … and unbidden, unwanted, the thought fluttered into her mind – of what it might be like to kiss him.

The moment this insidious thought occurred, she drew her hand away, almost as though he had burned her with his touch; her eyes dropped from his to the gold chain of his pocket watch that glinted benignly in the firelight; her parted lips resealed themselves. Their entwined hands fell apart like a log of wood split in two; and the spell was broken. All was as it had been before. Only … not quite.

Matthew recognised the dismissal; blinking in acceptance, he brushed past her to leave, the light swish of his arm against the gossamer creamy fabric sending a denied shiver through her.

Mary's eyes were fixed upon the floor, richly carpeted; the last vestiges of the sudden heat, so unwanted, unexpected and yet … so alluring, still simmering within her. For a moment, the way he had looked at her, almost as though he …

She was half annoyed with herself for even daring to contemplate how it might feel to have his lips on hers – she had grown increasingly wary of men since that night, but Matthew … she could feel an unprecedented ease in his company, the way he seemed to understand, empathise even, almost as though he understood the hurt and fury that bubbled in the depths of her being at the injustice of it all … She knew enough of him to realise he was decent. Not many men, she realised now, would have bothered investigating the nuances of the bloody entail, at great risk to themselves. Whatever other objections she might have against him, she was touched. This, at least, she could admit to herself. Not many men would have bothered explaining its myriad intricacies to her, treating her as their equal. Dashing suitors with plastered-on smiles at the grand seasons in London knew precisely how to lavish her with flattery, remarking on her beauty, her grace, her charm and wit … qualities she knew she possessed and knew how to wield. Not one of them bothered to listen to her, to look at her as though she had anything of importance to say … their flirtations were woven by design, engineered so that she might one day shine as the beautiful Lady Mary Crawley, the dazzling ornament that would grace their arm, the future Marchioness, or Viscountess, or even the Duchess of their sprawling estates …

Matthew wasn't like that …

But he could not – would not – marry him. To do so would be to swallow her pride, admit she was wrong, submit to the wishes of her family, do the right thing, do what was expected of her. She abhorred submission, conceding that other people were right. Mental images and voices swam tauntingly in her mind's eye ... Mama's delighted, winning smile, Papa's triumphant voice… So you've grown up and seen sense at last, darling. I knew you'd come around in the end. No, she would not marry Matthew Crawley. But the sudden, mad urge she had felt, the thought of being held in his arms … one part of her shrank in shocked horror at the idea. But the other hidden side that spoke truths in her mind she did not want to hear … found it shockingly tempting, even longed for it.

Her rebel heart stirred in indignant denial, the betrayal of her own heart against her stubbornness. She didn't love him – she didn't even like him, for heaven's sake! Hadn't she furiously vented her dislike of the middle-class country solicitor to everyone who dared suggest the idea of their union to be profitable – Anna, her sisters, her parents, Granny …

The deep look in Matthew's eyes, the warm feel of his hand in hers, his compassionate look while she opened just a sliver of her heart to him in the sweet-smelling springtime wind at the fair …

She wasn't going to marry him, no matter what anyone said. Or how she felt. She wouldn't give in, not to anyone.

She didn't – feel anything for him; absolutely nothing approaching love. For Cousin Matthew … did she?

She did not know then just how wrong she was.


A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are tremendously and gratefully appreciated! :) :)