A/N: I normally wouldn't start a new story when I already have one in progress, but this one is practically finished and just needs some polishing on individual chapters, so I decided to post it now. March also happens to be my birthday month so I wanted to do something a little special! It is fifteen chapters long and I'm going to try to update daily, though I know there will be a weekend where I will be much too busy to update.

Another quick note: this story takes place in an AU where neither Tom nor Mary really had any relationships after the deaths of Sybil and Matthew— so no Tony, Charles, Edna, or Miss Bunting. The trip to Brancaster in S5 is also during the holiday season here!

That all being said, I hope you enjoy!

From Yorkshire to New York

Chapter One

"Tom's just left."

"I see," said Mary, not bothering to look up from her letter. Evelyn Napier had written a couple days ago, which had been some good luck, and she was accepting his invitation to dinner in London. Of course, it would likely fizzle into nothing, as things with her and Evelyn were wont to do, but she needed a distraction.

"I wish you had at least come to say goodbye," Mama said with unreserved disapproval. Mary's movements stilled, the ink blotting on the word love. "I don't know why the two of you have been quarreling but it would have been nice if you could have been the bigger person and left things on good terms— and you could have said goodbye to Sybbie, too."

Mary ignored the guilt that was rising up within her. "I told her goodbye this morning when I went to check up on George." She blinked twice. "Besides... in a couple years time, she won't remember who I am, so what's the point, anyway?" She forced herself to say, finishing up one more sentence of the letter.

"She's Sybil's only child. And he was Sybil's husband."

"I'm quite aware of that already, Mama," Mary gritted out— as if she needed reminding.

Her mother stood in the doorway for a moment longer, sighing before she left. Mary swallowed, ignoring the lump in her throat and the tears welling in her eyes, and returned to her letter.

She wasn't sure how it had started nor when it had started. Truthfully, it didn't matter. All that was of consequence was that it had happened.

At first, it was kiss in the library after swapping stories and sipping glasses of whiskey. She had thought it was a one-off: a manifestation of their mutual loneliness, a way to seek out companionship, even when it wasn't with the person they wanted it to be with.

But then it happened again. And again and again. Some of it was her, she would admit— contriving reasons to get him alone before dinner, tugging his hand to lead him into the wooded area of the estate where she would pin him to a tree, sometimes even daring to sneak a kiss in an empty hallway, always flirting with danger and the possibility of getting caught. Tom had played it much more safe; he would wait until it was the two of them alone once everyone else had gone to bed or invite her down to the office. It was like a game— one that had Mary's heart racing each time she thought of a new way to make it happen again.

But it was wrong. She knew that. He was Sybil's husband, which meant he was off limits to her. It was far too easy to forget sometimes, when he had made the transition in her mind from Branson, the chauffeur who had married her sister, to Tom, the man who joined them for dinner, the man who was the agent. And it was even harder to recall who he had once been when they were alone together in a room, his eyes trained on her, lips parted, looking unspeakably handsome in his dinner jacket...

Now that he was gone, there was no temptation left. She told herself it was a good thing.

The dulcet strains of the piano played in the background as Mary and Evelyn ate. "I'm so pleased you accepted," admitted Evelyn, cutting up his meat, glancing up at her every couple of seconds. "I've always enjoyed spending time with you."

Mary smiled pleasantly, saying, "I'm glad you invited me. I needed an excuse to get away from home and seeing an old friend seemed too good a chance to miss," before sipping her wine.

Evelyn gave her almost a pitying look. "I expect it must be hard for you... with your husband..." He trailed off. "You must miss him terribly."

Mary nodded, saying nothing. Of course, she missed Matthew. Every moment of every day was spent missing him... but truthfully, when Evelyn had spoken, the first person she thought of was Tom.

It wasn't really a surprise. Since losing their respective spouses, Tom had become one of her dearest friends. He was the only one who knew what it was like the lose the love of one's life too soon and raise a child by one's self. He always knew just the thing to say when she was feeling blue and sometimes he knew when it was better to say nothing at all and leave her to her own thoughts. Until the topic of his leaving had arisen, they had scarcely ever fought, despite their fiery, argumentative natures. Mary could confide in him in ways she couldn't with anyone else, not even Anna.

But she missed more than just that. She missed those stolen kisses and watching his mouth as he talked, not bothering to concentrate on the words, though when she did she was always fascinated (barring his references to the accursed automobile). She missed hearing him speak, his accent somehow more prominent when it was late at night, the way he would get passionate about his politics. She even missed going their separate ways when they reached the top of the stairs, longing for the moments when she had been able to glance over her shoulder at his shadowy, retreating figure and wishing she could take his hand and lead him back to her room.

Of course, she would never admit it, just as she had never admitted to any of it, not even to him. Still, her thoughts remained fixed firmly on Tom instead of the man she was dining with for the remainder of the evening.

OCTOBER 1924

"Leaving?"

"I can't stay here."

"Why not?"

"You know why."

"As a matter of fact, I don't."

"Mary..."

"Tell me!"

"I don't belong here."

"What do you mean? Of course you do! You're family!"

"Am I?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't treat me like family."

"I don't understand. If someone's said something—"

"It's not what anyone's said. It's about you, Mary."

"Me?"

"Mary... We can't."

"Can't what?"

"You know. Please don't make me say it."

"I know. I know we can't. But... But it doesn't mean you have to go."

"I think it does."

"It won't happen again! We can— I promise, I won't let it!"

"That's a promise I don't think either of us can keep. I told myself after the first time we couldn't let it happen again, and if I know you, you told yourself the same."

"I don't want you to go."

"I wish I didn't have to."

"If you don't want to, then you shouldn't. You should just stay here."

"Mary—"

"Don't lie to me or to yourself. If you want to stay here, then you should. Don't make excuses."

"I'm not making any excuses! I don't want to ruin anything!"

"You'll ruin everything if you go away!"

Papa opened a letter, eyes widening. He cheered visibly as he read it. Mary noticed, but said nothing, eating her breakfast placidly. No matter how much marmalade she slathered onto her toast, it always managed to taste of nothing. Edith, however, couldn't resist. "Who's the letter from?"

"Tom." Mary stilled. "He sends his love to us all." She dropped the toast on her plate and left the table. She knew they both thought she was being melodramatic but she was too incensed to care.

He didn't mean it... about sending his love. If he loved her, he would have stayed. Maybe he meant it when it came to the rest of the family but it was impossible for Mary to believe it extended to her.

It wasn't until she had pushed open the front doors and marched outside that Mary realized her feet were leading her into the direction of the office. Oh well... she needed to get started on work, anyway, and she had already ruined breakfast.

It was hard to concentrate, especially when the office held so many memories. She tried to focus on the report on her desk, but it was hard when she remembered the time he had cleared everything off of it to lay her down and kiss her senseless, remarking afterwards about how foolish he had been and that it would take him hours to sort things again. "Do you regret it, though?" she had asked, aiming to sound coquettish but secretly curious. She had been gratified when he sheepishly admitted, "No," and kissed her yet again.

Mary glanced down at the paper, realizing she hadn't absorbed a single word she read. Damn, she thought, before amending it to, Damn him, without any of the venom it deserved.

Lady Mary,

I don't know if you remember me at all, but I'm the fellow you went out shooting with at Brancaster. I know I made something of an arse of myself at times, but I rather enjoyed your company. I want to make it up to you in some way. I'm coming up to Yorkshire next weekend to test drive a new car. Would you care to join me?

Henry Talbot

DECEMBER 1924

She wished she hadn't done it. Past experience had taught Mary that it was silly to do such a thing. It had backfired most wonderfully when she tried it out with Sir Anthony...

Yet Mary couldn't help herself. They were at Brancaster for the holidays and a handsome man was paying attention to her. What else was she going to do? She had felt neglected in the most recent weeks, their wretched fighting driving a wedge between what had once been a close relationship.

So Mary joined Mr. Talbot for the shoot, merely tolerating his company and letting her eyes straying further down the stretch, where Tom was with Lady Sinderby. When they all dined together, Mary made a great show of flirting and laughing at Mr. Talbot's jokes, even when they weren't all that funny. Mary was pleased when Lord Sinderby brought out the gramophone, as it was the perfect opportunity to dance with Mr. Talbot.

Her efforts payed off, because during her second dance with him, a familiar voice asked, "Do you mind if I cut in?" to Mr. Talbot.

Mr. Talbot had looked over to Mary before saying, "Very well," and letting Tom take over.

Mary pretended to be completely unaffected, which wasn't such a feat for her, but under the present circumstances it felt like quite the accomplishment. She was glad she was wearing gloves, or else he could have felt her sweaty hands. Mary looked over his shoulder, avoiding looking at his face.

She was shocked when he began leaning forward. Surely he didn't mean to kiss her in this room full of people? She could feel eyes on them, namely those of their family, who had witnessed their worst fight mere days before leaving for Brancaster.

But, much to her disappointment, Tom didn't kiss her. "Did you really think that would work?" He murmured, low in her ear.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," she answered blithely.

"Trying to make me jealous?"

"Who says I was trying to do that?" She asked, feeling pleased. For once in all this, she finally felt as though she had the upper hand. "I've just been enjoying Mr. Talbot's company. Besides," she added, unable to resist, "For something that you are claiming doesn't work, you certainly found your way over to me in short time."

"Don't toy with me." For the first time since he came over, she met his eyes. "I'm not your puppet. I can do as I please."

"I'm sure you can," she replied in a condescending tone. She delighted in the flash of irritation in his eyes. "So what are you going to do about it?"

Dear Mr. Talbot,

Thank you for your invitation but I am afraid I must decline. I am afraid I gave you the wrong impression when we met last and I do not wish to deceive you any longer. Besides, I am afraid I would have made poor company. To say I am not fond of motorcars is an understatement.

I am sorry if this causes you any pain. Truly, I do.

Sincerely,

Lady Mary Crawley

DECEMBER 1924

It was a cool night but Mary felt as if she were on fire. It had never been like this. His lips were everywhere, his tongue and teeth brushing against the skin of her neck. She wished she could do something but found herself hardly able support her legs. The only thing keeping her upright was his body and the automobile she was being pressed against.

The only lights they had at their disposal were the oil lamps hanging in the rafters of the garage. Mary tipped her head back, allowing him more access. His hands were on her hips, gripping tightly, the door handle digging into her spine.

She thought his lips might return to her mouth one more, but instead Tom began working his way down. Every inch of her exposed flesh was his for the taking. Mary's arms were wound around his neck and she allowed her dressing gown to slip to the floor. She was past caring if the silk fabric was ruined or not.

Things had never gone this far before. There had been a few daring moments, over the past couple of months, where their hands had ventured places they weren't supposed to, but nothing had ever been as charged as this.

It occurred to Mary, as another gasp left her throat, that this was really going to happen. When they snuck back into their rooms that night, they wouldn't be left wondering what might have occurred if they let things go a bit further, because that line was about to be crossed. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she moved her head so their lips met again.

When he wrenched open the door of the car, Mary peered at the backseat then back at him with a million questions in her gaze. She finally settled on asking, "Won't the chauffeur overhear?" She had no objections otherwise, though she could admit that this was hardly the place she imagined this happening... and over the past few months, she had imagined it far too many times to count.

Tom shook his head. "He's got a cottage. Just like I had."

Mary blinked. It was rare that he mentioned his time as a chauffeur, and even rarer that he mentioned it at times like this. "Good," she finally said, kissing him yet again before climbing into the car, Tom joining her less than a second later.

There was no more talking after that. Not for a while.

Just as there was no talking now.

She hadn't done it to make him stay. She'd done it because she wanted to... though vainly, when she woke alone in her bed at Brancaster Castle mere hours later after they hastily dressed in the wee hours of the morning, a part of her had begun to hope this changed things.

It didn't. He was still going to America, more resolved than ever before. And the fighting grew worse and worse, until Mary couldn't stand to be in the same room as him. Life at Downton was a nightmare for their family, who was witnessing their civil war and had no idea why they were so at odds, especially when they had been such good friends before.

But the real hell was when Mary realized he really was going away, the night before he left. Still, it wasn't enough to convince her to leave her bedroom and go to his, desperately begging him to stay. She was Mary Crawley; she didn't beg.

And she knew it would have been pointless.