Law Firm of Sellers and Reid, Manchester, England, November 1912

"Matthew, thank you for coming," the older gentleman said, shaking Matthew's hand firmly.

"Mr. Reid," Matthew nodded briefly, then went and took a seat. Harold Reid had been the Crawley family solicitor since before Matthew was born. Even after Matthew had graduated from law school, even after he made partner at his law firm, his parents continued to keep all of their affairs with Sellers and Reid. Partly it was out of loyalty, but Matthew suspected it was also to keep him distanced from family matters. His parents wanted him to focus on his career and his life, and did not want him spending time on personal matters at work.

Now, sitting in the boardroom and clasping his hands together as he waited for the meeting to begin, Matthew was grateful that he wasn't his father's lawyer. He knew very little about the day's proceedings, and he was glad for it. It was a rare occasion where he simply wanted to be told what was happening and what to do, rather than have to think about it himself.

"Right, well, now that we are all here, we can proceed with the business at hand. You all know Matthew Crawley of course, Dr. Crawley's son," Reid said, motioning to Matthew with his hand. He was always direct and straightforward, and Matthew appreciated his professional manner in this moment.

Matthew looked around the room and nodded briefly to the assembled guests. Lord Merton gave him a short glance and turned his attention back to Reid. A tall, thin woman smiled politely at him. An older man waved at him kindly.

"Dr. Crawley's last Will and Testament was updated last year. Reginald was rather meticulous about reviewing these things each year to make sure they accurately reflected his wishes. As sad as this occasion is, I am comforted in knowing that what we are about to do today is what he would have wanted."

Matthew looked down at his lap, his fingers fidgeting. God, he needed Mary. He felt as though he could not stop shaking. He wanted her to come with him, especially since his mother had quietly refused to attend herself. But they both knew that Lord Merton would be at the meeting as a representative of the hospital, and there was no explanation they could invent to explain why she would be at the meeting as well.

"The majority of Dr. Crawley's possessions, including his home and most of his personal effects were naturally left to his wife, Isobel Crawley. I won't bother to read out the list of items. I trust that no one here has any real interest in knowing about them. Matthew, please take the list with you, but I am confident that everything is in your parents' house. There's also this letter. He wrote one each year and replaced it when he came to see me. This is the most recent one."

Matthew nodded mindlessly and took the offered papers. His father's handwriting was scrawled across the envelope. He smiled sadly as he weighed the letter in his hands. How did one go about writing a letter to your wife to read after you were gone? How to summarize thoughts on a whole life in a few pages? His father would be to the point, of course, with perhaps some wry jokes thrown in. What was there really left to say that Dr. Crawley hadn't said to Isobel by now? But it wasn't so much something missing, Matthew expected. It was something to hold on to, last words for his loved ones to keep, a part of him to treasure even after his death.

Matthew sighed. Even the knowledge that Dr. Crawley had remembered a gesture such as this so far in advance should comfort him, but it did not. He wondered if he would leave a letter for Mary with his executor to give to her upon his death. It was a terribly morbid thought. And would it be so easy for him to leave everything he owned to his wife? For, if he ever inherited Downton Abbey, would the entail prevent him from dealing with his own affairs as he wished? Would he even have the power to provide for Mary? For their children? Would his will be as straight forward as his father's? Matthew looked down at his father's handwriting again. Perhaps this was another reason why Dr. Crawley was almost morbidly amused that he would not need to take up the mantle of heir to Lord Grantham. Here in Manchester, he could live his life on his terms and no one else's.

Mr. Reid cleared his throat and Matthew's attention was drawn back to him.

"To the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, a gift of 1,500 pounds, to be used to the education of the public to the plight of birds in Manchester, and to the preservation of greenspace in Moss Botanical Park and surrounding areas."

The tall, thin woman took the offered envelope gratefully and bowed to Reid and to Matthew. She was escorted by a staff member out the door. Everyone left turned back to Reid and he continued on.

"To my alma mater, Owens College, now known as the Victoria University of Manchester, a gift of 3,000 pounds to establish a scholarship and grant to be given to deserving students in financial need to fund their medical studies," Reid announced.

The older man smiled and looked up at the ceiling. He rose and slowly made his way to the front of the room. He took the envelope from Reid and turned and shook Matthew's hand gratefully. He was escorted out of the room, starting to blub as he went.

Matthew smiled briefly. This was so like his father – providing for those that he felt needed his help without even being asked.

Lord Merton quirked his eyebrows in bored annoyance and turned back to look at the Crawley family solicitor.

"To the Royal Infirmary of Manchester, a gift of 7,500 pounds to be invested as part of the hospital's endowment fund and used specifically towards the purchase of new medical equipment, particularly for the updating and modernizing of the surgical suites as necessary," Reid said, glancing up at Lord Merton.

Lord Merton frowned slightly, then came forward and took the envelope from Reid. Rather than leave, he sat back down. Reid looked at him curiously for a brief moment, then returned to the Will.

"To my only child, Matthew Reginald Crawley, I leave the balance of my Estate, including all assets, monies, funds, investments, and the proceeds thereof that have not been specifically granted and gifted to my wife, Isobel Crawley, should she still be alive at the time of my death. In particular, I transfer my half interest in my second home, the property located in Manchester which, until my death, was owned jointly with my son, Matthew Reginald Crawley, such that the home and lands thereon are entirely owned by him from the date of my death forthwith. Further, I leave a fund of 15,000 pounds, currently invested with The First National Bank of Manchester, to my son, Matthew Reginald Crawley, to hold in trust for any woman who shall be his wife during his lifetime."

Matthew smiled sadly. Of course his father would make provision for Mary. He bit his lip forcing himself to neither smile nor sob at this unexpected development.

"The fund will remain at First National, Matthew," Reid said quietly. "The day that you do marry, we'll make arrangements for the transfer. For now it will accumulate interest until you decide to take a wife."

Matthew only nodded briefly, afraid to say anything further in Lord Merton's presence.

Lord Merton gasped audibly, his face a mixture of shock and confusion. He rose slowly from his chair, his fingers clutching his walking stick fiercely.

"Is that all of the assets dealt with, then, Mr. Reid?" he asked carefully.

"Yes, Lord Merton. That is all. Did you have any questions?" Reid asked with narrow eyes.

"No," Lord Merton shook his head quickly. "Not at all."

Matthew said goodbye to Reid and made his way for the door. As he walked out into the hall, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Matthew," Lord Merton said pleasantly. "Good to see you again. I hope that we see more of you around the hospital in the future. We have a number of events – fundraisers and meetings with donors and such. Your father was very active in supporting the hospital, and I hope you will consider taking up the same cause."

"I'll consider it," Matthew said curtly, trying not to snarl at the man who he would never forgive for his treatment of Mary.

"That's all we can ask for," Lord Merton replied, clearly annoyed by Matthew's lack of enthusiasm. "I must also ask, did you receive Lord Grantham's letter? The Earl wanted me to reach out to you. You are a part of his family, of course."

"I did," Matthew replied. "I appreciate the Earl's condolences. Good day, Lord Merton."

Matthew briskly left the building and walked down the pavement, leaving Lord Merton standing by his waiting motor, frowning at his departing figure.

"Insolent middle class whelp," Lord Merton grumbled under his breath as his chauffeur opened the door to the car for him. "God willing, James and Patrick will return soon and he will never inherit Downton."

Home of Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, November 1912

"Good evening sir," Davis said as he greeted Matthew. He took his soaking wet umbrella and briefcase out of his hands. The usual winter torrents seemed particularly nasty this day.

"That it most certainly is not," Matthew mumbled as he shivered. "But, thank you, Davis. The same to you."

Matthew removed his Macintosh anxiously, and hung the raincoat on the first rung of the coat rack; following suit with his hat and scarf. It was often a contest between him and Davis as to who would reach the coat rack first. The butler always grumbled that Matthew should not be hanging his own coat, especially as he was now the head of the family. Matthew always replied that he was his own man and did not need to be coddled, especially now that he was the head of the family.

Matthew sat down on the hall bench and removed his sopping wet boots. He reached for a pair of his dry Oxfords, only to smile wryly as Davis already had them in his outstretched hand.

"Touché, Davis," Matthew frowned dryly, putting on the shoes and rising from the bench.

To say that he was grateful to return home was an understatement. Although he had always appreciated his work, since his father's death, he was constantly distracted. The partners at the firm seemed to have formed a silent vow that he not be bothered with any complicated cases or matters for the time being. And so Matthew had to sit idly by and watch as matters that ought to have been given to him were parsed out to junior associates. He had moped about it for several days, then redirected his energies into a new research project that had quickly filled his time both at the office and at home.

"Would you like your post now?" Davis inquired gesturing to the tray of mail.

Matthew sighed and ran his hand through his damp hair.

"That depends," he nodded. "Is there anything interesting?"

"Several invitations it would seem from names that I recognize, Lord Merton being among them," Davis stated. "I expect it's a dinner of some sort."

"It can all wait then," Matthew said bitterly.

He seemed to be far more popular since his father's passing. He had anticipated that he would be recruited for some of the causes and events that his father used to deal with, but he seemed to receive interest from members of Manchester Society that his parents previously did not know about. It was quite perplexing to him, though Mary was nonplussed by his growing reputation.

"Though technically you're not the heir, and never will be, you're still part of the Grantham line," Mary had told him patiently. "It's far better for Lord Merton and his ilk to get their hooks in you early. That way, they hope to control you if you ever do actually inherit, and if you never do, then there's no harm done."

Matthew had rolled his eyes at this revelation. It was difficult to understand the motivations and behaviour of an entire class of people when their conduct involved neither logic nor rationale.

"Your mother and Lady Mary are in the library," Davis announced, interrupting his thoughts. "Dinner will be served promptly now that you have arrived home, sir."

Matthew smiled.

"Mary is here?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes, sir," Davis nodded, trying to contain his amusement. Nothing seemed to reduce Mr. Matthew to an adolescent like mention of Lady Mary.

"She arrived about a quarter of an hour ago, sir. It seems that Lady Philomena has left for London earlier than planned."

Matthew nodded, attempting to remain composed. He did not expect Lady Philomena to go to London for Winter Season for another week or so. This was quite a surprise. Suddenly, Matthew did not particularly want to be at home as the idea of Mary's empty house filled his mind.

"Thank you, Davis," Matthew nodded, turning for the library.

Matthew blinked in surprise as he neared the library and heard the unexpected sound of whistling. When he came through the large archway, his mother stood next to the bird cage of the cockatiel he and Mary had brought home. She whistled gently, then smiled as the bird mimicked her sounds back in its own voice. Although the emerald green little creature still did not talk, Matthew could see it was eager to interact. Despite her earlier apprehension about keeping such a pet, Isobel took to nurturing the bird, just as Matthew knew that she would. The challenge of restoring this bird from whatever affected it was a welcome distraction for her.

"Matthew," Mary smiled as she looked up at him entering the room. She stood and walked towards him accepting his kiss on the cheek. Mary held his hand as they proceeded towards his mother.

"How was your day dear?" Isobel asked, her eyes still on the bird.

"Nothing worth mentioning, as nothing happened," he shrugged. "You seem to have developed a rapport with the bird," he teased his mother.

Isobel stepped away from the bird cage with a smile. "I think I'm going to call him the Great Abel," she said as they all took seats nearby on the sofa and settee.

Matthew laughed. "After the bell in City Hall?"

"I like it," Mary said. "We did rescue him in the market nearby."

"Well, I see no objection, although he may only respond to 'Abel'" Matthew smiled as he stared at the green cockatiel. "Papa, would like that name, I think."

Isobel nodded wistfully. "He always wanted a bird in the house, but I kept saying no. I'm almost convinced he placed this particular bird in your path that day so that I would now get my comeuppance."

The trio shared a tender laugh at this irony just as the dinner gong struck. Matthew gestured for the ladies to go first as they proceeded into the dinning room.

"After dinner," Isobel said as they walked. "I have a project for all of us," she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

"A project?" Matthew looked at Mary for assistance. "Do you know about this?"

"Naturally," Mary said coyly. "We've been plotting against you for ages."

Matthew could only roll his eyes as he followed them through.

"I thought I was the head of the household," he mumbled, glancing up at the ceiling ruefully.

They went through to the parlour after dinner. Matthew was about to pour himself a brandy when he and Mary noticed a peculiar trunk placed noticeably in the middle of the room. They gathered around it and Isobel smiled mysteriously, watching their reactions.

"Mother," he said gently. "Is this Pandora's box?" he teased.

"Be serious, Matthew," Mary scolded him lightly. "This is important."

"Your father and I always meant to make a scrapbook together," Isobel said as her hand lightly touched the trunk. "A collection of memories of our life together. We started it after our marriage and for awhile it was what we did every Sunday afternoon."

Mary reached out and squeezed Matthew's hand as Isobel looked at the trunk fondly. They were reminded of Dr. Crawley almost every day in some form or another. Sometimes, Matthew would smile and gladly recall memories. Other times, he would scowl and lash out, the reminder of his father only a bitter signal that he was no longer with them. Mary's instinct was to bury her feelings, particularly grief and sorrow. They were signs of weakness, she was taught, and she was more likely to roll her eyes at the mention of the departed than she was to smile nostalgically or cry. As with many things, she had changed in this respect after her arrival in Manchester. She knew it was important for Matthew to remember, to face his grief rather than try to avoid it. He was coming around slowly, and it was a good sign that he hadn't stomped out of the room at the mention of the family scrapbook.

"Strange that this is the first I'm hearing about this," Matthew said, his voice calm but somewhat detached.

"Well, although we kept collecting mementos throughout the years, after you arrived, living life was more important than simply documenting it," Isobel smiled.

Matthew sighed audibly. Mary patted his shoulder. He turned towards her and nodded.

"Would you like to show us what you and Papa put together, Mother?" Matthew asked.

"Yes, and I want us to finish it together. I think he would have wanted that, for our project to be something to share with our child, and his wife," Isobel nodded.

Isobel took the key, still dangling from a chain tied to the trunk, and opened the lid. She lifted it slowly, smiling to herself as though she were far away. They all peered inside at the piles of photos, papers, souvenirs and other objects.

"If there are baby pictures of Matthew in there, I will need to see them at once," Mary said firmly.

"What have I agreed to?" Matthew shook his head.

"Reggie and I kept almost everything," Isobel said wistfully. "So, yes the Matthew relics are bountiful!"

Matthew and Mary smiled as Isobel arranged several bundles on the table before them. The trunk even had jars of paste and colourful pages waiting to be filled.

"We tended to collect different items and bundled them together, to later go through and arrange into the scrapbook," Isobel explained. "I know it seems juvenile and childish, but most things appear that way with the passage of time."

"Not at all," Mary declared. "I think it's brilliant."

Matthew smiled at her in thanks. Mary was one of the most practical people he had ever met. He knew she wasn't one to dwell in the past or place too much weight on history, particularly given that hers was filled with rather painful moments. Truthfully, Matthew thought the idea of a scrapbook was rather outdated. He enjoyed photographs and even the idea of keeping a journal or diary to document important events, but to assemble an entire trunk of keepsakes was rather beyond him.

They went about their task for another hour, listening to Isobel explain what each small memento signified. There were pressed flowers, seashells, watercolour sketches that Dr. Crawley had done on vacation, calling cards and tickets from football matches, menus from restaurants and countless handwritten notes on calendar pages, napkins and notepads. At first glace they were a pile of random objects. But as they were organized on the scrapbook pages, they painted a lovely portrait of different times in the life of Matthew's parents, all moments that Matthew had never heard of before.

Isobel turned back to the beginning of the scrapbook and flipped through the pages slowly, her voice quiet as she mentioned small details here and there. She blushed at the love notes and holiday cards between them that detailed the chronology of their courtship. Matthew smiled as he saw how seamlessly the pages he and Mary had just completed fit in with everything else.

Isobel paused and swallowed with difficulty as they came to a series of empty pages. Isobel looked at the pages as though she were seeing something that wasn't there.

"Mother?" Matthew asked as she remained silent. He looked at Mary who then looked at her mother-in-law.

"Are there other keepsakes that we can put on these pages?" Mary asked softly.

"No," Isobel finally spoke. "These pages are empty as they covered the years we were trying to start a family. We didn't take any trips during this time, and many of the things we found memorable before no longer seemed as…special. When Matthew was born, Reginald kept everything – the card with his name and weight from the day he was born, report cards from school, crafts he brought home to me as a child, even notes he left us telling us he'd gone out and would be home later. That's all in the trunk as well. He tended to take some of it with him to the office. They were in his desk, on his bookshelf, even carried things such as a pair of Matthew's socks when he was an infant around in his coat. He always needed to have a piece of his son with him at all times."

"That sounds like him," Mary said.

Isobel gently closed the scrapbook and placed it in the trunk. She rose from the sofa and wiped her eyes quickly.

"Well, it's quite late. I am impressed with how much we covered tonight. Now that you both know the process, we can add a little bit whenever the mood strikes. There's bits of your time together that can fill pages and pages, I'm sure," Isobel said. "That's all for me. I'm off to bed."

"But it's still early, Mother," Matthew said, rising from the sofa and looking at his mother with concern.

"I'm having brunch tomorrow with friends, so I'll retire early," Isobel smiled to him reassuringly. "Good night."

"Good night, Mother," Matthew said, standing and nodding to her.

"Good night, Isobel," Mary said kindly.

They watched her leave the parlour. Matthew's face was still frowning with concern.

"Each of us handles what we feel in our own way, darling," Mary said quietly. "I'm sure that your mother enjoyed the scrapbook tonight, but it probably became too much for her."

"Right, of course," Matthew nodded, his expression softening. "Well, shall we find a book that I can read to you?"

"That would be lovely," Mary smiled. She took his arm and he escorted her to the library.

Kissing her hand as they entered the library, Matthew went about perusing the shelves while Mary went over to the sofa. Before she sat down, she was drawn to a stack of books and papers arranged on the table.

"You know, I think I'm in the mood for Shakespeare, tonight, for some inexplicable reason," Matthew mused, looking at several of the Bard's plays.

"Matthew?" Mary frowned. "What is all this?"

"What is all what, darling?" Matthew asked, turning towards her. His eyes widened as he realized what she had discovered and he crossed the room to her quickly.

"It's just some things for work that I brought home the other day," he said, moving to close an open book on the table.

"Why are you researching wills and estates at home?" Mary asked, her eyes narrowing. "You've never had cause to bring cases home before."

"I'm dealing with a rather complicated matter," Matthew said nervously, arranging the books and papers on the table and pushing them away. "You know how I can get when something is on my mind. It haunts me day and night sometimes."

"Matthew Reginald Crawley," Mary said slowly, her voice hardening. "To pull off a ruse, one must be a good liar. Are you a good liar?"

"Not good enough to try it, apparently," Matthew swallowed, raising his hands in front of him.

"You're investigating the entail, aren't you?" Mary accused him, her hands balling into fists. "Matthew, we settled this already."

"I know your feelings on the subject, yes, but darling it's been months and your cousins have not been found," Matthew said carefully.

"Don't you 'darling' me," Mary scowled. "I've told you in no uncertain terms that you are not going to Downton and that is final. Lord Grantham can find himself another heir for all I care."

"There is no one else, Mary!" Matthew retorted. "It's me! I'm the heir! I don't like the idea any more than you do, but if I am summoned, I need to know what I'm up against."

"You haven't even seen the entail or the contract that Grandpapa had Mama sign!" Mary shouted. "What makes you think anything will change? You surely aren't the first to have looked at this, Matthew!"

"Regardless of what those documents say, there are laws that govern what can and cannot be done, Mary," Matthew said tightly. "Any instrument can be defeated, so long as one knows how to attack it. That's what all this is about. I'm trying to understand how to revoke an entail."

"An entail that has existed for generations will suddenly crumble and fall before the might of Matthew Crawley!" Mary laughed bitterly. "And then what? We'll live happily ever after, will we, sitting around the dinner table trading loving and tender words with my parents? Oh, Matthew, everything with you is so black and white!"

"I think this is black and white!" Matthew fired back, his temper quickly rising. "I love you and I want to give you back what was taken from you. I'm trying to find a way to give you what you want!"

"If you think that going back to Downton is what I want, then you don't know me at all!" Mary cried, her eyes moistening. "I told you to forget about this, Matthew. I told you we weren't going anywhere. I already decided that I want nothing to do with my past life. Don't you see what this means? If you can't respect my decision then you're not on my side!"

"I am on your side!" Matthew roared. "Mary, it's my decision as to what will be done about this. I'm the heir. You can't just run away and hide here in Manchester and think that your family will leave us alone!"

The moment he uttered the words, he knew he had taken a step too far.

"It's your decision?" Mary said furiously.

"Mary, please," he begged, reaching out his hand.

She swatted his arm away and stormed from the room.

It took Matthew several minutes to gather himself before he went after Mary. That was enough time for her to disappear. They both needed some time to recover, he thought. Trying to speak to her again so quickly would likely make things worse.

Knowing that she was somewhere in the house, Matthew waited in the foyer. The back door was locked for the night by Mrs. Bird, so the only exit from the house was through the front, Matthew reasoned. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, pacing back and forth. Minutes passed and the only sound in the house was the ticking of the large clock. The servants had all retired, leaving just the two of them left awake.

He rolled his eyes and looked upwards ruefully. Panic began to set in as time went on. Even Mary would not be so bold as to try walking home alone at night, he was fairly certain, but how long would she refuse to see him? Days? Weeks? She was all alone in Lady Philomena's home. She didn't need him for anything in particular and did not need to seek refuge at his home either. The idea of spending Christmas without Mary made his throat dry.

"Are you guarding the door to prevent my escape?" she asked quietly.

Matthew looked up as Mary came into the foyer. Her red tinged eyes and tired expression indicated she'd been crying.

"I was just waiting to walk you home," Matthew said softly. "If you would permit it, that is."

Mary regarded him for a long moment, the silence between them making his legs feel rubbery.

"I was going to surprise you later by revealing that I brought a valise with me tonight," Mary said, her voice still cold.

Matthew's eyes widened. He swallowed, his mind racing through what to say next.

"You know you're welcome to stay here," he stammered. "That is, if you still want to, of course."

"What is your decision on the subject, husband?" Mary said, her lips pursed tightly. "You are giving the orders, aren't you?"

Matthew's anger flared at her jab. He was in no mood for another argument, but she always knew just how to get a rise out of him.

"I would like you to stay, very much," he said with great effort, watching her face for any sign of acceptance and finding none. "You can sleep in my bedroom and I'll sleep down here, if that would make you more comfortable."

"And what will you say to the servants and to your mother when you're discovered alone on the sofa in the morning?" Mary asked, arching her eyebrow.

"That it was better that we slept in separate rooms," Matthew said, unable to hide the despair in his voice.

"Then you would be lying," Mary said, looking down at the floor. "And we know you aren't any good at doing that."

Matthew blinked in surprise.

"Pardon?"

She looked up at him, her gaze still fierce.

"I'm still incensed with you," she stated. "And I expect this argument will not be resolved very easily or very quickly. But, to say that I do not want to share a bed with my husband, when the opportunity to do so is rather rare for us at the best of times, well, that would only make this entire evening worse."

Matthew took a step towards her.

"I don't want to make you angry," he said.

"You're too late for that," she replied, although her lip curled slightly as he drew near.

"And I don't want to go without you, particularly with Christmas approaching and Lady Philomena already in London."

"Why don't you try and make it through tonight, and we'll see what December brings," Mary said, raising her eyebrow at him.

"Very well," he said.

"Shall we retire, then?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"Yes, darling," Matthew said, looking at her intently.

Mary held his gaze for a moment, her chin raised, she then turned and headed towards the stairs. They went up together in silence, reaching his bedroom. She stopped and he opened the door, waiting on the threshold for her to make the next move. She stepped forward and went in. He followed behind her and closed the door.

Seeing her in his bedroom as a small victory, Matthew walked past her towards his dressing room.

"Matthew," Mary called to him.

"Yes?" Matthew asked, turning back to her.

"Where exactly are you going?" she asked.

"To go change for bed," Matthew answered. "I thought you would ring for Beth to assist you."

"I already told her I wouldn't need her this evening, actually," Mary said, stepping towards him.

"Oh? But, how will you get out of your dress and corset without help?" Matthew asked.

"I think I have ample help available to me already," Mary said, giving him just a hint of a smile.

Realization dawned on him as Mary reached him and leaned across to whisper in his ear.

"Take off my clothes, Matthew. Now."

His hands moved up her sides shakily. He groaned as he felt her lips on his neck. Her hands moved inside his jacket and up to his shoulders, quickly forcing the garment off of him.

Matthew's hands were not nearly as deft as usual as he reached around and undid the numerous ties of her dress. He kissed her neck and shoulder as he went, waiting for her to push him away or deter him in some fashion. Instead, she ran her hands up his back, and he continued to savour the taste of her skin, her small moans and the feel of her against him emboldening him.

Once her gown floated to the floor, he held her face in his hands and kissed her soundly. She returned his fervour, jabbing her tongue into his mouth as her hands moved between them to wrestle with his vest and his shirt.

He helped her, his arms flailing as he threw off his shirt, his cufflinks flying across the room. They moved urgently towards the bed, more items of clothing ripped off as they went. His suspenders. Her corset. His trousers. Her stockings.

Mary snarled and pushed him down to the bed, following on top of him and pressing herself against his chest. Their lips found each other easily, hunger and need flaring within them.

"We're much better at putting our frustrations to more enjoyable pursuits, don't you think?" Mary said huskily as she nipped at his throat.

"Most definitely," Matthew gasped, his hands slipped beneath her knickers and fondled her bottom. She hummed in pleasure as he squeezed her firmly.

"Why don't we focus on creating our own memories? We have so many of them already," Mary drawled, licking his neck and ear.

"We do," Matthew breathed, his hips pushing against her as she reached between them and grasped his length.

"Would you like to hear what I remember most vividly, Matthew?" she whispered lightly into his ear.

Matthew could only grunt in reply, her hand unrelenting.

"I remember our first kiss," Mary said, her lips caressing his face once more.

"I remember when you proposed to me," she continued, moving her lips to his neck and then to his chest.

"I remember our wedding night, when you made me yours," she smiled as his ragged breathing only spurred her on.

"I remember all of the things you taught me, Matthew," she growled, smiling as she felt his hands pull at the ties of her knickers urgently. She writhed against him and kissed her way back up to his neck.

"I remember when you took me in the middle of the day at the hospital for the first time," she teased, running her tongue along his jaw. "And all of our secret liaisons that followed."

Matthew's restraint broke. He took hold of her hips and turned them over quickly. Mary smiled and clutched at his shoulders. Her knickers were pushed down her legs and kicked free of the bed, and she let out a long breath at the feel of him over her.

"Do you remember this, Mary?" Matthew hissed, groaning as he filled her, his lips seeking hers, desperate for as much contact between them as possible.

"Yes," Mary gasped, her hands pulling him closer, her body opening up to his and wordlessly urging him to increase his pace.

They were frantic. They were desperate for each other. They moved together perfectly, a rhythm so familiar to them now, and yet different. They dueled with their bodies, each one challenging the other and replying in kind.

"Mary," Matthew called out, kissing her lips, her cheek, her neck, any part of her soft skin he could reach as he pushed both of them over the edge.

Mary squealed as she broke apart, biting into his shoulder to stifle her cries. He held her close to him, their heated bodies pressed together as they rode out the waves crashing inside of them.

"Mmm," she sighed in bliss as he moved her gently on to her side, curling her into the warmth of him, holding her close, his arms and legs fitting with hers as he pulled the blankets over them. He pushed her hair from her face and kissed her forehead.

"I love you, Mary," Matthew whispered, his eyes closing in exhausted contentment. "I'm so glad you're here."

"We have all month together, darling. Day and night," Mary nodded, her tired limbs feeling delightfully heavy. "And I intend to create many more memories for us, so long as you don't set my teeth on edge."