Grantham House, St. James Square, London, England, June 1888
"Mrs. Levinson," the man nodded politely, motioning to a chair.
"Lord Grantham," Martha Levinson replied in kind. She took her seat, nodding to the butler as he assisted her. She glanced around the large room, rather ostentatious for a sitting room, but then her time here for the London Season had shown her that the English enjoyed showing off, in a stoic and reserved way at least.
"Did your daughter enjoy the theatre yesterday?" Arthur Crawley asked.
"She enjoyed it about as much as your son did, I expect," Martha replied carefully.
"Good," Arthur smiled. "Robert tells me he had a splendid time."
"How lucky for all of us that the two of them are getting along," Martha smirked.
"Yes, although I must tell you that Robert is not lacking in options," Arthur said plainly. "I recommended that he consider Lady Sheila Williams, but he told me he wanted to spend time with your Cora first. He's rather sentimental, my boy."
"Yes, I imagine that he is. Men seem to become quite sentimental around Cora; almost as much as their fathers become sentimental over her dowry," Martha said evenly.
Arthur Crawley barely flinched. "You Americans. So direct and to the point, aren't you?"
"We'd rather not waste time on meaningless conversation when both sides know what they want out of an arrangement," Martha retorted.
"Very well, Mrs. Levinson," Arthur nodded. "I am prepared to agree to the engagement of your daughter to my son, subject to certain conditions. She will, upon their marriage, be known as Viscountess Downton, and once my son inherits my title and becomes Earl of Grantham, your daughter shall be Countess of Grantham, Lady Grantham to her peers, and shall have charge of both this home here in London and our country estate, Downton Abbey in Yorkshire. The title alone should be sufficient for you to brag about to your friends in Rhode Island, and may even raise you a notch or two in New York, don't you think?"
Martha smiled and chuckled slightly. The Earl of Grantham was smarter than she thought.
"And I am prepared to agree to Cora accepting your son's proposal, and to bringing her share of my husband's money into the marriage to save your beloved Downton Abbey. No one will tell her of the true intentions for this marriage. I won't have her thinking she is a throw-in to our deal. She will believe at all times that your son cares for her and that her inheritance is but a side factor."
"Of course," Arthur nodded. "And rest assured, Mrs. Levinson. My son is many things, but he was raised as a gentleman. Cora will be treated with respect and cared for, as will all of their children. I will see to it personally."
"Then we have terms, Lord Grantham," Martha nodded.
"As much as I would enjoy holding you to that, I must first ask – I trust that Cora's virtue is above reproach?" Arthur inquired.
Martha Levinson frowned and pursed her lips.
"Lord Grantham, if we were in New York, I would be well within my rights to throw this glass of wine in your face and walk out on you for having the gall to ask me that," Martha said, her eyes narrowing.
"You're in London, Mrs. Levinson," Arthur smiled. "I would insist that you use water, rather than wine, and I wouldn't be a gentleman if I didn't have my butler escort you to the door afterward."
Martha smiled. She was beginning to like her daughter's future father-in-law.
"Cora is pure," Martha said, sipping her wine. "Though I would be very interested to see how you would even test such an assertion."
"Your word is sufficient," Arthur nodded. "If, however, we were to learn otherwise, the engagement will be void. If such information were to come to our attention after the marriage, that would constitute grounds for divorce, and your husband's money would be forfeit."
"You don't expect to be able to enforce such terms, do you?" Martha laughed.
"I promise you, Mrs. Levinson, the marriage contract I have drafted for Cora to sign is ironclad, as is the entail that specifies the Grantham line of succession and ties Downton Abbey to the title of Earl of Grantham. I take my family's future very seriously, Mrs. Levinson. I won't allow any fallen woman to occupy my mother's seat. So long as Cora remains untouched until her wedding night, we will have no problems."
"Given the state of your finances, Lord Grantham, I highly doubt that you are in a position to make such demands," Martha said suspiciously.
"You are entitled to your opinion, Mrs. Levinson," Arthur nodded. "I assure you that men far more clever than the both of us decided long ago the precise type of woman who would be allowed to be Countess of Grantham, and they were resolved enough in their principles to set out such requirements as part of the entail, so that no unfortunate misunderstandings would occur in future generations. I, like the Earls before me, am merely carrying out their instructions. The House of Grantham will endure, Mrs. Levinson. The only question is whether or not your daughter will be a part of it."
"Was your father this onerous with regard to your wife?" Martha asked.
"He was," Arthur said tightly. "You've met dear Violet, haven't you?"
"I have," Martha nodded. "She did not appear too impressed by Cora, or me."
"Then that puts you both in esteemed company, Mrs. Levinson," Arthur smiled. "She hasn't been impressed by me in decades."
The two of them laughed together and nodded in understanding, the tension lifting slightly.
"But," Arthur continued sincerely. "Violet did give me a son, which is all an Earl needs from his marriage, truly. Children are important, but sons are vital."
Martha raised her eyebrow at his comment.
"I'm becoming more convinced that my late husband would have very much enjoyed your company," she said drily, reaching for her wine once more.
Arthur Crawley, Sixth Earl of Grantham raised his hand. The butler brought him a large envelope. Arthur passed it across the table to Martha.
"Shall we meet again this Friday evening for an announcement dinner?" Arthur offered. "Cora can sign the contract before we eat."
"We will be here with bells on," Martha nodded.
The Croft, Fletcher Moss Gardens, Manchester, England, July 1913
"Sybil writes that Lord Grantham is rather preoccupied with you," Mary said as she followed Matthew to their traditional secluded picnic spot. The parasol she held was a shield against both the sun and any prying eyes that may observe them together. She watched her husband as he lightly swung the luncheon basket.
"I'm hardly worth getting worked up over," Matthew mumbled as he continued forward.
His mood whenever the subject of Downton was raised often shifted wildly. Sometimes he would bellow and gesticulate and argue for hours about what he thought was right. Other times, just as now, he would offer a few token words. His resolve was still firm, but he was tiring of the debate. They both were.
The subject of Downton had confounded both of them for weeks now. Though Mary was still officially against the idea of Matthew answering Lord Grantham's summons, they had still not resolved anything. Matthew had written back to the Earl, politely telling him that he was still in mourning for his father, and that he would reply to the Earl's request in September once it was appropriate to do so. He continued to research entails and estates law, but without the actual entail document in front of him, he could only speak in generalities, which he hated to do. Every case turned on its facts, he often said, and just because the law said one thing, that did not mean it applied in all situations. Matthew did not cope with uncertainty very well. He needed to be sure before he exposed himself to any risk.
For her part, Mary was not looking forward to the idea of her future dangling in the wind either. In Manchester she had certainty. She had a husband, a true family, and in several years time when London Society forgot her name and moved on to another scandal, she would have her freedom and could live with Matthew and be a proper wife to him. She would never be Countess of Grantham, but she would be something far more important – happy and loved.
But even she had to admit that Downton Abbey was infiltrating her life again. She had tried to forget the place, and those who lived there, besides Sybil anyway, and she had done an admirable job of doing so. But, ever since Lord Merton arrived on that fateful night to tell Dr. Crawley that he was the third cousin of Lord Grantham, long buried memories and feelings had come back to her. For months she felt rage and fury, sometimes reliving the horror of that night when Patrick came to her bedroom and the world changed. Only Matthew's soothing touch had kept her sane in her worst moments.
But lately she had been stung with something far worse – hope. It was in Matthew's bright eyes and eager voice, telling her he would stand with her, support her, fight for her. Fight for her. No man had ever done that before. Even Dr. Crawley had simply given a directive to reassign her from Cassandra to Isobel's supervision at the hospital. Knowing all that stood before them, Matthew was undaunted, almost foolishly so, and Mary was unable to resist beginning to believe in her husband.
Her rational mind screamed at her. The entail could not be defeated. It was impossible. If there was a way to get around it, why had her Papa never found it? Why had her Mama and her Granny not fought her corner more vigorously if the entail could be beaten? Why had she been sent away at James and Patrick's order if the very thing that gave them power over her and her family could be destroyed?
Matthew placed the basket on the grass and spread out the large blanket at the foot of the gingko tree. Mary stood off to the side, observing him as he set up the plates of food. She shook her head and smiled at her husband.
The hard truth was that Mary didn't know for sure. She couldn't know just how impregnable the entail was because no one had ever tried to challenge it. Her Papa believed it was so because his father and his grandfather before him had told him to. Murray, the family solicitor, had agreed because he was paid to do so. Her Mama agreed with her Papa even though she didn't understand any of it. And Granny wouldn't oppose her own son on this issue, no matter how much she may want to. She had never opposed her husband or his father. She was wise enough to know she could not fight them alone. Though she was Lady Grantham, the Dowager Countess, she had no actual power or status with which to fight.
But Matthew believed. God help them, but Matthew believed. He would find a way, he said. He would do it for her, he promised. After years of being pushed aside, ignored, told to mind her place, Mary now had a champion, a man willing to stand up and at least try, try to help her. If she couldn't accept his attempt, wasn't she just as bad as her family? Wasn't she, like her Mama before her, admitting defeat without a fight?
But what could he do, truly? A middle class lawyer from Manchester against the Earl of Grantham, his minions and all the history of Downton Abbey? What chance did they really have?
"Mary, come here," Matthew smiled, reaching his hand out to her. "I have lemonade."
Mary smiled and went over and sat down on the blanket beside him.
Downton Village Church, Downton Village, Yorkshire, England, May 1890
"Try and at least look like you are glad for our son, my dear," Arthur smiled, waving politely to the villagers lining the street. The carriage jostled slightly on the dirt road. Lord Grantham did not know if his wife's grunt was from the road conditions or her own pique.
"Glad is such a strong term," Violet Crawley replied. "Although I can most assuredly say that I am not glad for you that you've apparently pulled off this scheme."
"Violet, please," Arthur sighed. "As much as you are loathe to admit it, the Levinsons have saved us. You don't need to like them. I know I don't."
"No, you just like their money," Violet said, smiling for the first time all day.
"Once again, I've found a solution to our problems that ensures the continued prestige of our House and your future, I might add. I gave up on receiving your gratitude years ago, but your cooperation I still expect," Arthur said brusquely.
"I cooperated with you when you decided to sell Rosamund to Marmaduke Painswick," Violet spat, not looking at him. "Now you've mortgaged your son's happiness to buy your way out of insolvency, Arthur. And to an American of all people! I hardly see how I should support that."
"Your son is not in any position to feel entitled to anything, let alone happiness," Arthur bit back. "You may have conveniently forgotten his incident in London, but I have not."
"He was an adolescent, Arthur," Violet rolled her eyes. "And it was just as much James' fault as his."
"James is no better than he is," Arthur frowned. "But if you expect me to believe that James was somehow the true criminal and Robert merely his unwitting accomplice, then you underestimate me again, my dear."
"What does it matter who is to blame?" Violet sighed tiredly. "You've fixed it so they won't be rid of each other anytime soon."
"And so they shouldn't be," Arthur said firmly as the carriage came to a halt. "On their own, each of them would plunge our House into ruin. I've made it so they must share power, at least for the short term, and now that we have the Levinson money, Downton may survive long enough for a proper Earl to come forward."
"Requiring that Robert and James work together for the sake of Downton is a dangerous game, Arthur," Violet frowned. "If one of them is to someday be the Earl, then that man must be given the freedom to rise and fall on his own merit."
"Why, Violet," Arthur smiled ruthlessly. "You're a romantic!"
Violet huffed bitterly and turned back to the window. "I shall forget that you called me that."
"Robert will be the Earl, Violet," Arthur said firmly. "But despite all of my guidance, he has still strayed off of the path that I have set for him. He needs direction, guidance, and requiring that he work with his heir will ensure he never has the opportunity to act recklessly with the fate of our House."
"If you truly believe that the current Earl should work side-by-side with his heir, then why don't you allow Robert some decision making power now?" Violet asked pointedly, raising her eyebrow at her husband.
"He isn't ready for the responsibility," Arthur retorted dismissively. "No, my changes to the entail shall take effect upon my death, and not a moment sooner."
"How convenient," Violet growled.
"What is, my dear wife?" Arthur asked coldly. "The amendment to the entail, or the prospect of my death? I suppose both could be seen as being a boon for you?"
Violet frowned and looked away again, guilt and annoyance fighting to a stalemate inside of her.
The door to the carriage was opened and the loud cheers of the villagers standing outside the Church filtered in.
"Smile, my dear," Arthur whispered. "Show the villagers how happy you are about the bright future that awaits all of us."
The Croft, Fletcher Moss Gardens, Manchester, England, July 1913
"Sybil reported that Lord Grantham was particularly vexed by your letter because he expected you to accept his offer and go running to Downton Abbey immediately," Mary said, placing the last used plate into the picnic basket.
"Mary, you can call him your father, you know. I'm not so upset that I can't hear that word," Matthew said.
Mary smiled at him. It was Matthew's birthday, which meant it was also his father's birthday, and he had been pensive since this morning.
"I suppose I can do that," Mary nodded. "Calling him Papa does not necessarily imply that he was a particularly good one."
Matthew smiled sadly in acknowledgment.
"I don't see what is so vexing. He sent for me and I told him that I needed to deal with matters here first, namely the mourning of my father," Matthew said.
"Well, my father is never pleased with anything; I've told you as much. Apparently he already told the family that you would be arriving in September. He doesn't cope well with not knowing precisely what's to happen in the future, and not being in control of it."
"The future," Matthew scoffed, looking out across the park. "None of us can know that."
Mary looked at him sadly. How right he was. At various times in the past years, she thought her future was set for her, and now she was again uncertain.
"Anyway, I think that you should write to him in several weeks' time and give him your decision," Mary said lightly, trying to draw his thoughts back to the present.
Matthew turned to her and appraised her cautiously.
"My decision will depend on what my wife says about the matter," he stated. "I won't go without her."
"You don't have a wife," Mary said, arching her eyebrow. "At least as far as anyone in Yorkshire knows."
Matthew exhaled and looked back across the park.
"I could command you to go, you know," Matthew said quietly, not looking at her. "You vowed to obey me."
"You could, yes," Mary said. "But would you?"
Matthew turned to her, his expression soft and concerned. "Of course not."
Mary looked down at her lap, her skirt fanned out over her legs.
"Why are you so good to me?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.
"What?" Matthew asked, frowning.
Mary lifted her eyes and looked at him, her brow creased in question.
"Why have you agreed to everything I've asked of you? Accepting my scandal, agreeing to keep our relationship a secret, marrying me despite all the reasons why you shouldn't have, living apart at my request. Is it all simply because you love me?" she asked.
"Yes," Matthew nodded, smiling at her. "Precisely."
"And you don't think I'm damaged goods, even though all of Society thinks so," Mary said.
"You know that I don't," Matthew said firmly.
"And there is your first problem if you are to truly go to Downton Abbey and take up your position," Mary said. "It doesn't matter what you think, Matthew. All that matters is what opinion will gain you the most benefit and advantage. Society says that I'm a slut, and if you are to be the heir to the Earl of Grantham, then you must say it as well."
Matthew cringed. "No," he said firmly. "I won't."
"Then you'll never succeed," Mary said coldly. "You'll never gain their confidence, their trust. You'll never convince them that you're one of them, and without that, you'll never accomplish what you intend to do."
Matthew sighed. He turned away bitterly, then slowly looked back at her.
"If this is ever to have any chance of working, you must become one of them, Matthew. You must be a proper gentleman, and follow all of the rules of Society. They must see you as the Earl-in-waiting, a man who can be told everything. Do you see what you are asking of me now? Going to Downton Abbey isn't simply taking a trip to Yorkshire, my darling. No, it's putting on an act, for as long as it takes."
"What about you?" Matthew asked quietly.
Mary laughed sourly. "Me? I'll go back to being cold and careful. I'll hate you, oppose you at every turn, argue with you just to try and get a rise out of you. You represent everything that was taken from me, Matthew, everything that I lost. I'll despise you, and remind you of that fact every day."
"Mary," Matthew rolled his eyes and looked skyward.
"I'm the enemy, Matthew," Mary said firmly. "I was cast out, and I'll be returning against their wishes. You'll have to hate me just as much as they do."
"I disagree," Matthew shot back. "If the entail says what you say it does, then that's not true. As the heir, I have a certain amount of authority, and if I choose not to hate you, no one can force me to. I may not be allowed to tell them that you're my wife, but I don't have to hate you."
Mary swallowed at his response. She had never seen him argue in front of a judge, or give directions to the other lawyers in his office, but when roused, she expected that few men would want to oppose Matthew.
"But you can't choose to love me. Not there," Mary said softly.
Matthew's face fell. "Mary."
"You won't be able to kiss me," she whispered, staring him in the eyes and leaning towards him.
"You won't be able to touch me. You won't be able to strip me naked the way that you love to. You won't be able to take me, either in the middle of the day or in the still of the night. All of your desire, Matthew, all of your passion, you'll have to keep it buried. You'll have to pass each day, knowing what it feels like to make love to me, and never be able to act upon it."
Matthew groaned in protest. His eyes lingered on her lips, so close to him. He breathed to calm himself, then stared back at her eyes.
"Never is a strong word, Mary," he replied, and her breath caught as his eyes darkened. "If I were to find you alone, away from the servants and your family, would you still refuse me?"
Mary swallowed, her lips curling into a smile that she immediately tried to stifle. "Well, you are the heir, and will be the head of our family one day. It is my duty to obey your command."
Matthew felt arousal course through him and he kissed her quickly, drawing back before he lost himself in her. He calmly reached for her hand, and her eyes followed his movements. He held her open palm in his, the fingers of his other hand coming over top and caressing her wedding band.
Mary's eyes went wide at the gesture, the tears welling inside of her.
"There will be many sacrifices, for both of us," he said slowly. "But I made vows to you, Mary, and a promise to my father, and I am prepared to endure months of misery if it means a lifetime of happiness with you."
Mary closed her eyes, his words ringing in her ears.
"What if you're wrong, Matthew? What if you fail?" she asked, her eyes still closed.
"Then we'll return here, content that we made every effort to put things to the good. But, Mary, what if I'm right?" Matthew replied.
Mary gasped, the visions flooding her mind, her resistance ebbing away, unable to stop the burgeoning dreams she had tried to deny.
She and Matthew riding through the fields, laughing, chasing foxes and racing each other.
She standing by Matthew during the Shoot, smiling as he raised his gun and tracked a bird through the air.
She and Matthew touring the tenant farms together; she holding on to his arm as they discussed grain costs and livestock prices.
She and Matthew sitting beside each other at dinner, laughing with Sybil and Edith, and Isobel and her Granny, while Carson and the footmen served them a delectable meal.
She and Matthew dancing together during the Servants' Ball, twirling around under the vaulted ceilings of the Great Hall.
She and Matthew making love in her bedroom at Downton Abbey, creating new memories and banishing the old ones forever.
She and Matthew taking their seats in a private box at Wimbledon during the Season, being announced as Lord and Lady Grantham.
Mary opened her eyes.
"If we are to do this together, Matthew, then I have much to teach you," she declared.
Matthew grinned. "I am yours, Mary."
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, September 1913
Robert wandered down the vast hall. Portraits of the previous Earls of Grantham stared down at him. He paused before one particular ancestor and sighed to himself. Robert had heard the stories countless times. The First Earl established the Earldom in the 18th century. Robert looked about the gallery of paintings. None of the other Earls were as grandiose as the First, none could compete, not even his father; though he had tried. Robert took a step backwards, his hands clasped together behind his back. He analyzed the picture of the First Earl and the lessons of his boyhood came back easily. His father had often made him and James stare at this work of art as if by looking upon the stern unblinking gaze, they would each somehow inherit his qualities.
"Learn who he was, and you'll learn who you should be," his father had said cryptically.
James, who was never inclined to listen, had spent the time making jokes and criticizing their ancestor, especially the glaring infirmity of having lost his right arm in combat. In the portrait, nothing was hidden, and in fact the Earl puffed out his chest and displayed his missing limb proudly, it was the focal point; despite the gleaming awards and medals adorning his chest. The Earl was seated in a plush red chair wearing the military uniform from his exploits as an Admiral in His Majesty's Navy. Due to his many heroic exploits, the Earl had rarely lived on English soil or at his estate. He had preferred always to be at sea, commanding his naval army rather than be with his wife and children. His portrait, therefore, was domineering to remind everyone he was still looming over them, still the Lord of the manor, still impacting their lives from afar.
Robert was groomed from birth to take up his father's title. He was drilled in the family history and how it all mattered. Tradition. History. Legacy. They were not the clichés that James thought they were in their childhood. They stood for something.
When Robert married Cora, sons were expected of them. The title and estate would pass on through Robert's line and James would never inherit. When Patrick was born, James received praise, but the child was seen more as a signal that Robert, the true heir, would soon have a son of his own.
When Mary was born, everyone welcomed her. There would be more children, and so, while James was smug that he alone had produced a male child to that point, even he knew that the moment Cora produced a son, the future of the Earldom and of Downton would be secure.
Then Edith was born soon after, and Sybil after her. With the birth of the Earl's third daughter, James' attitude changed. Suddenly, Patrick was no longer just a boy or a cousin. He was the only male descendent of the Grantham line in his generation. Though James was younger than Robert, there was a small chance that the Earl would outlive his cousin. But the likelihood that Cora would have another child, let alone a son after three daughters, was small. James began devouring the family history, spending hours in the library at Downton Abbey. He had to catch up on all that he had ignored during his youth. Fate had decided that now he and Patrick would wield the balance of power in the family, and he relished the idea.
Robert sighed as he came to his father's portrait. Even the Sixth Earl, known for his foresight and his meticulous nature, could never have predicted what had come to pass. Both of Robert's heirs had been snatched away from him. It was nearly a year and a half since the Titanic disaster. Surely if James and Patrick had survived, there would have been word by now? The reality was Robert had lost his heirs, and he needed to act.
So once again he did what he had to do to carry on his duty and honour his ancestors. He found another heir, and when tragedy had struck Dr. Reginald Crawley, Robert reached out to his son, Matthew. The new heir, the last living heir presumptive, a mere solicitor from Manchester, would finally be arriving in the coming weeks. Lord Merton had warned Robert that this Matthew Crawley was wilful, stubborn, an independent thinker, and never did anything without careful consideration. Robert thought such a description amusing. No one could be as troublesome as James had been. Matthew would be a breath of fresh air, and Robert would ensure he was handled properly.
In his weaker moments, Robert still believed that somehow Patrick would return. After all, his cousin's son was younger and stronger than his father had been. Robert couldn't say that he approved of Patrick, but it didn't matter what he thought; the man would have married Mary and ensured the Grantham line remained pure. But that plan, like so many others, had been wasted by his eldest daughter's foolishness. Robert exhaled his peeved breath of exasperation. It was almost as though Mary was James's daughter for all of her deception and scandal and refusal to listen. She had a dangerous spark in her, a penchant for rebellion that was cute in her childhood but had become a glaring flaw as she grew into a young lady.
If Robert had his way, Mary would be living with his mother-in-law in America, never to be seen again. But Lord Merton had intervened, with some prodding by the Dowager Countess. How could Robert trust Lord Merton's assessment of his heir if the man was ignorant enough to give Mary a haven in England? No, Robert would not make the same mistake he had done with James and Patrick. He would take Matthew under his wing right from the off, and ensure he was controlled from his arrival.
"I thought I would find you here," Cora said, startling him out of his reverie.
Robert turned his gaze away from the painting and towards his wife. She looked pensive, and as he appraised her, he noticed she was holding an opened letter in her hand.
"And here I am," Robert answered, rather annoyed at the interruption. "You have something to tell me?" he asked impatiently.
"Yes," Cora continued. She took a tentative step closer, "Mary has written." She held up the letter and simply let the words hang in the air between them.
"She would dare? That is rather presumptuous of her. What could she possibly have to say that we would have any interest in?" Robert demanded angrily. After all this time, she wrote to them? Her exile had obviously taught her nothing. She was still speaking out of turn.
"She writes that she is coming back," Cora said cautiously, "She says that now that James and Patrick have been declared dead and their mourning period is over, and there is a new heir, there is no reason for her to remain away, or to remain banished, as she puts it."
Robert's already rigid posture tensed. He knew he should have censored Sybil from writing to Mary. Cora had told him it was harmless. His wife had failed him yet again.
"Out of the question," he said firmly. "She can't return when she has been offered no reconciliation. The door was closed to her when she left. Mary can be such a child sometimes, assuming that all will be forgiven with the passage of time."
Cora looked at the portrait of the Sixth Earl, the man who had made her sign her marriage contract, binding her father's money to Downton, and in turn to the Earldom. She sighed with sad resignation.
"What should I tell her?"
Robert unlaced his joined hands behind his back.
"My dear," he said coldly. "You'll tell her nothing. You'll also tell Sybil that she is forbidden from writing to Mary any further."
Cora nodded sadly. As much as she wanted to fight for her daughter, the world they lived in made no concessions available at the moment. Perhaps in the future, but currently, there was no salvation for Mary from her scandal. Cora had made discreet inquiries in London over the past Seasons, and the rumours of Mary and the Turk still lingered. They had ebbed slightly, but if Mary were to return, they would be revived, as fresh as the day they were first spoken. It made her heartsick, but she knew it was fruitless to fight Robert on this. She clutched the letter in her hands, her daughter's familiar handwriting had made her smile in the privacy of her bedroom.
"If she receives no answer, she'll know she is not invited. Downton Abbey is not her home, nor is it a place she can return to at her choosing. Mary needs to learn that there are consequences for her vulgar actions, and in this case, exile is the consequence. She should be grateful that I have allowed her to remain in England."
Cora opened her mouth to speak, but Robert took her hand and squeezed it gently.
"You know that I'm right," he said softly. "We must put the family's honour first, not just for Downton but for the sake of our other daughters. These are delicate times with the new heir coming. I can't have Mary here, arguing with him and with me day and night, to say nothing of whether she might create another scandal. No, she can't distract me asking for compassion. I must remain firm, and she must remain away."
Robert took his wife's silence as agreement. He pecked her on the cheek and released her hand, walking away without further comment on the subject.
Cora watched him go, his shoulders set and his back rigid. All this time and Robert still did not understand their eldest daughter. Mary had not asked for his compassion, nor his permission to come back. Her letter was clear, a signal to her family – she was coming, and she did not give a fig what anyone thought about it.
Home of Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, September 1913
"Dessert fork," Mary announced.
Matthew reached for the fork sitting above his plate.
"No," Mary shook her head. "With your left hand."
Matthew sighed in exasperation and began again.
"And when you're finished?" Mary asked.
Matthew placed his fork down on his plate.
"No," Mary shook head.
Matthew frowned, then shook his head in frustration. He reached over and turned his fork prong side down.
"Better. At least you know the answer. You just don't know it right away," Mary smiled.
"I can't believe that I'm a grown man and, according to some people, I barely know the proper fork to use at dinner," Matthew rolled his eyes.
"If you think that's strange, imagine my shock that I've married such a man," Mary laughed, coming over and massaging his shoulders.
"Can we take a break, please?" he muttered. "My etiquette and my ego have taken a sufficient bruising for now."
"And what did you have in mind to pass the time?" Mary asked.
"Sadly, nothing so bold," Matthew said, rising from his chair and kissing her lightly. "Davis said the papers for the sale of the house arrived. I just need to review them and sign them."
They walked from the table to the desk. Matthew moved some boxes aside to clear space, then grabbed the envelope that Davis had brought to the library earlier.
"I'm so sorry that you're selling your house," Mary shook her head. "I was truly looking forward to living there."
"Our house," Matthew nodded. "I was looking forward to seeing you run the place. It would have been a sanctuary for friends and family, the venue for Manchester's most talked about parties."
Mary smiled kindly.
"Anyway, we don't need it, so it makes no sense to hang on to it. Even if we were ever to return here, this house is big enough for all of us," Matthew said.
Mary smiled amusedly.
"What?" Matthew smiled.
"Oh, it's nothing, darling," Mary chuckled. "I just wonder if you and your mother are truly ready for what you will encounter at Downton."
"Hardly," Matthew smiled. "What do you mean?"
"Well, please do not misunderstand me. Your parents' home is lovely. I've never felt more welcome in any house. But Downton Abbey is…bigger."
"It's a country estate, I know," Matthew said.
"No, Matthew," Mary grinned despite herself. "It's much bigger than you can imagine, I expect."
"How so?" Matthew furrowed his brow. "You know how vivid my imagination can be."
"When it comes to me, yes," Mary blushed. "But I doubt you have ever imagined a place like Downton."
"Oh come on, Mary," Matthew rolled his eyes. "Just because we're from Manchester doesn't mean we live in wigwams. How big could it be, truly? How many rooms are there? 50?"
Mary smiled to herself. "80."
"80?" Matthew said, his eyes widening in surprise. "Well, I suppose when you add servants' quarters and kitchens and so forth, that can add up."
"No, darling, not 80 rooms. 80 bedrooms," Mary smiled.
"80 bedrooms?" Matthew exclaimed. "But then, how many rooms are there?"
"No one knows for sure. There have been so many renovations over the centuries. The family doesn't use the entire house, of course. But the actual number is at least 200, but may be closer to 300," Mary said.
"You can't be serious," Matthew shook his head.
"Oh, but I am," Mary chuckled.
"Then why would your father be opposed to me living at Downton Abbey instead of Crawley House? He could go weeks without even knowing I was there," Matthew asked.
"It's a display of power, Matthew," Mary shook her head. "He wants to show you that you're to do what he says, and live where he tells you to live. He was expecting that you would simply agree without question. But the idea makes no sense at all. Crawley House will suit your mother, but not a future Earl. I imagine that your last letter where you told him you would be moving into Downton Abbey while Isobel used Crawley House amused everyone, except for Papa."
"Well, if he only knew that I had my very own ghost writer; the real voice behind the letters," Matthew smiled.
"I only made some suggestions," Mary said, her tone feigning that of a haughty and defensive woman; "You are your own man."
"And what about your letters? How were they received?" Matthew asked.
"Mama hasn't written back, probably on instructions from Papa," Mary sighed. "I'm clearly not welcome."
Matthew hummed sympathetically. Even though Mary constantly said she didn't care about what her family thought of her, the truth was that a part of her still did.
"But," Mary said, her voice stronger. "Mama doesn't know that I also wrote to Granny. She sent a short note just this week. She will support my return, and she even hinted that she believed it was time to smash the entail."
"If only they knew that the heir presumptive will also vote in favour of you coming back," Matthew smiled.
"Well don't expect that voting on my side will endear you to me, Matthew," Mary teased. "When I arrive, we shall still be at odds, you know."
"Not behind closed doors, we won't be," Matthew shot back. Mary was pleased with his reaction. His melancholy and despair had lightened considerably since his birthday, and he was acting and sounding more like himself.
"Your Granny wouldn't have been spurred into action by the outrage of a certain nobody from Manchester asserting a claim to the Earldom, would she?" Matthew asked pointedly.
"Granny is entirely pragmatic," Mary said with a smile. "She couldn't do anything to save me from James and Patrick, but she wants to try and fight my corner against the usurper from the north."
"Well, if it's a barbarian that you want," Matthew said playfully.
"Matthew!" Mary hissed, glancing over to the open door.
"Mother is still at work, darling," Matthew said confidently. "And Davis knows very well to stay away when we're alone together in the house."
"Control yourself!" Mary scolded him, though her grin showed her true feelings. "We're staying over at the hotel next week. You'll have free reign over me then, not a moment sooner."
"Tormentor," Matthew growled, leering at her. "You're enjoying this!"
He got up from his chair, accidently knocking a book over as he rose. He rolled his eyes and retrieved it from the floor.
Mary laughed. "Now that, I did enjoy."
Matthew chuckled. "I'll have you know that you gave me this book," he said ruefully.
"Ah, Goethe," she smiled.
Matthew opened the book to the page marked with a ribbon and showed it to her.
"Ginkgo Biloba," Matthew read aloud.
"Two which have decided that they should be as one," Mary recited. "You know, I got the idea from this very library. "It was placed on the shelf next to some of your favourites, and so it stood out."
"This one is a much better edition. That one's worn out," Matthew smiled, glancing over at the shelf where his father's copy sat. "Although I think I liked your other gift better. Each of us keeping a gingko leaf as we go to Downton."
Mary smiled in acknowledgment. "It's as though we have a hidden secret that no one else knows about."
"We seem to have several," Matthew smiled, giving her a chaste kiss.
When he pulled back, Mary ran her hand across his shoulder. "Well, shall we continue?"
"Excuse me, sir," Davis called from the door.
"Yes, Davis?" Matthew asked, turning around as Mary discreetly stepped away from him to a respectful distance.
"Your…package has arrived, sir," Davis said.
Matthew's eyes lit up. "Has it been assembled, Davis?"
"Yes, sir. It's waiting for you behind the house."
"Thank you, Davis," Matthew nodded.
He turned to Mary and offered her his arm.
"Matthew?" she frowned in confusion. "What is this?"
"I have a lesson of my own now, Mary," he smiled.
She took his arm and followed him out the library and through the house. Mary grew more curious as they reached the back door. Guiding her out to the porch, Matthew took her through the gate and into the private lane that ran behind the house.
"Well," he said as they came to a stop just beside the house. "What do you think?"
She stared at the contraption that was perched against the fence. She was at a loss for words for one of the rare times in her life.
"Brand new 1913 Model No. 2 Lady's Special Premier," Matthew said, casting his arm in the direction of the new bicycle.
"All right," Mary said softly. "And what is it doing here?"
Matthew chuckled, "I'm going to even the score," he said mischievously.
"I'm not sure I want to know what you mean about that," Mary said as he leaned over and pecked her affectionately on the cheek.
"You are teaching me things that I need to know for our coming venture. But, I desire to teach you something too."
Mary rolled her eyes at his beaming grin but did not resist when he put his arms around her waist and pulled her to him.
"Do you like the bicycle?" He asked eagerly.
"It is the nicest bicycle anyone has ever given me," Mary stated frankly, rolling her eyes.
"Don't worry about anything," Matthew said, "My father taught me it is all about momentum, and that my dear you have in spades."
Mary never imagined having to learn to ride a bicycle, or any scenario where she would actually use such a skill. However, Matthew was right in that today and the days ahead were all about learning new lessons, and so she decided to move forward with her husband in this curious task.
"I think that mastering your riding skills on a horse would be more productive," she teased as he brought the bicycle over and held it steady in front of her.
"Forget Downton for a moment, darling," Matthew smiled. "Let's just have some fun."
The Midland Hotel, Pearl Suite, Manchester, England, September 1913
"Have you shared the news of your coming liberation with Lady Philomena and Lord Merton?" Matthew smiled, watching Mary rub cream into her hands.
"Of course not," Mary huffed, rising from the vanity and coming over to him, a playful look on her face. "I don't think I've said two words to that woman in the past three months or longer. As for Lord Merton, telling him anything is as good as telling Papa directly, and I wouldn't want that."
Matthew chuckled as she came to bed and kissed him softly.
"I'll pack my things and leave when she's out at one of her appointments. With any luck, I'll be in Yorkshire before Lord Merton is alerted I'm gone," Mary smiled.
"Well, you have become rather adept at slipping in and out of homes, darling," Matthew laughed.
"All for your benefit, thank you," Mary rolled her eyes. "Do not make me sound like a vagabond or a squatter, Matthew."
"Are you looking forward to being back in your home?" he asked, pulling her close to him.
"I'm looking forward to all sort of things," she quirked her eyebrow, then kissed him again, her tongue meeting his playfully. She slapped at his hands as they moved towards her breasts.
"Patience, darling," she drawled. "This is our last evening here. I want to enjoy it."
"I thought that was my intention," Matthew said.
"Matthew," she scolded him lightly. "What I meant was this will be our last night together for some time, our last evening as proper husband and wife."
Matthew's head dropped.
"I know," he admitted. "I still don't understand it, but I know."
"I already told you. You can blame my grandfather, or perhaps his grandfather," Mary sighed, running her hand up and down his bare arm. "They shared the same archaic view of women and the same paranoia – a dangerous mix."
"I'll need to see this damn document for myself the moment I arrive," Matthew said fiercely. "To have the gall to play with people's lives like that…I understand why your grandfather had your mama agree to bind her money to the Estate. As unfair as that is, it would ensure the survival of the Earldom. The other things though, it's reprehensible." Matthew shook his head.
"Well you can thank Grandpapa for one thing," Mary smiled. "Papa will be forced to work hand-in-hand with you, just as he did with Cousin James to my detriment. And that shall be the weapon that you can use against him."
"Ironic, isn't it?" Matthew smiled, leaning over and kissing her neck. "That the instrument used against you will now be wielded to resurrect you?"
"It would be poetic if not for the other thing," Mary sighed, patting her husband's back to calm his passion momentarily.
Matthew felt his heartbeat increase as he felt violent rage. The law was supposed to help people. That was at least what he had always believed about his occupation as a solicitor. But, he had been wrong; he had been living in a dream. When manipulated, the law could be damaging and hurtful apparently, or so the Earls of Grantham had thought anyway.
"So," Matthew spat incredulously, "Your grandfather did not care if the heir to the Earl of Grantham slept with as many whores and strumpets as he could find, but the moment that marriage was contemplated, his bride had to be a pure virgin?"
"Of course," Mary replied. "Men are allowed such indulgences without consequence, even after they marry. Grandfather knew as well as anyone that marriage is a long business for our sort of people. To have the Countess of Grantham exposed as a fallen woman, or to have her escapades and scandals revealed would be a blight on the family reputation. So, he made sure that would not happen without severe consequences."
"I still don't see why I can't just refuse to abide by it?" Matthew demanded. "Why can't I just march into Downton Abbey and declare you as my wife? I'll tell your Papa proudly that I'm setting a new standard, beginning a new era."
"No," Mary said gently. "You," she paused, "We," she said confidently, "would ruin everything. You can't ignore the terms of the entail, Matthew, and you can't unilaterally change it at your own whim. Papa would force you to divorce me, and they'd send me away again. We'd be right back here, which would defeat the entire purpose of going back to Downton in the first place," Mary said, looking into his eyes. "I'm still not entirely sure about your plan, but we shouldn't do anything to cripple ourselves before it even begins."
"Mary, I don't care about any of that," Matthew said, gently tugging her face back towards his. "You're not a harlot. What some old booby in London says about what you've done means nothing to me."
"I know," Mary smiled bravely. "But even you can't erase what happened that night. You'll see. Papa, Mama, even Edith. Every time they look at me, they'll see a slut who took a Turk of all people as a lover."
"But you didn't!" Matthew roared. "It was Patrick that…"
"Shh," Mary hissed. "I don't want to hear his name. Please, Matthew. I agreed to your plan because I love you. I decided to go back to Downton because you asked me to. The only way that any of this has a chance of working is if you follow my advice. You know why I never had our wedding announced or published. I would have screamed it from the rooftops if I could have, but my reputation would have stained you. Clients and your partners would have abandoned you. Now that you're in line to be the next Earl of Grantham, what people think of me is even more dangerous for you. They would make things impossible for you if it was known that you're my husband."
"But, I am your husband!" Matthew almost shouted. "I agreed to keep our marriage private because I don't need an announcement in the papers or even a license to tell me that you're my wife. But when we go to Downton, Mary, when I see the way they'll treat you, how can I hold back? I'm a terrible liar as you've told me countless times."
"You'll have to try, for me," Mary smiled. "It's the only way."
"I love you, Mary," Matthew said desperately. "I didn't think it was possible to love the way that I love you. I'll do what you ask. But when I destroy that damn entail, I will not be restrained for one more second."
"When you destroy the entail," Mary smiled, moving closer to him. "I'll be so happy that you can carry me upstairs naked, regardless of whether Papa minds or not."
"Be careful, I may try it," Matthew arched his eyebrows.
He leaned forward and kissed her softly.
She smiled against his lips and fell back on to the bed, bringing him with her. His hand moved across her shoulder and pulled the strap of her nightgown down her arm, his lips caressing her skin as it was revealed to him.
"Matthew," Mary gasped in pleasure. "This won't be our last night together, but what if it was?"
Matthew raised his head from her breast and looked at her in alarm. Her eyes were bright; her lips curled in a mischievous smirk.
"Don't play with me," Matthew said thickly. "I don't deserve it. Not from you."
"What if tonight was the last time you could touch me like this?" Mary continued, her body warming in anticipation as she watched his face darken with lust at hearing her scandalous words.
"What if tonight was the last time you could ever be inside of me, Matthew?" she hissed wickedly.
Mary gasped as Matthew pulled at her nightgown; the thin garment falling down her arms and chest and pooling at her hips. Her husband's bare chest covered hers; his skin warm against her breasts, his length pressing insistently along her thigh.
"Then I would make it impossible for you to erase this moment from your memory, Mary," Matthew growled before he captured her mouth and hooked her leg across his hip.