To my wonderful readers:

I understand there's quite some explaining I have to do pertaining to the delay in updating the Advent. I have a few reasons for this: I realized early on that this was a fairly big project to tackle, and with many real-world problems I had to deal with, time for writing and updating was scarce. I promised that I'd finish most of it at the end of December, after Christmas. However, as soon as Christmas was over, I began to show signs of exhaustion mixed with illness. I wasn't in any state to work on writing, although I won't describe the wretched details. It was incredibly upsetting for me to put off writing, but recently I've improved, and as you can see, I'm back to work.

I know a lot of people were concerned that I wasn't updating, but I'm not abandoning this fic: it's been well received so far, and I hope it continues to the very end. That being said, forthcoming updates had no set date, and it may be a few days until the next one. But I would be delighted for readers to resume reading, despite the holidays being long over.

To those who are sticking with this fic to the very end, thank you to all of your support. Reviews are very much appreciated.

December 21: The Many Emotions of Mary

Paring: Mary/Matthew

Rating: T for lots of angst and brief strong language.

The snows came down heavy overnight, replacing the former grey snow with heavy piles of white ice that would definitely not melt for days. To Mary, it resembled Downton most winters, save for the skyscrapers and yellow taxicabs that stood out behind a film of misty white. Few were the hours that the snow did not fall, and after these brief periods it often came down harder than before. As a result, a warning had been issued to stay off of the streets when visibility was low (which was frequently the case) and most flights departing from New York were either delayed or altogether canceled. This included the flight that Matthew had planned to take to go home, but there did not seem much hope, even as he made calls to the airport about taking one in the morning tomorrow.

"Any luck?" Mary asked, her brow furrowed with sincere worry. If Matthew were not to get home before Christmas … obviously he would be stuck with her for the holiday. He had been staying at Grandmama's for about a week, and though Mary had relished in the time they had spent with each other, she knew how anxious he was to get back home.

"No, not yet," Matthew replied, sounding much like a downtrodden soldier. "The planes aren't leaving New York because of the snow."

"Good God," Mary marveled aloud. "Is is truly that bad?"

"There's a probability that the snow will just keep coming," explained Matthew. He sat down, appearing in the midst of defeat. "Somehow, I had a feeling about this happening, but then … I did not believe that it would come to pass."

"When do they think it will be safe for the planes to leave?" asked Mary.

Matthew's face grew long again. "It's estimated that the weather won't permit safe air travel until the day after Christmas."

Mary stifled a gasp. "That's awful! Your mother is going to be so disappointed. And everybody else, as well."

"I forgot to add that there's probably some issue with the snow in England as well," Matthew went further. "London might not be a problem, but the airport near Downton is also closed down. Your mother told me that the runway at Leeds Bradford has a coating of ice a few millimetres thick."

"And that's enough to keep you from going home?"

Matthew nodded his head. "Even if I were to leave New York, I'd be stuck in London," he explained.

Mary felt helpless, even though she herself could do nothing, no matter how much wished.

"It's bizarre, isn't it?" Mary said, sitting down next to him, more to ease herself than to comfort him.

"What's bizarre?" he repeated, turning his head toward her.

"You had to come early to avoid the snow in England, and now you're stuck here for the same reason," explained Mary. "You must have upset some winter god or someone."

For once on that dismal day, Matthew cracked a small smile. "Fate likes playing around with our plans," he said enigmatically.

"Nothing is ever as easy as it seems," Mary said. "Oh God, I sound like Granny."

"You do, actually," Matthew said. "Didn't she say that to you when you announced you were leaving Downton?"

Mary nodded, remembering Granny's words like the back her hand. "She did. She wasn't enthusiastic about me leaving, especially after what – what Richard Carlisle threatened to do. She said I wasn't much better than a rabbit hiding in the bushes while the dog sniffs for it, whatever that means."

Matthew looked perplexed at that metaphor. "I don't think that was very fair of old Violet. You did what you had to do."

Mary turned to Matthew, with every inch of her being surrounded by seriousness, yet trying to maintain a calm, nonchalant expression. "I have to ask — has Carlisle released anything yet, about me? Have you heard anything at all?"

Matthew seemingly, like Mary, had dreaded and anticipated this discussion, and his palms seemed cold as he held onto Mary's hand. Mary waited, through languorous silence, with bated breath.

"I'll cut to the chase — Carlisle hasn't published a single paper containing your name," Matthew started. "He hasn't even harassed your family, or blackmailed anymore. The last we heard of him was just after you left."

Despite Matthew's report, Mary still apprehensive. Yet she was relieved that England was not reeling in the revelation of her atrocious, mortifying secret. Even better still, her family was not being tormented by the bastard, whose very nature entitled him to bully anyone who had anything worthy to gossip about, which included the Crawleys.

"What did he say to you last?" Mary asked.

"He told your father that, if Robert tried to bribe him or take measure to keep him quiet, he'd publish the exposé without batting an eyelid," Matthew revealed. "Your father hasn't done anything like that …"

Mary could hear Matthew's voice falter, as if his words dropped off a cliff. "But?" she prompted.

Matthew, in spite of his misgivings, went on. It seemed he was afraid that Carlisle himself would come crashing through the door at any second.

"I went to Carlisle's offices in London, about two weeks after you left," he continued. "I promised that I would not leave until I gave him a piece of my mind. So, when I finally saw him, I demanded that he never even consider putting your name in any of his papers, ever."

Mary's eyebrows shot up. "Matthew, that was a rather risky move."

"I'm quite aware of that, thank you," Matthew said. "But I still did it. I don't know what would come out of it."

"What did Carlisle think?"

"I'm not completely sure. He just looked at me while I was talking – more like shouting, actually – to him. Do you remember that glare he had whenever he intimidated you? That was what I saw when I looked at his face.

"And then, he asked me, 'Just how much do you love Mary?'" Matthew said, his speech halting.

Mary's jaw dropped, and she looked at Matthew, unblinking, as unmoving as stone angel. Just how much do you love Mary? Had Carlisle really asked that to Matthew?

Matthew sensed the sudden aura of tension around Mary, and he eased into a guilty complexion. "I'm sorry, Mary. Should I not have said that —?"

"No, it's my fault," Mary interrupted. "I asked you, not the other way around."

She folded her hands in her lap. "So, what did you say to him?"

Matthew inhaled sharply, like someone about to perform a speech. "I told him …" He gulped, and hesitated.

"Go on," urged Mary. "I won't judge you, no matter what you said."

A beat of silence. Then —

"I told him that I care about you very much."

Mary felt her heart pound in her chest like a gong. God, why did he say that? Does he mean it at all?

"He made me leave afterwards, and since then he's been as quiet as the grave," Matthew went on. "I don't know whether or not he's going to keep his silence, but he's done so far, and perhaps it is safe to hope that he won't bother us anymore."

"That's – that's such a relief," sighed Mary. "I can't believe you did that for me."

"Why wouldn't I?" Matthew said. "I couldn't stand by and let that bastard make threats, or lie about your character. I wouldn't forgive myself for not doing so."

"Oh, Matthew, why would you say that? It's not your fault at all."

"Nonetheless, I did so."

Mary was about to argue, stating that Carlisle could have had Matthew arrested or something equally horrible, but she couldn't find the heart to tell him off.

"Did you mean it?" she asked, not daring to look Matthew in the eye.

"Mean what?"

"What you said to Carlisle, about you caring about me very much," Mary spelled out. "Please tell me if even a single syllable of that it true."

Matthew was, in the least, confounded, but he answered her plea. "It's all true. I meant every single word of what I said, Mary. Don't doubt me on that."

"I don't, now," Mary said.

She felt a wave of an unidentifiable passion radiate from her heart, chilling and warming her concurrently, even as her thoughts spiraled about in perplexion. She felt her breath hitch in her throat, as if she were about to cry. Her eyes began to hurt as they welled with tears that she contained by rubbing them fiercely. Under most circumstances, she was quite good at concealing her emotions; all she had to do was to tell herself that what someone was saying or doing did not matter in the end, and she'd repeat inside her head like a mantra. She did not want to cry in front of Matthew, so she struggled to allow that mantra to echo as she too often commanded it to do.

But it was not easy this time around. It was like the words, in fact, the very thought, was resisting her. This time, it was like she was convincing herself of a lie, with the truth bleeding through and revealing the falseness of what she wanted to believe. No matter how hard she fought against the truth, against the wetness in her eyes, against the ache in her heart, nothing would relent.

God, what's happening to me? Mary feebly wondered. Why do I feel like this? What am I even feeling? Is this – is this what love feels like? I don't understand – why does it hurt so fucking much?

Matthew reached an arm across her back and gripped her opposite arm as Mary obscured her face with her hands. She had been shaking, but only now had she realized it, with Matthew stabilizing her. Were she acting as herself, she would have drawn away and stood up, putting the distance between them again, but she couldn't will herself to do that. She wanted his hand lightly touching her arm, anchoring her to him.

"Mary, I'm always going to be on your side. You should know that – why're you crying?"

"Shut up!" Mary growled, her shout muffled through her hands. "I'm not crying!"

"Mary, New York has made you a terrible liar," Matthew figured. "It's alright. There's no one around."

He pulled her closer to him, letting Mary's cheek rest against his shoulder. Steadily, while Matthew held her, Mary began to cry.