They walk through the woods, Mary bundled in a maroon peacoat and matching hat, Tom wearing his usual tan coat.
"Is this private enough yet?" Mary asks briskly. "Honestly, Tom, when you suggested a walk to somewhere more private, I didn't expect you meant for us to walk all the way to Scotland."
Tom laughs. "Yes, it's private enough. I was just enjoying the walk." His voice softens. "I didn't want to ruin it."
Mary stops walking. "Ruin it?"
Tom draws a breath in and rubs his hands together as if to warm them, though he is wearing thick leather gloves. Mary knows him well enough to know that this is his nervous habit. "For God's sake, Tom, speak already!"
"All right." He draws a deep breath. "I pushed you towards Henry and said he was right for you." Tom looks down. "I'm sorry because deep down, I knew he wasn't."
"What?" Mary's eyebrows come together in confusion and concern.
Tom lifts his head. "I knew he wasn't the right man for you. But I figured he was the closest you were going to get."
Mary gives a sharp laugh and her face reddens. "Oh, really? That's rich, Tom. As if I can't attract a proper man? This is me we're talking about, not Edith!"
"That's not what I meant!" Tom shouts. "He was a proper man and a nice fellow. I enjoyed his company. But I know he didn't make you feel the way you did when you were with Matthew."
Mary's dark eyes meet Tom's light ones, and her jaw sets. "You don't know anything."
"I know a lot of things, Mary."
Mary rolls her eyes. "This is ridiculous." She turns and starts to walk away, but Tom grabs her hand. She turns back to him, and his face is inches from hers. His eyes shine like the sea.
"I know that you're a wonderful mother to little George. I know that you're brave. I know that you're funny and sharp as a tack. I know the real you, the one you show me when we're visiting the farmers, or taking our walks, the kind, thoughtful you who you cover up because you're scared to be vulnerable after what happened with Matthew."
"Tom." Mary swallows. "Please, don't do this." Her heat beats faster, and even as her mind tells her this is wrong, her body yearns for him. He touches her cheek and her skin tingles.
"I know how it feels, Mary. I know how it feels to be alone, to cry every night, to not be able to sleep because your bed feels so big and empty and wrong. I know how it feels to see them reflected in your child's face and want to cry from both happiness and sorrow."
"Tom…" she says again, reaching for words that are only half-forming in her mind, ideas that are fuzzy and mixed-up, her brain drunk on his scent. "I… We can't…"
"Sybil and Matthew would want us to be happy."
Tears prick Mary's eyes. "How do you know what they would want?"
"Because they loved us." Tom's eyes well with tears now too. "And when you love someone, you want them to find happiness any way they can. Even if it's not with you." He smirks. "Even if it's with Henry Talbot."
Mary's eyes widen. "Love…?" she whispers.
"I love you, Mary Crawley." Tom gently supports her cheeks in his hands and kisses her. It is a long kiss, long and slow, loving and tender. Mary's eyes fall closed as she returns the kiss, her lips melting perfectly into his. Their lips finally part, foreheads touching.
"I love you, Thomas Branson."
He smiles, eyelids heavy. "I love the way you say my name."
She smiles back. "Likewise."
end.