"How was your day today?" She asked later, over tea. The person to whom she had spoken made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat and did not look up from his paper.

He really had grown to be like his father. In the good ways, and the bad.

"Oh, you know…it was," was his illuminating response. When he forgot to offer the customary proffered repetition of the question, she volunteered it.

"I had a very interesting day."

"Did you?" A page turned.

"I went up to the Big House." No response. "To see Mary."

The paper stilled, and she could practically see his ears perk up.

"To chat with her about her wedding, I expect," he said, nonchalantly. The hand gripping the paper twitched, almost imperceptibly.

"We talked a little about that…though it's not a subject I think she enjoys, if truth be told."

Slowly, Matthew lowered the paper, face sporting a very familiar look of cautious fear.

"Mother…" There was warning in his voice. "What did you say to Mary?"

Sly artifice had never been her style, and though she was not privileged with the self-satisfaction that Violet's rank had afforded her, Isobel knew her own mind.

"I think what you said to her is what matters, Matthew," she burst out, and his bright blue eyes widened. If there was any ambiguity in his mind about what she was referring to, his mother's next admonishment relieved him of it. "How could you have blamed her for Lavinia's death—what on earth could have possessed you?"

The Yorkshire Daily dropped to the ground.

"She told you?" her son choked out, jumping up from his chair like a scalded cat.

"I know you'll probably say it's none of my business, but I knew something had happened between you." Her son's expression darkened, and as he opened his mouth to speak again, she continued. "You might be content to sit back and ruin your life, but I will not, Matthew."

Every since he was a little boy Matthew had been taunted for being too attached to his mother. It was a dual product of his father dying when he was quite young, and Isobel's personality, which was naturally managerial—but every childhood "mummy's boy" jeer was worth it for the look of simultaneous complete love and complete exasperation she wore on her face now.

"What did she tell you?" he finally asked. It was difficult to tell whether he really wanted her to answer truthfully. "…Everything?"

"Not everything." Her voice softened at his forlorn expression. "But enough, I think."

He paced over to the window and stared out of it, hand gripping the ivory molding so hard his knuckles nearly turned white. In the light of the dying, pale sun Matthew's profile stood out in sharp relief, and Isobel thought how very tired and grave he looked—and sad, though it was a different sadness than the one he wore when Lavinia died.

Then he had been sad for himself, but now…he seemed sad for someone else, as well.

"And what do you think of your son now?" he said, voice faltering just slightly. Carefully Matthew's mother surveyed him before answering.

"That he's a young man who's been through a war, not to mention the complete upheaval of his life…and that he's, understandably, made some mistakes," She paused, carefully. "But that he's still in danger of making a bigger mistake still."

"It isn't my place to interfere." He closed his eyes in near physical pain. "And I don't deserve her, anyway."

"I think Mary's in a better position to determine that than you are—and she obviously doesn't find you wanting."

"She doesn't? Did she…" he hesitated, as if the fate of the world rested on her answer. "Did she say that?"

Isobel could scarcely believe him. He was moaning on about honor and duty when it was so obvious that he adored Mary, that her opinion of him meant more than anyone else's in the world.

"If you won't marry her yourself," she finally said, voice clipped and businesslike. "Then at least contrive to stop her from marrying Richard Carlisle."

"What right have I to?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Matthew—he's blackmailing her."

"…What?" He turned from the window, quickly, and just as quickly shock turned to righteous anger. "What do you mean he's…how could he be—" Matthew seemed almost incapable of spitting out the vile words, of committing the thought of Mary being threatened to a tangible reality.

"Cousin Violet told me he's gotten hold of some story, some secret of Mary's, and she thinks that must be the reason why Mary's marrying him."

"What secret could Carlisle know—wait a moment," he stopped, having taken her words in a few seconds late. "What do you mean, 'Cousin Violet told you'? Have you been discussing this with Cousin Violet?"

She wondered how he would react to learning that in their long conversation about it the two women had started to call it the "Mary and Matthew situation."

"You've discussed it with her, why shouldn't I?" she replied, coolly.

"…She told you about that?" The cloud of irritation lifted a little, and he chuckled, in spite of himself, and walked back over to the discarded newspaper. Picking it up and setting it on the table seemed to help return some semblance of order to his world.

"Typically high-handed of her, of course…did she really tell you to throw Lavinia over?" When he nodded in affirmation, Isobel turned her head in disbelief. "I suppose one has to admire her nerve—perverse as that feels."

"She also told me that Mary was—" Her son's voice softened at the remembrance. "That Mary was still in love with me. She asked me if, since I had loved her once…if I couldn't love her again."

Isobel was suddenly very keenly aware of the little stolen stuffed toy that was still in her pocket.

"The thing is…I knew I should've been angry with her for saying it, everything being it what it was, only…I wasn't. The only person I was angry at was myself for being so blind."

"Oh, Matthew," unconsciously, his mother found herself reaching to him—to her darling, lost little boy. "I wish you had come to me about this."

"What was I supposed to do, discuss it with you while Lavinia was in the next room, preparing tea and planning her wedding reception?" he snapped. After a moment of awkward silence, he continued, apologetic earnestness creeping into his voice. "What would you have told me to do, if I had?"

"I would have told you to follow your heart," she noticed how he rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Which, I gather from your expression, you would not have found particularly helpful."

"I feel like such a fool, mother."

"There's still time to set things right. You mustn't give up hope," Forlornly, he returned to pensively brooding, now in his favorite wicker chair. He clearly doubted her sentiments, and so she thought very carefully about what to say next, for she knew it would be important to bolster his spirits.

Feeling suddenly inspired, Isobel reached into her pocket and pulled out the lucky charm. Though his ear was bent and a piece of her coat pocket's lining clung to him, he was fine—still as alive and well as a children's bauble had any right to be. Many emotions flittered across Matthew's face—recognition, guilt, fondness, shame, and she slowly lifted her arm and held it out to him.

"Give it back to her."

The determination, the drive which had defined his life and had been so horribly absent from him for the last few months flooded back into her son as he took the dog from her—almost as if it were giving him strength. His bright blue eyes narrowed with purpose and Isobel knew that there would absolutely be no turning back from this point on.

Oh, well done, my boy.

She was very glad she had ignored Violet's advice to not let Matthew take things into his own hands.

Writing and editing this quickly is a really fun challenge—I think I'm actually still on track with my schedule. Matthew and Isobel give me the fuzzy feels—despite her my beloved smother habits, she does love him as only a mother could. Thanks again for all the support and comments—only five more days (ish.) Can you guess who's next on the list of meddlers to tell?