The circle of people deeply invested in the potential union of Lady Mary, eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, and Matthew Crawley, country solicitor, was as some believe the universe to be: limitless and yet always expanding. For the two parties most intimately involved this had always been a source of at best annoyance, and at worst heartbreak.

Matthew had no idea how Mary would react if she found out that he was planning on voicing his fears to her father—a range of colorful and fetching emotions came to mind. But he knew he would not, could not let her fall on her sword for the family at the risk of endangering her own happiness.

Isobel was right when she said that intercession was, in this case, very necessary. And they were going up to Downton for a quiet family dinner anyway.

During their customary after dinner port, Robert even brought the subject up without prompting.

"I'm worried about Mary," the older man sighed, a tendril of cigar smoke lingering wistfully over his head.

"So am I," Matthew replied, not bothering to disguise his eagerness at the subject. "…I trust it's for the same reason?"

"Carlisle?"

He nodded.

"I think…that is, I have a feeling that Mary might be marrying him…under duress."

"What other reason would any woman have for marrying him?" her father joked, bleakly taking another sip from the nectar of the rich and laughing at his own sad observation. When Matthew remained grave and serious, so too did he become.

"You don't mean to say that Carlisle is actually threatening her." Robert said, as the gravity of the accusation sunk in. It was clear the idea was not totally outlandish in his mind, never the less, to hear it voiced by Matthew lent it actual credence. "Have you any proof?"

"Not yet…I wanted to confront Mary about it, but…well," He paused, pointedly. "You know how she can be."

"All too well," the older man replied, dryly, and the two exchanged a look of understanding. Matthew felt a load off his shoulders, voicing his fears to Robert, because he simply understood. "Somehow, without any effort on my part, I've managed to raise the most contrary woman in the history of the British Empire."

Matthew laughed fondly, knowing that Robert very well could be right in his estimation—but it didn't matter, because she was Mary, and she wouldn't be who she was without that ridiculous streak of fire and passion and the need to do exactly what she was told not to.

Mary's father smiled, as if he knew exactly what Matthew was thinking about and was very glad of it. In truth, he had never given up the hope that…but that would keep. Better to face what needed to be faced now than worry about that.

"I knew she couldn't really like him," he continued, more seriously, and the man that he had come to think of as a son felt petty for agreeing as he did. "First Bates, now Mary…is there no end to my blindness?" he shook his head in self-disgust. "Cora mentioned something about Mary being in Richard's debt months ago—I should have pressed her harder."

"Cousin Cora knows about this?"

"I think she must." He set down his glass of brandy as Matthew marveled at the reach of this secret that had apparently been following Mary around for years. "I'm more curious what you know—and what."

"I don't know the nature of what Carlisle is holding over Mary's head," his fist tightened at the thought. "But I…I have noticed how unhappy she is with him. She tries to hide it, but even Mary's talents for subterfuge have their limits." Not even she could hide what she was thinking all the time. "It's really my mother, though."

Robert looked surprised.

"What does Isobel know?"

He hesitated.

"She had a chat with Mary and…she's sure that she feels an obligation to go through with it. She's certain, in fact."

What he neglected to mention—or, perhaps, his mother had failed to sufficiently impart—was that she had told him all this in the strictest of confidence. The Richard state of affairs was obviously precarious, and in order to extract Mary from it—a reality everyone desired—discretion and delicacy would be required.

Unfortunately, prudence and latter-day chivalry were at war within him. Knowing that Robert would do anything to protect Marry once he knew she was marrying under duress had made confessing too tempting. He knew he ought to be careful, but the prospect of taking his, their destiny into his own hands when he had felt so powerless for so long…

Matthew told himself that he was doing this all for strictly unselfish reasons, but such a lie was too flimsy, even to tell oneself.

In the drawing room, another equally urgent conversation was going on over the lighter discussions of the well bred females of the house.

"I know you don't agree with me, but I really felt that it's for the best." Cousin Violet barely attempted to conceal her eye roll. "I much prefer being straightforward about these sort of things—and not talking has always been their problem, anyway."

"I have no doubt you believe what you've done is for the best," said the Dowager Countess, waving one hand in a half-hearted but conciliatory gesture. "I'm only warning you that you've eliminated any chance we might've had at disposing of Richard neatly."

"Why, what on earth do you mean?"

"Matthew and Robert, of course!" A blank stare was all she received. "In the dining room—together. Alone."

Isobel had a sinking feeling she was beginning to understand Violet perfectly.

"Ah." She bit her lip. "Well, there's always a chance he won't say anything to Cousin Robert."

"Whenever men are in a room together, they convince each other that whatever needs to be done, they can do it best." Across the room, Mary was chatting languidly with her mother and sister, looking less on edge than she had been the last few weeks. All good things too must come to an end. "I'm convinced that more wars have been started over after-dinner brandy and cigars than because of continental dukes being shot."

"But you do trust Matthew to do the right thing," the other woman replied, tersely, not pleased at the inference that her only son's actions could be compared to the assassination of Franz Ferdinand.

"Of course I do! That's exactly what worries me."

"I know my son better than you do—you can hardly argue with that."

Violet rapped her cane against the floor.

"My dear woman, I know my son better than you do, and if Matthew tells him he thinks Mary is being cajoled into marrying Sir Richard Carlisle, there will be a scene to rival the end of King Lear."

"But why wouldn't he keep it low to the ground, at first?" her ally pointed out, logically. "It's in his best interest to come to a sensible solution—"

"Remember Sybil?" Isobel had a sudden, slightly horrific flashback to Robert yelling at the young man who was now his son-in-law—something about seducing his daughter behind the chauffeur's cottage or some such equally dramatic turn of phrase. "And we must bear in mind that Robert liked Branson. He can barely stand to be in the same in the room as Sir Richard—"

"Discussing my fiancée, Granny?"

Violet Crawley was rarely caught off guard, but her granddaughter (and protégé) sidling up to her like a panther in the night merited a little surprise, even from her.

"I trust you're only saying nice things."

"Don't I always?" Mary shared a secret smile with her grandmother. "Mary, whatever happens tonight…I want you to know that it was none of my doing."

"What?"

At that moment Robert and Matthew entered the drawing room, and Mary's grandmother recognized the look of honor-fueled righteous indignation that both men were barely bothering to conceal. When Matthew stole a secret glance at her granddaughter, he looked like a cross between a latter-day Sir Galahad and a lovelorn poet.

"Oh, Lord help us, Robert's created another one."

Only four more days people. FOUR MORE DAYS. Next chapter is the big one, ha. Be prepared for borderline OOC cathartic confrontations in front of friends and family members. Because years of English landed gentry fueled repression can only take you so far before you just LET IT ALL OUT.