Though Robert and Matthew had both agreed to take the "wait and see" approach, when they reentered the drawing room it didn't take long for the subject of Sir Richard Carlisle to come up quite naturally—and in regards to his impending visit to finalize the wedding. Mary was discussing it with her grandmother and Isobel, who both were strangely and uncharacteristically subdued.

"I've told him to come up Saturday, but it seems he finished business early and he wants to take the train late Friday. I know Mrs. Hughes hates his little drop-ins," Mary turned to her father, who was standing by the fireplace with Matthew and asked, drolly, "What do you think, Papa—should I put him off for the good of the family peace?"

Rather than smiling back and returning the witticism, her father said what was undoubtedly the first thing that came to mind.

"I wonder if he should be coming up at all."

Though the remark was made lightly, no one could ignore the implication, least of all Mary, who was staring at her father as if she'd never seen him before. A sudden, awkward hush settled over the room.

"I know you're not overly fond of Richard," she said, staring coolly up at Robert, who was becoming increasingly incensed at her blasé tone. "But you usually pretend not to dislike him for my sake."

"That was before I learned he was bullying my daughter into marrying him."

Not even the light clattering of crystal could be heard in that moment. Everyone in the room—Isobel, Cora, Edith, Violet—even Carson, who had trained himself for over 30 years not to bat an eyelash at something a member of the family said—stopped what they were doing.

"He certainly likes things his own way, Papa—but then," Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "So do I. I would hardly call that bullying."

"For once in your life don't be flippant, Mary," Robert snapped, and at this surprising holding of ground his eldest daughter's guarded expression cracked. "Look me in the eye in front of your family and tell me that man isn't blackmailing you."

To her credit, the Earl of Grantham's daughter did not fall to pieces at this extraordinary pronouncement. With an unusual display of control, even for her, Mary's eyes instead traveled over every face in the room—lingering on Edith, Matthew noticed, before sliding past him and to her father again.

"Who told you?" she spoke, at last, with an almost unnerving calm. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, as Mary evidently did as well, for at that moment her eyes fixed on an unlikely candidate—her mother. "Was it Mama?"

"Though there's little doubt your mother knows the particulars—" His own piercing gaze echoed his daughter's. "She did not. And whoever it was that informed me hardly matters. What I want to know is when this happened."

She said nothing for a moment, as if pondering whether to deny the allegation entirely. When she did speak, it was seriously and lacking emotion.

"It was over a year ago—when," Her eyes darted to and away from Matthew. "When Lavinia came back. And he didn't threaten me. Not exactly. He only said that I was not to cross him." She fiddled with her necklace, something she only did when she was nervous. "Hard as it is to believe, he seemed to think he was in danger of being jilted."

"And you didn't think to tell me this? You didn't think that I might have some objection to my daughter marrying such an unprincipled and upstart coward?"

"I suppose I didn't think it was any of your business either way," she replied, archly, as she rose from her chair to meet his anger. "Really, Papa, if Sybil wasn't swayed by you in choosing a husband, does it seem likely I would be?"

"As headstrong and foolish as your sister is, no one could deny that she married for love. If I thought you loved Richard Carlisle—"

"What does love have to do with it?" There was steel in her now, and all of the control she had mustered seemed to be giving her inhuman nerve. "What has love ever had to do with my marriage in your mind? You were quite content to marry me off to Patrick when he was the heir, because it was—what did you say, then? It was a 'comfortable and convenient' arrangement for all. No sooner was he dead then you had invited Matthew to live here, with the at least partial object of repeating the whole tired business." Once she had begun there didn't seem to be any stopping her—nor him.

She and Robert were perhaps more alike than anyone in their family, and unbridled stubbornness was undoubtedly a Crawley trait.

"I invited Matthew here to teach him about running the estate!"

Matthew desperately tried to avoid looking at either of them, but instead found himself locking eyes with Cousin Violet whose expression vacillated between sympathetic and grave.

"And to see if he might take one of us—preferably me, so that I might be out of the way of your plans," Her head turned a fraction of an inch to the left. "The best part of it was that you knew, didn't you?"

For the first time since this painful and infamous conversation had begun, she seemed to realize he was in the room, that he was hearing every word pouring, unguarded, out of her lips.

"Of course you did, what was the first thing I ever heard you say? 'They're going to push one of the daughters at me'…you were as set against the idea of it as I was."

Matthew said nothing—what could he say? He could hardly argue the point with her. Without thinking about it, he stepped closer to her father, as if in masculine solidarity.

Mary could not help but see this allied front before her.

"It was you, Matthew." She did not phrase it as a question. There was a dawning realization in her eyes, and his mouth hung open—he was willing himself to think of something, to deny it, to explain it, but he could not stop marveling at the growing fire that those brown eyes betrayed. "You told him."

"…I did." He would've given anything to shrink into the wall at that moment.

"I won't bother asking you what proof you have, because I know you haven't a shred. But on what grounds—" A slight tremor in her voice betrayed her fury. "What possible right have you to interfere in my marriage?"

He felt all eyes in the room on him instantly.

"I know what it looks like—what you must think of me—"

"But they don't," she replied, quietly. "They didn't hear what you said to me at Lavinia's funeral."

"I didn't…" He closed his eyes, incapable of looking at her. "It's just that…I can't bear to see you unhappy."

"Can't you?" A short, hard laugh escaped her, like the sound of a door snapping shut. "You've hurt me more times than Sir Richard ever has."

"This isn't about you and me—" he cried, knowing instantly that it was not only categorically untrue but also the absolute worst thing to say to her in that moment. If he had bothered to look over at Robert, Cora, or Violet, he would've seen that they all were in complete agreement with his sentiments.

"Oh, please. It's always about you and me—since the first day you entered this house that's what it's been."

"Matthew is only concerned about your well-being, Mary!" Robert said, trying to head her off, but he could not stop his daughter anymore than he could divert a river.

"Oh, take his side, Papa," she hissed, and if she had one of Richard's famous cocktails in her hand she undoubtedly would have knocked it back. "You always do."

"What did you say to her at Lavinia's funeral?" interjected Violet, rather sanguinely, all things considered. She had an adaptable spirit by nature and was quite ready to roll with the punches. In fact, in all honesty, she was rather enjoying herself.

"Yes, why don't you tell them, Matthew," said Mary, coldly, having retreated to one of the impressive, high-backed chairs she favored and gripping the arms of the chair as if she were physically restraining herself from slapping someone.

"It was wrong of me to blame you for her death," he admitted, to the family's morbid shock. "It was said in grief and I'm…sorry for it. The fault was entirely my own."

"It wasn't either of our faults," she shot up in her chair, righteous anger alight again. "And I wish for God's sake you'd stop acting as if it was. Why do you insist on—on blaming yourself?" Tenderness and caring mingled with the anger in her voice.

"You can't say you don't regret what we did."

"What did they do?" Edith asked her grandmother, in an undertone.

"Later," Violet muttered, raising a hand to silence her. "This next part is critical."

"Why should I regret? It was the more honest than you've been since the War started. Ever since you came back—" Mary raised one hand, grandly gesturing across the room at them all. "Everyone from Carson to Granny has been telling me I ought to try to get you back." Of the two, only the butler had the good sense to look embarrassed. She plowed on, barely stopping for breath. "I don't know how many times I told every person in this room that it was over between us, truly, that you loved Lavinia, that we were friends again, that I had moved on. I tried to let you go, I was happy for you both—I thought that was what you wanted!"

"I was what I—what I wanted was for you to be honest with me about how you felt!" he burst out, knowing how absurd and unfair he was being but not caring because she was the most infuriating woman on the planet and if he had only known—

"Oh, don't you dare lecture me about constancy, Matthew Crawley," she said, waves of fury rolling off her. "You don't know the meaning of the word."

He had never seen her so incensed—and what was worse were the angry tears swimming to the surface in her expressive eyes. Four years of repressed fears and resentment and hurt were bursting out of them both, unrestrained. Matthew realized with faint horror that every bottled-up barrier was tumbling down in a screaming fit in front of all their closest relations.

They were a mess. No wonder everyone was so bloody obsessed.

"What do you mean?" he asked, faintly feeling that he had lost the plot.

"Well, you were going to marry Lavinia in the end anyway, weren't you?" She choked it out, and he bit back the urge to run and comfort her. "Even after what happened."

"She broke it off before she died. You know she wanted us to be together." He had long since accepted the fact that Lavinia would've never had him, had she lived. "She knew I had feelings for you, and doubted you'd marry Carlisle—"

"Lavinia was wrong about that, at least." Mary stood again, determined. "I am marrying Richard Carlisle, and nothing you say or do can stop me."

"Why, Mary?" She turned to head off an attack from her father's quarter, but was surprised to see only the heartbreak of a wounded loved one in his face. "Why are you marrying him? You don't love him, darling. Everyone can see that." Calmly, he walked over to her and took her hand. "Please tell me. Whatever it is, it's not worth you throwing your life away."

The final barrier to truth was to be crossed this night. Mary reveled in that last moment of peace, of comfortable dishonesty, before beginning what would truly, more than anything, spell the end.

"If I don't marry him he will publish in his papers a story that will destroy this family." Though it obviously pained her to speak, she plowed on, determined to finish it—finish it all. Something had begun. "He will tell all of London—nay, everyone in England, will read about how your daughter, Lady Mary Crawley, took a—took a lover to her bed, a Mr. Kemal Pamuk, a diplomat from the Turkish embassy who promptly—died in it."

No one in the room spoke.

"Not knowing what to do, she woke her maid Anna and her mother, your wife, Lady Grantham and the three of them agreed to—they carried the body from her room to the bachelor's corridor." Her gaze held Edith's very briefly again. "Somehow or another the story was spread around, and Bates' first wife got hold of it and tried to blackmail him. I told Richard Carlisle so that he could help me silence her, which he did. He knows my secret now, though, and will only keep it provided I marry him." Mary sounded very tired. "And that, you see, is the whole story."

It was at least as much as she had the strength to say at that moment.

She looked at the two most important men in her life, straight in the eye, expecting to see something—anything—dismay, hurt, disgust, pity—but instead finding nothing but blank, dull shock.

How disappointing. But then, she had grown used to that.

"Forgive me," she finally, coldly, pronounced to the room en large. "But I don't much feel like company anymore. I apologize for spoiling everyone's evening—Carson, when you have a minute, could you—" Her voice hitched. "Could you send Anna up to my room, please?"

Carson snapped out of his own shock with the dignity and solemnity that nearly 35 years in his station had afforded him.

"Of course, my lady."

And with that, she left them all, head held high, but heart heavy.

For Fatima, who needs it most.

This was kind of emotionally draining to write, but also cathartic. It was also sort of the reason I started writing this fic in the first place.