A/N: The version of the chapter title song by Miley Cyrus is recommended.

You're Going to Make Me Lonesome

Tuesday, May 20, 1913

Mary trudged to the Dower House. Her grandmother had insisted that she come to tea. Two of Grannie's oldest friends, Lady Worplesdon and Lady Yaxley, were visiting and they 'had expressed a particular interest in seeing Lady Mary'. She bet they had; there were no more judgemental ladies in the Empire, excepting grannie of course. And not judgemental in the sense of carefully weighing all the evidence and then making a fair and impartial decision; no, this was judgemental as in 'hang them all, God knows his own'.

She had tried to beg off but her grannie had been firm 'It will not be as bad as you think, your man's plan is working to perfection although it is a pity he had to pull the temple down.' When Mary had asked what man and what plan Violet had just patted her hand and said that she would work it out in good time.

Oh well, best get the worst out of the way early. If she could weather the Ladies' snide and barbed comments she could handle anything London society threw at her. And anyway she had more important things to worry about.

Such as her lack of the vaunted maternal instinct. She had supposed, had been lead to believe by her mother, her grannie and her mother in law, that by now in her pregnancy she would be cherishing this child growing inside her; but all she felt was imposition. She ate what she was told to eat; did what she was to told to do. She had been tasked with rolling a rock up a steep hill and so she did. But she was afraid that when she got to the top of the hill she would walk away from the rock without a backwards glance. And the child would be raised by a succession of nannies and governesses until he, for she was convinced it was a boy, could be sent away to school. And the only contact he would have with his cold and distant mother would be an obligatory kiss before bedtime. And as for his father, nothing.

Nothing, unless she could get Matthew to come back. Matthew was not the boy's father but she felt, she knew, that he really was. And what a marvellous father he would be. There would be romping and playing and laughing. She had to get him back. He would make her love the child.

She did not love Matthew. How could she? But...but when she dreamed of being loved she thought of how he had held her at the wedding, rubbed her back and kissed her. Of that other so-called act of love, the one which had put her into this position, she remembered no more than what she remembered about the time she had been thrown off Diamond when he had refused a jump and she had been knocked out. In both cases she could remember the build up and then the terrible hurt, but nothing of the act itself. But of Matthew she could remember every sensation as his fingers dug into her side as he saved her from collapsing, the gentle caress of his warm hands on her shoulders and the softness of his lips as they touched her. What a marvellous lover he would be. There would be romping and playing and laughing. She had to get him back. She would make him love her. And maybe she could love him.

They still could all live happily ever after. She had to get him back.

Mary had been so engrossed in her thoughts that she had almost walked past the gate to the Dower House but no such luck. She walked up to the front door, took a deep breath and knocked. Into the lioness' den.

Grannie had predicted it would not be that bad. At first it wasn't. The moment the ladies saw her they starting clucking over her. All she had to do was act demure and murmur thanks for their advice regarding the management of her pregnancy.

The ladies, she knew their names, she just didn't know which lady belonged to which name, were sisters; she did not think twins, although they may as well have been, such was the similarity between them. They finished each others' sentences so seamlessly it was if there were one mind directing one voice.

They also tended to meander so as they prattled on that Mary almost missed the pronouncement of their sentence upon her.

"Your father was right to banish that rogue.." said the sister on the right

The sister on the left continued "... after he abused you and your family's hospitality..."

"...plucked out of the gutter and this...

"... is how he repays you...

"... cads like that should be gelded.."

"... with a dull spoon..." and here the sister on the left waved her teaspoon in Mary's face.

".. you are better off without him...". Here they both reached over and patted her knees.

Pity. She was sentenced to pity. She could show her face in London. The mother elephants would circle around her. But for the rest of her life she would be that pitiful Crawley girl. What a pity.

Mary wanted to scream. She wanted to appeal the sentence. Scorn me! Scorn she could handle. Scorn she could defy. Scorn at least acknowledged she had pride, sinful pride, but pride all the same. But how could she defy pity? It would envelope her in its warm and fuzzy arms and smother her resistance until she gave in and accepted her status as a grass widow.

This was worse than Grannie had predicted. She needed Matthew by her side; try to pity her then. She opened her mouth to rebut the ladies but closed as it as she saw her grandmother shake her head at her.

Violet stood up. "Ladies I wish we could keep Mary all day but I am afraid she must go for her afternoon nap. I am sure that you will agree that it is very important in her condition that she get her rest."

Mary got up and thanked the ladies for their good advice and had in turn to endure their patting of her bump, either as a blessing or maybe for luck, she was not sure. Her grandmother then walked her to the door.

When Mary started to remonstrate Violet raised her finger to her lips.

"Hush, one battle at a time. Your honour is saved."

"But at the expense of Matthew's" Mary hissed back.

"Which is what was he wanted"

"What do you mean?"

"You still haven't worked it out, have you? Look, he took the blame. I don't know how intentional it was but he did. He made such a big splash people are still gossiping about it. About how after a shotgun wedding your father banished the cad. After he's been gone a decent interval he can come back and all will be forgiven. You know there's a reason why it's called the Parable of the Prodigal Son and not the Prodigal Daughter. And don't forget what the alternate stories would have been. If there had been a wedding and he had stayed people would be saying you cynically seduced him and trapped him with a child all so you could get around the entail. If there had been no wedding those two biddies in there would be counting back nine months from the date of birth. And what would they discover – a Turkish diplomat dead in suspicious circumstances. Hmm... I wonder what they could make of that. You best be thankful for what Matthew has done for you."

"But I want him..."

"That's the next battle, or more likely a siege. We will talk later, now go home and have your nap, I have to get back in there before they pocket all of my silverware."