A/N: Happy Monday!

Once again, thank you so much for all your reviews/favourites/alerts - I'm truly overwhelmed, and again truly fascinated to see how varying your responses are. It's incredibly inspiring!

Thanks to EOlivet as always for her polish, and... here we go!

Chapter Nine

There was something so arresting and yet so vulnerable in Mary's tone that Matthew could keep his back to her no longer. He twisted around, without fully turning, blinking in confusion.

"What is it?" he asked warily, alerted on some level to the seriousness of… whatever it was.

Mary could only hold his eyes for a moment before her gaze dipped to somewhere around his knees. She'd anticipated this would be difficult but now he was here and he was looking at her and… she knew there was no going back.

"You see the thing is," her voice was careful, measured, practised. Her hands rubbed gently together. "We've not been – quite so lucky, this time, as we were. To avoid any… consequences."

Stiffening, Matthew slowly turned to face her, his eyes wide with sickeningly dawning comprehension. Her meaning was… unmistakeable, but…

He swallowed. "You can't mean…"

"I'm afraid so." She nodded, and ridiculously felt almost like smiling in her nervousness. But she didn't. She had said it, and… it was up to him, now.

Anxiously, she watched his reaction. It took him a moment, as his mind tried to swat away what she was telling him, what he knew to be true, what… he could not possibly ignore. A cold shiver rippled through him and he drew in a shaky breath, settling more steadily on his feet as his fingertips pressed together.

"I don't know what you mean by we," he eventually muttered derisively, defensively, "when we both know full well it may be nothing to do with me at all."

"Oh, Matthew!" Her plaintive, frustrated exclamation caused his head to raise sharply, and in his eyes Mary was shocked to see not loathing, not anger, but… sorrow. Fear. Disappointment. But this had built up and torn at her for too long, now, to be shy about it. "We both know just as much that that's not half so likely as –"

"Don't, Mary, please –"

"–as for it to be yours and even if that were the case, it would hardly matter seeing as he's – dead, Matthew!"

"For God's sake I know that!" he hurled back at her, and for a moment they stood, simmering, wary of each other.

Matthew was painfully aware of each breath trembling in and out of his body, of the pricking sickness in his gut, as every feeling he'd tried to ignore and drive out came flooding back. And on top of it all… this. Mary was… with child, and while he was horribly aware that he may be responsible (for her, for it, for all that had happened) he was equally, terribly aware that… he might not be. And yet… the expectation lay on him, for where else could it lie? An uncomfortable sense of helplessness settled on him with the unwanted weight of responsibility.

It was everything he'd been so very afraid of, and he felt in some sick way as though this was their punishment.

Very slowly, he licked his lips and looked at Mary (how it ached to do so, at every memory she conjured). "You're asking me to marry you," he said shakily.

Mary closed her eyes, and gave a slight shake of her head.

"I'm not asking anything of you," she breathed, and her eyes fluttered open again. "But you had a right to know."

There was a resigned weariness in everything about her, her tone and her expression and her very body, that Matthew now saw. After all, she'd had time to think about it, and accept it. Without needing it spelled out, they both knew what the alternative was. Scandal that would haunt the family for a generation or more, Mary outcast, hidden away and shunned from society, the innocent child consigned to a lifetime of paying for the mistakes of its parents.

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair, Matthew thought, as he turned bitterly away to the window to think.

If there was a chance that he had fathered the child Mary carried – in fact, there was no if about that, he realised that with a sharp twist in his chest – then how could he possibly give her up to the punishment that would follow if he did nothing? How could he live with himself, as eventual head of this family, knowing what he may have subjected her to by his inaction if… the child were his? It might be – his son, his daughter (might, might), God… Could he throw that away, for the sake of bitterness and revulsion and a questionable if?

He passed a hand over his drawn face, realising as the devastating weight of acceptance descended into his chest, shortening his breath, suffocating him… that he could not. As he turned his face to look back over his shoulder, somewhere at the ground near her feet, Mary found herself straining to hear his barely audible murmur.

"Of course I'll marry you," he said.

It was the desperate, soul-deep sadness in his eyes when he finally looked up at her that broke Mary's will, and she swallowed back a sob. It was everything they had not wanted. A marriage of necessity and convenience, a marriage because they had to, not because they wanted to. A marriage because there was no other choice. And yet… to marry was everything they had wanted, and only realised at the very worst of times.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling with heartfelt gratitude. And yet there remained this impossible distance between them, though they stood only feet apart, hands tensed and restless by their sides. She pressed her lips together and shook her head regretfully. "I know that you must despise me and I don't expect that you'd –"

"Oh, Mary…" he cut her off, and her lips closed. He blinked sadly at her, his eyes shining with tears that would not fall, not here, not in front of her again. "I don't think… I ever could despise you."

No matter how he tried, he knew that he simply could not. Oh, he despised what she had done… How she had hurt him, toyed with him, used him – he could forget none of that. Nothing could lessen the dull ache of loss and pain, the sickening thought of what she had done with another and then with him, the sting of betrayal that had made him unable to bear being in the same room as her. But deep down he knew it only hurt so much because… No, it hurt too much to think of, and he buried the feeling once more.

Taking a physical step and a deep breath, he removed himself from those thoughts. It was time to be practical, and matter-of-fact about it. That was all he could do, all he could allow himself to do.

"I'll speak to your father," he said, his voice regaining some air of purpose as he stepped past her. "But not until tomorrow, if you don't mind. I need – some time…"

"Of course." She ached to reach out to him, just to touch his arm, something, anything… But she couldn't bear the thought that her touch would repulse him, as she imagined it would. So she clasped her hands tightly together instead. She hardly knew how to feel or what to think; he'd done it, he'd agreed and yet… she could see, so very clearly in his very posture and expression, what agony it caused him to do so. She could laugh, now, to see their earlier selves… asking hesitantly if the idea of marriage to each other was still so very abhorrent.

Now, clearly, it was. And yet the choice, as they had feared those few months ago in that first, heady rush, had been stripped from them. All that was left to face them now seemed to be misery, for how could they be happy together, after what she'd done?

As it happened, Mary was grateful for Matthew's plea for one day to accustom himself to the idea. For now she'd cleared the first hurdle (and really, she'd hardly expected that, even) of his consent to marry, there were still many to face. Uncountable, unconquerable hurdles, it seemed. But at least this one, she might have a chance at clearing.

After dinner, through which she scraped quietly and thankfully without another burst of sickness, she whispered to her mother to come and speak with her later. It was just as Anna was finishing readying her for bed that Cora knocked quietly and came in, waiting until the maid had left before she said anything.

"Well, darling," she began. "I think it must be serious for you to have summoned me to your bedroom in such secret!"

The smile faded quickly from her lips as Mary simply stared at her hands in her lap. "What is it?" she asked, more gently now.

"Matthew was here earlier," Mary said, her tone flat and impassive.

"Yes, your father mentioned so. Did – you talk with him?"

"I did, yes." She looked up at her mother, who seemed breathless with anticipation, and thought carefully about just how much to reveal. "Tomorrow he's going to ask Papa for permission to marry me."

Cora gasped. "Oh, my darling!" she beamed in delight. "And – have you thought how to answer him? We'd – worried, with him being so absent lately –"

"I've already accepted him," Mary smiled ruefully, with a little shrug. "Because – I had to." Her hands delicately folded over her flat belly, and Cora's eyes widened before she reached out to grasp Mary's hands tightly between her own.

"Do you – darling, are you –"

"Yes," her hand rose to cover her mouth as a sob escaped, and her mother pulled her tightly into a comforting embrace.

Cora kissed her hair, rubbing her back soothingly as Mary shook from her tears, her mind bursting with questions. She'd worried about this, after Mary's indiscretion with the Turk, and how ill she had seemed recently. What fortuitous timing of Matthew! Although…

"Does Matthew know?" she asked quietly. From what she knew of her husband's heir, to be father to another man's child was not something he'd take kindly to, at all.

"Oh," Mary sat up, and wiped her eyes, schooling her expression back to normalcy. "You mustn't worry about that. I'll – deal with it." She couldn't possibly explain to her mother, not that, and carried on before she could press her on it any more. "The thing is, you know we'll need to marry quickly. And – Papa won't understand but if you're in favour of it –"

"Alright, darling, I see," Cora tried to soothe her daughter, who was now pacing restlessly at the foot of the bed. She reached again for her hand, and held it tightly and reassuringly. "Don't worry about it anymore – I'll take care of all that. And – you can convince Matthew of the need for it, too?"

She nodded. "Yes, I believe so." Oh, he knew it already, but no-one else needed to know that. While part of her felt horribly calculating about it all, what choice did she have? If Matthew had refused her, she would have accepted it – what more had she to lose, than him? – but somewhere she had always known what his reaction would be, with the chance of it being his own child – no matter his feelings for her.

It seemed too late, she was too exhausted, to feel much worse about it as she curled into bed after her mother had left. She felt sick again and curled up, fisting the bedsheets into her hands and pressing her face into them as she tried to blot out the darkness. Matthew was going to marry her… If only, if only she had realised sooner that it was everything she had wanted. And now she was to realise her dream, but in the context of a nightmare.

There was nothing to do but make the best of it… what little that might be.

Matthew decided to sleep on the matter before telling his mother, suffering through a dinner that he could barely stomach and then claiming an early night (as he'd been doing all too often, lately).

Dismissing Molesley, he undressed himself and climbed into bed, shifting restlessly at the friction of cotton against his skin. Suddenly it all seemed unnatural to him, as he wondered… if Mary would be his wife… would she sleep here? With him?

He rolled to his side and balled his fist into the sheets, staring blankly at the wall, gritting his teeth as he tried to choke back the emotions cloying in his throat. It was not supposed to be this way. It had never occurred to Matthew that he would not want to share his bed with his wife. He forced himself to think about it now… Mary beside him, her hair splayed across the pillow, the sheets tucked around her warm body (and God, he knew how she looked…), her gentle breaths… and felt sick, so violently that he had to sit up and lower his head between his knees.

It was impossible to think of her without… him. Matthew suddenly hated the man with anger that burned through his veins, for the audacity to seduce Mary to take him into her bed and then to die and leave things broken and shattered… leaving it to him to pick up the pieces, and shoulder the burden of responsibility for Mary's child. Whoever's it might be.

Such thoughts were toxic but he couldn't help it, they ate away at him day and night unless he was able to force the distraction of work. But… she was pregnant, and he must marry her, and he couldn't ignore them any longer. How could he, when she was to live in this house? He glanced across once more at the pillow, the pillow that would be hers, and then lay back down and turned away from it.

He couldn't. But how could he have a wife whom he could not… share a bed with, let alone… be intimate with. He bit down on his fist as another wave of nausea hit him. Though the thoughts tempted him, her body tempted him (it was Mary, and he had loved her… so very, very much), he couldn't fight the stink of repulsion at the memory of another man's hands, another man's lips, on her body, that she had welcomed as she had his own.

By morning, the answer was no clearer to him, but… there were more pressing things to think of today than how he was to sleep with his wife. Namely… how she was to become his wife at all.

After only nibbling at his toast, he took a sip of tea and, as casually as he could manage, mentioned that he was planning on leaving work at lunchtime and visiting the Abbey. It was the first time he had mentioned it by choice in over a month, and that was enough to perk Isobel's interest.

"Are you going to see Cousin Robert again? You were only there yesterday," she wondered, smiling encouragingly at her son.

He forced his smile to brighten. "Yes, I am – and, I know. There's something I wanted to ask him. A – rather personal thing, I suppose." It occurred to him that it was probably usual to be nervous over a marriage proposal, and so the tremor in his voice did not concern him too much.

"Oh?" Isobel set down her cutlery and blinked expectantly. Matthew tried to take a little courage from it, and chose his words carefully (after all, he had spent nearly the whole night working out how to go about this in such a way as to avoid his mother's usual interrogations).

"You can probably guess what it is," he teased her gently, and was rewarded by her look of satisfaction. That would help. But now… saying the words… Oh, it was hard! He took a breath. "I'm going – to ask him for Mary's hand. To – be my wife."

She couldn't see how tightly he was gripping his butter knife, the only place he could allow the uncomfortable tension that stiffened him to show.

"Matthew, my dear, how wonderful!" she exclaimed, clasping his hand across the table. "I thought – my darling boy, I thought you'd favoured her but then you seemed so determined to stay away –"

"I know," Matthew cut her off quickly, desperately afraid of such a line of conversation, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I think – I was too afraid of what I felt. Which I suppose is silly and – then we talked properly yesterday for the first time in weeks and – it seemed suddenly very clear to me."

Though it wasn't quite a lie (the words themselves were true, only his mother couldn't know their true meaning), his assurances stuck in his throat. Luckily, there was no reason at all for Isobel to suspect he would marry her for any reason besides that he loved her… and so he did not have to say it.

Isobel beamed at him. "I'm so glad," she smiled tearfully, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. Guilt wrenched through Matthew at what he felt was a deception, for it was not to be glad about… but he could only keep the smile fixed to his lips until he was able to make his excuses and leave for work.

"My dear boy!" Robert clapped him heartily on the back, brimming with happiness. "I thought you'd never ask!"

"Well, I – admit I wondered myself at times!" Matthew replied ruefully. It saddened him, how quickly he'd settled to these half-truths that he covered with smiles. But… how long could he maintain them? Through an engagement, a wedding, a marriage… His future stretched impossibly in front of him and he felt short of breath. It ached, it drained him, even this. He felt as though he were slowly deadening somewhere deep within his soul.

"I know things haven't been easy," the Earl said more seriously, "but – if you have found a way to be happy now, then I couldn't be more pleased. It's wonderful, wonderful news. I suppose we'll leave it to the ladies to sort out dates and more technical arrangements –"

Matthew cut in. "Actually, we'd – like to get married as soon as we can."

He held his breath, and when the Earl raised a querulous eyebrow, he carried on with his well-rehearsed excuse. "I know it seems rather sudden but I suppose that's the thing. After – making such a mess of things up till now, we're rather eager to settle ourselves before one of us does something silly again!" He tried to laugh, and though it came out as something more like a strangled gasp, Robert latched onto the joke and laughed heartily.

"Well, my boy. I suppose I can't begrudge you both that, though I can only hope my wife won't throw up too much of a fuss about it! It can't be a small affair, you know."

Matthew had supposed that, and the thought made his chest tighten in anxiety. How he wished he could simply hide away from it all, and shut his eyes and somehow come out the other side with everything alright. Though how it could ever be alright, he had no idea.

Of course, he could not. He supposed he could only be thankful that it all happened so quickly, like a whirlwind, with Cora championing their haste… and he barely had time to breathe, it seemed, through the four short weeks it took for their wedding to be planned. He was thankful, as well, for the fact that it appeared the groom had pitifully little to do with it all, for that on top of everything he could not have borne. He found himself shunted to suit fittings (though that he could pretend was quite normal), and a meeting or two with the vicar that he gritted his teeth through but… incredibly, that was it, as flowers and menus and guests were left to Mary (with his mother eager to play her part and help).

He was thankful for the pressing rush of the arrangements, as it left him only the night times to think. To think how Mary was to be his wife, to live with him, and he was to become a father to a child that he didn't even know was his own.

And before he could think any more (for it tortured him to do so)… it was upon them.

TBC

A/N: Thank you ever so much for reading! I'd love to know what you thought, and I appreciate so much all your comments. Thank you!