A/N: Bonjour!

Apologies for the delay in this update, and for my lack of getting back to many of you who were so kind as to review Chapter 10! Your continued support and enthusiasm means a great deal to me, thank you so much :)

My heartfelt gratitude as ever goes to EOlivet who has listened to me witter on endlessly about this chapter and lent it her usual sparkle! She also informed me that what happens in this chapter is apparently akin to the second stage of a marriage breaking up. Ummm... oh dear. Just thought I'd point that out.

Enjoy...!

Chapter Eleven

The master bedroom of Crawley House was dark, lit dimly by a small lamp on the bedside cabinet beside Mary that cast her and the bed in a little pool of light, and shadows into the further corners of the room. As she looked up from where she lay reclining against the pillows yet not at all relaxed, Matthew stepped hesitantly through the door. Light from the hallway shone around him briefly before it closed behind him and both drew an involuntary, unheard breath at the sight of the other and the strange and immediate tension of the situation.

Matthew's body immediately tensed, and his fingers lingered on the doorknob for a moment while he suppressed the inclination of his limbs to run away from the tempest of emotions that assaulted him at the sight of her, in his bed, her body swathed in loose white cotton (from what he could glimpse above the veil of his sheets, at least, pulled high up her chest) and her thick, dark hair restrained in a long plait that draped over her shoulder. It was exactly the vision that had haunted him in dream and memory, and his heart stopped for a beat as he took her in, swallowed, steadied himself.

She stared at him, her breath quickening imperceptibly, standing against the closed door in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He looked so… vulnerable, and there would be something almost childlike about him were it not for the firm masculinity of his chest, and shoulders, heightened by the open collar of his night-wear and the way it clung softly to his body. She shivered at the powerful wave of affection that broke in her heart for him, and self-consciously smoothed the sheets at her sides, feeling uncomfortably aware that she lay in his own bed that he'd left for her, and yet…

"I hardly expected you." Her soft voice touched the heavy silence between them, and Matthew blinked as if startled.

"No, I… think you'd have been right not to, I hardly expected myself to…" He trailed off and shook his head, forcing his fingers back to his side and taking a small step into the room. A small step closer to her… His wife. His mind couldn't grasp the concept, it was all wrong, all skewed, not right.

Standing now in the middle of the room, Matthew lifted his shoulders into a gentle shrug and looked somehow lost. "I don't really know why I'm here," he said softly, more to himself than to Mary, his distracted gaze turned to the floor.

"Oh. And yet… here you are!" She said it lightly, in a vain attempt to allay the thick, almost cloying air that seemed to hang over them and between them. Her fingers stroked restlessly over the bedlinen, and she looked away from him, nervous.

"Yes." The air was so thick that it felt an effort to move in it. The gentle frown over Matthew's brow tightened into a grimace of confusion. To be in this room with her, to see her, made his heart sink and sting with regret. For everything this night should have been, and could not be. It was hard to breathe. Seeing her like this provoked simultaneous stirrings of desire and disgust, that he could not reconcile, and to even consciously acknowledge either hurt him in some deep, fundamental way. But despite it he couldn't bring himself to leave.

Feeling weak with regret and despair, he sank down onto the bed beside her, facing her, staring at her hand that rested near his knee. Mary fought the urge to withdraw it to her lap and waited. Matthew had come to her, and she felt instinctively that she must let him work out his purpose for himself, for whatever was in his mind was a closed mystery to her. Her breaths became shallower, and she watched him with wide eyes.

Silence reigned for a long time, though in truth it might only have been seconds. When Matthew finally broke it, his voice was barely a murmur. "I wanted to marry you so much," he breathed, the words heavy with sorrow. His frown deepened in some internal battle with himself, and he stared fixedly still at her hand.

"And now you have." Her reply was terribly quiet, terribly cautious.

"Not like this!" he hissed, and his fingers curled into a defiant fist on his knee. Mary drew in a sharp breath but remained outwardly composed, her only movement that of her left hand lifting unconsciously to cover her belly where her wedding ring glinted softly in the lamplight.

"We neither of us did, Matthew," she lowered her voice carefully to soothe him, and gradually he calmed, his shoulders stilling and breath quieting.

"I was going to ask you, you know." This was said almost more to himself than to her, as Matthew found himself lost in his internal world of what ifs and regrets and maybes. If only he'd accepted sooner how he felt, if only he'd have taken the chance, if only he hadn't reacted so stubbornly and priggishly to her rightful indignation and recognised it as such… How different this night might be, now. Instead, the circumstance of their marriage had been everything they'd despised and rejected, and now it was done and they were committed, forever. "Before we… had that stupid, stupid argument."

"Oh, Matthew…" Mary's heart stabbed as she remembered his expression getting off the train that day, so full of hope and adoration that had only angered her. The memory and her awareness now of her foolishness mocked her cruelly.

"Would it have made a difference?" He looked at her at last, suddenly earnest, his clouded blue eyes pleading with her as if he sought absolution of some kind. "If I'd have asked you then, if I hadn't have been so – damned proud. If I'd listened and hadn't gone with Edith, would you – still have –"

"Please, don't!" The plea wracked out in almost a sob as her husband's voice broke at the acknowledgment of her immorality. She couldn't bear him to take any blame upon himself and every fibre of her being ached with regret at not having given him the chance, of throwing her own life to ruin so rashly when she could've had… "It's done, Matthew, there's no use in – trying to excuse any of that now, certainly not for you to!"

"Oh, God," Matthew hissed through the threat of tears stinging his throat, as without warning he grasped Mary's hand and lowered his head, pressing his lips to the back of it and then his forehead. She gasped, her arm rigid with tension as she watched him shatter before her, his shoulders and back visibly shaking beneath the thick wool of his dressing gown. She could barely hear his repeated murmur over his ragged breaths, over and over, quietly, "I am… so, so sorry, Mary…"

Her eyes squeezed shut to block out the image of him so distressed; she felt inherently that she must hold herself together at least despite every inch of her crying out for release, to break apart in his arms and weep for everything they'd thrown away only she knew he would not take her. She settled for curling her fingers around his, tightly, cherishing the slight touch of his warm skin and knowing that it was all he bring himself to could give her.

They might have stayed like that all night… Matthew's hot, sweat-beaded forehead on her hand, sometimes his lips, trembling and sorrowful, their fingers curled desperately together. Her other hand had lifted some time ago to cover her face, as if it might shield her from the searing pain of it all. Eventually, perhaps inevitably, a quiet recklessness or courage overtook her. Matthew was here, and there had fostered between them a kind of honesty or intimacy in the darkness and the night. If she could not say it here, and now… then could she ever again? Would he ever come to her at night, after this night, with neither inclination or obligation?

She took her chance, and squeezed his fingers gently. "I meant it, you know," she said softly. He raised his head and her heart clenched at his red-rimmed eyes and innocently parted lips. The faintest of smiles touched her lips. "I do love you. I do, so… very much."

What reaction she had expected, she wasn't sure, but knew instantly that whatever she unconsciously might have hoped for was not to be fulfilled as he snapped away from her. His eyes hardened and he stood, and paced to the foot of the bed where he gripped the best post and sagged against it.

"How can I – possibly believe that now?" he whispered bitterly. War raged within him. Part of him wanted to believe her, so desperately, after everything and for all he knew she might… and yet he couldn't. For as much as she might love him, she might not, for there was no reason to believe that she did. He had saved her, materially and socially, secured her. She claimed to have asked nothing of him, but he knew (as she must have, if she knew him at all) that to marry her was the only answer he was capable of giving. She'd played his affections, taken another to her bed and then him and wrenched his devotion before falling upon his mercy when she needed it. And now they were in this miserable, impossible situation and for all he knew she could be doing it again. Playing him, reeling him in, to her own advantage. He had no idea and could not trust himself when it came to her.

He turned and looked at her with such deep sorrow that she was forced to bite her lip to hold back her sob. He shook his head, aching with regret. "I can't, however much… I might want to."

Mary's eyes closed in resignation, before one last, desperate burst of determination clung to her.

"Then let me show you!" she cried. He wanted to, that was a start, he had loved her… If only she could reclaim that, nurture it back from him, somehow… But Matthew, frustrated with himself and them both and overcome by bitterness at the mess of their relationship, snapped back in response.

"Like you showed him?" The harsh words cut across the thick air like a knife, wounding her, and though he knew he'd regret such coldness later he was too hurt himself to care. Hurt, and ashamed of himself, for having trusted his judgement so poorly.

Mary riled to anger herself in response, having tired of self-pity and having lost patience with Matthew's. Her hands balled into small fists wrapped tightly in the sheets surrounding her.

"For heaven's sake, Matthew! Must he resurrect himself between us to the end of our days? You can't possibly –"

"How can he not!" Matthew glared uncharitably, his body tensed in frustration. It wasn't as if he wanted things this way! Did she believe that it satisfied him, somehow, to be continually tortured with the memory of what she had done? His voice cracked despairingly. "I'd forget it all if I could but I – can't, not when – I must be reminded of it every day by the knowledge that it might be his child you carry! How can either of us forget it when that," he gestured inarticulately and furiously towards her abdomen, "is to be always between us?"

"Might be, Matthew – and very well might not!" A kind of protectiveness raged through her against him, for her child and his careless dismissal of it when it so very well could be his own, and she wanted it to be so dearly. He must understand that! Her knuckles where white where her fingers clenched around the sheets, as were Matthew's upon the bedpost. Torment raged in their expressions that was impossible to work out, it was all… impossible… She pleaded with him. "If you could only know how I –"

But he couldn't.

"I'm so sorry," he cut her off, in too much anguish to bear any justification she might be able to give. It would only torment him, would leave him wracked with doubts and struggling with a conflict that he couldn't even grasp within himself. "I wish I could believe you, I do, I'm… so sorry but…"

Shaking his head, he lowered his eyes from the image of her in his bed and walked quickly back to the connecting door that led back to the security of his dressing room. It was simply too much to bear, now.

"Matthew –"

"I'm sorry," he said again, his hand already on the door and his head lowered, his back to her. "Goodnight, Mary…"

And he left her, his heart aching as the door closed irrevocably between them and they each curled unseen into their separate beds, the remainder of their wedding night spent sleeplessly and tearfully and alone.

In the morning, a cold sort of formality settled over them to protect against the pain the intimacy of the night before had stung them with. They dressed separately, breakfasted together, and said very little.

They'd agreed to honeymoon in London, for convenience, and to allow a justified occupation of their time as seclusion would have proved unbearable. Mary was grateful beyond measure that Anna had been released to travel with them, who understood her condition and would not question her despondency when it rose its head beyond the limits of her usually unflappable coolness.

She spent much of the time reading, though her novels dissatisfied her in their foolish and troublesome depictions of love. Love, she'd come to realise, was cruel and unforgiving, and the daily reminders of her failings hurt terribly. Once she might have consoled herself with browsing the latest fashion lines, but the pleasure of this was soured by the knowledge that any gowns she might treat herself to now would be banished from daylight to the confines of her wardrobe in a short few months more.

The diversion of the evenings was little better, as Matthew took her out to dine or to the opera, where they could busy themselves with eating or watching and the bustle and chatter around them distracted them from the clamouring silence that would besiege them at Grantham House. But to see life and pleasure and drama around them only served as a painful reminder of how disappointing things had proved for themselves.

Matthew busied himself by acting the tourist, as while he'd had business in London on rare occasions the pleasures of the city were relatively new to him. He took advantage of his anonymity without Mary to visit museums and galleries in which he doubted she would have much interest, and in any case she was so tired at the moment. He wondered at the beauty he saw in them. But all of it paled in comparison to… her, he knew that, and it pained and frustrated him.

There was some part of Matthew that hated himself abominably. A part where the love he'd harboured could not be quashed or forgotten, and it stung him daily. The truth of it was, though, that he was ashamed of himself. He was ashamed of his inability to forget, or to forgive, and the latent desire that reared itself in him when he looked at his wife only mocked him when it just as quickly chilled with the memory of the Turk in her bed. Desire became inseparable from shame, and he hated himself for the wretched position it left him in, and what a failure of a husband he was.

When, on some mornings, he heard Mary's sickness through the thin walls of the bathroom, the reminder of the child and the complete lack of affection he felt towards it reproached him bitterly with sorrow. He felt as if he had failed himself, his family, Mary, the baby that he tried so hard not to think of… and the only way to ease the pain was to not let himself think of it. To distract himself, for Mary's sake as much as his own, he imagined. And so he withdrew himself from her, distanced himself, paid her the barest attentions and courtesies when they had to be together and took himself away from her when they did not. He told himself it was compassionate, to remove from her the reminder of his scorn and the fact that he could not accept her protestations of regret or affection. Mary could not understand this, of course; she could only assume that his utter lack of desire to be with her in any way was down to the distaste he must hold her in. But deep within herself she could not blame him for feeling so, and her pride was too great still to lower herself to beg anything more from him, however much his coldness hurt her.

Things carried on in this manner on their return to Downton. Mary had convinced Matthew that Anna should stay on with them, for discretion's sake, and he found it a blessing when the maid took care also of his bed in the dressing room. It was better that way, to ease the worry of questions; for Matthew didn't know how he could explain to anyone (even Molesley) why he could not sleep with his wife. He threw himself afresh into his work, claiming that he had much to catch up on after having lost time with wedding preparations and then their honeymoon. Mary faced a greater challenge, and was relieved when Isobel spent most of her days busy with occupation in the village, to save the prospect of uncomfortable afternoons with little to do or look forward to. Arranging and sending thank you cards for their wedding gifts mercifully occupied her for some time, and the rest then was spent visiting her mother, sisters or grandmother for tea.

This could not occupy her continually, though, and out of curiosity she accepted Isobel's invitation to accompany her on some occasions. After all, now that Mary's future as Countess was definite, she thought it as well to develop more active interests in the village, and it gave her business to talk about with her mother-in-law who did seem keen to befriend her. While Mary's inclination at first in self-protection was to resist this, it wasn't long before she decided it would be far preferable to have a friend in the house if her own husband could not be.

Meal-times, they quickly found, were the most difficult times. It was easier when they dined at the Abbey, as Matthew found comfort in his dealings with Robert and their discussions of the estate, and so he and Mary could relax their pretence of being blissful newlyweds for a while. At Crawley House it was more difficult, over breakfast and dinner, and they settled into an unspoken arrangement where most of their conversation was each directed at Isobel, which lent an illusion of inclusive chatter.

But an illusion was all it was. The distance forced and carefully maintained between them had quickly dulled their anguish into numbness, though it was still… terribly, terribly miserable. However accomplished their efforts were to be in the same room and get on with each other without either arguments or tears, they were not happy. Happiness was an illusion that simply could not be fabricated or pretended.

It was only a matter of weeks into their marriage that Isobel, devotedly watchful of both her son and his wife, began to realise this.

TBC

A/N: Thanks ever so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! I think this chapter may be the saddest thing I've written. Possibly. I'd love to know what you thought, and your feedback is tremendously appreciated! Thank you!