A/N: Greetings! Here we are again. Thank you so much for your responses to the previous chapter - I'm overwhelmed, truly. I apologise for having not responded individually, I've spent three days marathoning Downton and thought I'd reward myself by cracking out this chapter, so I hope you'll forgive me :)

To those of you who were anticipating Isobel giving Matthew what-for, please know that I enjoyed writing this immensely... Thanks as ever to EOlivet for her enthusiasm, support and polish!

Enjoy..!

Chapter Thirteen

The heat of burning shame scorched through Matthew's veins, holding his heart still like ice as he registered the accusation and his mother's fierce, unyielding stare.

"What?" he choked, then leapt to his feet. His first instinct was defence, retaliation, sharp indignation at being called out so coldly and that his mother… knew… He stammered back, glaring into the fire, shaking. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't – understand."

Isobel rose to match him. "I know quite enough to understand, Matthew." Her voice bristled with anger as she saw his expression, fists, shoulders, all tighten. "I know that you allowed yourself to get carried away with your passions and take intimacy with Mary before you should have done. I know that you were stubborn when she argued with you, though she won't blame you for that now. I know that she responded foolishly by flirting with Mr. Pamuk, and what happened later that night. I know that you did the right thing by taking her as your wife when she told you of her pregnancy, as well you should have done. And I know that you are both suffering in misery from it all now."

She watched him wilt before her with hard eyes, unsympathetic of his plight under the weight of his own transgressions. For a moment, she wavered, grieving for the boy her son had been… but only for a moment. "I understand why you are hurt by it," she said, a little more gently. "And I do not blame you for… having been with her, however foolish it might have been. You loved her, and of course it is terrible to suspect that the child she carries was given by another man."

When Matthew at last turned to look at her, she had to pause to draw breath at his wide, pained, child-like eyes, thoroughly cowed by her tirade. His dear, distraught blue eyes, that seemed now the only thing she recognised of her son, a man worn and changed by guilt. How had she not seen this for so long?

Too hot by the fire, hot with his own shame, Matthew prised his fingers from their grip on the mantelpiece and paced to the window. The glass was cooler against his forehead, and he drew a shuddering breath.

"Mother… I'm so sorry," he whispered, his barely audible voice thick with regret.

"Don't be," she snapped back at him, steeling herself against his anguish. "I just said that I don't hold you to account for all that. But what I don't understand, Matthew, what I cannot understand and will not condone, is your despicable treatment of Mary since your marriage. You took her, for good or ill; you made your choice in her and now you must live with it. You are her husband, Matthew, and you are failing her and disappointing me. You can't carry on as you are."

His jaw flexed, and he flamed with indignation, stiffening at her disapproval.

"Don't lecture me, Mother! So you know the unhappy circumstance of my marriage, now, but how it goes on is none of your business!"

"It is every bit of my business while we all share the house under this roof and I must live with your insistence on punishing Mary for one evening's transgression, for which she could not be sorrier if you would only take the time to listen to her!"

Matthew glowered. "I'm not – punishing her! For God's sake, do you think me entirely heartless?"

Isobel's eyebrows shot up derisively, and Matthew sighed, seeming to sink into himself. He moved to the settee and sat down slowly, his brusqueness replaced with a more quiet sorrow. "I'm not – I don't – blame her, I'm not angry with her for what she did, whether you believe that or not."

"Well your actions hardly bear that –"

"Mother! I know… that it was my fault we argued. And if she thought she loved him –"

"Heavens, is that what you think?" Isobel gasped, incredulously. "Matthew, do you have any idea of what actually went on between them?"

"I know enough," he muttered coldly. What more did he need to know? Than that she had brought him to her bed, he had not forced her, their bodies together and naked and intimately joined in the shadows… It was enough. "I know that it happened willingly, and I have no desire for any more detail than that."

"Well, I think you should!"

"Why should I?" It angered him that his mother should claim more knowledge of Mary's intimacies than himself, that she should dare to tell him how to think about it. It was his love that had been shattered, his faith destroyed… But Isobel had no care and no patience for his self-pity.

"Because you do not understand it, and it was not what you think," she snapped, sitting down tersely and clenching her hands in her lap.

Matthew bristled angrily. "Enlighten me, then, because as I see it –"

"That," his mother cut him off sharply, "is a conversation you must have with your wife, and not with me. And whatever the truth of Mary's actions, that is done with and in the past, and it is your actions now that disappoint me, Matthew."

"I don't mean to punish her, Mother, I don't – mean to be cruel." He shifted, uncomfortable under his mother's reproachful gaze. Truthfully he was disappointed in himself, he just… didn't know how to deal with it. He'd sunk too far into his own pit of despair and could no longer find his way out.

"Well, you are being." Isobel watched him shrink into himself without pity. He'd had too much of that already, and mostly from himself, she knew. It was a trait she'd known in his father, when in the wrong, and she'd found quickly in both that softness was not the way to draw them from it. "Wrong she may have been, but are you going to hold it against her forever? Will you go the rest of your life without touching her, or showing her any affection, or even any interest? I know that you think you're saving the both of you from your pain, but you're wrong." Her eyes bored into his cheek that was turned away from her, his lips thinly pressed together and downturned. In the corner of her vision were his fingers, tight on the arm of the settee. Agitation simmered from him, his lips and fingers and shoulders, his very breath was tight. But she pressed unforgivingly on. "You married her, my dear, and you must live with her. Or do you wish for your child to grow up in this hateful atmosphere, without knowing love?"

The shift in focus made Matthew grimace.

"I… don't, of course not! I don't want the baby to suffer at all from our – stupidity, but – you know very well that it might not be my –"

"Oh, Matthew!" Losing patience, Isobel flung her hands in the air and fixed him with her most devastating frown. "If not yours then whose child shall it be? Tell me that!"

"Mother you know that –"

"Yes, Matthew, I understand the biological uncertainty, but that's beside the point now. I am asking you who that child's father will be. If the unfortunate babe comes with dark hair and an eastern complexion will Mr. Pamuk resurrect himself to care for it? Hmm?"

"No!" Matthew squirmed under her ferocity. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"Well, then!" She sat back triumphantly, but Matthew continued to frown at her. Really, she sighed, he was so sunk in his gloom that he could not see his nose for his face. "Who, Matthew? Tell me."

He pursed his lips for a moment, lost as he stared thoughtfully across the room into the depths of his own heart. Isobel smiled, as the stiffness of his posture suddenly eased, and when he turned she saw again in his eyes that flash of her boy, her son whom she loved so dearly. For a few, horrible hours, he'd been a stranger to her; she had not known him. She would never have imagined that her darling boy could take a lover, could drive himself to a situation where he felt forced to marry, that he could conceal so much from her. But he was her boy, he still was, no matter what he had done, and if only he could accept where he had brought himself and move on from there… then there was hope.

At last, he came back to himself. "Me, I… suppose," he said, in a small and painfully quiet voice.

It was a powerful realisation for Matthew, and one that he saw was long overdue. And it changed… everything. Not quite everything, but… nearly.

"Yes, my dear boy." She smiled, reached across and squeezed his hand. The contact stirred something deep within him and he startled. "You are Mary's husband, and you will be father to her child, and… you must start acting as such." Feeling exhausted from the strain of clearing the fog in his mind, she sighed, and pushed herself to her feet. She made as if to leave, but before she quite left she stopped, and kissed Matthew's head, closing her eyes and cherishing the scent and feel of his hair that was the same as it ever had been.

She straightened. "Now, I'm going up to change. Go and talk to your wife, please, and do listen to her as well. Such low spirits aren't good for her health, or the baby's, so… for all our sakes, Matthew. Please do try."

For the first time that evening, Matthew's expression turned from a dour, frustrated grimace to something softer, almost a smile but not quite. He blinked up at her.

"I will, Mother."

As she left the room he took a deep breath, and then a few moments later got up and took a brandy. He had to try. Try to… what? He wasn't even sure. To reclaim the closeness they had once shared, with all its wit and laughter and intimacy, seemed an impossible goal after all that had gone between them. He worried he had burned all their bridges. And still he could not shake the… insult, the rejection of what she had done with Pamuk, but… they were to have a child, and his mother was right. However poorly they had acted, the baby must not suffer for it. Of that, Matthew was sure.

Slowly, he went upstairs, one step, then another, each one calming him and strengthening his resolve, which was a blessed relief as he was still terribly, terribly unsure. Of himself, of the future, of everything.

The hesitant tap on the bedroom door shook Mary from her gentle slumber. She sat up quickly, worrying for how long she'd asleep, regretting the movement as soon as she'd made it. Pressing a hand to her lips, she swallowed, sat up against the pillows a little straighter, and coughed.

"Yes?" Her voice was weak and croaky from sleep, and she swallowed again. It must be Anna to enquire about dinner, but she wasn't sure she could eat a thing. She felt as though she'd slept for most of the day.

"It's me," Matthew hovered unsurely in the doorway, and Mary stiffened. "May I come in?"

"Of course you can." She refrained from reminding him that it was, after all, his bedroom and instead leaned to the bedside cabinet to light the lamp. Shadows flickered across her face, and she settled back, smoothing the covers nervously.

"Thank you." He came in, closed the door, and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. He seemed out of place, which in itself seemed somehow ridiculous, and he idly flexed his hands. "So, you told Mother…"

She drew a sharp breath, expecting his anger, but… his voice was softer than that, and an odd sort of smile touched his lips. She frowned, and pressed her lips together.

"I hope you'll forgive me, she's rather… tenacious, and I couldn't –"

"I know." He took another step closer, and Mary glanced anxiously at her hands. But, then… "I won't – forgive you, Mary, I should – thank you, really."

"What?" she gasped.

But he didn't answer her. He barely seemed to look at her, and she frowned gently as he came towards her. He made as if to perch on the bed beside her, but at the last minute re-crossed the room and fetched a chair, drawing it close to the bed and sitting down. His hand rested on the eiderdown, and her own fingers twitched reflexively in response.

Though she couldn't define it, he was changed, and her pulse fluttered in her throat. Tension still ached from his skin, but it was… different. It no longer seemed to bruise her, or shield him from her, it was not such a barrier but it was there nonetheless. She watched his hand as it moved, her entire arm tensing up to her shoulder in anticipation but… he reached past her hand, and rested his palm very gently upon her abdomen.

Mary's breath stopped in her throat, and she looked sharply at him for some indication of his mind, but there was only a gentle frown. His hand flexed gently, she felt it, and fought the urge to cover it with her own. His touch was… gentle, and so powerful that heat spread to her very toes; a warm, pleasant heat that made her heart feel full and tears spring to her eyes.

His touch had said it eloquently enough, as little as Mary understood his heart behind it.

"Your – baby…" he said, terribly quietly, almost reverently. And he looked at her, and she at him, and she swallowed nervously.

"Yes?"

Matthew looked down at his hand on Mary's belly, his lip quirking oddly. "It'll be mine, and… I'll be its father."

"Oh, Matthew…" she breathed. Regret stabbed in her heart, and she frowned. "You can't know –"

"I do." Still, he didn't look at her, and after a moment he shrugged gently. "I will have to be."

He shivered, withdrew his hand sharply, and the air between them felt cool. He stood up.

Mary watched him, across the room. She could barely think, she was transfixed by him, and whatever mental battle was going on in his mind. He was trying, she could feel it, and her body felt light with relief. Where his hand had rested now felt cold, bereft, and she rubbed her belly gently. Still flat, just about, still bearing her secret, and now just a little the shame that had covered it too began to lift. Just a little.

"Thank you," she said quietly, still watching him. "I know that you don't love me as you did but –"

"What happened?"

He turned, suddenly, looking conflicted. Standing fixedly at the foot of the bed, his face cast in shadows, he appeared like some figure of judgement looming over her, and Mary felt herself shrink back from him. He'd hated her, he'd been right to, she'd treated him abominably… She was so tired.

"What do you mean?" she asked wearily.

I mean –" He stopped, and swallowed, and she saw the skin of his throat shift with the movement. His lips pressed together, then parted, then pressed together again, and his eyes narrowed. Mary closed her eyes and sighed gently, concentrating on each breath (in time with his, she could hear them) until he spoke, his voice tight and laced with discomfort. "What happened. Between you, and… Pamuk. What did he do?"

Mary's eyes flew open to meet his, which were dark and troubled and strained.

"Matthew, you don't want to know that," she frowned. "It doesn't matter what happened, just that it did, you mustn't – trouble yourself over it."

"But it does trouble me!" His fist clenched agitatedly by his side, and his jaw tightened. "It troubles me very much, and I – need to know… please."

She looked away, unable to face him, torn with unease. Just when he was coming to terms with this, with her… must they relive that? She wanted nothing more than to forget it had ever happened, surely that was what he wanted too? She only wanted to bury it forever, deeply, irretrievably, in some dark pit that would match the blackness of that man's soul, where it could not touch or taint Matthew.

As if he could sense it, somehow, Matthew shifted forwards to lean against the bedpost beside him. The shadow lifted from his face, a little. "Mary, I can't – forget about it, I'm not sure I ever can, but – I think sometimes that my imagination makes it all a lot worse than perhaps it should. Will you – tell me, so that I know?" He smiled weakly, and shrugged. "Better the devil you know…"

"I suppose so," she nodded. Perhaps… this was her chance, her grace, her absolution, or – for her child, if not herself. Talking with Isobel, earlier, she'd begun to acknowledge what had happened with more perspective, though whether Matthew would see that, she wasn't sure. Even so, what could she lose? What little pride she had left would save her if Matthew would still reject her.

Taking a shallow breath, she twisted her wedding ring around her finger to calm her. "I know I was very wrong," she began carefully. "I flirted with him terribly but I never thought… I never meant – for anything more."

She laughed suddenly, and looked up at Matthew, her eyes bright with secret tears that matched his own. "It was stupid, really! I wanted you to see it. I thought you'd spent the day having a marvellous time with Edith and it was unfair, I wanted you – well, to be jealous. I wanted you to know that you weren't the only person I could have, but of course that's ridiculous when you were the only person I wanted. But I was angry, you see."

"I know you were," he said softly, and only a little bitterly. "And I got your message quite clearly."

Mary nodded. "Well, so did Mr. Pamuk, and he took it upon himself to come to me and have me as well. I don't know how he found my room, I hadn't – wanted him there, I certainly hadn't asked him and if I could've made him leave –"

"But I asked you!" Matthew exclaimed, frustrated, distraught. "I asked you if he forced you and you said –"

"Oh, Matthew, he didn't!" she cried, and pressed her palms against her cheeks, hoping they were cooler. They weren't. "I may not have wanted him there but once he was, I… didn't say no. I thought – it would be alright, how it had been with you, but – it wasn't at all." The damp path of her tears shone softly in the lamplight. "He wasn't – like you, he –"

"For pity's sake, stop!" His voice rang desperately out, and Mary pressed her lips together, staring into his narrowed, anguished eyes. "I don't need to – oh, God. Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered bitterly.

Her eyes closed, her voice shaking as she wept. "But it didn't matter, I'd done it, and – you were so angry –"

"Oh, Mary…" And then he was by her side, her small hand pressed between his palms, his thumb stroking, stroking, comforting… She cried harder, brushing her tears roughly away with her other hand. She was so tired of crying, of hurting, of feeling so much for so little, and her heart leapt at his touch.

For some time they were silent. Stilted, gasping breaths stirred the air, and still, his hand clasped hers.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispered, and then again and again. "I'm so sorry, I should never have –"

"Mary." His name left his lips, almost a caress, even in its firmness. "You – shouldn't have, no, but – neither should I have acted the way I did, and you know I'm sorry for that. And I don't know whether I can forget it, God knows I want to, I wish I could never think of it again but –"

"You can't, I know."

"Even so. I will… try. I've been blind and stupid and for that I'm sorry, truly. But I know what's important now is the future, and… I will try to do right by you. And – for you."

"Why?" She hardly deserved it, she thought, and though his hands still clasped hers warmly she couldn't quite fathom his change of heart. What she had done had not changed, nor the pain it gave him.

He was quite a moment. Then at last, he said, "For our baby. Because… it must not suffer for our trouble." That was it, for the moment, he couldn't think of… more.

Mary nodded, the light squeeze of her hand showing her thanks. She almost missed Matthew's quiet request, the words echoing a memory from what felt like a lifetime ago, though it could only have been months. "Do you think," he whispered, "that… we could just try to be friends again?"

Slowly, breathlessly, she nodded. And he kissed her hand, a gentle and wordless promise. It wouldn't be easy, and heaven knew he wasn't sure that he would ever get past the assault of his imagination, even knowing the truth of it; it had still… happened. And perhaps the reality was even crueller. But… he was damn well going to try.

TBC

A/N: There we are! They're certainly not over the hill, yet, but they're getting up it. And I realise that was a very odd analogy... Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed it! And of course I'm curious as ever to know what you thought. Thank you so much for reading! :)