Mary was angry.
With herself: for showing her cracks and therefore appearing vulnerable. For her body's instinctive reaction.
With her father for only believing that men were the natural successor within the testosterone saturated industry. Even as she had spent more than the last six months trying to prove him wrong.
And more succinctly, with Matthew. For his existence. For the fact that her father had chosen him. For his boyishly good looks. For the ease of charm that radiated from his persona. For the fact that now her ship may steer another course and there may be the inevitable mutiny.
She was angry because she had liked him. And now he was her superior.
The meeting had predictably been efficient, but the tension between Mary and her father was not lost on Matthew, or the coldness of Mary's stare and her cold and crisp replies in relation to the running of the floor of the restaurant and their clientele.
Her understanding of the logistics behind manoeuvring staff, customers and integrating a fluid bar with a productive and high calibre kitchen marked her as a very hands-on Crawley. It may have been Violet Crawley's name on the plaque above the door, and Robert's continued work for years to get the restaurant to the level that it was today. Although, as Matthew watched Mary spit numbers and brief expectations, he was sure that she was the face of the company. And this admiration would neither be separated nor extricated from the fact that she had business panache as well.
Her beautiful angular face.
With the eyes that missed nothing.
An eyebrow that could discourage armies.
And a tongue that caused whiplash.
That's where he found her just before service started.
"Ethel, that is the second time this week that you have been late. I would highly suggest that you donate your tips for today to one of our charities. And if you decide that this job is beneath you and be even close to two minutes late at any point in the next month, I will be suggesting you find another employer that can cherish you more."
"Yes Ms Crawley." A chastised Ethel slinked off to polish the remainder of the cutlery needed for service.
"Do they all call you Ms Crawley?" Matthew ventured, curious but also playful. A hint of his tone from last night.
"Most. If this wasn't a family business, I would only be known as Ms Crawley. Only a few have the privilege of using my first name. Mainly those that I have worked with for years, or are friends with the family."
"What should I call you?"
"You can choose that." She purposefully angled her chin higher, and shot him a sidewise glance, indicating that being Ms Crawley to Matthew was preferable. "Although with both Edith and Sybil still under the same roof, it may become a little confusing."
"Mary, to start then."
"To start? And then what?" She scoffed at the thought that there could even be a beyond now.
"We'll see. Surely you have been in this industry long enough to know we all end up with nicknames. Usually it's something earned, and a rite of passage."
The flick of her head and the straightening of her shoulders told of her disapproval. She rounded on him then, before taking too many steps, to face him front on and challenged him.
"So what is yours Mr Crawley?"
Matthew laughed, a deep and hearty laugh, to fling her sharpness and her anger to the ceiling. Wanting in this moment to at least show her he didn't mind her vitriol or her jagged edges.
"That, my esteemed colleague is for you, and you alone to decide!"
His tone had not fallen on deaf ears, and his laughter found the weaknesses within her mending facade. She walked towards the bar with him hot on her heels knowing that with all the hours that they would be spending together here at Downton, she may not be able to keep up the walls of ice, as each time he smiled and his eyes found hers, the sun shone brighter and hotter and she wanted to melt just a little more.
"We have ten minutes until I open the doors and the dance of dinner begins. Are we ready?" Her voice carried through the naked space that would very soon be reaped and consumed by the night.
A chorus of assent came from all points as the smallness of the waiters in the cavernous room seemed only to be insects weaving and flighty through the maze of tables.
Mary stood at the end of the mahogany bar, one hand ready to throw down the gauntlet. She faced the open room, as Carson dimmed the lights, the first song of the night echoed through the hidden speakers, an audio queue that indeed this dance had begun.
Matthew watched her openly as he saw her transformed into the woman that he had only just met the night before. A black and white marbled statuesque form that commanded attention. Each breath that she took filled her chest and he read her pride. He saw the way her eyes combed the room, looking at details and searching for mistakes. He saw the coil that he recognised, bound within her core, tightening, and understood the unmistakable signs of excitement, adrenalin, and the inner pep-talk that happened just as service began, before the marathon that was dinner service.
This night was a test. Matthew's awakening to Downton and the Crawley beast that had a fierce reputation within the food industry. That was why Matthew found himself here. He was proud to have been hand-picked from a completely different city to join a restaurant and team unrivalled of excellence. Had he known that he would be coming in and unbeknownst stepping on toes of said family members he may have considered the position differently. Had he been sure that if he had declined, that Robert may have officially assigned Mary the position, he may have reconsidered.
He watched her in her element. Mary owned this space.
Greeting guests, checking table numbers, showing them across the floor. Her arms extended like a ballerinas', long and slow, with graceful fingers indicating direction. The way her body contorted and flexed as she moved around the guests at table. The flick of a large white napkin to lay across a lap, white like a flight of birds taking off. The presentation of menus, big black volumes to be read with eagerness and the gentle caress of her hand over leather that enfolded over their wine menu.
Those working on the floor moved silently and efficiently, creating a rhythm and flow that beat at the heart of each restaurant. The language of hospitality whispered across the backs of guests, over the tops of tables and flung across the room.
Matthew saw Mary talk her preferred language. A silent one. In contrast her elocution may be short and precise, but her body continually chatted, and spoke volumes.
Nevertheless he read her, understood her nuances, and started talking back.
It surprised her when he did. And a little piece of her actual self, danced in the deep recesses of her chest, as the pragmatic Ms Crawley balked at the fact that she had hoped he would be inept.
"Mineral water for table 26." He passed her the tray with the towering green bottle and the two glasses. The black tray tilting at a decided angle and with one less experienced the contents would have tipped off.
"Could you please get…." She didn't need to finish.
"…dessert menus for 42. On my way." Matthew brushed past her with the slightest whisper of space and strode to the waiters station, lifting the black folders without breaking stride.
Mary almost stood gaping as she realised that in less than three hours he had mastered the floor plan and table numbers and already looked like he belonged. She watched how he inconspicuously approached the table, presented the menus with a flourish and subsequently made jovial small talk without losing a sense of complete professionalism.
Thank god he was a quick learner. The thought of having to spend endless hours orientating and picking up after him was exhausting in of itself.
"Mr Crawley, here. One for you and a glass for Ms Crawley." Jimmy leant over the bar and pushed the tall wine glasses in Matthew's direction, immediately turning to finish breaking down the bar. He lifted them slowly; hesitant at what was obviously a knock off drink, but marvelling at the luscious red liquid and the expensive glass used- not for customers, but staff.
He approached Mary cautiously, not wanting to disturb her counting of the wads of bills in front of her as she jotted down the takings.
"Thank you," she almost whispered without taking her eyes off her task. Taking a seat at the linen free table, roughly askew from Mary, but in line enough to be able to look over the spread sheets and the nightly report that she was filling in. Numbers jumped out at him randomly, but those that did looked large enough to be impressive.
She punched the calculator with fierce determination, focusing enough at the job at hand, but also very aware of his close proximity.
"Not a bad night in the end. No records mind, but figures enough to keep Robert quiet and Granny from nipping at our heels!"
"You call him Robert?"
"It sounds better than calling Papa across the restaurant!" She huffed at the thought.
"I hope I was more help than hindrance?" His concern evident as he rubbed his eyes, although both knew that either way it did not matter as he was here whether or not he did well this first night.
Mary sat back in her chair, aching to pull off her shoes, and thoroughly enjoying finally being able to sit down.
"I'm sure that Carson would have gently coaxed you if you had stepped over his line of propriety."
"At this stage he has not said more than three word sentences to me all night, so I am unsure if I have displeased or surprised him."
"You must have passed the mettle, for you would know if you had not. Besides how do you think we get the good stuff for our knock off?" Her head tilted at their untouched glasses and a quiet smile hinted on her lips.
"Or would you prefer a beer, much like the rest of the staff?" Her eyes challenged him with a clear refinement of snobbery.
A chuckled threatened to escape the confinement of his chest as he lowered his eyes down in reading her unreserved distinction between the classes.
"Beer has it's time and place. Wine is for every occasion." He lamented as he expertly swirled the dark liquid around the glass, millimetres from spilling.
Her fingers played with the glass stem as the liquid begged to be tried. She lifted and vaguely saluted Matthew across the rim.
"To your first night at Downton. May they become easier as you will soon become accustomed to how we do things here?" She paused as she waited for Matthew to lift the glass wondering if she should congratulate him on surviving the cacophony of activity that goes on behind the smooth façade of the restaurant.
"To Matthew's first night!" Bates shouted from the other end of the bar, as a chorus of shouts echoed with bottles raised.
"If you can survive the Crawley's, you can survive hell or high water."
"Yes, thank you Thomas." Mary turned back to Matthew with smug acquiesce.
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Carson's voice resonated through the room bringing the frivolity back down to mumblings between the staff.
"It seems you have impressed the staff already?"
"There are but a few who I want to imprint my mark upon. I will no doubt still need to prove my worth for some time to come."
Her face gave nothing away, the cracks in her armour numb with the exertion from the dance at dinner. Thoughts beyond doing her duty pushed to the far recesses of her mind. But she looked at him now, and remembered how he affected her with walls down and the innocent feeling of being young and flirtatious. Not a good time to be thinking of flirting, when knock off time usually involved alcohol, and the dregs of adrenalin from a long shift.
They smiled shyly as they both swirled, plunging noses deep into the crystal taverns filled with wine, inhaling deeply. It was only Mary who took a tiny sip.
Matthew breathed in and out again as he spoke. "Nectar fit for the gods." He took a mouthful as Mary nodded in acknowledgement.
"Your words," as her chin playfully tipped to the sky, whilst contemplating her grand existence. Matthew caught the sparkle in her eyes, understanding her tease all the while appreciating that she had understood his.
"Ah, but you at this point may only perceive me as a monster here to steal your crown to rule this kingdom. I do not want to take what is rightfully yours Mary." She sighed at the loss of playfulness.
"What I want and what my father wants are two completely different vintages of wine. I like modern blends with hints of tradition. He on the other hand likes the wines stuck dusty in the cellar shelf for decades. I'm afraid you are going to have to bridge that gap."
She stood as she gathered money and papers from the table heading towards the hidden safe.
"Edith will be in tomorrow before service to give you a set of keys, go through the micros system, and codes for security. Then, Mr Crawley, the floor is yours." She had thrown her words at him over her shoulder, wanting in that moment to dismiss him from her domain, and ironically from her last hurrah.
The momentum of the night came into sharp focus and the edge of the end showed clearly with Mary's words. The feeling of tired deflation settled over Matthew, and he felt the stretch of future before him, and the mixture of longing and dread rippled under his skin.
He watched as the staff traipsed out calling their polite goodnights, and how Mary respectfully acknowledged each individually.
He shook Bates' hand as they left, but it was Anna who caught his sleeve as they passed.
"We may be an eclectic bunch, but we really do work well together. You'll soon get used to us." Her little smile definitive of her presence.
"I'm expected to fill big shoes, and yet I feel like it best to partner rather than wear those high heels! You all work fluidly as a team."
"No less so than she who pulls us all together. A heads up Mr Crawley, Ms Crawley may officially start work at 10am, but she is here just shy of peak hour." The look on Anna's face showed Matthew a kindness and the indication that she understood his reference, whilst he regarded her with gratitude at her shared information on the routines of Mary.
Two could tango, he thought as his eyes rested on the dedicated Mary.