A/N: Hello! I happened to have an update of this and so in the midst of vacation weekend with the fam, I am posting for your enjoyment. For Grace fans, I am sorry but there was no way for me to do the final chapter justice (it will be a long one) before my fam invaded. To the anon poster who hates everything about this story I say: if ya don't like it and it's so bad, don't read it. To EVERYONE else, no matter if you are pro Mack or anti Mack or pro Lavinia or anti Lavinia, your comments have been so thoughtful and have spurred me on to write even what I felt would be complicated chapters. I try to reply to all of you because you are all great and I am in the process of doing so...Please continue to tell me what you think. Constructive criticism is welcome always. You don't have to agree with me. In fact, don't. You are all darling and kind and I think you are great and all I can say is haters they gonna hate. 99.9% of you are supportive readers who spur me on. Thank you. Thanks to Faeyero, for her sound advice. All grammar mistakes are mine alone, however. :)

Chapter Five

Dear Mary,

I know you asked–demanded–that I not write to you. But I feel as if I must apologize for whatever I wrote in my previous letter. I am afraid I cannot recall what I eventually stuffed into an envelope, haphazardly addressed and stamped since frankly, I drank too much that night. I am ashamed to admit that I drank so much I do not know how I made it back to bed. Mother asked me the next morning why her address book was strewn on the desk. I don't remember posting the actual letter so Molesley must have seen it and done it in my stead. I do not want to make excuses. But you must allow me to explain–if I ever decide to post this letter.

Regardless of what was written, I can tell that it upset you and I am so very sorry. I wish I could apologize more specifically but I'm afraid I cannot. Whatever I said, I am sorry. Even as I write this letter, I do not know if I will send it since your wishes were perfectly clear in both your letter to me saying goodbye and your telegram. I can only imagine that my letter was fueled by anger and grief over your departure and much too much alcohol.

Still, I find myself asking: what does Mary really want?

You know, when I think consider the whole saga that is us, I realize I've spent years asking myself that question, seemingly every day since I met you. I know you so well–better than most, I would say–and yet you remain a mystery to me, just out of my reach, always out of my reach. Now, you are even farther away, in America.

I cannot imagine you being happy there, not after your comments over American sensibilities and your mother. I want you to be happy. I know that is true, even if there is so much I do not know. What do you really want, Mary? Name it and it's yours.

Since you left, it seems as if the world has changed and I do not know how to exist in this world, the new world without you in it. I should not send this letter. Because all through Lavinia's recovery and the wedding preparations, you were here but you were not within reach. You never allowed yourself to be alone with me. I remember trying to catch your eye so many times. Were you already planning a life without me? I know it's asinine–this letter, my words and thoughts–because I was planning a life without you. I was planning my life with Lavinia.

But you must know, what I told you during the time we danced (you must remember) remains true. I could not win. If I broke my promise to Lavinia, I would not be the man you know and (dare I say it?) love, supposing your granny's hypothesis is true and that our kiss meant something to you. Lavinia is good and loving. I love her. There was and remains no reason not to love her.

But my world is not the same without you in it. That is all I know. I'm sorry.

What do you really want, Mary? Name the terms.

Yours,

Matthew

Mary only reads Matthew's letter on accident, since feminine handwriting she does not recognize adorns the front. Her stomach rises and falls with each sentence and she must sit down as she goes dizzy, as soon as she recognizes the writing within. Her anger is something fierce and it eats at her belly, like some sort of acid, insidiously killing her from the inside out.

How dare he write her after she asked him not to do so twice? How dare he write her such an intimate letter? How dare he have feelings for her at all anymore when he is married? When he chose? It was always his choice! How dare he! And how dare he fantasize that their love was ever something to be nurtured, when all it ever did was hurt them–hurt her.

Mary knows a part of her still feels something for him. It is impossible not to. She never stopped loving him from the moment he rescinded his proposal at the garden party, perhaps before that. She spent years, loving him, praying for him, knowing they could never be together. She resigned herself to a marriage that did not include that kind of all consuming, selfless love she felt for Matthew–whether she married Sir Richard or some other man. It did not matter.

Of course, she remembered the dance. How could he even ask? It was and remains the sweetest and most painful moment of her life.

Then, he continued on the path to marry Lavinia and all that love that she held inside for all those years could not be repressed and shoved back inside her into a little box. Every day was an agony of its own.

As Anna took down her hair one night, Mary asked: Do you remember when I said that I don't have a heart?

Anna's hands comforted as she sought out pins and Mary's hair fell around her shoulders. I do, milady.

Well. She watched herself in the mirror as she broke. Well, it turns out that I do. And it's broken and I don't know if I will ever be able to pick up the pieces and mend it. Anna held her as she sobbed, rocking her, making soothing sounds.

Her decision to go to America at the wedding may have been rash. But it was also right. From the moment she dried her last tears over Matthew, she set her mind on mending that heart and somehow moving on. She could not live with these feelings anymore. Everyday, even in America, included a struggle to love Matthew a little less.

(His drunken letter, though hurtful, moved the process along quite rapidly.)

The thought that she might always feel something for him scares the life out of her as she sits at her vanity with his letter in her hands. She cannot afford the vulnerability. Allowing Matthew a portion of her heart is expensive; it is unaffordable. Though her feelings are no longer killing in their intensity, a small part of her, a part she wishes she could surgically remove, wants to keep the letter in a box somewhere so she can read it again later. And again. Just one more time. Again. Naturally, she tears the letters to shreds as soon as the impulse hits her because love for Matthew can never be nurtured again, and as the destroyed paper pieces float to the floor, like snow or ash, she hears her grandmother's voice: "Why, Mackenzie! It is so good to see you...Oh, for Mary? Why, let me go and find her. I'm sure she will be delighted to enjoy that ice cream in the garden."

He is properly attired this time and she finds herself surprisingly disappointed not to see his tan forearms though her mood is soured and if she is honest, sadness weighs heavily on her over Matthew's words.. As soon as they are left alone (well, as alone as they can be with Grandmother spying out the window), Mary bluntly asks, "What are you doing here?" Naturally, she decides, quite purposely, to take it out on him–every horrible feeling in her gut. Perhaps it will help her to feel better and if it does not help then he will leave her alone and she will not ruin his life. She does not want to be courted. She does not want to banter flirtatiously with any man.

She is trying to keep her head above water and live. All her energy, every morning goes towards that goal.

Mack smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I've brought you ice cream."

Everything about him is appealing and would be to any woman–his voice, his eyes, his smile, and his laugh. His dark eyes captivate and exude both confidence and fun; she understands why all the girls flock to him: Oh, Mack,what would you like to do? Mack, the ribbon's gone from my hair...Can you fix it? Mack. Oh, Mack. Mack, won't you...?

Mary is determined not to be charmed by him. "Mack," she retorts in a very different tone than all the other girls, folding her arms over her chest and sitting back in the chair as if she is a child.

His smile drops away. She is sad to see it go and yet she must continue to tread water and cannot afford distractions. Very seriously, he looks her in the eye, folding his hands on the table in front of him. "It occurred to me, having recently moved here, that you may not have many friends. I'd like to be one."

"That would be inappropriate," she snaps at him.

He quirks his head and changes the topic immediately, as if he finally gets a good look at her. "What's wrong?" he asks, peering at her. She looks away.

"Nothing, except that you are here and–"

"No," he shakes his head. "Something is wrong. Something that has nothing to do with me. Something that is hurting you."

"It's nothing," she repeats much more softly. "Nothing at all." Because that is what Matthew must be, what Mary is determined for him to be, even if she remains so far from achieving that goal.

"Someday, when we are better friends..." Mack's grin reappears as he opens the ice cream tub. "You can tell me about it. And I'll listen. Because that's what friends are for. Now eat your ice cream before it melts."

One night, after dinner, Lavinia finds Matthew frantically going through his things. The papers from his briefcase are strewn everywhere and he methodically opens each drawer of his desk.

She stands in the doorway. His wife stands in the doorway. "What are you looking for?" she asks softly.

He looks up, a bit of his hair falling in his face. She would like to touch him and push it back where it belongs and tell him that she loves him and ask, beg him to love her too. "Oh, nothing, darling. Nothing to be concerned over."

His smile is edged with sincerity and it scares Lavinia that the same man can look so genuine and write those words to Mary. "Are you looking for the telegram from Mary?" she asks patiently. "And the letter you wrote in response?"

Matthew stills and looks up at her. "Lavinia..." he begins cautiously.

"I sent the letter to her. I addressed it, stamped it, and posted it myself," she tells him levelly as his eyes widen. "I don't know what you wrote to her to procure such a strong response in that telegram but if nothing else, she deserved an apology." I deserve an apology. "And even though she asked you not to write in the first place–"

He blanches. "How do you know that?"

"I read her goodbye letter to you, the one you keep in the drawer by her bed," Lavinia replies. She looks for things now. She cannot afford not to. Mary's letter was startling in it's lack of sentiment. It made Lavinia, feeling Mary's sadness and desperate need to detach in each an every word, even as she defended Lavinia and the Crawley's marriage. Lavinia felt as if Mary handled things appropriately, correctly, and the stark contrast between Mary and Matthew's words only left Lavinia more confused and angry. For days she waited for the moment he realized the letter was gone. She waited.

"You've been in my things?" he replies angrily. "Invaded my privacy?"

"Matthew, I found the letter and the telegram by mistake but then...it made me think...and I do not wish to fight with you but I do not think you can be angry at me after I've read the words you wrote to her." She planned each word in the days she waited. Waited to speak. Waited to defend her shreds of respect.

"Lavinia..." He begins to walk towards her.

She holds up her hand. "I saw you, you know, dancing the night I became ill. I saw you embrace her. I saw you kiss her. And I heard what you said, that you had to marry me." Matthew stops in his tracks. He looks so confused, so sorry, like a little boy and it is so easy to want to comfort him. "But then when I was better, you looked me in the eye and said you wanted to marry me, that if you didn't, you didn't know what kind of man you would become, that I made you better and that you love me."

"That's true," he replies frantically. "That's all true. You must know that all of what I said was and remains true. You do make me better."

"Maybe," Lavinia whispers. "Maybe it is true. But a part of you is tied to Mary and I don't know what to do about it." A single tear leaves her eye and she feels weak. If Mary were confronting Matthew, she would never cry.

"Why would you send that letter?" he exclaims. "After knowing all this, why? I hadn't decided if I was going to send it."

She meets his eye. Her voice is the hardest he has ever heard it. "I may be gullible. I may be easily swayed. But, Matthew, I am not stupid. We both know that as soon as you put pen to paper you were going to send that letter." He leans heavily against his desk suddenly. He cannot stand properly. "Isn't that the problem when it comes to Mary? Isn't that why she went all the way to America? You just can't help yourself, can you?"

Lavinia turns and leaves him. Some small strange part of her feels as if she is fighting for both of them–Lavinia and Mary; they are the wronged parties. And in some strange way, she thinks Mary would be proud of her. Lavinia is hurt, of course. This is the first fight they've ever had and a part of Matthew she did not know existed was revealed to her in his letter. Yet, he is her husband. In his own way, he loves her. As she walks up the stairs, murmuring goodnight to Isobel, Lavinia tells herself marriage is long and time can heal even the most piercing, aching pains.

Later, on the verge of sleep, for one crazy moment, she envies Mary and her freedom to go to America. She tells herself that it's crazy, that Matthew married her, that she would be miserable without her. But yet she cannot deny that for a single second, she is jealous of Mary, not because Matthew feels so strongly for her, but because she is free.

Strawberry.

Chocolate.

Pistachio.

Butter Pecan.

Vanilla.

Sherbert.

Mint Chocolate Chip.

There are so many flavors of ice cream and Mary finds herself enjoying the coldness on her tongue, the roof of her mouth, her lips, as the freezing spoon enters, as she swallows Mack's family's ice cream. There are so many flavors of and twice a week Mary tries another. Twice a week, Mack arrives with a tub and over the cold and delicious bites, they talk as friends.

She continues to tread water. She keeps herself afloat. Sir Richard does not release the story yet but Mary knows he will. She waits and she treads.

It takes her a very long time–the whole summer–to realize just how much ate, how many times she tasted: Strawberry, Chocolate, Pistachio, Butter Pecan, Vanilla, Sherbert, and of course, the infamous Mint Chocolate Chip. For someone who did not like ice cream, she ate a lot of it, all through the summer, with Mack sitting across from her, making her laugh.

Mary keeps treading, gasping for breath with her head above water. The stakes are not so desperate now. It is not as hard to keep herself afloat. But she must always keep treading.

Perhaps this is why she does not realize that she looks forward to tasting ice cream until the leaves have turned and begun to fall from the trees and the staff is on the verge of beginning the process of closing up the house in Newport.

One day, she smells the upcoming arrival of autumn in the air and she realizes that while she has been treading, Mack has become her closest friend. All over ice cream.

A/N: PS...based on canon, I do not believe Matthew lied to Lavinia. If he had not married her, he would not be the man he is. He would have become, at least partly, the sullen and sad man that declared Mary cursed. Okay, enough of me. I am dying to know what you think!