A/N: Thanks for all the encouragement to continue this. I just need a brief break after finishing Grace. Thank you anyone who nominated me for the Highclere awards. I encourage you to go check them out because I'm just excited for the great reading lists to get through. And if you'd like vote for what you think is best in each category. I just want to thank you all for the support in general. (As an aside, a Grace short story should be coming soon!) As for this chapter. Edna St. Vincent Millay is one of my favorite poets and the title of this story–A Girl You Knew–comes from one of her poems. Lucky for me, one of her books "A Few Figs from Thistles," where that poem comes from, was published in 1920 which fit in perfectly for the story's timeline. Lucky me. Also, dear old Edna was a bit controversial for her time. ***The Author's Note at the bottom has been updated.

Chapter Nine

Mary realizes she is in danger too late. It reminds her of the first jump she took on an old horse, Ace of Hearts. Ironically, Ace was past the age of jumping and according to Mary's father, Mary was too young. But of course, Mary thought she knew better; that is until, mid-air, she realized she over estimated the old horse's momentum and was leaning forward too far in the saddle. She knew she would fall from Ace yet she could do nothing to stop it. She may have recognized the danger but it was much too late to avoid it.

Somehow, things with Mack become like that in mere seconds. One moment, she is excited, directing the horse towards the convenient fallen branch, so proud of her handling of the animal; the next moment she knows her father was right. It was too dangerous. But it is too late with Mack, too.

They are saying goodbye–Grandmother and Mary–after Christmas dinner. The Banks-Duncan family have taken them under their proverbial wing, inviting the Crawley/Levinson women to Thanksgiving and Christmas and dinners in between. Grandmother, who never took an interest in Mary's social life before, suddenly seemed keen on all the invites. Of course, all of this would make sense later, once she was mid-air, preparing to fall. But now On Christmas, she is happy, content. She does not have to struggle to keep afloat anymore. She has come to terms with her life. She never lets herself think his name. At first it took so much practice, but now it is as if he never existed. Maybe it is something she tells herself but it is his true: his name is gone from the halls of her memory.

Instead, Mary finds she likes the Banks-Duncan family. They are much like their son, Mackenzie, funny and open. They wear their smiles genuinely. They touch one another–on the shoulder, the back of the hand; their affection for one another is palpable and there is a certain joy they find in spending time with one another that even cynical Mary cannot make fun of. She likes them, the same way she likes Mack, mostly against her will, while they explain the tradition of Thanksgiving to her and she demurs that no, her American mother never told her about the tradition of going round the table and announcing what a person is thankful for, without adding that she never cared to learn her mother's American traditions. Mary listened to each person, her heart beating with panic. Mack's mother is thankful for her two children and her husband and their health. Mother, Mack's sister interrupts from across the table, that's more than one thing! Her mother only smiles and shrugs her shoulders, looking at her husband with adoration: then I am very lucky, aren't I? Mack's grandfather, Mary's (secret) favorite, is thankful for ice cream and his daughter, Mack's mother, clucked under her tongue because isn't that the same as being thankful for money? So what if it is, the old man replied. Mack is thankful for new friends. Everyone was silent at that. And then it was Mary's turn.

She cleared her throat. "I'm thankful," she began slowly, completely uncertain as to how she would finish the sentence, "for a fresh start."

It's one of the truest things she has said in a long while so no, that was not the moment where she realized there was danger ahead. It wasn't at the countless dinners at Mack's family's home or even Christmas dinner, either. It's just as she is walking outside, Grandmother already in the car. It's sleeting, half rain, half snow so she is surprised when Mack calls out her name. "Mary Jo!"

She turns, slipping on the sidewalk so he has to catch her arm. She is so clumsy in America. "Yes?" she laughs because there is a rainy mist wetting her face as she looks up at him.

"You forgot something," he tells her and then hands her a package.

It's a present.

Friends do not give each other presents.

He knows this.

She knows this.

So this is the moment, mid-flight, where she realizes: I won't end this jump still on the horse; I'm about to crash to the ground. "Mackenzie," she murmurs. Her gloved hands refuse to reach for it.

"Please," he asks and there is water in his hair, darkening it. He has no coat. He must be freezing. "Take it."

"But," she stutters. "I didn't get you anything."

Of course she didn't get him anything. It would be inappropriate.

He grins, but only one side of his mouth rises and only one dimple appears. He is uncertain. He is nervous. She aches to soothe him, because they are friends. "You said you like your poetry honest. I saw this and thought of you. All right?"

Mary reaches for the package and both of their hands hold on to it for a moment. " All right," she agrees. "Thanks. And Happy Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." It's so awkward, as if his body is stuttering as he leans forward towards her. He must rethink the action two or three times in the few seconds it takes to gently take her arms above the elbows and press a chilled kiss to her wet cheek. "Merry Christmas," he murmurs again, near her ear, his face turned slightly towards her, his nose brushing her cheek.

She nods then walks to the car.

Oh, this is so dangerous.

She forces herself to wait a day to open it. It is a book of poetry, as he said, by an American writer she's never heard of–Edna St. Vincent Millay. She opens the front cover, partly expecting, partly hoping, partly dreading an inscription from Mack but there is nothing but crisp white pages waiting to be turned and the title of the collection, A Few Figs from Thistles.

She starts to read the first poem: The Philosopher.

And what are you that, wanting you,

I should be kept awake

As many nights as there are days

With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,

As many days as crawl

I should be listening to the wind

And looking at the wall.

She is crying. She can hardly read through her tears but she cannot stop reading the poem because it is exactly as Mack said it would be: honest. So honest. Too honest. She only knows she must finish the poem, this poem that this Edna St. Vincent Millay woman must have pulled out from Mary's chest with bloodied hands filled with gore.

I know a man that's a braver man

And twenty men as kind,

And what are you, that you should be

The one man on my mind?

Yet women's ways are witless ways,

As any sage will tell,–

And what am I, that I should love

So wisely and so well?

When she finishes the poem, she reads it again. And then a third time. His name comes back to her, words to a song long forgotten. Matthew. How sad they made one another. The ache. She is surprised to also think of Mack, who is only her friend. He must only be her friend. It would kill her if she ever ached for Mack as she had with Matthew.

She keeps reading more poems. She does not stop for a long while.

Mack rings to invite her to his family's New Year's Eve party. Mary knows this because he said he would and Mack always does what he says he will. He is a good friend like that. But his whispered Merry Christmas and kiss to the cheek make her think of danger while his beautiful book filled with gorgeous poetry reminds her of all that she has to lose.

"Please tell him I am indisposed," Mary tells Grandmother's butler.

What she wants to tell him is that he is a risking his heart and she refuses to risk hers along with him. She can only be that foolish once.

She does not go to the party. She sends a card to his mother with her regrets. She lies and says she has come down with something but on New Year's Day the butler informs her that Mr. Mackenzie is in the foyer and seems quite upset.

The butler is not wrong. It is raining again and the collar of his suit, the part his coat could not hide, is wet and his hair is sopping so she knows he forgot a hat. He is pacing. When she stops on the last step, her hand on the banister, he looks at her as if stricken. "Mary."

"I'm sorry I missed all the fun last night," she replies calmly. Words unbidden come to her mind: Women's ways are witless ways..."I wasn't feeling–"

"I have to speak to you," he declares. "Alone, if possible."

"Mack," she murmurs, touching her throat.

I can't.

I can't.

He reads her thoughts. He knows her so well. "It's not what you think." She trusts him. He won't talk of feelings but at the same time he does not say he doesn't have any.

"Alright." And they walk very politely to the sitting room.

"You remember Emily?" he asks quickly, as if he wants this to be over.

She gives him a wry smile. "The girl who told everyone about my past? At that wedding this fall? Hard to forget that."

He folds his hands, his elbows on his knees. He won't meet her eyes. "I should have told you this a long time ago. I've been trying to get up the courage now for a long time."

"Mack..." Mary starts with panic in her voice.

His words sound strangled. "I told you I wouldn't talk about that." He means his feelings for her. They both know this but she ignores it. "I keep my word. You know that."

She swallows. "I do."

"Before I–" He shuts his eyes. "I have to...I can't before I–"

"Mack," she murmurs, moving to sit next to him. There is distance between them still but she can't bear to see him so worried, in so much pain. She is used to his laughter and gaiety. He has buoyed her up for months; the least she can do is the same for him. "Whatever it is, it's all right."

His voice is wry. "So long as I keep certain feelings to myself."

Her mouth is dry but she is firm. Women's ways are witless ways. "So long as."

He blurts it out. He must. "Emily and I have a history. And people would have told you sooner–everyone knows but they would prefer not to look out for you. They'd prefer to see you fall from grace and not tell you so I have to be the one to tell you...about this horrible thing I've done. Because you're my–you deserve to know."

She touches his hand. "You know all my secrets and you've never judged me."

He takes a deep breath, soothed at least a little. "Thanks for that. Maybe my own secrets made it easy to hear yours. But I don't know what you'll think after you hear. Last summer, I got her–Emily–pregnant." His words hang in the air. "I–I liked girls, women, but I didn't like to be tied down. And then she tells me she is pregnant." Mary removes her hand out of shock but he is too lost in the story he is forcing himself to tell. "She thought about seeing someone for...but she was afraid and I was too. We told our families and I asked her to marry me. It was all kept very quiet. I wasn't excited. I didn't like her. I didn't want to be tied down either. But I'd made my bed and I had to live with the responsibilities."

"You are a good man," Mary intones. His honesty doesn't make her wince as it would have months ago. No one, in her entire life, has ever spoken to her as open as Mack always has.

"I'm not done, Mary." He won't look at her. "I don't know if there ever was a baby or if she lost it. Either way, there wasn't a baby anymore but in the mean time, people found out. I could never be sure but I think Emily was the one who started the telling, another way of trapping me. But there wasn't a baby anymore. I didn't have to marry her anymore. I didn't want to. I knew I would make a bad husband." He shrugged. "What my parents have...I didn't think I was capable of it, especially with her. And I still liked girls." He laughs unkindly at himself. "So I broke off the engagement. It was a huge scandal. I'd gone back on my word. I embarrassed her and her family and my own. People said I forced her to have...to have one of those ghastly surgeries but that wasn't true. Emily expected me to continue to fall in line, to go through with it. The wedding."

"But you didn't," Mary whispered.

"No," he replied. "I didn't. She spent this summer in Europe to ride out the scandal–"

"And you spent the summer with me."

"Mary, no! It wasn't like that. Don't you see why I am telling you this, why you have to know–"

She interrupts him. "Your promised."

"You're right," he nods with sad eyes that make her want to wrap her arms around him. Of course, she cannot. "You're the best friend I've ever had. The only girl I ever...You told me secrets and now you know mine. And you know why Emily was particularly vicious towards you at the wedding."

She is quiet for a moment, then two. I know a man that's a braver man...She takes Mack's hand again and he turns his palm so they link fingers. "I don't think of you differently, if that's what you want to know. And...you're my best friend too." She pauses. "I think–I don't know for sure but...I think it was very courageous that you didn't marry her. It would have been easy to have done."

He laughs as if he is being strangled. "Not for me."

She peers at him. Is she seeing him for the first time? Or has she just stopped lying to herself? "Exactly."

She can't stop reading. The words are honest and beautiful and true. They hurt and wound her and then then they heal her all in one sitting. For so long, she has tried to be numb, to forget people's names, to forget a certain dance, to not feel anything and now she is feeling so much. She goes through each poem slowly, reading them again and again. This Edna woman is a doctor dissecting Mary's heart. It is difficult and exacting work.

In between reading, she sees Mack and his family. They laugh. He does not talk about the things which scare her.

There was no inscription scrawled inside the book, no secret message. But then one morning, she finds his secret message and she sets down her tea and drops her feet from the bed to the floor (no one cares that she is single if she wants to eat breakfast in bed). The poem is untitled and it feels like a metaphor since they are very much untitled. There are no titles for what they are to one another.

I think I should have loved you presently,

And given in earnest words I flung in jest;

And lifted honest eyes for you to see,

And caught your hand against my cheek and breast,

And all my pretty follies flung aside

That won you to me, and beneath your gaze

Naked of reticence and shorn of pride

Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.

I, that had been to you, had you remained,

But one more waking from a recurrent dream,

Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained,

And walk your memory's halls austere, supreme,

A ghost in marble of a girl you knew

Who would have loved you in a day or two.

Someone has underlined the last line, hesitantly, unevenly. Someone has written: I will wait for you as long you need.

And suddenly Mary is moving, moving, moving. Not staying afloat but moving. She calls for her maid. She is in quite a rush.

A/N: Up until now, Mary and Matthew have been on paths *away* from one another. Now we begin to go back the way we came...Updated to add this: It is supposed to be completely unclear what or who is Mary's next move in this chapter. I hope after reading it you can see that it can be read multiple ways. When I say M and Matthew will be journeying towards one another, I DO NOT mean that Mary is dropping Mack. I just mean that you will soon be seeing M and M in scenes together again. Sorry for the confusion. Can't say more without giving it away.