A/N: You guyssssssss! It's shocking I know and I was going to hold off posting this until the next chapter was ready so those two can be posted together. But then, I finished this. And literally, I have never withheld a chapter before. I don't have the patience for it (hence the erratic posting schedule). And I guess, I still have no patience. Also, I felt like I kind of killed a lot of readers with the last chapter and to leave them in such a state when I had this ready would be cruel. Onward to the next, part/phase of the story. Thanks to LaLa Kate for the pre-read and her thoughts! This chapter is dedicated to PiperHolmes for reasons. For reasons and reasons.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Mary leaves Downton Abbey without the approval of anyone, from the obvious Mama and Papa and Granny, to the silent, glowering, refusing to beg Matthew, to the surprising Isobel. She does not expect support; her family never quite understood the word. But the intensity of their reaction, as if she is choosing to hurt them, does surprise her. Can't they see she is breaking apart and pieces of herself are slipping out of her fingers and she must do something, anything to remain whole?

Don't they want her whole?

She thinks about the first time she left, so broken and bare, but with a whisper of hope, as if leaving for America was her last chance at happiness, her last chance to reach out and grab something that was hers. She wouldn't be a player in the Matthew, Mary, Lavinia drama any longer. He chose Lavinia and Mary chose America and at the time, Mary felt as if she were drowning, and then Mack found her, beneath the trees and taught her to smile again.

Going back now, she feels twice beaten. Though she does not want to admit it, and only does so in the middle of the night, when Matthew married Lavinia, something inside of Mary broke. She thought Mack fixed it with his ice cream and his hands on her face and calling her Mary Jo. He pieced her back together and now that he is gone, pieces of her, whole chunks really, are tumbling down around her. She wakes in the middle of the night afraid her skin is peeling off her face. She feels as if a horse ran her down not once, but twice and circles mark themselves beneath her eyes because she cannot rest until she leaves Downton and is in New York.

If only she gets to New York. In New York, she will be able to put herself back together again.

Most of the horrible night with Matthew is lost in a haze of champagne. Or not lost exactly but hidden behind a curtain of alcohol. Most of the time, she is able to leave the veil down and ignore the muddy guilt, the look on Matthew's face as he asked her not to go, how harshly she shouted at him, how hard she tried to seduce him. And mostly how humiliating the whole experience was–from the decision to get drunk and loose herself in the old comfort of Matthew to her tantrum when things did not go her way.

She averts her eyes if they pass one another. They do not speak at dinners, even if they are seated next to one another. It's very strange to realize there is literally nothing left to say to one another; they have said it all and done it all; they have hurt one another in every single possible way; they have both seen the ugliest sides of one another. Best to leave the whole thing alone.

But Isobel corners her in town, after she sends one of many telegrams to Mackenzie's family. She is trying with all her heart to stop thinking of them in such terms, to call them her family, or even the Banks-Duncans, when she feels a hand at her elbow and an extremely agitated Isobel coming around to face her.

"Please." Isobel presses her lips together. "Please don't do this. I know you think it will help you and maybe it will, but you can't know, you don't understand, what it will do to him, what it did do to him when you left before."

Mary squints into the sun. It warms her face. She should feel something, shouldn't she? As Isobel pleads her son's case? But she doesn't. There is nothing left to feel. "Are we discussing Matthew?"

Isobel only sighs. "Yes, but of course we are discussing Matthew."

Mary hums in the back of her throat. "I am perplexed as to why that would be the case. I am leaving for America to live with my husband's family. What that has to do with Matthew..." She smiles. Recently she learned, no matter how angry she is, it is often easier to smile, to wave, to float up to her room and rage there, alone. She wants easy. She wants whatever will get her to New York faster. "I can't understand."

"You didn't see him after you left last time." Isobel, wrongly, decides to reach for Mary's hand hoping for benevolence.

"I'm surprised by you, Cousin Isobel," Mary demurs, while she backs away. "Rewriting history this way." He chose Lavinia. He chose. He chose. And now, I choose. I finally get to choose!

Isobel shakes her head. "You are right. I'm just...I'm worried about my boy."

Mary takes another step back and tilts her head slightly with what she hopes is a look of compassion. She must fake it because she certainly doesn't feel it. She is empty. So very empty. She thinks of Mack's mother, calling Mackenzie her sunshine boy. "As a widow yourself, Cousin Isobel, you must understand that I cannot worry about your boy. I am only trying to put my life back together again. My husband died."

Isobel closes her eyes and shakes her head. "Mary, you've changed." She pauses and Mary shifts her weight from one foot to another. Perhaps she can feel something; perhaps there is a light layer of guilt coating the bones in her back but she cannot carry both grief and guilt. She just cannot. "I remember when he came back, injured from the front. I remember, even if he never knew, how you cared for him until he woke up, what your face looked like, how you loved–"

"Please," Mary murmurs. "My husband died two months ago. I am going to stay with his family in New York. There is nothing more to say."

In recent days, this is Mary's mantra: My husband is dead. Dead. I am going to stay with his family in New York. I am going to New York to my husband's family in New York. In New York, I am going to my husband's family. I am going...

Isobel's eyes peer at Mary as if she is seeking something. "Yes, I suppose you are right. There is nothing more to say."

Of course, in the middle of the night, throwing off her blankets in the heat, she can admit her fears. What if something happens to Granny while she is away? She knows Violet is using her age and health as a bartering tool, but it does its job, as Granny's schemes normally do. What if something does happen to Granny?

But then Mack's dimples weave their way into her mind, Peter Pan, the forever boy. She cannot make sense of his death. Why him instead of her? Why either of them at their age? Just as they were on the brink of starting a family of their own? Why did she marry him in the first place if the marriage would be but a breath in time? Her glumness turns to pity as she rubs her tired eyes like a little girl. She does not like to feel sorry for herself but she does. Oh, she does.

My husband is dead. Dead. I am going to stay with his family in New York. I am going to New York to my husband's family in New York. In New York, I am going to my husband's family.

She misses Mackenzie so badly. She misses being held so she wraps her arms around herself but it is not the same. It is not the same but maybe in New York it will be, maybe it can be. Maybe if she goes to New York, Mary Jo will return instead of the bitter woman screaming at Matthew to leave her room. It's not only a matter of survival. It's a matter of what kind of Mary survives.

She doesn't like the woman she is here, the woman she is becoming. She snaps. She seethes. She squeezes her hands until her nails make her palms bleed. She cannot bring herself to feel compassion or empathy for anyone. She agrees with the poem Dirge without Music–the best parts of Mackenzie are gone forever. But no one told her the best parts of her would disintegrate too. She cannot bear to be this person. She must recover some of what was lost.

There is so little good left in her but that good would like to explain this to Mama, Papa, Granny, Isobel, and most especially Matthew. But she cannot explain it to anyone, not even herself: I am turning ugly from the inside out.

She cannot be here. When Mackenzie died, everything changed. Her lungs no longer work the same; they cannot breathe the air in this place. She must get out. She is holding her breath, turning red in the face.

She does not save a goodbye for Matthew. She thinks the scene in her bedroom, while mortifying, is the correct end to the mess of Matthew and Mary. No ending of theirs should be neat and polite. She does not spare him a glance at her last dinner at Downton. She does not expect him to ask her to stay again. He does not expect her to stay. It's over. It's beyond over. She didn't think it could be more over than when they were both married to other people but she was wrong. It's almost funny.

But of course, it isn't funny at all.

She flees and for the first time she does not care at all if she looks like a coward. She holds onto this word: self preservation. She clings to it.

I must preserve myself.

Dear Mary,

I know you received the telegram but now I can fill in details. Tom said he "almost pissed himself" when the doctor came out to tell him that the reason I went into such early labor and the reason I was as large as a whale was because there was two babies in there. My husband is so very poetic, isn't he? And a writer too! Hah. But it's hard not to love him. I found it impossible.

"Seriously, Sybil," he told me later, holding each of his girls in his arms with a grin so big it nearly split his face, "I think I almost died with shock."

Of course, I gave him the worst time. "You almost died with shock? They were coming out of me!"

He kissed each of their downy heads. "Two for one. It's the deal of the century, don't you think?"

I think Tom was meant to be a father. I think some men just are more inclined to it. Not that I don't love Papa, I do. And it isn't that he wasn't good to the three of us, he was. But every single day, I see such joy in Tom as he wrestles Dec into his pajamas. He does this baby voice when he talks to the girls. God, he would kill me if he knew I told you that. I've already heard him refer to each of them as princess while they cooed at him. God, the man goes mooney over Crawley women.

Catherine Cora Branson and Abigail Anne Branson. Did he tell you in the telegram? Probably not. He was in a bit of a state.

"Look it's the ABCs," Tom said and I almost hit him in the face because it took us so long to decide on, not just one name, but two (you know how we are together).

They'll be Cate and Abby, of course. And don't tell Mama, but Tom said the only reason he agreed to Cora as the middle name was because it was my middle name and my mother could think we named the baby after her all she liked but the baby was named for me. I told him, in that case, then Abby's middle name wasn't for his mam but for Anne Brontë, the writer of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, one of my favorite novels. And then I asked if he would like to break the news to his mother and he turned white and buggy eyed even though he knew I was joking. But of course later, he woke me up to say that everyone knows his mother's name is Mary Anne (though she goes only by Anne) and if I think I can hold this over his head to get him to do things for me, I've got the wrong idea.

I smacked him in the face with a pillow. Anyone with eyes knows that I don't need any bargaining tools to get him to do things for me. And anyone with a brain knows not to wake a new mother from sleep!

You know how we are together.

We've only just arrived home, honestly. I haven't even written Mama. I wanted you to be the first. I am so exhausted I can barely read the words I write but I know you'll kill me if I don't include some details about your nieces. While Declan looks exactly like his Da, these girls are Crawley through and through. I imagine Granny and Mama fainting at the sight of them. Also, Papa might have to leave the room and have a manly cry over cigars and port.

Tom just read that over my shoulder and laughed. I must be going a bit insane from the lack of sleep. One sleeps, one eats. And back and forth until I would fall on my knees for two hours of uninterrupted sleep. Fall. On. My. Knees. I don't know how I will handle the three of them. I can't even think of that. I will go insane.

Mary, I hope you are doing as well as you say you are in your letters. It makes me happy to know it. I can hardly believe it's been eight months since you lost Mack. I wish, oh, I wish so badly I could do something, anything to make it better. At the same time, your letters clearly show that you are endeavoring to make it better for yourself, on your own, (so much like the Mary I know and love) and I won't fault you. I will cheer you on. Go, Auntie Mary, go!

Come to see us soon.

With so much Love,

Sybil, Tom, Dec, Cate, & Abby

She falls in love with New York. It comes about unexpectedly, starting in the autumn and continuing through the winter. She sleeps. She reads. She eats Grandpop's bitter lemon drops until her cheeks feel hollowed out. She sometimes winds her way into Mack's childhood room and just sits, as if his presence might saturate her there. She stops doing that after awhile, though. It hurts too much.

She learns to laugh without feeling guilty. The first time it happens, she is eating with his family and she looks up so quickly but no one is leveling her with a withering gaze. Everyone else is laughing too. She imagines Mack likes this, all of them laughing together. For the first time, she feels a bit of warmth spreading through her chest.

She retraces their steps across the city but then she creates her own trails. She tries to take an interest in the ice cream business but it turns out that ice cream isn't much fun without Mack. She helps Mack's sister ready for her coming out ball and her heart clenches in her chest because she knows how quickly the time goes. Before she knows it, Cate and Abby will be this age. She's never held them and her arms long for them all the same.

She never knew how badly she wanted children until after Mack died. Even now, she aches to be a mother (it's shocking still, to know this about herself) but she would have to marry again and she will never enter such an enterprise again.

There is too much to lose.

Before they all know it, Mack is gone for one year. Mary doesn't cry. She takes a walk and lifts her face into the sunshine. She wonders if he sees her, the sunshine boy, and if he is proud. She spends the day reading poetry in silence. She falls asleep and wakes up and the anniversary of Mack's death is over. It is just another day in New York.

A few weeks later, she opens the most peculiar letter from Paris.

Dear Mary,

You are probably surprised to hear from me but I needed to write to you. I just found out about Mackenzie from Isobel. We only recently began to exchange a few letters here and there. I am so sorry to hear about your loss. I cannot imagine how you must feel.

It's been a year, she writes, so it must be strange to hear such condolences now. I hope you are well and happy in New York.

I am living in Paris. I quite like it. I like the independence. I have a little dog named Jacque.

You don't want all the details, I'm sure. And I am also sure that you loved your husband deeply and completely. I have no idea at all where you are in the grieving process but I just–

I cannot help but share this. After the dust settled and I felt whole again, I realized I was only an intruder on your story with Matthew. I always knew he loved you. But after hating him for so long, I want him to be happy. Truly, I do. Bitterness is such an ugly thing to carry around, and heavy at that. But back to Matthew being happy. With all my heart, I am convinced that you are the only woman in the world who could ever make that man happy. And I want that for him, very much.

I doubt you think of me but if I had to guess, I am sure Matthew crosses your mind now and again. And though, he could never replace your husband, I know he would do everything to make you happy, Mary.

Warmly,

Lavinia

Mary must read it twice and both times her mouth hangs open. How dare she! How dare Isobel! And Matthew!

Though he did nothing, he makes her the most angry. If she wrote inappropriate letters to people, she would send him Lavinia's letter with her own addendum: Go, be happy. With some wonderful girl. Go, be happy. With anyone but me. Ask my father. It's your duty, to the estate. And he's all about duties. And then she finds herself mad at her father because of such old business!

She hates this stupid letter and all the feelings it opens up inside her. She feels as if all her limbs froze months ago and now are beginning to thaw. It's a horrible, aching, pins and needle feeling. It makes her skin crawl and itch. She holds her hands between her breasts and tries to breathe. A breath eventually shudders out and she realizes she is alive and whole. She is in New York. She is a widow wearing colors again. She is Mary Crawley (Banks-Duncan). She falls back into herself before finally, slamming the letter down against the desk before she stalks down the street to send Isobel Crawley an enraged telegram. That's where all this started. That's where it will end. Mary Crawley will see to that.

A/N: It's kind of sad to say, I ain't too proud to beg. Two chapters in two days. Won't you please review?