Many thanks to all of you wonderful readers for the notes and reviews of Chapter 23. I was amazed and delighted by the variety of responses I recevied: some of you felt Cora was right in her stance, others wished she had not interfered, several saw both her and Mary's POV's. My mother (yes...she is reading this story!) commented that I captured the mother/daughter dynamic quite well, so I'll take that as praise, indeed. ;) (I love you, Mom!)

To my editing/proofing/insight angels R. Grace, On either side the river lie, and La Donna Ingenua...thank you again! You make this journey so delightful-big Southern hugs to all of you!

So in case you have been wondering just how Charles is holding up the morning after...

Ch 24

"Hey, there, Charles! Back off a bit, alright?"

The summons barely penetrated his conscious thought, a hand pressed onto his back finally halting the pounding motion of his arm as he stilled the hammer.

"What did that piece of wood ever do to you?"

He turned to gaze upon Tom's half-grin, partially overshadowed by a puzzled expression. His shoulder actually ached, the pain in his muscles a welcome distraction from the unsettled condition of his mind.

"Am I giving it a bit too much elbow, then?"

His attempt at a smile did not reach his eyes, and he wiped sweat with his sleeve in a manner that made him crave Mary's reaction to such a gesture. He could clearly visualize the roll of her eyes, a pointed insistence that he use a towel…

Images that all too quickly morphed into ones of her head tossing back in abandon as he tasted her neck, the rippling of her body as he sampled her shoulder, the opaque quality of her eyes as his mouth hovered just about her breast, his breath teasing her nipple just before…

"I'm afraid you might break it in half with your enthusiasm," Tom put in, drawing him abruptly from thoughts he must learn to discipline harshly in the presence of others.

And reign in firmly before he saw her.

Good, God, what was the matter with him?

"Sorry, then," he returned with a nod. "I'll try to take it easier on the poor planks."

He moved to resume his task, craving the distraction of work, the respite of sweat, anything to drown out the cacophony of uncertainty that had nearly deafened him since he exited her chambers in the morning's wee hours. Sleep had never fully returned to him as restless hands and a conflicted mind searched for her presence, rousing him fitfully anytime he drew near rest's alluring precipice.

He had loved her with no boundaries last night, offering up every facet of his being, hiding nothing from this woman who had crawled into his heart and taken root so very quickly. And she had withheld so little from him, allowing him inside her, sharing so very much with a passionate abandon that humbled him to the point of pain.

Yet one word, one breath from a slumbering consciousness had torn at him with a stubborn persistence, condemning his actions, raising doubt in a mind ready to offer her everything.

Matthew.

Her husband was not supposed to have been there with them, should have respected the privacy of two people knowing each other in such a profound sense for the first time. He could not help but shake his head at the target of his frustration, berating himself yet again for being irritated with a dead man. How utterly ridiculous of him! After all, what had Matthew Crawley done to deserve this frustration other than loving his wife?

Who had truly been the interloper in that bedroom last night?

The answer was all to glaring.

How many nights had she lain with Matthew in that bed, the two of them allowed to wake at their leisure with no fear of censure or discovery? Their child had likely been created there, memories of a life too short crafted upon its frame. Was his lingering presence in her mind an effort from beyond to keep her forever to himself?

Or perhaps to guard her from a man who threw caution to the wind as he claimed her outside the protective walls of marriage?

It was a protection he would offer her freely if he weren't certain its very mention would overwhelm her this early in their relationship, perhaps even frighten her away in the aftermath of what they had just shared.

Of course, after last night, did he not owe her an offer? Especially if…

"Charles—are you alright?"

He shook his head, drawing his focus back to the man in front of him even as the rest of him was still bound to the woman he had been compelled to leave sitting unclothed in her bedroom.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I'm afraid I am rather distracted this morning."

Mr. Branson stared at him thoughtfully, ascertaining more than he probably should.

"Well that's fairly obvious. Did you and Mary argue?"

Charles turned his face away lest more be seen, staring at the wooden boards before him as he saw nothing but her.

"Not exactly."

The hammering resumed, pent up emotion still rippling through his arms as nails met their end with unnecessary force. He pounded away at this uncertainty, beating down measured reluctance of doing what was right in fear of losing her. He had to see her soon, needed to ascertain exactly what she was thinking and feeling after all they had given and received in secret.

God, he loved her so much. And that fact was letting blood from him in a slow form of agony.

He paused again, breathing harshly, guzzling cold water in gratitude before rolling his sleeves up even further.

"I see what this is about."

Tom's claim startled him, and he turned his attention back to the man, downing his beverage greedily before offering a reply.

"I thought it was about building a suitable dwelling for the dog."

A small sound escaped Tom before setting down the hand saw and crossing his arms deliberately. Eyes honed in with an uncomfortable penetration, and Charles returned stare for stare, unwilling to allow any incursion into the intimate realm where his thoughts now dwelled.

"You've gone and done it, haven't you?"

His heart stilled, his breath hitching uncomfortably as his mind raced to catch up.

"Excuse me?"

Guarded fear was palpable, radiating from Blake's stance in a manner that forced Tom to keep his distance.

"You heard me, Charles. You might as well own up to it."

His tongue thickened, the pasty texture of his mouth making him nearly ill. He would never forgive himself if he had put her at risk of further exposure and censure. Had he not promised to protect her, to shield her from threatening scandal or unnecessary difficulties?

Yet he had permitted himself an enormous lapse in conviction for a night in her bed.

"I'm afraid you have me at a loss."

Tom shook his head, his disbelief evident as he stepped closer. Charles tensed immediately, feeling his body flex defensively as he prepared for a direct confrontation.

"You've gone and fallen in love with her, haven't you?"

The statement caught him unawares, washing over him in measured relief even as Tom's comment hit with precision. He relaxed fists that had balled tightly of their own cognition, relieved that there was no need to ward off a physical onslaught.

Even though it was one he probably deserved.

"And if I have?"

Why could he not just admit the fact to the man? He had done so to her while she slept. Yet a fleeting stroke of her finger across his lips, an absolute understanding shimmering in hooded eyes, her whispered response breathed into his mouth had halted his overt declaration just before they had made love.

I know.

She knew…yet she could not yet hear it, a glaring fact which did not bode well for her reception of a proposal of marriage.

"There's no need to get so defensive," Tom stated, hands raised in mock surrender. "I understand what it's like to fall for a Crawley woman."

He took a step towards Charles, the other man's stance still rigid.

"There's no getting out of it once you're in, you know," Tom continued with a shrug. "Once you're hooked, you're hooked for life."

Charles sighed audibly, his chest quickly deflating as he released a wall of pretense at this show of camaraderie.

"So I'm that obvious?"

A true chuckle escaped Mr. Branson at that point.

"I'm afraid so. A regular open book, so to speak." Tom's brow then creased slightly, the piercing gaze returning. "Have you told her yet?

Charles nearly laughed at what would be a completely honest answer.

Yes—while she slept in my arms on my veranda…yes—while holding her naked and trembling in my arms…and yes—after making love with her and feeling her fall asleep across my body.

"She knows."

It was the only response he could offer.

Tom's stare did not falter, his lips pursing together as he ventured forward in his inquest.

"And how did she respond?"

Her response had been overwhelming, open-mouthed and heated, clutching and accepting. It had scorched his blood, branded his skin, marked him as her own in both flesh and spirit. But in the clarity of morning, would she regret what she had given? Want him to retract assurances of how he felt about her?

His stomach hollowed at the very thought of such.

"Well, she hasn't run away yet."

Tom nodded appreciatively, rubbing his chin in thought.

"For Mary, that's really something."

His gaze dropped with his voice as more personal territory was encroached.

"It took me a while to convince Sybil, you know. That she loved me."

Charles relaxed his stance a bit, allowing his companion the freedom to elaborate.

"So you knew before she did?"

Tom chuckled again, wiping his own brow with a small rag.

"Quite a while before, actually. I think I loved her from the minute I laid eyes on her."

Charles could just see her sitting in that cabin, attempting to retrieve something from her bag, a tear-streaked face staring up in astonishment at his unexpected interruption as she held George to her tightly. He had entered that berth expecting an uneventful journey. Yet he had emerged a man determined to locate and learn more of the young widow who had shared much more than she had intended with a stranger on a train. Mary Crawley had effectively changed his life in a matter of minutes.

Yes—he understood being stricken quite early.

"How did you go about convincing her?"

"I had to be quite persuasive to convince her to marry her own chauffeur. It was no small feat, let me assure you."

A grunt of admiration escaped Charles as he began to visualize just what it would take for this man to successfully woo the daughter of an earl. He could only imagine Mary's initial response to her sister's choice of husband.

"We spoke quite a bit, of politics, of social injustice," Tom continued. "I was one of the only people who really took her passions seriously, I think. I actually listened to what she had to say and even disagreed with her, at times. Her family kept expecting her to conform to the status quo."

"But you convinced her otherwise?" Charles voiced.

"I had to," Tom replied, his voice tightening a bit. "I couldn't accept the alternative, that she wouldn't have me."

There it was, the flash of sadness, the cut of loss, all in remembrance of a wife deeply cherished.

"I understand."

He did, too early, and all too well. To have loved once was a precious thing, Charles mused, but to granted a second chance was a gift beyond measure, one he would not take lightly nor let slip through his fingers.

Not if he could help it.

The thought of being without Mary after being an intimate part of her stilled his heart. It was unfathomable, a chilling phantom he would not allow to take form in the physical realm. But how best to woo a woman already his lover, to shelter her from any hint of scandal if she would not hear of marriage?

He would figure it out. The alternative, as Tom Branson had so bluntly stated, was simply unacceptable.

"I'm glad you're not dragging your feet with her, actually," Tom broke in. "She and Matthew kept missing each other. Their feelings were so obvious, but somehow neither of them figured out what the other was thinking."

Charles nodded slowly, carefully considering what to say.

"I think it's something she regrets terribly."

"She said the very thing to me, once, a few months after Matthew died," Tom confessed quietly, his face drawing tight in concern. "She actually blamed herself for that, no matter how hard I tried to convince her otherwise."

"She takes quite a bit upon herself unnecessarily," Charles stated quietly, the seriousness of his expression leaving no doubt of its confidentiality.

"Mary always has," Tom agreed. "She doesn't trust other people enough to allow them to shoulder anything for her. She insists on carrying it all."

You do not have to bear the responsibility for everything that has gone wrong in your life.

He recalled words spoken to her the night they had first confessed so much in the darkness. Her response to his assertion had chilled him.

Don't I?

He wanted to hold her so badly, craving her texture in his arms, needing the softness of her hair against his cheek. He would shoulder anything for her, do anything she required of him. But did he possess the fortitude to do what was best for her, even if it meant keeping a respectable distance?

He prayed fervently that it never came down to that.

He then spotted her, standing muted in the distance. Watching him, waiting patiently. Asking quietly for his attention.

She had it.

Every facet of his being was honed on to her, his fingers tingling at her nearness. How in God's name was he supposed to even consider stepping back when all that he wanted was to gather her close and never let her go?

Tom glanced over his shoulder, acknowledging what Charles's face had told him instantly.

Mary was here. And the two of them needed to talk.

"If you'll just excuse me," he uttered, receiving a wordless nod from Charles in response.

She moved towards him slowly, in an almost dream-like state, speeding the pulse in his temples as he stared at her quite openly. Her wine colored frock billowed behind her as a tuft of wind moved between her legs, hair coiffed perfected with a shiny clip, jewelry expertly selected to accentuate what was already a picture of magnificence. Yet he longed for her as she had been, hair tousled by his fingers, lips reddened by his kiss, adorned in nothing but a sheet he wished to wear with her.

He swallowed down arousal as best he could, knowing that nothing could help the swelling of his heart as she drew closer and closer.

God, this woman.

Her pulse was pounding, the heat that had begun stinging her cheeks at the first sight of him fluttering across her chest, down her thighs, her entire body tuned to him even as she felt rather awkward in her approach. Things were so different now. She had seen him, all of him. And he had done vastly more than simply look at all of her.

The flush around her eyes only intensified.

How she was to hold an intelligent conversation in his presence, she was entirely unsure. Lines had been rehearsed, thoughts ordered neatly, her ornate rug begging for a reprieve from the many paths worn across its surface. But all orderly plans fell with the steadiness of autumn leaves at the sight of him, collecting around her feet in a pile practically asking to be kicked over.

He was before her…she was so very near. And neither had any idea of just what to say to the other.

She reached the ground in front of him, a strong awareness encompassing them both. His scent overpowered her, the very same that had been ingrained into her pillow and tasted repeatedly by her mouth on his skin. Swallowing was difficult, words needing a voice held back yet understood.

How would things change between them?

Would he propose?

Would she accept?

Was there a child?

She was shaken…he was lost, able to do nothing but stare, breathe, and wonder. Her hand was gathered carefully by his own, eyes closing in the intensity of even this small touch. Other caresses were recalled, skin remembering such pleasures in detail, their vibrations absorbed into willing pores and carried throughout joined bodies with heated intensity.

He raised her hand to his lips, needing to make contact with some part of her, to assure her, to convey how much…

How very much.

Her fingers traced his cheek, forging a connection in silence. She was confident he would not leave her, trusted him to stand at her side. But how would they move forward from here? Could they cross back over lines of propriety they had leapt across last night without a backwards glance?

Did she even want to?

He spoke first, fighting through a raspiness in his throat that had been absent just moments ago.

"How are you?"

The husky texture of his tone caressed her back, teasing her senses with a warm shiver.

"Rather tired, actually."

Her response tweaked his dimple, rendering the first true smile his face had felt since leaving her this morning. Her mouth drew up slightly in tandem, enjoying a lighter moment before the mood would inevitably shift.

"That's funny. I didn't sleep much, either."

A low sound of appreciation came from her, her cheeks flushing at his remark.

"What a coincidence."

Eyes met, gluing themselves together firmly. She saw a tinge of sadness, he a measure of fear. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her steady…keeping her close.

"Do you know how much I hated leaving you?"

He felt her release of breath in the gap of his shirt, not wavering as his fingers buried themselves in silken locks.

She nodded, gazing at him intently.

"It was cold without you."

He couldn't help himself, pulling her into him, covering her body in arms that ached for her. She gripped him, freely absorbing him, allowing him to warm her…

Wanting so badly to escape the conversation she knew they must have.

"What sort of mess have we made, Charles?"

He drew back, arms never leaving her, eyes staring directly.

"I'm not sure, Mary. But I'm certain whatever it is, we can work it all out."

She nodded, needing to believe him, willing to hold on to anything he said as absolute truth.

"Do you regret what we did?"

Her eyes darted open at his question, looking into in a gaze uncertain, at the countenance of a man on the cusp of being wounded.

"No."

The word flew from her immediately, relaxing some of the lines on his face as his shoulders released their strain.

"Do you?"

Did she even have to ask? Was he not the open book to her that Tom had read so clearly? Had she not understood with a certainty what he had tried to tell her last night? But brown eyes subtly begged for an answer, the slight hitch of uncertainty they bore squeezing his heart.

"No. Not one moment."

She sighed into him, knowing at least they at least had this, no matter what followed.

"But I could never forgive myself if you were the recipient of any censure because of my actions."

She closed her eyes, knowing he had said nothing unexpected, yet wishing to remain in the realm in which they had just been standing. Where there was no fear of repercussions, where their choices were not subject to the condemnation or scrutiny of others. But that world was no more authentic than Rapunzel's lofty tower. Reality could not be avoided within the walls of a stair-less fortress indefinitely, no matter how tantalizing its confines.

"Our actions, Charles," she corrected. "We were both willing participants."

She stared at him, daring him to correct her.

"And if I remember correctly, I'm the one who pulled you into my bedroom."

She felt the wry chuckle emitted from his chest as he spoke.

"You didn't have to pull very hard."

She couldn't help but smile at his private grin, recalling the nervous thrill tingling up and down her limbs as she wordlessly guided him through the door.

"I wanted you there," she admitted softly, leaving unsaid the raw need she still felt just below her pores. "What happened was no accident, Charles. You took no advantage."

He flinched visibly at the word.

"You were hurting, Mary," came his rebuttal, lines of self-reproach creasing around his eyes.

"And you weren't?"

It had begun.

"Why should you be the one to carry all of the responsibility when it clearly belongs to both of us?"

He shook his head, cupping her face gently, needing her to understand.

"Because I want to shield you, Mary. Will you please allow me to do this?"

The sincerity in his eyes pleaded with her.

"You can't shield me from life, Charles. No one can. Surely you of all people understand that."

Two pairs of eyes rounded visibly, both startled by what had just been voiced.

Her heart sped at the conviction just uttered from her own lips, knowing there were no fortresses strong enough, no guarantees afforded, no manner by which to truly guard a heart left open. Yet she had just confessed a newly born resolve, admitted that she was considering stepping into a realm with him that bore the tangible threat of inflicting pain.

And he had heard it clearly .

"I do understand. But that doesn't mean that I won't try."

Her heart constricted, her body sought him, and she brought his face to hers. She kissed him as she hadn't before, blossoming feelings urging her forward, even as she kept a grip on their leash. He met her there, leading her further with this new language discovered, one spoken with urgent tongues and lips, accentuated by gripping hands and private moans.

How had he done this to her?

"Is it wrong to want you so badly again?"

Words breathed into her hair made her shiver as she clasped lapels greedily in her fists.

"No," she murmured against his neck. "At least I hope not."

What she truly wanted she hesitated to voice, quite certain he would never consent to its rather scandalous nature. She had no intention of giving him up, her feelings having become quite entangled with the man, yet to take steps to legitimize this relationship…

Here she faltered.

She wanted everything to stay just as it was. Every other possibility frightened her: losing him, committing so soon to a marriage, the possibility of having another child…

Why could things simply not pick up where they had left them, but with him in her bed?

She shook her head slightly at her own folly. Childish, indeed.

"You know, Tom actually frightened me this morning," he confessed, drawing back just far enough to at her fully. "I thought he had found out about us, somehow."

Her stomach clenched, the conversation with her mother resounding with overt clarity. She hesitated a moment, then wordlessly took his hand and laid it flat. He felt her place something small and metallic upon his palm, and he stared down at it in overt curiosity.

His breath hitched in recognition of his own button.

"Was this left in your room?" he managed, attempting to ascertain if any damage had already been done.

"Yes. By the foot of my bed."

An awareness flashed in his eyes, remembering all that had transpired in that very spot. He studied her wordlessly, noting though her face gave away nothing, there was something awry.

"Did you find this?" he inquired, weary of asking yet determined to know.

Her open gaze revealed the answer, clenching his gut as he felt the weight of ugly accusation.

"My mother," she revealed quietly, feeling guilt descend upon his face and crawl over his skin. She leaned into him as a gesture of reassurance, to remind him that she was here, that all could still be put right.

Even if she was not ready for the solution.

"What did she say to you?" he ventured, concern for her outweighing his own shame.

"Quite a bit, actually," she returned. "She was disappointed in me, of course, but I think she also understands our reasons."

"Oh, God, Mary," he exhaled, raking nervous fingers over his scalp. "I am so sorry."

"We've already discussed this, Charles," she corrected. "I am a big girl, and we both own the responsibility of what happened. Let's not apologize to each other over it, please."

He nodded twice, pursing his lips tightly as he considered their predicament.

"You should still not be subject to her disappointment," he insisted, grasping her shoulders in an attempt to convey his meaning. "You've had to deal with it before when it was unwarranted, and you should not have to carry it now."

"We cannot control how she responds," Mary returned quickly, "but she has agreed to give us the privacy to work things out between us as we see fit."

His gaze focused with piercing clarity. And she realized with a start that she had just thrown the door wide open.

He stared at her, trying to read her expression, scared of saying too much, but horrified of offering too little. He drew her to his chest again, reveling in the rightness of having her there…

Praying that she would not push him away.

"Mary."

His voice resonated in her scalp, stirring the same emotions it had last night when it had been the sole conversation dared in the dim light of her bedroom.

"I believe you know how I feel about you."

Oh, God.

She hesitated as her knees shook, knowing the expression on his face would pierce deep regions heavily guarded. But she owed him that much, owed herself that much, drawing back to gaze into eyes that openly loved her. She felt hot all over, steadying herself as best she could, nodding slowly as her tongue rooted itself to her mouth. She feathered a touch across his cheek, keeping a tight hold on his shirt lest he dare move away.

"Yes."

His eyes tightened in a flinch of pain, and she knew that he wanted her to return those feelings, to assure him that they were not unwelcome. She reached up to his face, whispering lips upon his dimple in the only response she could utter at the moment.

She could only pray he understood.

"I…I am quite uncertain as to how ready you are to hear this," he faltered, her throat tightening at the emotional unsteadiness of his voice. "But I want you to know that if you have any desire to spend your life with me, the offer is yours."

She couldn't breathe.

Her fingers gripped him harder, wrinkling his shirt terribly as her eyes sealed themselves shut to anything else around her. Was she even standing anymore? She felt somehow detached from her body yet rooted to this spot, so dreadfully unsure of what to say.

"I know this is overwhelming," he continued, the silence suddenly too much for him to bear. "And I don't want to pressure you in any manner, I assure you."

"I know," she breathed hastily. "I know."

She knew.

"Please understand," she began throatily, "that I am actually happy with you."

He stood thunderstruck, yet in a dreadful unease.

"I can't explain it, but there it is," she continued, her tone deep and wobbly. "It's just that everything is happening so quickly, and marriage…I just…."

She drew breath, determined to put into words what was hard for her even to grasp.

"It's just so soon, Charles. And I don't regret anything we have shared so far, not one bit of it, but to marry you now would not be right for either of us."

Her words stung, even though they had been perfectly anticipated.

"Why do you say that, Mary?"

He couldn't help himself, the question forcing its way out of a heart given too soon.

"Because I cannot stand the thought of you feeling pressured into a marriage because of last night," she exclaimed. "I don't want to lose what we have, to spend a lifetime wondering if you stayed with me out of obligation rather than choice."

"Believe me, Mary, I'm not asking out of obligation."

The sincerity in his eyes tore at her.

"Really? Would you be proposing marriage to me this morning had we not made love with each other last night?"

She had him.

"No."

"You see it, don't you, that our hands are being forced whether we wish them to be or not?"

"Because of our own actions."

"Yes, because of our actions, but also because of the expectations of others," she insisted, needing him to understand. "What we have now is good, it's beyond good, actually, and I don't want to ruin it as I have so many other things in my life."

He stroked her hair, brows creasing as he listened.

"And you think marrying now would ruin things between us?"

"Yes…no…I don't know, Charles," she cried out. "But I don't want to take that chance just yet. Do you?"

Her chest was heaving, the emotional outburst taking its toll upon them both. Yet they held each other steadily in a determination not to let the other go.

"I don't want to do anything that would push you away, Mary."

Her chest hurt, her eyes stung, and she pressed herself against him, despising the choke hold of propriety in a realm so vastly personal.

"But you must promise to tell me…to let me know if…"

The remainder of his sentence lodged broken in his throat.

"Yes, of course," she whispered, feeling the odd flutter in her abdomen again. "I would never keep anything like that from you. Surely you know that."

They looked into each other, the same question staring back at them in a marked uncertainty…a question for which time would be the only answer.

What an eternity the next few weeks had suddenly become.

"I want to be with you," she insisted quietly, hoping he knew this.

"And I want to be with you," he returned in haste, kissing the top of her head while another hand rubbed her back.

"Can we just see where this goes?" she ventured unsteadily. "And not make any hasty decisions we might come to regret?"

He sighed deeply, her solution neither truly viable nor unwelcome. But he would follow her lead for the moment, allow her some room to breathe to alleviate a rather stifling situation.

"As long as your mother doesn't kill me," he returned, bringing forth a much needed laugh from them both.

"I'll attempt to hold her off," she volunteered, touching his face, inhaling his essence…

Clinging to a blessed moment of ease.

"I actually have to journey to Rufforth Hall after lunch," he put in, stroking her knuckles. "I need to check on Aunt Catherine and take care of some rather urgent business of which I was just made aware."

"I wish I could come with you," she returned, making him smile in earnest. "But I'm afraid Mama would have rather large reservations about the two of us running off to your estate together after all that has happened."

"Reservations which would be well-founded," he admitted softly, kissing her forehead in a manner she felt in her toes. "I'm quite certain that having you all to myself away from prying eyes would not be the wisest of decisions at the moment."

She smiled softly, even as her skin shivered at his implication.

"Besides, I'll be back in time for dinner."

"Well, as it is the last dinner of this gathering, I should hope you wouldn't miss it."

"I wouldn't miss you for anything, Mary."

God, this man.

They stood in silence a few minutes more, relishing the breeze carrying the crisp scent of autumn while bracing themselves for changes this new season would bring. He kissed her soundly, taking her mouth fully into his own, attempting to drown out nagging worries nipping at their heels as they clung to what was yet again new ground between them.

There was so much to consider, but enough had been said. They drew apart reluctantly, preparing to face the others with skin that felt freshly scrubbed. He took her arm, she held it willingly, dreading the moment he would leave Downton, swallowing down the impending sense of panic that would inevitably accompany watching him drive away.

And as they walked quietly back to the house, Mary deliberately stifled the urge to look over her shoulder, suddenly quite wary of being observed as an unwelcome shudder crawled up her spine.

As always, I cherish your thoughts. Look for Chapter 25 in two weeks!