A/N: this one goes on a bit, so I apologise if it's a bit wordy but a lot needs to happen and a fair amount of development had to take place in preparation for the next chapter. I also got a bit distracted when editing so there might be a fair few mistakes, so I apologise for that as well.

Summer 1910

Dear Duck,

I am writing to let you know that we will be taking the ten o'clock train from Ripon to meet with my associate Major Lyndon near Windsor who has agreed to subsequently drive us into Eton to watch you and Patrick in your cricket finals.

As I am sure you know, Isobel and Reggie will also be joining us to cheer you on and we are all looking forward to it immensely.

We wish you the best of luck my boy,

Robert.

Matthew had skipped breakfast. He'd picked at his food- pushing it around his plate despondently with his knife and fork before standing up from his seat and abruptly leaving the dining hall to wander down aimlessly to the changing rooms adjacent to the cricket ground. He changed quickly into his whites, sitting on the bench with his nerves palpable to the empty room.

This was not his first game, he'd been far more nervous then- and like the rest of the team before their first game, whilst waiting in the changing rooms he had realised he'd turned a pale shade of green and had been forced to run to the bathroom. But this match was the season finals, and the school was counting on them to win.

Patrick came in next, bouncy and light-hearted as always, changing slowly and choosing to lie down on the bench with a book poised above his head while the rest of the team filed in.

"Did you get cousin Robert's letter?" He asked Matthew nonchalantly.

Matthew nodded. "Yes, they said they'd be down to watch the match."

Patrick had no way of knowing how much Matthew had dwelled on that letter over the last weeks. It was short, a note when put in comparison to his mother's lengthy retellings or his father's dramatic and picturesque descriptions of the mundane every day, and yet Matthew had spent hours contemplating the contents. For once in his life, unlike the other boys who frequently ran amuck during lessons, Matthew had found himself paying no attention to the master at the front of the class and instead found himself wondering what Robert had meant by the ambiguous term 'we'.

It may have simply referred to himself and Cora, surely the Dowager Countess would have no interest in his cricket game- and would without doubt have expressed so to anyone who suggested it- but 'we' could easily mean his daughters as well. Which would mean Mary would be coming to see his game.

He didn't quite know why this made his nerves quadruple on point of thought- it was only Mary, he'd known her forever after all, but at the same time it was Mary and for some unknown reason he felt the immediate need to win the game. He was determined to impress her, to illicit something other than a snide remark about how ridiculous he looked in his whites and if he won- much better if he scored the winning run- then she'd have to be impressed, surely?

He'd dragged Patrick to extra hours of practice because of this, not telling him the reason but rather making up excuses about needing to rehearse his googly or his hit or whatever lame excuse he could spring to mind in that moment.

"Do you think Cora is coming?" Patrick asked casually. "She only has a couple of months to go now."

"I don't know." Matthew answered honestly. "I expect so. She doesn't strike me as the type to wait around until the baby is born."

"No, I suppose she doesn't. Especially if it spites Aunt Violet." Patrick laughed.

"Do you think Mary is coming?" Matthew asked, then hastily added, so he didn't sound obvious, "And Edith?"

Patrick smiled slightly, a knowing glint in his eye that Matthew missed entirely.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Patrick teased. "She wrote to me a week ago, saying that she wouldn't miss it for the world."

Matthew felt a sort of tingling sensation in his stomach, a fluttering of wings threatening to burst from his chest.

"She said that?" He asked, incredulously. His excitement rather got the better of him and he forgot momentarily to keep his voice even-toned.

"She may have worded it slightly differently but that was the gist of it, yes." Patrick answered, smirking behind his book at his friend's badly hidden interest.

Matthew grinned, his nerves flooding back to him once more. She would be in the crowd. She would watch him bat and watch him bowl and this was his chance to impress her.

"Well I think the winners deserve a kiss!" Patrick grinned, shamelessly tapping his forefinger to his cheek as Mary and Edith walked up to them, ahead of the rest of the family to offer their congratulations.

Mary narrowed her eyes at him and raised a disapproving eyebrow at his antics, pecking a kiss to his cheek despite her own exasperation. Patrick bowed to her graciously and turned his other cheek to Edith who sighed, rolling her eyes and cocking her head to the side, but smiled and kissed his cheek all the same.

Patrick then thrust Matthew forward with a heart pat on the back and he blushed profusely, grinning shyly at Edith as she stood on tiptoe to reach his cheek. He smiled at her, uttering a bashful thank you when she retreated and congratulated him on his win.

"You were really very good," she said. "That was quite a catch."

"Thank you," he blushed again, "I'm so glad you came."

"Me too!" Patrick interrupted, taking Edith's attention off Matthew and leaving him standing rather awkwardly in front of Mary.

Mary shuffled her feet distractedly and looked at Matthew for a second, a question in her eyes as she looked into his. Before he really knew what was happening, he felt her lips grace his cheek, soft and warm against his flushed skin. He froze, surprised into stillness as his heart fluttered in his chest.

"Well done, Matthew." She squeezed his hand in hers for the briefest of seconds and her whisper rang in his ears like a cry of happiness. They were the most civil words she spoken to him in a long time.

Clearly, his plan had at least been somewhat effective.

He wanted to say something to her, make her laugh with a witty comment just as Patrick would have done, but he couldn't get the words to leave his mouth and instead stood somewhat dejectedly as she turned back to her cousin and sister.

"Well done, Duck." Robert clapped him happily on the back. "That was quite a catch!"

"We're so proud of you darling," came his mother's delighted voice.

"I say this calls for celebration!" Reggie declared.

"Absolutely! Cora agreed.

Amongst all of the appraisals, Matthew glanced back at Mary. Her delicate countenance had regained its usual stoic and cold expression, and, with that, he knew that things had returned to their sullen normality.

"Cora!" Came Patrick's greeting cry. "My darling, my dream, my boat, how are you? And Isobel, looking radiant as ever!"

Laughing at his friend's antics, Matthew's attention was drawn elsewhere.

September 1910

Sybil Cora Crawley was born on the beautifully sunny day of the first of September in the early hours of the warm afternoon. With light eyes and dark hair, she seemed to be the equilibrium between her parents' other two children and, where Edith was a quiet baby and born easily, and Mary was anxious as an infant and her birth a nerve-wracking struggle, Sybil was placed somewhere along the middle.

The lack of an heir should have raised tumult, but it had the opposite effect. The family's trepidation was set more at ease- girls may have been a challenge, if Mary and Edith were anything to go by, but it was what they were used to and for some reason it relaxed them. The situation had not changed and that was the way it was. Violet's mild disappointment was quelled at the sight of the squirming baby and Robert couldn't have been downhearted at the welcoming of a new daughter if he tried.

Mary wasn't entirely sure of her feelings, a boy would have meant change which she was never keen on, but she couldn't help but wonder if a girl would be just as troubling as Edith. The latter, rather ironically, felt much the same.

Patrick, at first had been concerned, worried that if the baby was a boy he would perhaps be regarded as more unwelcome- after all, he would no longer be the heir and, therefore, he would most likely be overstaying his welcome. Before the child was born, however, Cora had addressed this worry and dismissed it as nonsense. Patrick was a part of their family and, heir or not, of course he would stay for however long he wanted to.

Matthew was pleased, mostly relieved, after the belated knowledge at his own parents' struggles and his beloved Isabella's illness, that Cora had made it through the birth unscathed and his father had deemed both mother and baby to be in perfect health.

However, in light of baby Sybil being a girl, a couple of months later came a letter from the long absent technical heir. James Crawley wrote to Robert announcing a return to England in the mid-months of next year, outlining his intent to be of an important and grave nature yet not indulging in any details further than that of which he'd declared.

He was returning, and he needed to discuss some matters with Lord and Lady Grantham. There was no mention of his son whatsoever and, for that reason, The Dowager Countess had insisted they did not tell the boy until his return was imminent. She regarded these circumstances as rather detestable, and made no attempt to hide her feelings from her son and daughter-in-law. The man had not seen his son in six years, and this was lower than merely dishonourable in her esteemed opinion.

July 1911

The annual house party was a scene that was looked forward to unanimously by the entire family. And, amongst the children, it brought its usual unbridled excitement, but, this year, the adults felt more ill-at-ease as the last night approached. It had gone by smoothly, Cora had put a swift stop to Robert's gambling before it all got out of hand, and Violet had very efficiently found out, and then proceeded to discreetly meddle with, the gossip of the latest ventures. But the last night brought the promise of James' arrival, and although Patrick had decided long ago to leave his father's motives of leaving him unquestioned, the rest of the family had become rather unnerved by it.

James came with no luggage and no intention to stay longer than however long was necessary to give out his apparent important news. He was brought immediately away from the merry party in the main hall and joined Robert, Cora and Violet in the, otherwise empty, drawing room.

Patrick took that moment to excuse himself from Laura Kenton, one of Mary's friends of whom he'd taken the last dance, bowing to her gracefully as he shifted over and into the dining room where he stood at the closed door that led to the drawing room, and listened.

"I think it is high time I showed my son the way of life I have built for myself in America." Came the unfamiliar tones of his estranged father. "I would like to take him with me the next time I return to New York and then, when the time is right, we will both return to England and build a new life for ourselves here."

"But what of his education?" Robert inquired.

"Surely it wouldn't be right to take him out of school when he is so settled." Cora agreed. "He has such good friends and he's getting on really well."

"What do you have in mind, James?" Violet asked with a curious suspicion, regarding her nephew with hard eyes. "You must have something in mind."

"As a matter of fact," James said meaningfully, "I do."

All five girls giggled secretly at the edge of the dance floor. The adults danced and talked naturally, showing them little to no attention and instead speaking to the other Lords and Ladies, Viscounts, Viscountess' and so on. For the nights of the house party, their children entertained themselves in their respective groups.

Whilst the boys stood in a group together, engaged in their own talk- whether about amusing moments they had shared at school or a mutual disdain for their masters, the girls did not care- but they often looked over across the hall, occasionally discussing the girls themselves in hushed whispers. That night, it was Katherine and Mary that pulled the most attention.

"Her dress is simply divine."

"I think I'll ask her to dance."

"Good luck getting Lady Mary to dance, she has never danced with any of us before."

"Ask Katherine, Mary has standards that no one can match."

Matthew sighed, he supposed there was no chance she'd dance with him then.

On the other side of the magnificent hall Laura, Edith, Mary and Flora listened, enraptured, to their friend Katherine's scandalous tale of how Donald Knight had kissed her on the pavilion at her last ball.

"He told me I was the most beautiful Lady he'd ever seen," she said, haughtily, her voice smug and nose aloft as if to consolidate her sneery demeanour. They'd long since learned not to laugh at her slight lisp. Katherine was very pretty, they all had to admit it. Mary knew she was by far the prettiest of all of her friends, including herself (much to her chagrin), and wasn't at all surprised that Donald had kissed her whilst he had the chance.

"What was it like?" Laura questioned, leaning forward in awe.

Katherine hummed vaguely in a rather complacent, self-satisfied manner and pouted. "Well, you know," she said pointedly, knowing full well that they, in fact, did not know.

"He said he'd wanted to kiss me for ages. And that he wants to do it again."

"Imagine," Flora said wistfully, "a boy saying he's wanted to kiss you for ages…"

"Yes, imagine," Katherine responded, sneering, rather rudely directing her eyes at Mary, who felt her usual confidence fall at the comment.

They talked for a while longer, but Mary barely paid attention or heed, taking a short moment to shoot a disdainful look at a rather old man that was staring at her from across the room. She took a moment, wrinkling her nose in disgust, to recollect his name: a Mr Reynolm. Shuddering, she ignored it and turned her focus to more pressing matters.

She couldn't help but dwell on the thought that no one had ever told her she was beautiful, let alone expressed any kind of interest in kissing her.

Maybe no one ever would.

Maybe she wasn't beautiful.

She felt a small pang of envy for Katherine and an even bigger worry that perhaps she was just ugly and unapproachable and no one would ever love her like Mr Darcy loved Lizzie or how the other protagonists in her novels declared to be in throes of madness, so strong was their mutual affection. Perhaps she'd remain un-kissed until she died as an ancient old spinster.

Feeling rather dejected, melancholy, and with an enormous blow to her confidence she excused herself quietly from the group and ventured out of the crowded hall, going over to sit on the deserted front steps to the house and running her nails smoothly along pale stone beneath her.

Dazed and a little dizzy from all the party antics and excitement, Matthew watched her leave with confusion and concern. Slipping silently away, he ventured out into the entrance hall, following her tracks and stepping outside after her.

Seeing Mary sat on the steps, he gave a small smile at the way in which her long, dark hair flowed down her back and sat down next to her, exhaling loudly and turning to her, grinning. He hoped fervently, that if he made the first move of mending aggrieved fences, she might forget old quarrels for a moment.

Except he frowned when she turned to look back at him sadly. She looked uncharacteristically unsure, which, coming from Mary, were unusual enough to cause him worry.

"Are you quite alright Mary?" He itched to take the hand that lay forgotten on the step by her side.

She looked at him, biting her lip hard before speaking.

"Katherine was telling us that Donald Knight kissed her," she said, sounding rather quiet. Matthew urged her on with an encouraging nod. "And I just… what if no one ever wants to kiss me? What if no one's ever interested in me at all?"

She sounded dejected, as if all the self-confidence she usually showed had evaporated on the spot.

Matthew raised an eyebrow, his worry receding.

"Mary, that's silly." He said, his voice not unsympathetic as much as simply disbelieving.

"And now I'm silly as well am I?"

"No." Matthew hastened. "No, I didn't mean you are silly, just that you're being silly."

Mary frowned. "What difference does it make?" She sighed, rubbing her eyes firmly.

"It makes a difference because I am certain that you'll be surrounded by suitors who'd give anything to kiss you when your season comes." Matthew told her, a little awkwardly but truthful none the less.

"You don't know that." Mary shook her head, raising her eyebrows disbelievingly.

"Oh, but I do." He smiled cheekily before looking sincerely at her. "You're beautiful, Mary. You're so, so clever and, however much you may hide it sometimes, I know you've got such a kind heart. When you enter a room, everyone notices and anyone who would not want to talk with you or kiss you is a fool."

Mary looked at him, bewildered, still not accepting what he was saying.

Why was he saying this, being so kind and understanding toward her?

Except suddenly, and quite, quite unexpectedly, his lips were on hers, so tender and gentle and soft that she lost all the air in her lungs quite at once.

His thumb brushed over her cheek and his hand cupped her jaw. He leant back and pressed his forehead to hers, then let his hand drop away as he stood back up. He leant down, stood upright before her, in a bow, and took her hand in his.

"Lady Mary Crawley," he asked, an intense sincerity glinting in his bright eyes, "may I have this dance?"

Mary, still in shock, regained herself to feign pondering his question. All thought of her attempts to dislike him were quite forgotten in that moment and she squeezed his hand to indicate her answer, preceding the words she found herself struggling to utter in that moment.

"Why of course you may," she said finally, smiling.

They walked hand in hand to the hall.

They had both danced before, in lessons with her governess or in practice at his school, but in those previous circumstanced had they'd both still been learning to turn their clumsy movements into graceful ones, their eyes had been trained on their feet and their steps had been uncertain.

This time they were in a room filled with people but it felt as though they were alone; their moves were graceful, elegant and innate. His hands guided her gently and their feet moved of their own accord, with their eyes looking into the other's the whole time.

They did not speak, and their hold was close, nearing an embrace that both had to stop themselves from initiating.

It was over all too soon, and Mary was dragged away by the group of girls, pulling her away into their giggling circle once more.

"Did Matthew ask you to dance?" Laura asked her, seemingly excited in contrast to Katherine's petulant expression.

Mary nodded, still in rather a confused whirlwind from the events of the last few minutes.

"He's rather sweet, wouldn't you say, Edith?" Flora asked.

"Yes. I would," Edith teased her sister. "Mary evidently thinks so."

"I think he's rather handsome." Laura put in, smirking at Mary.

"I think I might get some air," Mary said suddenly, pulling away from the group and making her way out of the crowded and heated room.

She wondered idly away from the house, the cool night air doing nothing to clear her raging and confused feelings. Knowing Carson was busy attending to the myriads of quests, Mary made for the stables, seeking a quiet moment with her beloved horse to mull things over properly.

She entered the building slowly, approaching Diamond with a soft smile and patting her head affectionately.

A shuffling of straw behind her alerted her to the presence of someone else behind her and she turned, keeping one hand stroking Diamond's mane and seeing Mr Reynolm out of the corner of her eye.

Matthew left the hall as soon as the dance ended, moving off through the rooms in search of Patrick who had seemingly disappeared since his father had arrived. Matthew hardly blamed him for seeking solitude in the light of James' strange return, he couldn't fathom how it would feel to have not seen his father in six years and it was impossible to imagine his own father doing anything of the sort.

He found him fairly quickly, stood next to the door in the dining room that backed onto the drawing room. Matthew was about to speak, to rush hurriedly to his friend and spill over all the strange events of the night, but he was stopped by Patrick's guarded look and hard eyes. He beckoned him over and indicated for him to listen.

"With the arrival of your third daughter, comes the unlikelihood that an heir in your direct line will be produced, are we all agreed on this?"

Matthew only vaguely clocked the voice as James', the unfamiliarity his only clue to of whom it belonged.

There was a murmur of ascent from within the room.

"Well, I know yours, and your late father's, desire to keep the estate in the family," he continued, clearly addressing Robert in this instance, "But I am also aware of the contract Cora signed over when you married, entailing the money to the estate."

Matthew's eyebrows furrowed.

"It is unfortunate that such an agreement means that little is provided for your eldest child in the way of her rightful inheritance. But I believe I have the solution to these concerns."

Patrick's eyes widened.

"I wish to know your thoughts on my proposal that once Mary becomes of age, when she has been presented and her season has been enjoyed at its fullest, she should marry Patrick."

An aghast silence followed. But before the immense shock of the previous statement could be processed by either of the two boys, they heard a distinctive thud of footsteps approach the door and thus scrambled away in a panicked speed.

They moved together, negotiating the crowded hall to wonder out into the open gardens where they stared, wide eyed in surprise, at either each other or the ground. Unmoving and unspeaking.

When she saw him close the door slowly behind him, the only thought that passed fleetingly through her mind was the immediate need to escape.

Go, Mary, now.

And with that thought, she regained motion, turning from the stall where Diamond stood so peacefully and started for the door.

"I'm leaving." She said defiantly, her tone decidedly solid and strong. She wouldn't let herself be intimidated. Not by anyone.

He stepped in front of it, blocking Mary in. "Not yet."

Breathe, she told herself as her lungs started to seize up in panic. She pushed her fearful thoughts to the back of her mind, pushed the lump down her throat, and opened her mouth to challenge him.

"I'll scream," she said.

"No one will hear you." Was his cold reply. Mary flinched.

"What?" She said dismissively, unbelieving of his audacity- to talk to her like this, to behave in this manner. Then she thought of all the others in the hall, dancing and chattering with all the music and laughter and gaiety of the house party and realised the indignant nature of her question- of course they wouldn't hear her. How could they?

"Even if someone did- what a scandal it would cause! The eldest daughter of Lord Grantham no less found unchaperoned in the stables with a man- all the doors in London would be slammed in your face before even your debut!"

His words were like hot ice. They hit her gut first, then spread in all directions. Filling her ears, elbows, knees, toes— his hot breath coming closer and more deplorably to her still and she shuddered under it. He stood, towering over her, impossibly, horribly close, taller than she noticed earlier, bulkier, blocking any way out to safety and the ability to breathe.

She felt his eyes on her then, trailing from her hair, down her body, lingering in places they didn't belong— had no right to be- and for the first time in a long time, she felt like a helpless little girl.

A child.

He stepped closer, his hideously boiling breath singeing her skin and causing her eyes to screw shut in terror. She was shivering. Her bones and blood were on full alarm—it was a primordial instinct, passed down from a thousand generations of women who, like her, feared the inevitable and had been surrendered powerless in its wake.

He whispered the words again, the words that crushed her heart and hope in one colossal stamp.

"No one will hear you."

And she was left in despair.

"Nothing will happen," he said, his voice thick. "Nothing you don't want."

And in that tone, she understood—she knew—she was not his first. But she could make sure she was the last.

"Move." She demanded, kicking and struggling with all her might to wrestle free from the weight of his chest pressed so heavily to hers. He reached out, griped her arm just above the elbow. It was firm and painful.

"Why would you say that to me?"

Scream, Mary.

"You want this," he whispered, leaning his head closer. She could smell his breath, every ounce of it ashy, smothering and revolting, making her gag.

"I know you want this."

A scream had been boiling in her stomach, and was about to scratch out her throat, when he placed a harsh hand hard against her mouth. His grip was aggressive.

Scream.

She felt sick.

Scream.

His lips were slimy.

Scream.

She kneed him hard, as hard as she could, and with the shocked release of her mouth, she screamed.

"You like Mary though," Matthew reasoned.

He felt an uncomfortable tugging in his chest as he said the words, the thought of Patrick and Mary being wed not sitting as a comfortable prospect in his head or his heart. He didn't see any way of expressing this without feeling so terribly foolish. Why should he feel so misplaced, like his insides had been twisted and squeezed, over the thought of two of his friends married? Was Mary his friend? He wasn't sure, not anymore. But Patrick and Mary liked each other well enough, they knew each other, they got on, it would keep the title in the family. So why did he feel so suddenly mixed up?

He thought of Patrick married to an unknown person with an unknown face and he felt no qualms about that thought. He thought of Mary married to an unknown man with an unknown face and felt his stomach drop in protest, immediately feeling an urge to punch the unknown man in his unknown face. But when he thought of them both joined in matrimony he just felt peculiar.

Odd. Mangled. Sad. Disappointed. Upset. Jealous.

Oh god. He was in love with her.

Suddenly the image of himself sliding a golden ring onto Mary's finger flitted into his mind and he felt a tingling warmth spread through his body. He thought of the moment on the steps when he'd kissed her and felt his mouth twitch into a tender smile. He thought of the moments when their strange quarrel seemed forgotten- when they'd danced, when he'd caught her laughing at one of his jokes or catching his eye to smile across the dinner table at some ridiculous notion of a boring and aged guest.

He'd loved her for much longer than he'd known.

But she could never be his. She was promised to Patrick now. And despite the fact that their prospects were well suited and Patrick was his best friend, Matthew felt a pang of envy.

"You do like her." Matthew repeated. He pushed his own feelings away. He had to make things ok. For Patrick.

"Oh Matthew," Patrick shook his head. "I love Mary." He said simply, and ache in his voice that resonated a complexity in his feelings. "Of course, I do. But not in the way I'm supposed to." He told him. "Not like you do."

Matthew raised his head and turned his gaze from his feet to meet Patrick's eyes.

"I've known for a while." Patrick confessed. "Longer than I think you have." He smiled slightly at his friend, a sad and sorrowful but ever so genuine smile.

"But if you love her you could make it work. It wouldn't be so bad, would it?" Matthew's own words pained him but he spoke them out of regard for his friend, desperate to make it ok no matter how much it hurt.

"Matthew, we couldn't make each other happy." Patrick argued, realising that for all Matthew's intellectual values and formidable intelligence there were some things even he could be remarkably blind about.

"Mary is my cousin and a dear friend. I don't believe we would be unhappy together, but I believe we both deserve someone to make us happy. And despite how it may look on paper, we really aren't well suited."

"But…" Matthew protested, not really understanding his friend.

The way he saw it, there wasn't much choice afforded to them in the matter of their marriage, nor much room to manoeuvre. At the end of the day, if Robert and Cora agreed to the plan, Patrick and Mary would have to marry and Matthew believed they might have a chance at happiness, however much it hurt him, but only if they both gave it a chance.

"I can't make Mary happy," Patrick interrupted. "But you can."

Matthew shook his head, filled with a sadness that always struck him when Mary took her jibes or teasing too far. It hurt. "Mary despises me." He said, voice a little choked and tone a little rueful.

"Mary could never despise you." Patrick told him, his stern tone forcing Matthew to believe him. "I see the way she looks at you. Even if you don't." He smiled slightly, musing on the glances he'd noticed she had sent him when he wasn't looking, the look in her eyes when she'd danced with him, the love in her stare when he had come back after the first holiday of third year.

"You're a good man, Matthew. You can make her happy. Just like you could make me happy."

Matthew's eyes furrowed at his comment, not understanding its capacity and missing the shot of meaning Patrick had meant for it to hold.

"But, if you just tried- put some belief into it- I think you could make the marriage work. I know it would hurt me, hell it would hurt me beyond imagining. It would break my heart. But the way I see it, you can't get out of this. You might as well try to be happy rather than end up being marrying anyway and be miserable." Matthew said, overlooking what Patrick had just insinuated.

Patrick shook his head in frustration, willing his best friend to understand.

"I don't think about Mary that way!" he said.

There was a moment of silence.

"But Mary is everything anyone could ever want surely? How could you not?" Matthew simply couldn't see it. How could any man possible not fall in love with Mary?

"You think that way because you're madly in love with her." Patrick said, a light in his eyes that proved how glad he was that his cousin was so loved by such a good person. "I don't think of Mary like that. I don't think of any girls like that."

Surely, Patrick thought, surely Matthew would understand now.

Matthew looked at him blankly, still not understanding what Patrick was telling him. Or trying to tell him at least. He couldn't help but find his friend's ignorance mildly amusing, despite himself.

Suddenly, without any foreword or warning or indication, Patrick leaned closer to Matthew and kissed him.

With his friend's hand on his cheek and lips on his own, Matthew didn't have time to get over his initial shock before Patrick had pulled away and rested his forehead against Matthew's. He then took a step back and attempted to gauge Matthew's reaction.

Startled, Matthew didn't move, his eyes remaining wide in surprise.

"When you said I could make you happy," Matthew stammered, "you meant…"

"yes." Patrick nodded.

"Oh." Was all Matthew could muster.

"I know you don't feel the same." Patrick started. "I knew you never would. I know you love Mary. But the truth is I love you. That's why I could never make Mary, nor any woman, happy." He looked down at his feet. "If you despise me, then I won't be angry. Truly." Patrick said. "I realise there is a chance that you'll no longer want to be my friend and…"

Patrick was cut off by Matthew's chest colliding hard with his and his arms wrapping around him in a tight hug that very near knocked the wind out of him.

"I do love you Patrick." Matthew said over his shoulder. "Not in that way. But you'll always be my friend and I could never despise you."

Patrick buried his face in his friend's neck, relishing the wonderful weight off his shoulders after his confession as well as the wonderful weight of Matthew's chest against his own.

Their tight, heartfelt embrace was broken all too short by the sound of a terrible scream that almost buckled Matthew to the ground.

Like a shot, both boys sprinted over to the source of the noise, bursting through the stable doors.

Tears gathered in her eyes when no one came.

His hand clamped over her mouth once more and his forearm pressed up against her throat. There was no air. No hope. Her glassy eyes closed and her feet dangled, struggling to touch the ground before she went limp- and then she flopped to the ground, sliding down the wooden door into a heap in the straw.

She opened her eyes slowly, afraid that she'd blacked out and perhaps he had claimed her in the time she'd been unaware of.

But she hadn't.

He hadn't. She was ok. And what she saw came with a gasp of final relief because Matthew and Patrick had wrestled him off of her and tackled him to the ground between them.

She was not alone.

Seconds later another silhouette came charging in through the doorway and processed the scene without aid.

The glimpse of light he was caught under was enough for Mary to tell who it was.

Reggie.

She breathed out a sigh of blessed relief.

Reggie pushed the two boys off the man and slammed him, hand at throat, into the wall. Saying something venomous that went unheard by the others as Matthew and Patrick scrambled over to Mary at once and crouched either side of her, unresponsive and in desperate amounts of shock.

"Are you alright?" Patrick asked hurriedly, gripping her shoulder. Mary wrenched her arm from him and turned her tearful face away, hiding it in her hands.

"It's alright, Mary." Matthew placed a gentle hand on her cheek and stroked a thumb under her each of her eyes in turn to catch her tears. "We've got you."

Patrick took her hand and helped her up and when she stumbled Matthew wrapped a tender arm around her shoulders to hold her up. She leant on him and rested her head on his shoulder.

Both boys gallantly removed their jackets to wrap soundly around her shoulders and they walked out as a group, headed for the servants' entrance to avoid the stares of the party in the halls.

As her fractured nerves simmered down to a more controlled temperament, the feeling of Matthew's embrace quelling her shuddering with their powers of immaculate comfort, she couldn't help but feel rather proud of herself.

She'd stood up to him and she'd got away. She was strong and her strength had saved her.

"I'm alright." She told them. She would not be victimised, not in anyone's eyes. "Thank you."

They had been promised a night party of their own and, with Mary still in mild agitation, Edith and herself had truced for one night and snuck together down the darkened corridor with candles in their hands to rouse both boys in their respective rooms. All four of them then moved to Patrick's bedroom, lying side-by-side on the floor by the fire, giggling and talking so far into the night that eventually it was exhaustion that claimed them, falling asleep packed in a row like sardines and relying body warmth to keep them sound.

Patrick was the last to succumb to sleep, seeing the fire about to die into its embers, he got up from his place between Matthew and Edith and retried some of his blankets from his large, four-poster. He laid one over Mary and Matthew, noting with a smile that they were huddled together closer than Mary would allow had she been awake and the other over himself and Edith.

Regardless of what happened- marriage agreement or no marriage agreement, whether he would leave with his father or whether he wouldn't, in that moment, Patrick was happy and was sure his friends were also.