As soon as the door closes behind them Mary lets out a groan of relief, wilting into the armchair beside the television. Matthew smiles: "Home sweet home."

"Don't I wish." She closes her eyes to shut out the paint-splatter-patterned coverlets and the hideous modern-art reproductions adorning the beige-painted walls. She usually makes the hotel reservations when they come to London, but Matthew did it this time. I've had us try out a new place, he said. We'll save a bit of money.

She'd laughed and replied Why do we need to save money? Do you have something to tell me? But she knows it's just the middle class coming out in him, like dark paint seeping through a pale topcoat. She doesn't fault him for it; nor will he be booking the hotel next time they make the trip. Lesson learnt.

Matthew tosses her handbag on the unused bed and comes over to press a kiss to her forehead, and she opens her eyes and bestows him a tired smile. He leans back, his bright eyes dimmed a bit with the late hour but full of concern. "How are you?"

"Quite well, thank you."

"Not in pain?"

They gave her painkillers at the hospital, a few levels above paracetamol but not as potent as whatever Tom had for his arm (some of which he half-jokingly offered before they left his and Sybil's flat). "No, I'm fine."

"Tired?"

She sighs. "Exhausted." The prospect of getting up and managing even the rudiments of bedtime hygiene, let alone a shower, is more daunting than staying here in this chair all night.

Matthew holds out his hands. "Let's get you to bed, darling. I'll help you." He begins to pull her up, talking over her feeble protests: "You'll feel better once you can lie down. Up we go, now. Just in here." Together they hobble into the bathroom, where she leans against the vanity.

She laughs when he puts the paste on her toothbrush. "Are you going to clean my teeth for me as well?"

"Do you need me to?" He hands her the loaded brush with a raised eyebrow when she shakes her head. "Mary, I know you don't like asking for help—even mine—but there's nothing wrong in it."

"I like my independence." The words come out garbled around the toothbrush.

"You're proud," he corrects, raising a hand in response to her rolled eyes. "And there's nothing wrong in that, either. Rather bewitching, I should say." One side of his mouth turns up slightly.

She spits into the sink, her gaze reaching for the light fixtures again when she straightens up. "But sometimes we must let go and allow the people who love us to take care of us," she singsongs. "Blimey, I think I've learnt a valuable lesson today."

He's rummaging in her toiletry bag, bringing out the various bottles and jars she makes use of every evening. He doesn't miss even one and she raises an eyebrow, silently impressed. "You mock me," he says, "but you know it's true." He wets a washcloth and hands it to her.

"As long as you won't tell anyone. I should hate people to think me weak." She's only half in jest.

He responds in kind: not serious, but sincere. "Your sordid secret is safe with me." He catches her eyes flicking to the bathtub. "Do you want to have a bath?"

"Not tonight, I think. It's late and I just want to sleep."

They get undressed, which is easy enough for Mary to manage sitting down, and into bed. Matthew insists on using several pillows to prop up Mary's ankle—"We still need to prevent swelling"—and he turns out the light to the thick, complete darkness that only ever seems to exist in hotel rooms. Mary closes her eyes gratefully, but her mind is still having trouble turning itself off; it's full of the care instructions from the nurse and low-grade worries about how she's going to manage on the trip back to Manchester and at work on Monday.

And then there's her and Edith's conversation. The apology surprised her, she'll admit it, though hardly more than the confession. And of course she's pleased; she'd have to be mad not to be happy that she and her nearest sister can finally begin to let go of the animosity between them.

And that's the problem. If it persists, if nothing changes, then the fault will rest not with Edith but with her. Mary knows that her reasons for hating Edith were always flimsy. The original offense was a misdemeanor, its consequences short-term and relatively mild, at least in retrospect. She still remembers the sinking feeling when she realized it was her that people were calling a slut behind their hands, but it was nearly the end of her last term and it wasn't so very difficult to hold her head high for a few weeks. As for Edith's duplicity, deep down Mary knows that her anger over it was manufactured. She's never expected Edith to be on her side; they don't have that sort of relationship, rather the opposite. The simple truth is that they've never liked each other, and Mary was just looking for something to justify it.

She sighs, settling her shoulders deeper into the mattress, trying to get comfortable. Matthew's breathing had started to even out but it catches at her movement. "Y'awrightdahlin?"

"Fine."

"Can't sleep?" He seems to have surfaced completely, and Mary's conscience pricks her a little at having kept him awake.

"It's nothing, darling. Go to sleep." But she feels his fingertips at her elbow, walking down her forearm to take her hand in his. He squeezes gently and leans over to kiss her cheek and she gives up trying to be quiet. But she won't talk about what's really bothering her; she doesn't want to expose such a petty side of herself to him. "How was baby-sitting?"

"Brilliant, actually. I got Siobhan to quiet down when her own dad couldn't." The satisfied note in his voice makes Mary laugh. "She's really quite adorable. Even when she's crying there's something about her that makes you want to gather her up."

"It's called survival of the species," Mary says drily. "If they weren't appealing, we'd abandon them to be eaten by wolves after a week of sleepless nights."

Matthew laughs. "You say that, but if we had one I've a feeling you'd love it as fiercely as any lioness does her cub."

Her face prickles. We've been through this, she wants to tell him, but she doesn't want to say it and disappoint him again. It's not that she has a philosophical objection to having children; it's simply impossible with the life they lead. A hundred years ago their progeny could've spent nine-tenths of their time with a nanny and no one would have batted an eye, but that is not the case now. And a hundred years ago I wouldn't have had a job I love so very much.

Her silence has gone on long enough to be eloquent. "I don't mean to beat a dead horse," he says. "But earlier I was thinking…" his voice rises speculatively.

Mary cuts him off, but keeps her voice light. "Spending time with Siobhan made you broody?" It occurs to her how strange it probably is that her niece doesn't affect her that way. She's a perfectly lovely baby, of course, and Mary very much looks forward to having a relationship with her. When she's older.

"I suppose." He chuckles. "But Tom said something tonight and it occurred to me... obviously we don't need both our incomes."

Her heart sinks. "Matthew." How could he even suggest...

"Hear me out. It's not what you're thinking."

"All right." She takes a deep breath through her nose and resolves to try and keep her mouth shut.

"What if we had a baby and I stayed home to take care of him? Or her." The words come out in a rush, as though he fears being interrupted—a fear that is not entirely unjustified, given the way some of their past discussions have gone.

He's right: it's not what she was thinking. The possibility of Matthew quitting work has honestly never occurred to her. This is mostly because she's never entertained the thought of doing so herself—so why would he? "Well. You must really want a baby," is what comes out of her mouth, in a sardonic tone that immediately makes her want to kick herself.

He's quiet for a moment and she can almost hear him deliberating before he finally bursts out with it. "I suppose I do at that."

"Matthew—"

"It's not something I've been hiding from you or anything," he hastens to add. "It's been building, these past few months. I guess tonight was the tipping point."

"But to stop working?" It's unthinkable to her.

His shoulder slips against hers as he shrugs. "I'm not like you in that way. I think I'd quite like taking a few years off to finger paint and sing silly songs."

Mary smiles; she has to admit the mental picture is charming. But… "You wouldn't miss talking to grown-ups?" Another vision springs into her head of Matthew at the park, the lone man in a sea of nannies and stay-at-home mums. "You might get lonely."

"I'm sure I'd manage. Besides, it's not as if my co-workers are especially good company." Mary has suffered through enough of his firm's holiday parties to take his point.

"It's an interesting idea," she says, noncommittal. "Let's sleep on it, shall we?"

"Fair enough." He yawns and rolls toward her, draping his arm over her stomach and nuzzling her shoulder, and is asleep in minutes. Mary attempts to follow her own advice, but she still can't stop thinking. Beneath Matthew's arm her hand drifts over her tummy. She wonders what it would feel like for that slight dip between her hipbones to become a rise, growing to accommodate her child—their child—would it have blue eyes or brown? Would it have the famed Crawley stubbornness? Her mind embellishes the fuzzy image, gives it his goofy smile and her expressive forehead. Dresses it in a plaid skirt and white blouse and scuffed loafers, sticks plasters on its knees. She imagines viewing the signposts of childhood from the perspective of a parent.

She sighs. The idea has an undeniable attraction, especially with Matthew's offer, which makes things so much simpler on the surface. He thinks he's come up with a way for them to have it all, but she's not convinced. The thought of him altering his life so drastically worries her. What if the change drives them too far apart and they lose the things they have in common? It would be easier if she loved her work less, or Matthew less; she wants him to have what he wants, she does. And she's willing to make sacrifices so that he can, but already she feels pulled in two different directions. It will be a hard test to add another. She feels a pang at the thought of being the distant parent, the one who comes home in time to kiss her sleeping children's foreheads and leaves before they're up for breakfast. But she knows that while there may be any number of reasons to say no, that's not one of them.

Sleep on it. Determinedly, Mary closes her eyes, regulates her breathing. This is not a decision to be made in one night, or ten. But as she drifts off, deep down she knows that her heart has already chosen.