Sorry for the tease at the end in the previous chapter. They will kiss. Eventually.

As you can tell, I also wish Fellowes had given us more between Martha Levinson and Sybil—it seems obvious that given their progressive leanings they would have been each other's favorites.

I've been writing practically non-stop since I started this, but life is starting to require my attention so the next few updates will be a little slower in coming.

Anyway, without further ado, here is Mary. For the M/M shippers I've heard from, thank you for your patience and enjoy!

Mary

To say that the evening had not lived up to expectations was gross understatement. Mary was deeply British, aristocratic even, but this was not a moment for understatement. It was horrible.

The funny thing was that at the start of the day, her expectations hadn't been all that high. Evelyn Napier, an old friend who had once held a torch for her had invited her to dinner. She had worried about leading him on, but it had been some time since she'd had a proper night out in London and she liked him enough to contend with any possible awkwardness. So she took a morning train from Yorkshire, stopped by her family's London house and prepared herself for a quiet, uneventful dinner.

Things took what at first take seemed like a promising turn when she arrived at the restaurant and saw that Evelyn had brought a guest with him, a rather fetching one at that. Evelyn worked at the Turkish Embassy in London, and Mr. Kemal Pamuk was the son of a diplomat visiting the city from Istanbul. As Evelyn relayed, while Mary looked over her menu, he had mentioned to Mr. Pamuk on his way out of the office that he was taking an old friend out to dinner. Mr. Pamuk insisted not only on joining them, but on partaking in a traditional English meal.

Mr. Pamuk was interested in Mary from the start and rather forward considering that they'd just met and that there was a third-party present. Nevertheless, Mary indulged his flattery—it wasn't every day that a beautiful foreigner flirted with her. She did not like beer much but accepted a pint tonight to please him and drank it slowly. Would that he had done the same.

But alas, after one shepherd's pie, after far more libations than the Turk could handle, after one extremely awkward walk across Shaftesbury Avenue, during which Evelyn and Mary had to drag Mr. Pamuk, who was passed out from drunkenness, back to his hotel, and after one dreadfully public screaming match with Evelyn in the hotel lobby over what he was supposed to tell his boss in the morning and why she had to be so like she was, here Mary stood, holding a frying pan in one hand and her mobile in the other, ringing her little sister to ask her who the strange man in her flat was and what in bloody hell was she doing on holiday in Ireland—or so was the man's claim. Mary didn't care that it was 2:30 in the morning, that her feet were killing her and that the seam was coming lose in her Stella McCartney dress. She needed answers.

Finally, as she heard Sybil pick up on the other end, she sighed with relief.

"Mary, if you're not bloody bleeding right now you are going to be the next time I see you."

No, Mary thought, the evening had definitely not gone as planned.

As if it were a gun, Mary used the frying pan to goad the man into sitting on the sofa, which he did with a roll of his eyes, which only served to annoy Mary further. The nerve. Mary then moved to Sybil's room, where she sat on the bed for what she now realized was going to be a long conversation.

"Mary? Are you even there?"

"Yes, I am here, at your flat, trying to recover from one of the worst, most humiliating nights of my life, only to find a strange man sleeping in my bed."

"It's the guest bed, which he is."

"Well, thank you ever so much, Sybil dearest, for telling me that you were going to have a gentleman caller." Mary hated sarcasm, but sometimes it was the only way to get through to her wayward baby sister.

"I did tell you he was coming. If you'd ever check your messages, you'd see one from me explaining that I was going to Dublin for a week and a Mr. Matthew Crawley was going to be staying in my flat during that time."

"Crawley? Don't tell me he's a relative."

"Of course not. He's just someone I met on the Internet."

"Well, that soothes my concerns."

"Mary, can I get back to what I was doing?"

"What could you possibly be doing in the middle of the night other than sleeping?" Mary paused, realizing how very much awake her sister was and how very clear she'd made it that Mary had interrupted . . . something. "And who could you possibly know in Dublin to be doing anything with right now?"

"I don't suppose you'll settle for it's none of your business?"

Mary paused here and took a deep breath, putting infuriated, incensed Mary away for a moment and becoming the concerned older sister.

"Are you all right, Sybil, truly?"

Mary heard Sybil's own voice soften on the other end. "I am. I swear it. And I'm sorry we couldn't talk before I left, but I assure you that Matthew is not a serial murderer. You should let him go back to bed."

"What about me?"

"You can't sleep with a stranger in the next room?"

"I'd rather not."

"Well, then, get to know him. There's biscuits in the pantry. Offer him a peace offering."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Just who exactly are you getting to know? And, for the record, as your sister, it is very much my business."

"Um . . . a friend."

"Does he have a name?"

"How do you know it's a he?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake—"

"Tom. His name is Tom, and he's Matthew's mate from university. He's offered to be my tour guide for the week."

"Of Dublin or his bedroom?"

"MARY!"

"Well?"

"We haven't kissed or anything."

"Oh, I see. If I'd called five minutes later, the answer would be different?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps my foot. So tell me about him."

"Do we have to do this now?"

"I'd like Mr. Matthew Crawley to wait a little longer."

"He's perfectly nice."

"Mr. Crawley or this Tom fellow?"

"Both."

Mary walked over to the door and peeked out at Matthew, who was still on the sofa, leaning back with his legs crossed, leafing casually through one of Sybil's newspapers as if it were 3 o'clock on a Sunday and he was waiting for his afternoon tea.

"Oh, all right. But please be careful, darling. Horrid though he was, I know Larry left a mark."

"This isn't about Larry. I haven't even thought of him all week."

"What's it about then?"

"Me having an adventure. And getting away from romantic advice from my family. I'm taking my own from now on."

Mary smiled at this. She could take her parents meddling, but she knew Sybil chaffed under it. "We just want you to be happy."

"Well, tonight I feel happy. Truly happy, Mary. Incandescently so." Mary could hear the sincerity in Sybil's words and knew immediately that she meant it.

"Well, I'm glad. But—"

"Be careful, I know."

"I was going to say don't think that you finding an Irish soul mate means I'll allow you to move to Dublin."

"Allow me?"

"Oh Sybil, don't you know by now that nothing happens in this world unless I approve?"

Sybil laughed. "How could I forget."

"Goodnight, darling."

Order, at least in the universe of sisterly relations over which Mary ruled a as benevolent monarch, was restored. She smiled as she hung up, glad that her dear Sybil had, at least for the moment, something to be happy about. Sybil was so unlike Mary in so many ways, but Mary empathized with and felt deeply protective of the passions and yearnings Sybil felt—even if she didn't agree with the interests they engendered.

This Tom person better be good to her or he'll have me to answer to.

That thought brought Mary back to the present, and the gentleman on the sofa.

Mr. Matthew Crawley.

It occurred to Mary that Sybil didn't confirm whether Tom—who apparently went to university with Matthew—was actually Irish. Matthew was English. He was also rather nice looking. Nothing like Mr. Pamuk, of course, but clearly in that man's case looks were a red herring. The way he was sitting on the sofa now, so calm, Matthew didn't seem all that upset by her sudden appearance though he obviously hadn't been expecting anyone. Evenness of character was a quality she prized. Maybe he wouldn't prove himself a total nuisance.

She walked toward the kitchen to put the frying pan away and felt his eyes on her from just above the top fold of the newspaper as she made her way across the room.

"Does this mean my identity has been checked out?"

"Yes, though you're not completely off the hook yet," Mary responded, starting some tea and going for the biscuits Sybil recommended.

"How can we move that along? I was having a rather good sleep."

"You can tell me about your friend Tom."

"Tom?"

"It seems my sister is rather taken with him. He was with her just now, when I called her."

Matthew smiled widely, "Really?"

Mary found this reaction disconcerting. "Do you know something I don't?"

"Only that Tom is in need of a friend. I shall be very glad if he has found one in Sybil."

"Well, I don't know what kind of productive friendship happens at this time of night, but I'll take your word that he's a good person."

"The best." His obvious sincerity satisfied Mary and she turned back to the tea.

She prepared it for herself and Matthew, bringing the pot, with milk and sugar, and a plate of biscuits, on a silver tray over to the coffee table by the sofa where he was sitting. It might seem rather formal an arrangement for two strangers—one in his pajamas—at 3 a.m. but Mary knew only one way of doing things. If he was surprised by her niceties, even at this time of night, he didn't say. A fact that, again, Mary appreciated.

After sitting down next to him, she watched him carefully as he took his cup and swirled a teaspoon of sugar into his tea.

Leaning back into the sofa again, he turned to her. "So does this mean you and I are not going to have a productive friendship?"

"Jury's out," she said primly. She noticed him smiling into his tea cup. It was a very nice smile.

Mr. Matthew Crawley.

"So where did you meet your friend Tom."

"Cambridge."

"Course of study?"

"Me or him?"

"You, of course. I don't need to know everything about my sister's crushes."

He smiled again, which she wished he would stop doing. It was putting her off balance.

"Law," he said.

"What a coincidence."

"You're a lawyer?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "You seem skeptical."

He tilted his head and looked at her with narrowed eyes. "You don't strike me as someone who . . ." He paused.

Now she was intrigued. Surely, he hadn't deciphered her already. "Someone who what?"

Sighing, Matthew said, "I'm trying to figure out the best way to say it without offending you."

"Well, now you must say it and face the consequences."

"You don't strike me as someone who works for a living."

She laughed and rolled her eyes. He joined her in her mirth, although she could tell his was a laughter that suggested she had made him a bit nervous. Good.

"I take no offense, since you're partly right. I practice part-time with my father. I have no need to work but the only thing I hate more than a lack of formality is a smart woman with nothing to do."

"You, formal?" He asked jokingly, grandly gesturing at her tea presentation.

She furrowed her brow and said, "I loath sarcasm."

"I assumed," he said, smiling into his tea cup again before taking another sip.

Please don't start flirting. I'm too tired to do anything about it now.

That's what she should have said to him and under normal circumstances she would have—directness was another treasured virtue—but the night's misadventures were swirling in her mind still and she found his manner pleasant. She didn't like flirting most of the time because it required her to put up a defense. A defense that Mr. Pamuk, all too easily tore down, she reminded herself. And yet, watching Matthew now, Mary knew that he was not the type to tear down anything. Or invite himself in as surely Mr. Pamuk would have done had he been conscious and here right now. Matthew seemed, well, gentlemanly.

He caught her eyes on him and gave her an easy smile.

"You seemed a bit put out when you came in—aside from having found me here, I mean. I hope you're feeling better."

She smiled at his concern. "It was quite an evening, but it has improved dramatically. Thank you."

"Do you always come to your sister's after a bad night?"

"I don't actually live in London, but my family has a house here, which is where I usually go unless I've had to much too much to drink or the night was otherwise unpleasant. Breakfast with Sybil usually does the trick."

"What made tonight so difficult?"

"Have you ever dragged the body of a Turk across four lanes of traffic?"

Matthew had just been taking a sip of his tea and proceeded to spit it out all over the tea tray, knocking over the pot in the process. They both reacted quickly to clean it up, laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

She turned to him, without realizing how close his face was now, and said, "I guess the answer is no."

Proximity made his smile all the more disarming.

"I can't decide if I should want to hear more or not," he responded, without moving away.

"That's the funny side of the whole thing. The sad side is that I think I've lost someone I considered a friend."

He raised his eyebrows. "I thought you were exaggerating about the whole dead body thing."

"What? Oh! Mr. Pamuk wasn't actually dead. Just very drunk. I meant the friend who arranged dinner. We had a bit of a row after we got Mr. Pamuk off to bed. We both said some terrible things."

"About Mr. Pamuk?"

She smiled sadly. "No. Mostly about me."

It was true. Her fight with Evelyn tonight somehow turned from what happened with Mr. Pamuk to her careless attitude with men—

"Do you think this would have happened if you hadn't been flirting with him?"

"ME!? He was all over me! The decent thing would have been for you to pull him aside and tell him to lay off."

To why she was so aloof with him—

"I think you thrive on turning your nose up at any man who dares enter your orbit."

"Oh, of course, my disinterest in you must be a deficiency in my character, because what woman could possibly turn down such a jolly prize."

And to why she was still alone—

"You parade yourself around like the queen of everything but inside is a poor, scared little rich girl whose biggest fear is being left to her own devices."

Mary had had no answer to that.

She relayed this last to Matthew, despite how much it had stung, wondering if perhaps this handsome stranger could see through her the way Evelyn apparently did.

"My own devices," she repeated again, looking down into her hands. God she hated vulnerability, but now that she'd released it, she couldn't hold it back. "I suppose he was right. Sad isn't it?"

She felt Matthew's hand come over hers, squeezing gently.

"Oh, I don't know," he said, in a voice that might have been described as flirtatious by Mary if it wasn't so plainly and gently sweet. "I'd have to know more about the poor little rich girl and the devices in question. I might come to enjoy being left alone with them."

Another woman, one not so self-possessed as Mary, would have blushed. Mary, however, released a long, shaky breath, as if relieved of a great burden, and smiled. It was a genuine smile, which, as anyone who knew Mary could attest, was rather a rare but beautiful thing to behold.

She looked square into his eyes for a long minute.

Mr. Matthew Crawley.

"You know, Matthew, I have had a very bad night and considering that you're here and you're so wonderfully adorable and sweet, and you're going back to Dublin in a week and, if you're kind, you will have forgotten about this all in month's time anyway, I think we should have sex."

Matthew's eyes widened in shock.

If he would have believed it, she would have told him those weren't words she had expected to come out of her mouth just then either. But the exhaustion that Mary had felt only moments ago, not just from tonight, but from years of being perfect and precise, fell away and the resulting epiphany was that letting loose once in a while wasn't a terrible idea and here was a perfectly good opportunity to do so.

Was he going to respond?

"Do you want to?" she asked for good measure.

Matthew smiled, looking a little confused. "Is that a trick question?"

And just like that, they were kissing.

Apologies to Napier lovers, but I had to make him a bit of a prig here to incite Mary's crisis. Pamuk telling her off, in my mind, was not enough.