Cricket pitch, Downton Abbey, September 23rd, 1922
"The tradition was to have the match between the house and the village," explained Mary to Miss Bunting as they were observing the first players taking their spots. "But with the house staff getting less numerous with every passing year, it did not make sense anymore. We didn't want to end the event which was bringing so much fun to everyone though, so we came up with the idea of changing the concept to estate versus village – the tenant farmers and their employees team up with the people from the house now. The village population grew enough that they can still put their own team together."
"It does probably make the whole thing less confrontational," commented Miss Bunting, "And probably more fair. Weren't the people playing for the village intimidated by going against the local milord before the war?"
Mary gnashed her teeth discreetly.
"On the contrary," she answered sweetly. "If you must know, the village team usually won, to the eternal lament of my father. He was passionate about cricket, but then so were they. You will see it today, nobody is likely to give an inch in the name of social niceties when there is a cricket match to be won."
"That's good to hear," answered Miss Bunting sincerely. "It's been rather exasperating to observe how deeply entrenched some of those outdated traditions remain in the countryside."
"I take it you're not originally from a village, Miss Bunting?"
Miss Bunting laughed.
"Oh, no! I'm from Liverpool. I've only come here because I got a job offer from Downton school. It's been quite a learning experience for me, I assure you."
"That certainly explains some things," noted Mary drily, then hastened to continue in response to Miss Bunting's sharp look at her quip. "I know we all seem outrageously set in our ways, Miss Bunting, but to me it's still dizzying sometimes how much and how fast things are changing here. What you see at Downton now, both on the estate and in the village, is nothing like it used to be before the war."
"Which you must long for very much, don't you?" asked Miss Bunting in a way which made all Mary's hackles rise. She reminded herself that this aggravating woman was Tom's friend and could very well end up being his wife if everything continued as it now was. She could not afford to antagonise her completely, however satisfying it would have been.
"Depends which part," she answered honestly with a shrug. "There is necessarily some nostalgia involved, but there are some changes I am very happy with. I like to think that Lord Grantham and I are bringing Downton into the 20th century, with Tom's help, and it's fascinating for me to see the progress happening in front of my eyes and often by my initiative."
The match thankfully started and diverted their attention from their conversation.
Mary and Matthew's bedroom, Downton Abbey, September 23rd, 1922
"She is absolutely obnoxious!" complained Mary, rubbing the cold cream into her hands rather more viciously than it required. "Condescending, rude, prejudiced and ignorant all at once."
"She does match Tom in many ways then," answered Matthew smilingly from the bed. "At least the firecracker he used to be."
Mary's head swivelled to him so fast that her braid flew through the air.
"Tom was never as bad as that!"
Matthew gaped at her.
"Tom set a castle on fire, darling. I dare say Miss Bunting likely never went so far."
"You hope," answered Mary sullenly and Matthew couldn't help laughing. She sent him a glare from her vanity. "Let's see if you keep laughing like that if Tom does marry her, after all, and you will have to endure her relentless politics at every Sunday dinner."
"If that happens, I suspect that I may deal with it a bit better than you," said Matthew, getting up from the bed and walking over to her. He put his hands on her shoulders and massaged them lightly as she leaned into him. "But I am sure you will handle it with grace."
Mary scoffed, then gave him a sideways look.
"Probably with as much grace as you will show Mr Gregson."
Matthew immediately scowled.
"Must you remind me of that inevitable future?" he complained, pulling her braid lightly in mock punishment as she smirked at him, happy with turning tables on him.
"You better hope it is indeed inevitable," she pointed out. "Or we will have a much bigger mess on our hands."
"Let's not borrow trouble," said Matthew with a sigh, taking a step back and offering Mary his hand to help her get up from the vanity stool. At five months pregnant, her belly was round and firm, but not yet very big; it did interfere with her natural balance at times though. She accepted his assistance gratefully and kissed him lightly on the cheek in thanks. "For now, he seems determined to do right by Edith and their child; let's hope he won't disappoint us further."
They settled in bed, Mary's head resting on Matthew's chest as he caressed her rounded belly lightly.
"Have you seen how much George enjoyed watching cricket today?" he asked with a grin, remembering their son's squeals and enthusiastic pointing every time a ball flew past him. "I can't wait to teach him."
"He must get a bit more stable on his feet first," answered Mary dryly, even though the vision of Matthew teaching George how to play made her feel all warm and mushy inside. She blamed her pregnancy hormones. "You're just as bad as Granny gifting him a rocking horse three times too big. I don't know why you are both so impatient for him to be bigger than he is."
"It's not that I don't enjoy him as he is now," said Matthew slightly defensively, but followed it soon with a sheepish grin. "But I am looking forward to playing with him in ways which amuse me equally. As fun as it is to roll a ball to him, it does get repetitive."
"That it does," admitted Mary with a laugh, then inhaled sharply and pulled Matthew's hand higher on her belly. "The baby just kicked – here, do you feel it?"
"No," admitted Matthew mournfully. "It's probably too small yet for me to feel it on the outside. I am so looking forward to feeling it again. It makes it somehow more real to me when I do."
"My belly looking like I swallowed a ball is not convincing enough for you?" asked Mary ironically. Matthew looked at her with reproach and caressed her belly more purposefully.
"Your belly looks amazing," he said, raising his face to hers. "As does the rest of you."
He kissed her with ardour fully supporting his words.
"Planning on celebrating your victory at the pitch today, Lord Grantham?" asked Mary breathlessly when he released her lips briefly.
"Absolutely," answered Matthew, pushing down the strap of her nightgown and following its progress with his mouth. "In the best way possible."
Mary and Matthew's bedroom, Downton Abbey, September 24th, 1922
Mary read the birth notice for the son and heir of the Duke of Crowborough in her morning paper on the same day she received a letter from Agnes, containing the same news.
"I'm honestly so relieved, Mary," she wrote. "You can't imagine how much. I am free. I told him that now, when we finally have an heir for him, I don't want to see him in any house I am occupying with the baby unless we are hosting an event together and he agreed! He is gone already, to France or to Italy, I don't know and don't care. But Mary, my baby is here! He is so unbelievably sweet and beautiful. The Dowager Duchess says he looks like Philip, when he was little, but I've seen Philip's photographs and a portrait of him as a child and he doesn't! He looks a bit like me, only so much prettier, and mostly simply as himself. I named him Cedric – yes, like Little Lord Fauntleroy, but don't laugh! He is just so sweet that he reminded me of the sweetest boy in literature. The Dowager Duchess doesn't like it, but Philip doesn't care enough to stop me and told her to let me name him however I wanted. He will have of course a string of other names to go with it, but to me he is always going to be my sweetest, loveliest Cedric and oh, Mary, I couldn't be happier than I am right now!"
Mary put the letter down on her breakfast tray with mixed feelings. On one hand, she was overjoyed to have Agnes so very happy, after so many years of humiliation and heartbreak. On the other hand… Well, Caroline put it best in her own letter to her.
"I visited Agnes and saw the baby. Baby looks like a baby, for all his fancy titles, but I hardly recognised Anges – she is simply glowing whenever she looks at the little thing. She looks nearly pretty with that smile. As for her unlamented husband, I saw him briefly as he was ordering his bags packed into the car and I silently wished him again to end up in a ditch. Agnes has a son, so all the money and great houses would be hers anyway, and even with her sentimentality I can't believe she would have shed a tear."
No, Mary could not believe Agnes would have shed a tear at the Duke's untimely passing either.
She shuddered in brief horror at the fate which once upon a time could have been hers and put her hand on her belly, feeling her baby move energetically inside.
She still could not believe sometimes that both her babies were conceived out of deep, genuine love and passion. Not after all the years she had spent thinking it utterly impossible. She looked at Agnes' letter again and she reflected that there was no justice in their respective fates. If there was, it was certainly gentle Agnes who deserved to be loved and cherished, not Mary with all her faults – and yet here they were, Agnes relieved to the point of hysteria by the fact that the birth of her son made it possible for her to send her husband away from her and Mary, so desperately happy with Matthew, despite all odds and mistakes she had made. She would not wish to give up her own undeserved good luck to her friend, she was not a saint – but she found it profoundly troubling how much of it seemed more a matter of pure chance than merit.
She got startled when Matthew entered the bedroom, returning from his own breakfast with Rose.
"Bad news?" he asked with immediate concern when he saw her pensive face and open letters on her tray. She smiled in reassurance.
"Opposite. Agnes has given birth to a healthy and beautiful son. Cedric, after the Little Lord Fauntleroy," she said with a fond eyeroll.
Matthew's mouth twitched in amusement.
"It does sound like Agnes, doesn't it? Sometimes I truly wonder how you two managed to become friends."
Mary winced, his question fitting into her previous thoughts way too well for comfort.
"She is Caroline's second cousin and Caroline is mine," she explained quietly. "And since we're all the same age and were often thrown together, she was always trailing behind me and Caroline and pleading to be included in our games and secrets. We took terrible advantage of her willingness to please, of course. I don't really deserve her as my friend."
Matthew sat by her on the bed and caressed her cheek with his knuckles.
"I can say very easily that this is not true," he said gently. "I've seen how you are with her – loyal and fiercely protective and much kinder than you give yourself credit for. She would not have remained your friend past childhood if it was not the case."
Mary closed her eyes briefly under his soothing touch.
"I hope you're right," she said. "I hope I haven't always been a terrible friend to her. I don't have many people I care about as it is; I don't like to think I don't deserve the handful I have."
"If you didn't deserve it, would you inspire such loyalty and admiration from those people in return?" asked Matthew seriously. "You don't make it easy to know you, darling, but all those people you have let in – your Granny, Sybil, Tom, Carson, Anna, Agnes – they all care for you just as deeply as you care for them."
Mary looked at him sardonically.
"I see you didn't include yourself in that list."
"That's because I thought it was obvious," whispered Matthew before kissing her.
He smiled mischievously when they parted.
"Actually, I came here to invite you for an adventure."
Mary's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"An adventure? Of what kind?" she asked. He looked so satisfied with himself that she found herself intrigued.
"Of a kind when I whisk you away in my car for the whole day and will not release you until evening," he answered smugly, evidently enjoying her reaction. "Rose is going to spend the day with Cousin Violet and Mother invited George. I gave a day off to Anna, Bates and Nanny Lewis. We are free of responsibilities, the weather is lovely and I am looking forward to spending the day at the seaside with my wife."
"At the seaside?" asked Mary, her eyes growing wide.
"Yes, at Scarborough. It should take us at most two hours to drive there, an hour and a half maybe. What about it?"
She grinned at him.
"Count me in."
Scarborough, September 24th, 1922
Matthew stretched more comfortably on the blanket they laid out on the beach, his head resting on Mary's lap, with his cheek against her protruding belly. The waves crashed rhythmically behind him, the sun warmed him most pleasantly and even the seagulls squalling overhead added to the relaxed atmosphere of early afternoon. He felt carefree, content and simply happy.
"We should come here again, with George and Rose," he said languidly. "They would love it. But I am glad I brought only you here today."
"Me too," answered Mary tilting her face for a moment to the sun, before she dutifully adjusted her hat to protect her skin from it. "I nearly forgot how nice it is to have you to myself, with nothing to do and nobody to consider."
"When we bring them, we will have to take the big car," said Matthew with a rakish grin. "We will be looking much more stately and respectable than dashing."
Mary's eyebrows raised mockingly.
"Oh, you fancied yourself dashing when we were driving here?"
Matthew's grin widened.
"Of course I did. I was driving a sports car with a beautiful woman by my side, how could I not?"
"You might have been a bit dashing," acquiesced Mary magnanimously, but he felt her fingers carding through his hair with obvious fondness and grinned again in victory.
And this was when he felt a sudden poke into his cheek, pressed to Mary's belly. His eyes widened in wonder.
"Mary!" he exclaimed. "I felt it! Oh, darling, I felt our baby!"
Her eyes shone when she looked down on him.
"You truly did!" she confirmed brightly. "That was the strongest kick I got from him so far!"
"Come on, baby, do it again," pleaded Matthew breathlessly, keeping his cheek exactly where it was, and laughed joyously when the baby obliged him. "Oh, darling, it is the most wondrous thing. I feel like I'm bursting with love for him already."
He looked up at her again and he thought for a thousandth time that she never seemed more beautiful.
"Or her," he added, raising his arm to caress Mary's face. "I wouldn't mind a daughter at all."
"I wouldn't mind a daughter either," said Mary, leaning into his hand, her fingers still stroking his head lightly. "We have our little prince already."
"The most amazing prince on Earth," agreed Matthew. "Have you thought of names?"
Mary bit her lip thoughtfully.
"I thought about Robert, if it's a boy," she said quietly and his heart clenched at the grief etched on her face. "But I don't know if it wouldn't be too painful. It took me time to get used to Sybbie's name even though I understand Tom's reasoning behind naming her after Sybil."
"Maybe for the middle name then?" suggested Matthew, earning himself a warm smile from Mary.
"Possibly," she agreed. "But it means we still need the first name."
"If you don't have a preference, I wouldn't mind William," suggested Matthew. "He was one of the best men I knew… And I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for him."
To his relief, she nodded without the slightest hesitation. He did harbour a slight fear that she would be offended at the idea of naming their son after a servant, but he chided himself for underestimating her.
"William Robert," she said, with a gentle smile. "Named after two honourable, brave and truly kind men. I like it."
He answered her smile with his own.
"And if it's a girl?"
Mary shrugged.
"I have no idea. There are so many names I like… Caroline, Irene, Elizabeth, Margaret… Every time I am close to making up my mind, I change it in the morning. Do you have a preference?"
Matthew thought it over, grinning again at yet another poke into his cheek. Their baby was definitely making its presence known today and he adored the feeling.
"I've always liked Meg," he said and laughed at Mary's immediate glare.
"Margaret," she stressed. "She's going to be Lady Margaret Crawley, not a housemaid!"
He smirked at her teasingly.
"Whatever you choose, I can always come up with a nickname for her," he said confidently and laughed quietly again at her exasperated huff.
He was simply so happy.
"Let's not go back yet," he found himself saying. "Let's get a hotel for the night and call home to let them know we will return tomorrow."
His heart soared when she bent down to kiss him as he eagerly sat up to meet her lips halfway.
"Let's do that," she whispered against his mouth. "They will all survive one night without us."
She sat up straighter then and looked at him with a frown.
"We didn't pack any clothes though."
Matthew smirked as he pulled her to him for another kiss.
"You didn't pack any," he said smugly. "But Anna and Bates did put a bag in the car. Just in case."
"Then let's hope they packed enough for two nights," said Mary, as her hands sneaked into his hair purposefully. "Because I am not sure I will be willing to release you and go back to reality after just one."
As Matthew deepened their kiss and pulled her closer to him, the sound of waves reminding him clearly that they weren't home, that they weren't Lord and Lady Grantham here, with everything which that entailed, he thought that he had no objection to staying away for a week.
Wilmersdorf, Berlin, September 24th, 1922
Edith curled in the armchair with her notebook, biting on a pen in thought.
"Do you think a description of the prevalence of the sapphic clubs in Berlin is too daring for the English public?" she asked, frowning slightly at her notes.
Michael, sitting at the desk, raised his eyes from his typewriter to her.
"Depends how you phrase it," he answered with a wry smile. "If you hint at even a sniff of approval, some of the upstanding citizens among our readers will feel obliged to protest. If you frame it as 'things those decadent Germans do', we might get away with it. In my experience, the general public is quite eager to read about such topics, as long as they can maintain the illusion that they have nothing to do with what honest Englishmen and women get up to."
Edith smiled in response.
"Our national hypocrisy at its best," she agreed. "So do you want me to write it or would you prefer I pick a more palatable subject for my column?"
Michael grinned wolfishly.
"Write it," he said. "Let's stir the pot. What would you say to a visit to Professor Hisrshfield's Museum of Sexology for a research?"
Edith's eyes widened, but she agreed without hesitation.
"Papa would have hit the roof," she observed ruefully. "But yes, let's go there. Are you very busy with your classes this week?"
Micheal stretched in his chair.
"I am going to assign them some lengthy essays, but will only be swamped with reading and marking them next week," he answered cheerfully. "So I will be at your disposal in the afternoons of this one."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Edith, then exclaimed slightly and reached for her abdomen. "Micheal, come quick! The baby is kicking quite strongly now, maybe you will feel it!"
He got up eagerly from his desk and came over to her armchair in the corner. He gaped at her when he touched her belly.
"I did feel a kick!" he exclaimed, then kissed her passionately. "Darling, this is one of the best moments of my life."
"Worth dealing with a mountain of badly written and badly spelled English essays?" asked Edith with a breathless laugh.
"Oh, yes!" said Michael feelingly. "Worth all of it."
Anna and John Bates' Cottage, Downton, September 24th, 1922
"It is terribly nice to sit in one's own garden, isn't it?" asked Anna, sitting on a small wooden bench John had made to place under the apple tree – the only tree – growing in the garden at the back of their cottage. "Even if it is the size of a handkerchief."
John looked at their surroundings, which they kept simple since none of them had time to tend to the plants properly, and most of all at his wife sitting by his side, her hand in his, and felt his heart fill with fierce joy.
"It is," he answered simply. He looked at a book in Anna's other hand, which she put aside to enjoy the sun and the moment with him. "What are you reading?"
"'Rilla of Ingleside'," answered Anna, looking at the cover. "It's about a Canadian girl growing up during the war."
"There are already novels about the war?" asked John in surprise. Somehow it seemed too soon.
"It only came out last year, but it has been nearly four years since the war ended," said Anna, tightening her grip on his hand. "I'm so glad it's over. I hope our children will never see another."
John thought he saw a somewhat secretive smile hovering around his wife's lips, but ruthlessly suppressed any hope. It's been two years since he came out of prison and yet there was no baby. Maybe it was not meant to be for them.
"I hope so too," he said, although he thought wearily that there was always another war around the corner. It was as if humanity couldn't help itself.
Anna gave him a look which clearly showed she was wise to his thoughts, as she always was. God, he did not deserve such a woman!
"Hope is good," said Anna firmly as she squeezed his hand again. "It got me through many dark years and I got well rewarded for it."
As he kissed her under the branches of their own apple tree, John thought that maybe there was some reason for hope, however little he was used to it in his life.
Garden, Crawley House, September 24th, 1922
"Where is Georgie?" said Isobel aloud, looking around the garden. "I must have misplaced him somehow, because I don't see him anywhere!"
A bright giggle answered her from behind one of the bushes and she barely restrained a smile. He sounded exactly like Matthew at this age – utterly adorable.
"Is he behind that tree?" she said instead, theatrically checking on the other side of the garden than the giggle came from, resulting in more delighted giggling at Grandmama being so clueless. "No, he's not here! Maybe under the bench?"
It was when she straightened out with effort from checking under the bench that she realised with a start there was another person in the garden. Lord Merton stood by the gate, looking at her gravely.
"Good morning, Mrs Crawley. I can't help noticing that you're searching for something."
"I am," answered Isobel, feeling quite flustered but determined not to show it. "My grandson, to be precise. He must be somewhere in this garden, but for the life of me I can't find him."
Another giggle from behind the bush made Lord Merton's eyes twinkle, belying his still grave expression.
"May I offer my assistance? I may be rather rusty at a proper hide and seek, but I used to be quite proficient once upon a time."
Isobel found herself smiling.
"I would be delighted. Let's see if our joint efforts will result in finding him. But I warn you, George can hide really well."
Lord Merton grinned as he joined the search, walking deliberately away from the still giggling bush.
Royal Hotel, Scarborough, September 24th, 1922
"It's definitely one of the better ideas you had," admitted Mary, stretching languidly next to him. Considering that neither of them had any clothes on, Matthew voraciously appreciated the view it afforded him. God, his wife was so incredibly attractive!
"I agree," he hummed, reaching to caress her exquisite body again. "In fact, I am so pleased with the result I think we should repeat it several more times before this baby comes."
Mary grimaced briefly before she relaxed again under his well practised touch.
"I'm not looking forward to that part," she grumbled. "Neither the birth nor another demanding newborn. Maybe this baby should have a wetnurse or a bottle."
Matthew bent over her to take her breast into his mouth, careful not to put his weight on her belly.
"Whatever you wish," he said between the attentions which, judging from Mary's reactions, were definitely appreciated. "But I thought on the whole you were happy that you decided to nurse George."
"Not at two in the morning," answered Mary with visible difficulty, distracted by the sensations he was clearly inspiring in her, and he chuckled in agreement before kissing her breast again.
"Not at two in the morning," he muttered in between the licks of his tongue. "Babies are much more enjoyable during daylight hours."
But even as he said it one of his hands strayed to Mary's belly and he grinned happily when he felt another light but unmistakable kick.
He could not imagine being happier than in this moment.