Drawing room, Painswick House, January 1915

Mary sipped her club soda and looked around the room. The evening seemed to be going well.

The gathered guests were not who she had used to expect to entertain in London as a married woman. She was the only proper aristocrat present, with most of the others consisting of industrialists, bankers and government officials.

Matthew was clearly in his element though. Switching fluently between small talk and talking shop, effortlessly displaying his brilliance and capturing his guests' attention. She noted approving expression on Reggie Swire's shrewd face and fully expected lucrative business opportunities coming as the result of this dinner party. Connections were made, deals planned, and all fostered by her husband and his partner. Word was bound to spread that if you wanted to make deals with the government, Swire, Weatherby and Crawley was the firm to go to – and with the war going on and the army in dire need of everything, plenty of companies wanted to make deals with the government. Mary smiled, feeling true pride in her husband, even though the reason for it still astonished her sometimes.

She had been brought up with the firm conviction that working was not something her kind of people did. Of course some of them served at court, in the government or the army, but never in anything resembling business. It was simply not done. Matthew's stubborn insistence on keeping his job had been peculiar and very much a point against him; a clear mark of his middle class origins. And yet now – seeing him thrive and succeed in his profession, knowing very well that without his money and his ingenuity Downton would have no real chance of surviving – Mary did admit they were all wrong and mistaken to condemn him for it.

She wondered if that was how Aunt Rosamund felt, having married a banker who was only knighted after their wedding. She and Uncle Marmaduke must have hosted multiple gatherings very much like this one, in this very drawing room.

She welcomed approaching Lavinia with a smile. It was so easy to be her friend when she was not Matthew's fiancée!

"What an evening! But your father and Matthew seem pleased."

"They sure do. Thank you for hosting it. I am getting more comfortable acting as hostess for Papa, but it is still overwhelming at times."

"The secret is to pretend that you're fully in control until you really are," whispered Mary conspiratorially, making Lavinia grin.

"Is that how you grew to be so confident?"

"Of course," answered Mary with a wink. "And I did get them all fooled."

Drawing room, Painswick House, London, January 1915

"What makes you so sure it's a boy?" asked Lady Caroline Blake, glaring into her teacup.

"I just know," answered Mary calmly. "Maybe you will see for yourself soon. How is Lucius, by the way?"

Caroline rolled her eyes.

"Annoying," she answered curtly. "All he and his brother are talking about recently is volunteering. I think they are going to do it any day now, never mind the fact that I am not pregnant yet, so if he does get himself killed, I will lose everything I gained by marrying him."

Mary felt a wave of pure sympathy. She didn't think Lucius dying would be such a great catastrophe for anybody, but she fully empathised on the impossibility of dealing with a husband who was determined to put himself in harm's way.

"I can't understand why they are all so keen on going," she grumbled sullenly. "Matthew promised me he was not going to volunteer, but I can see every day that he thinks about it."

"At least you're pregnant," pointed Caroline with an envious look at Mary's slight belly. "Although it's not going to do you much good if you're wrong and it's a girl after all."

Mary bit her lip to stop herself from screaming that having an heir would not make Matthew's death any easier to bear. She knew.

She reminded herself that Caroline's marriage to Lucius was hardly comparable to hers and took a deep breath.

"Have you seen Agnes lately?"

Caroline winced.

"Yes," she said, in a gentler tone. "She looked completely miserable, but of course she doesn't say anything."

Mary frowned unhappily.

"She doesn't have to, does she? Aunt Rosamund told me he barely spends time in the same town as she, but he is hardly lonely wherever he is."

"Whenever I feel like complaining about Lucius, I remind myself that I could be married to that bastard," said Caroline viciously. "At least Lucius doesn't humiliate me publicly. Although I wouldn't have minded being a duchess."

"Me neither," answered Mary honestly, "But never his . Did I ever tell you that he was thinking of proposing to me once upon a time?"

Caroline's eyes bulged.

"No! Why didn't he then?"

"He found out I was not going to be the sole heiress of Downton and Mama's fortune after all, and my settlement was not enough to cover his debts," answered Mary wryly. "Saved by relative poverty."

Caroline scoffed.

"If I was as poor as you, I would have found somebody better than Lucius," she said, but without true rancour, then gestured at the room around them. " This is hardly a cottage."

Mary shrugged indifferently but felt rather pleased inside.

"Aunt Rosamund has been very generous with the terms, and it is my settlement that pays for it, true. But Blake House is very nice as well."

"And I will not enjoy its comforts for long if Lucius gets himself killed," muttered Caroline darkly and poured herself more tea.

Mary swallowed, remembering that Caroline's fears were soon going to turn entirely justified.

Drawing room, Eryholme, May 1915

"Have you started your search for a nanny?" asked Cora, sipping the excellent tea Molesley just served. She had to admit that for all his idiosyncrasies his tea-brewing skills were superb.

Mary clasped her fingers nervously.

"I did," she said, with uncharacteristic lack of assurance. "And I had several responses, but..."

"But what? None that look promising?"

"It's not that," Mary raised her eyes at her mother. "How do I choose? What if I pick wrong? What if I miss something and I will hire a woman who is completely unsuitable? Cruel to the baby?"

Cora put her teacup down and grasped Mary's hand soothingly.

"There is always a risk of such things, when hiring servants, but I am sure it won't happen," she assured her. "I can help you to interview the candidates, if you want. I did hire quite a lot of nannies over the years."

That was not as comforting as Cora intended. In Mary's experience, her mother's success rate when hiring nannies and governesses was spotty at best. Adding to some less then beloved caretakers she remembered from her own childhood, Cora was the one who had hired Nanny West.

Of course, that had been Mary's own fault. She had been in no shape to interview the nannies after George's birth. She still shuddered when she thought of that monster, who had abused poor Sybbie so, and the fact she had been in sole charge of George for months. Fortunately, it seemed that she had been fond of him – proud to be raising the future earl – but Mary still felt traumatised and supremely guilty for the experience. Because she knew that even had Nanny West been unking to her baby, she would have not noticed. Not when she had been so lost in her grief.

She was fully determined to be as involved in George's care as possible, but her confidence seemed to desert her completely in the face of her previous failure to do so.

She realised Cora was still waiting for an answer.

"Thank you, Mama," she said, taking her hand back and reaching for her tea. "Would you like to look at the responses I have received so far with me?"

She figured that, for all of Cora's spotty record, she still had more experience in evaluating servants. It would not hurt to consult her and it would make her mother happy.

"I would be delighted, my dear girl," exclaimed Cora happily.

Sitting room, Crawley House, May 1915

"Mary! Matthew! I'm so happy you came!" exclaimed Isobel, kissing first her son, then her daughter-in-law on the cheek.

"That's quite enthusiastic greeting, Mother, even for you," laughed Matthew fondly, "Do you have any particular need for us that caused it?"

"I'm always happy to see you, Matthew, and your wife as well, and I hope I show it," chided Isobel, inviting them to seat. "But as it happens, I did want to talk with you two and was just going to call you actually."

"What is it, Isobel?" asked Mary curiously, but guardedly. She admired her mother-in-law's zeal, but she had been known to get enthusiastic about rather... eclectic... choice of causes and Mary was long wary of getting dragged into one scheme or other without warning.

"I know you have been interviewing potential nannies and I came across a very promising candidate," said Isobel excitedly.

Mary raised her eyebrows. She hoped that whoever the candidate was, she was not a refugee from a questionable background or a prostitute. With Isobel, everything was possible.

"Who is she?" she asked carefully. Matthew sent her an amused look and squeezed her hand in silent support. He was long familiar with his mother's crusades to help the downtrodden.

"Her name is Hannah Lewis and she is the nanny to Doctor Roberts' children," came thankfully conventional response. "I don't know if you heard, Matthew, but Doctor Roberts got an offer to teach at a paediatric hospital in Boston and is moving there for several years at least. From what Mrs Roberts wrote me, Nanny Lewis does not want to go so far with them – she has a widowed mother she does not want to live so far from – so she will be searching for another position. Mrs Roberts suggested that she might be perfect for you – she is young and very bright, she has experience raising three children in a house of a renowned paediatrician, so she is very knowledgeable about all modern approaches to any health concerns, and before she became a nanny, she trained as a nurse. She gave that up because she learnt she didn't do too well with more grimy aspects of the profession, she said it was too depressing, but got excellent references from all her matrons and doctors. That's how she came to work for the Roberts', actually, Dr Roberts was impressed with her care of the children in his ward. She says that after raising seven younger siblings she had a choice to either become fond of children or go completely mad."

"She does sound promising," said Matthew, "What do you think, Mary?"

"I see no harm in interviewing her," answered Mary cautiously. "You say she had a widowed mother she likes to be close to. How far does she live?"

It could be a problem, if the mother was ailing and demanded frequent travels.

"That's one of the best parts," beamed Isobel. "She is from Yorkshire. I think her mother lives in a village near Thirsk."

"That definitely sounds manageable," smiled Matthew and looked questioningly at Mary. She nodded in agreement.

"So, have you decided if you want to give birth at the hospital?" asked Isobel brightly.

Mary instantly tensed, keeping the memories at bay by sheer force of will.

"I will do it at home," she said firmly, even as she noticed Matthew and Isobel exchanging a glance. Clearly, they were discussing the topic behind her back and trying to think of a way to convince her.

Well, they were going to be disappointed. There was no way Mary would go anywhere near this hospital to give birth. Or anywhere else where Matthew would have to drive, for that matter.

If she never saw that hospital room again, it would be too soon.

"It could be safer, in case anything went wrong," suggested Isobel, earning herself a glare.

"No."

"But darling, why? You seem comfortable with Doctor Clarkson, you chose him as your doctor for this anyway, why not come here when it's time?"

"I will not give birth in the hospital. I am going to do it at home and that's final," she glared at them both. "You may just as well drop the topic. I am not going to be persuaded on this."

Isobel shook her head, but then nodded in acquiescence.

"It should be safe," she reassured Matthew. "Most babies are born at home and both them and mothers are perfectly fine. If that's what Mary wants, then it's better to listen to her and ensure she doesn't feel overly worried."

Master bedroom, Eryholme, June 1915

"How can it last so long?" moaned Mary. It hadn't lasted this long the last time! "Is something wrong?"

Matthew looked up at his mother with sudden fright at Mary's question.

"Nothing's wrong, my dear," said Isobel matter-of-factly, "It's not at all unusual for the first labour to last long. I'm afraid your contractions are quite weak, so it will unfortunately take quite a bit longer."

Matthew's eyes widened, while Mary stared at Isobel in mute horror.

"They are weak?" he asked faintly. Seeing how much they made Mary suffer, he did not want to imagine how the strong ones looked.

Mary did remember her labour with George and gulped. She did not like the reminder of how much worse it could get before it was finished. But at least last time it had been faster!

"I'm afraid they are," said Isobel compassionately. "Maybe it would be better if you waited in the library, Matthew? Or even went to bed? It's quite likely the baby won't come until morning."

Matthew stared at her incredulously, even as he felt Mary's hand squeeze his wrist like a vice.

"Of course I'm not going anywhere. Not unless Mary wants me to," he knew he would be kicked out eventually – men were not supposed to be in a birth chamber and he had never questioned it before – but right now Mary seemed to need him and he could not imagine leaving her while she was in pain and so scared.

xxx

"I need him," said Mary desperately, clinging to Matthew's hand. "I cannot do that alone."

"You won't be alone," reassured Isobel. "I will be here, and your mother, and Doctor Clarkson, and Anna. You won't need Matthew and I assure you, you won't want him here at the end."

Mary remembered vividly how the end of her labour with George had looked like and got Isobel's point, but it did nothing against mind shattering terror she felt at the thought of facing labour with Matthew away. Giving birth and losing her beloved husband seemed forever fused in her brain and her very soul and she could not face one without the looming, terrifying threat of the other. She clawed at Matthew's hand hard enough she was sure she must be hurting him, but she just wouldn't, couldn't let him go and disappear from her sight.

"I don't care," she whispered, her voice failing her. She felt herself starting to tremble. "I need him here."

"I am here, darling," said Matthew soothingly and stroke her back with his free hand. "I am not going anywhere. Even if they throw me out of the room, I will be just behind the door."

Mary shook her head violently.

"No! I need to see you," she said in harsh whisper. "I cannot do that without seeing you."

"Mary, you must calm down, darling," said Mama looking at her with concern. "You are working yourself up; it won't help you. Such stress is not good for you or the baby."

Mary looked at her wildly.

"Then stop trying to send Matthew away! I keep telling you all that I need him, why is nobody listening?!"

She realised that by the end of the sentence she was screaming.

Matthew's back straightened out in resolve.

"Darling, if you need me, I will be here until you and only you send me away," he said firmly, staring at their mothers and the doctor defiantly. "I will be here as long as it's necessary."

Mary finally let herself relax against her husband's chest and take a deep breath. He was here. He was not going to get out of her sight. She could do it.

xxx

They did throw Matthew out at the very end, which Mary agreed to only because the mortification at the prospect of him seeing her like that overshadowed for a moment even her trauma. Besides, by that point, she was barely aware enough of anything other than the need to get the baby out and for all of it to be finally over. But he did promise to remain just outside the door and she was holding to that thought as she pushed. Matthew was here, just behind the door. He was here, and alive, and well, and he was not going to go anywhere .

He was here.

xxx

"Can I see him?" she asked, breathless with anticipation to see George again. Her poor, neglected, fatherless baby, who didn't really have much use of his mother either. She was absolutely determined to be a better mother to him this time around.

There was a slight hesitation in the room, side glances at each other by her attendants. She felt a sudden tendril of fear and unease. Was something wrong with the baby?

Before she could ask, Isobel handed her the newborn and said brightly:

"You have a lovely and healthy daughter, Mary."

Mary froze. She was staring at this baby, indeed quite cute, with wisps of blonde hair and pointed little chin – and very definitely not George . It struck her now with the force of a blow that it may never be George again. That it was not just the question of timing, that even in 1921, if Matthew survived this blasted war again, it may still not be George. That there might be other children, a dozen of them, but she might never see her true firstborn again and do right by him. That she most likely truly lost him forever and that was the true price for her second chance. The price was her son.

There was no way to stop herself from sobbing in grief at this revelation. Her poor, poor baby! But of course people in her birth chamber had no idea and assumed a rather different reason for her tears.

Her mother was the first to react.

"Now, Mary, I know the disappointment you feel," she said chidingly, but with compassion of someone who did indeed know how bitter such disappointment can be in their circumstances, "but you truly have a lovely child and with any luck will have a son yet. I know that it seems much more pressing with the war, but you must not despair. And I know you won't be able to love your daughter any less for not being a boy – you just have to let yourself to realise that."

"Your daughter does not deserve your disappointment in her, that's for sure." Isobel joined the fray with her usual bluntness and definitely less compassion, ignoring Cora's glare at her words. To think that her granddaughter, Matthew's daughter , has been welcomed in the world by her mother sobbing her heart out! She thought better of Mary.

Isobel's words did actually shake Mary out of her despair. She would not, she could not , fail another of her babies by losing herself in grief, however overwhelming. She forced herself to look at her baby, truly look at her.

It was this moment when the little one blinked sleepily and looked straight back at her with her own dark eyes and Mary felt her heart tightening painfully with love for that little human who never, ever was a disappointment to her – just a reminder. But Isobel was right, even though she misunderstood the reason for her tears – this little girl deserved her mother's love and full attention and she would never be a replacement or a second best. This was her baby, Matthew's baby too, and she would always be beloved and cherished. Mary would mourn George, she probably would always mourn George, but that could not mean she would give any less love or attention to his little sister, even though she was the only one to know of his existence.

"Hello, my darling." she whispered, "Welcome to the world." Rising her teary eyes to meet the worried gaze of Mama and disapproving frown of her mother-in-law she smiled brightly through the remnants of her tears.

"She is perfect," she said, "and so beautiful. Do not worry, I am not at all disappointed, I could never be. I just had to say goodbye to my dream baby, the one I pictured in my head, but I could never be disappointed in somebody so perfect in every way."

She saw relief in Cora's and Isobel's expressions and the returning smiles on their faces.

"Can you let Matthew in?" she asked, the renewed need to have him here, to see him, to confirm that he was truly here, pulling at her desperately.

"Of course!" agreed Isobel brightly and it took mere seconds before Matthew was kneeling by the side of the bed, looking in awe at their daughter.

"Hello, my dearest little princess. I wonder if she has any idea how much joy she brings with her?" he looked up at Mary. "My darling, how are you? Really?"

"Perfectly well," answered Mary, drinking in his expression, his very presence. He was here, he loved her and their baby, and he was not going anywhere. "Although awfully tired."

"It did take awfully long," agreed Matthew, wincing in sympathy. Then he gazed again at the baby. "She really is so beautiful. Just like you."

"She is," said Mary, looking at her as well. "She is exquisite."

"What are you going to name her?" asked Cora brightly, so happy to see Mary's transfixed gaze on her baby. All would be well, she was sure.

Mary swallowed. Truth was, she had been so absolutely convinced that she was carrying George again, that she gave no thought to any potential names for a girl, despite Matthew's urging. Still, this little princess, born in the middle of the worst war humanity had to face so far, didn't deserve to be nameless for long. And thinking about the war she suddenly had a perfect name for her daughter.

"Irene Victoria. For peace and victory which hopefully means her papa never has to leave her" she said quietly, avoiding looking at Matthew. She felt him squeeze her hand in support and understanding.

"It's a beautiful name for our little princess," agreed Matthew huskily.

Master bedroom, Eryholme, June 1915

Mary looked down at the tiny baby in her arms, then raised her eyes to Isobel, unsure how to proceed.

"I know I agreed to try it out," she said hesitantly. "But how one actually does it?"

Isobel smiled at her reassuringly.

"You will master it in no time," she said confidently. "Just make sure her mouth is wide open and that she is facing your breast, not your face – it should ensure a nice, secure grip which will not hurt you and give her plenty of milk. Yes, just like that. Does it feel very uncomfortable?"

Mary frowned thoughtfully, trying not to think about the fact that her mother-in-law was seeing her exposed like this. She reminded herself sternly that she needed the instruction to make sure she was doing everything right, but as soon as she knew what she was doing she could ensure this was absolutely private activity.

"I feel... pulling, inside. It's a little strange, but not truly uncomfortable," she answered finally.

"Good!" pronounced Isobel with a beaming, proud smile. "You're a natural at this! It's not uncommon to struggle in the beginning as the first-time mother, but you're doing brilliantly!

Mary's heart clenched painfully. She was determined to be as involved in Irene's care as possible, to do everything she was not able to do for George and she was awfully unsure if she even had the ability to be a better mother to her little girl. And yet Isobel's encouragement hurt. Every time she heard that she was a first-time mother and it was natural that she didn't know how to take care of a baby and had to learn it from scratch she felt a wave of guilt and grief. Because she wasn't a first-time mother, not really. She should know those things. She would have known those things if she ever took care of her own baby son. Whom she would never see again.

Garden, Eryholme, June 1915

Matthew stood in the shade of the hedge tunnel and observed Mary, sitting on the bench, with Irene in her arms. Their daughter. He thought his heart was going to burst at the seams, it was so full of love for them both. Mary didn't notice him yet, wholly focused on the baby in her arms, her finger tracing her features delicately.

He approached them both slowly, careful not to startle either of them. Up close, it was already obvious that Irene was a perfect mixture of him and Mary; with Mary's luminous dark eyes and his blond hair – even though there were only feathery wisps of the latter yet. She flailed her little fists when she noticed her papa looking down at her and Matthew found himself smiling at her in delight. He could not wait for the moment when she learnt how to smile back. He was sure that it was going to be an amazing sight.

"She is happy to see you," said Mary softly, with a smile of her own. "I intended to have her nap in her perambulator – Isobel said it's very good for babies to nap outside when the weather is as fine as today – but I just couldn't resist cuddling her for a moment."

Matthew again felt a wave of love for his wife and child overwhelm him. He was such a lucky chap he could hardly believe it sometimes.

"You're such a wonderful mother," he said feelingly then frowned slightly when he noticed Mary turn her head away at his praise. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," said Mary dismissively, but he knew that emotionless voice of her. She only used it when she was in fact feeling a lot and just didn't want to express it for whatever reason. Mary must have noticed that he was not accepting her evasiveness, because she sighed and added. "I am just not sure if I deserve such a title. I still don't feel like I don't know what I'm doing most of the time."

"Neither do I!" laughed Matthew, sitting by her on the bench and embracing her comfortingly, careful not to jostle the baby. "But it's perfectly normal that we don't, it's the first time we are doing it after all. By the fifth we are going to be professional."

He winked at her, expecting her huff of indignation at his playful assumption of having five children at some point, but instead Mary just pursed her lips and looked close to tears.

Garden, Eryholme, June 1915

She was again in the garden with Irene, when Tom approached her.

"She really is beautiful," he said with a smile, but she could see in his eyes that he understood why her lips suddenly trembled and her eyes prickled. "But you were expecting someone else, weren't you?"

"Oh Tom," she said in an agonising whisper. "What if we never see them again? What if that was the price?"

She saw him swallow visibly.

"For our second chance? It's possible, I guess," his voice broke down at the end, making him stop to inhale deeply. "Or maybe it's just the question of timing. Maybe you just have to wait until it's George's time to be born."

"Or maybe there will be many children, but none of them him. Maybe we did lose them forever."

Tom looked quickly around and, after ascertaining that they were alone and well hidden by the hedge, sat down on the bench next to Mary and squeezed her hand.

"I am not going to believe it until we're sure and we cannot be sure for years yet," he said firmly. "So don't you waste time mourning George when it very well might be that you just need patience. I am sure not giving up on hoping to see Sybbie again."

Mary wiped her eyes with her free hand.

"I'm afraid I won't even recognise him if I do see him again," she confessed shamefully. "I feel like I am forgetting him. I woke up last night and I could not remember the exact shape of his face when he was born anymore. And if I really need to wait ten years from the time I came here... How am I going to even know if it's him or another baby?"

"You will know," insisted Tom urgently. "Even if you forget the details, you will not forget him. You will know it's him. Just like I will know when I see Sybbie."

He went quiet for a moment.

"I don't remember how she looked like as a newborn anymore either," he confessed. "Not exactly. I remember she was the most beautiful baby I have ever seen, although Irene might be her equal now that I look at her. Then again, they are cousins, aren't they?"

Mary laughed through her tears, caressing her sleeping daughter's cheek.

"Is she the older cousin or the younger cousin though?"

Tom grinned.

"Both, I guess. But it's going to be fun to see Sybbie surrounded by older cousins for a change, instead of being the oldest."

"Surrounded?" exclaimed Mary in mock outrage. "How many children do you expect me to have?"

Tom laughed, raising his hands in surrender.

"Hey, Edith is also married this time! She may contribute some."

"I'm not sure what is the scarier prospect, going through pregnancy multiple times or dealing with a bunch of little Ediths."

Drawing room, Eryholme, July 1915

Edith was sitting on her sister's flowery sofa, in her sister's airy and light drawing room and tried to be happy for her and Matthew welcoming the perfect little baby she was holding in her arms.

She really, honestly was trying. She was just utterly failing at it.

She and Anthony were married for a year and a half and there never was even a hint of pregnancy. Granted, Anthony had been travelling a lot ever since the war started, but he was always so attentive to her when he was home that something should have happened by now.

Unless there was something wrong with one of them. Maud's ghost was once against staring Edith in the eyes.

She blinked at tried to concentrate on her niece, looking up at her with dark brown eyes. Mary's eyes, but Edith's too. It was one trait she shared with her sister.

It was way too easy to imagine that this tiny, beautiful girl was hers. Just excruciatingly painful.

"She's got your eyes," said Edit inanely, just to say something at all.

"She does," answered Mary politely, not giving any indication how many people pointed it out to her already. Edith appreciated her restraint. "I actually regret it a bit. I hoped for the baby to have Matthew's eyes."

Edith bit her tongue before she could yell that her sister should be grateful to have a baby at all, not moan about her eye colour. She forced herself to admit that her bitterness was making her unfair.

"His eye colour is most unusual. We have plenty of blue-eyed people in our family, but nobody with his exact shade."

If she didn't know her sister so well, she would have sworn Mary looked sad for some reason at hearing this observation.

The baby squirmed and she looked at Mary with slight alarm.

"Do you think she wants to go back to you?"

Mary smiled, getting up and reaching for Irene.

"She might be getting hungry, but we should have ten minutes or so before she gets truly impatient," she cuddled her daughter, looking at her with softness which Edith never imagined her capable of. She barely stopped her jaw from dropping at the unexpected sight. "Don't we, my darling?"

Mary raised her eyes from her baby and must have seen something on Edith's face, because her brows furrowed in indecision.

"I don't know if Mama told you," she started hesitantly. "But it wasn't so easy for us to have Irene."

Edith clenched her fists tightly, telling herself not to lash out.

"But you did, in the end. You waited patiently and were rewarded."

Mary rolled her eyes.

"We weren't just waiting," she explained. "I needed to have a small operation for it to happen."

Edith's eyes widened in shock.

"An operation? Why? When?"

Mary bounced the baby slightly, averting her eyes.

"Back in April 1914. I had some problems to fix after an illness from years ago. And even after that, it still took months for me to get pregnant, obviously. But my point is, if I didn't check if everything was alright with me, I could wait all I wanted and nothing would have happened."

"Do you think that something is wrong with me?" asked Edith with trepidation. Mary shrugged, careful not to jostle Irene.

"There might be. Or with Anthony, of course. But my point is that you don't know unless you check. I didn't have any signs of my own problems; other than the fact I did not get pregnant. I can give you the name of my doctor if you want. He really is the best there is."

Edith stared at her sister with wide eyes.

"Why are you trying to help me?" she whispered, completely bewildered.

"I don't really know," said Mary with startling honesty. "Because you're my sister, however little we care for it normally? Because I know how devastating it is to want a baby and think it might never happen? And anyway, I can't promise you that it will work. But if there is something which can be diagnosed and treated, Dr Ryder is the best."

Nursery, Eryholme, July 1915

"How are you today, my beautiful little princess? Happy, I see? Oh, yes, you must be happy kicking your legs like this. Will you smile at me again? I am so proud you learnt how to do it and just can't get enough seeing it, you know. What if I make a face like this? No? What about if I stick my tongue? Oh, that did it! Your smile is the most beautiful in the universe, princess. Only your mama's is equal to yours," Matthew tore his eyes from his daughter to gaze with love at his wife.

Mary found it both wonderful and terribly painful to observe Mattthew with Irene. He was constantly carrying her in his arms, ignoring any hints that it would be better to get her used to her crib. He was singing to her, making silly faces to amuse her, kissing her and telling her about whatever came to his mind. When reminded of the fact that she was a newborn baby and could not understand a word he was saying, he just remarked calmly that she had to learn to speak somehow and went back to his monologue. He loved taking her outside and was constantly picking her up from the perambulator to show her something, even though she couldn't focus her brown eyes very well yet. He even changed her nappies! On one hand Mary never had felt so much love and contentment; on the other she was constantly reminded what she and George had missed out on. Which was usually followed by stabbing pain of grief for her little boy whom she no longer had any hope of ever seeing again.

Sitting room, Eryholme, July 1915

Isobel sat straight, looking seriously at her son, while stirring sugar into her tea. Eryholme's white sitting room was so full of summer light and sounds of birds singing in the garden that it was hard to believe there was any reason for concern in the world on such a perfect summer morning. Yet Isobel was concerned, and she never was a type of person who could be concerned and not to immediately try to do something about it.

"I'm rather worried about Mary," she said in her typical blunt, non-nonsense voice. Matthew looked up at her, startled from his thoughts.

"Why? Haven't you and Doctor Clarkson agreed that she is recovering from the birth rather nicely?" he asked, alarmed a bit. Mary did seem alright to him, if rather emotional and occasionally withdrawn, which he understood to be quite expected.

"Physically, yes," said Isobel. "But I am worried about her mental state. Some emotionality for the first few weeks after giving birth is absolutely normal and expected, but sometimes a woman develops melancholia, which in worst case can be very serious."

"And you see signs of that in Mary?" asked Matthew with immediate concern.

Isobel pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"I am not sure," she said at last. "She is taking good care of Irene and is developing an obvious bond with her, which is a very good sign. In the worst cases a mother is incapable of bonding and might neglect or even harm her baby. I don't think we have any grounds to fear that in Mary's case."

Matthew's heart started beating again.

"So what does worry you?"

"How sad and remote she appears sometimes while taking care of Irene or watching you doing so. And some of the things she said – she seems to have doubts whether she is a good mother. I tried to reassure her that she is doing very well, and I know Cora did the same, but it's like our words are not getting through. And this is a concerning sign."

"Why?"

Isobel hesitated for a moment.

"I do not want to alarm you," she said slowly. "But such bouts of melancholy and feelings of inadequacy sometimes, in more serious cases, might preclude an attempt by the mother to take her own life."

Matthew gasped, his eyes widening.

"And you think Mary is in danger of that?" he asked hoarsely. Isobel hastened to reassure him.

"Not necessarily, no! But I am concerned enough about the possibility, however slight, that I felt I needed to share my suspicions with you, so you can be vigilant."

"What can we do to help her?" he urged her, desperate for some solution, something he could do.

"Support her. Spend time with her and Irene, keep reassuring her that she is a wonderful mother. Make sure she is not stressed or overtired – if she is not getting enough sleep, it is better to give Irene a bottle and keep her in the nursery with the nanny. But tread carefully, such action might increase her feelings of inadequacy. She is in a very privileged position; she is hardly overburdened by household chores or taking care of multiple children, but she can still stress and overtire herself unnecessarily so that is something you must prevent if it occurs. A calm, supportive environment, plenty of rest and fresh air, and time to bond with the baby should hopefully do the trick within a few weeks, months at the most. But you must observe her carefully, for if her melancholy worsens, it could become dangerous."

They were so intent on their discussion neither of them noticed Mary hovering in the doorway, her eyes glistening.

What she felt was an overwhelming relief.

She could show her feelings openly. She was just provided with a perfect excuse. Like with hiding her grief for Matthew behind Patrick's death she could not talk about the details, but she could express her feelings. She didn't have to hide her sadness, which was so terribly exhausting – and, judging from Isobel's intervention, ultimately unsuccessful anyway. She could cry and seek comfort in Matthew's arms, instead of trying to hold her tears back or hide in solitude.

She was never so grateful for her mother-in-law before.

She was sad and guilty for alarming her and Matthew so, but she knew she was going to be alright. But until she was, she could allow herself to rely on them – and she knew she could rely on them.

She was so deeply relieved.

Master Bedroom, Eryholme, August 1915

"You know I love you so terribly much?" asked Matthew quietly, careful not to wake up the baby sleeping in between them. He was going to carry her back to the nursery and the care of her nanny, but he was waiting to be sure she was in deep enough sleep that the movement would not get her wailing again.

He thought he saw a ghost of a smile on his wife's face in the darkness.

"I know," she whispered back.

"And that I truly think you are a wonderful mother?" he asked further, dead serious. He couldn't imagine a better mother than Mary was to their little girl.

"You know I would not be able to do it without you?" she asked back, and for a moment her eyes looked haunted. Matthew grasped her hand and to his dismay found it trembling slightly. He hated what that blasted war was doing to her. He just hated it. "I mean it, Matthew. I couldn't do it without you at all."

"You won't have to," he assured her, feeling like a liar. "But if you did, I know you would manage. You're so strong, Mary. A storm braver if there ever was one."

He meant the last part at least. He knew she would find the strength to go on and take care of Irene if she had to. Even if she was not able to imagine it herself.

Mary just shook her head.

She unfortunately knew better.

Servants Hall, Eryholme, August 1915

Nanny Lewis was blond, cheerful, energetic and had a wide smile which made people want to smile right back at her. Anna liked her immediately.

"How is the little miss?" asked Mrs Gruntler avidly. She was very fond of babies. She could not wait for little Miss Irene to toddle into her kitchen in search of a sweet treat or two.

"She's a darling," answered Nanny Lewis readily. "Ever since she learnt to smile she hardly does anything else. Especially when she sees her papa."

"Mr Crawley is a very good father, isn't he?" asked Edna. Anna sent her a sharp look. On the surface, there wasn't anything wrong with the maid's comment – it was a kind and generic observation, one made by anyone who ever saw Mr Crawley with his daughter – but she did not like the gleam in her eyes one bit.

"I don't think I've ever seen a more doting papa and Dr Roberts is a paediatrician, so he has always been extremely fond of children!" laughed Nanny Lewis. "He hardly leaves me anything to do when he's home from work. Between him and Lady Mary, I am mostly busy taking care of her at night and even then I bring her to Lady Mary for feedings. At least Lady Mary does leave nappy changing to me; Mr Crawley is just as likely to do it himself when he has her."

"I wouldn't mind having an easy job like that," grumbled Ethel. Anna felt forced to send her a sharp look too.

"You can always apply to be a nanny, if you prefer," she said pointedly. "I hardly think you are overworked here, but maybe there are positions somewhere else more to your liking."

"Oh, I expect to be much busier in a few months, when Miss Irene is mobile," said Nanny Lewis before Ethel could make a retort. "Unless a baby is colicky or fussy, this stage is pretty manageable. It's a whole different world when you have to chase them around and deal with tantrums and mad ideas they come up with. And if there are more children, the job can become quite exhausting."

"But will there be more children if Mr Crawley goes to war?" asked Martha, earning herself a glare from Mrs Gruntler.

"Is he going to?" asked Edna in surprise.

Anna shook her head.

"I've heard nothing of any plans," she said. It's true, she hadn't. And she knew Lady Mary was vehemently against such scenario. But she did have her suspicions.