Author's note: Thank you for the review! I really do appreciate it.

Trigger warning: Cora talks about Mary's attack in this chapter. There is also an incident at the ball Mary attends.


October 1913

Four days into her London trip and Mary was missing Tom so much, so badly, it made her physically ache. Although she might not see him to speak to every day when she was at Downton, she generally managed to at least catch a glimpse of him most days. And if she didn't, she'd usually manage to visit his cottage and be there with his things surrounding her, his scent on his pillow, at least a couple of times a week.

But this, being 200 miles away, with the weeks without him stretching in front of her, it was killing her. She couldn't bear it.

She wondered whether she could write to him. The difficulty, though, was that all the post went to Carson to dish out. She was fairly sure the butler would recognise her handwriting, so she was left with a problem because there was no way Lady Mary could be seen to be writing to the chauffeur.

She lay in bed, chewing it over, wondering what she could do.

She couldn't send him a telegram. For one thing, a servant receiving a telegram would cause a stir downstairs and people would ask him about it. For another, it wouldn't satisfy her craving to talk to him.

She contemplated asking Anna to address the envelope, but that would mean taking her maid completely into her confidence and telling her about her romance with her father's chauffeur, and Mary simply wasn't sure she was ready to take that risk. Not that she didn't trust Anna, but the more people knew about her and Tom, the more chance there was of it coming to light and Tom being summarily dismissed and she simply couldn't risk that. Plus, there was a strong chance someone would recognise Anna's writing and she didn't want to start rumours about a relationship between her maid and the chauffeur.

There was also the problem of how to send a letter. Normally, she simply gave a letter to the butler – Carson at home or Mead here at Rosamund's house in London – but she clearly couldn't do that. The whole thing was quite a conundrum.

As ever sleep eluded her and going over and over the problem wasn't helping her. Perhaps she should just write to him and decide how she would get it to him later.

She flung back the covers and crossed to the dressing table, reaching for her writing folder and taking out a sheet of paper. And then she settled down to write.

35 Belgrave Square, London

2nd October 1913

My dearest Tom,

How are you, my darling? Are you missing me? Oh, heavens, I can't tell you how much I miss you. I long for you every second of every day.

London is deathly. Nobody has asked me to call. Nobody wants to receive me. I might as well be wearing a scarlet letter on my chest. I'm sure a leper would be more warmly welcomed in the fashionable drawing rooms of London than I am.

Mama is displeased with the situation and sits in Aunt Rosamund's drawing room plotting and scheming. I suppose I should count my blessings because at least it distracts her from her hare-brained scheme to marry me off to that old man.

I'm writing this at night because I can't sleep. You know how terrible I am at sleeping at night now. I fear Mama will discover my topsy-turvy sleeping pattern now we are away. It will be yet another thing for her to be cross about with me. I'm not sure I'll be able to stay awake every afternoon when I'm used to sleeping then, but if I don't, I'm positive there will be hell to pay.

But enough of all that. Have I told you how much I miss you? Have I made that clear? Because I do. So very much. I think about you all the time, no matter what I am doing. When I'm taking a turn through one of the parks, I wonder what you would think of it all. It is so different from Downton. I know you are used to Dublin, and I find myself wondering if Dublin is as busy and noisy as London.

Have you ever been to London? I never asked you. I find myself seeing the sights through fresh eyes as I think of you and showing you around. Buckingham Palace is just by St James' Park, which we stroll through regularly. Although perhaps that is not a place you would care to see.

We drove past the Houses of Parliament today and I immediately thought of you. (Although, to be fair, I'm almost always thinking of you.) Anyway, I saw that big Gothic building and I thought of you and your passion for Home Rule for Ireland. I wondered if perhaps they were debating it right at that moment. I'm sure you would have a lot to say on the subject if they let you in.

We also saw some policemen dragging a couple of suffragettes along Downing Street. You should have heard the racket those women were making. I couldn't help but wish them well, although votes for women is more Sybil's passion than mine. It made me think of those pamphlets you gave her that inspired such jealousy in me. Do you see what I mean?

Everywhere I go, there is something that makes me think of you.

As I lay in bed earlier tonight, I closed my eyes and pictured you lying here with me. You had your arm around me, and I was snuggled up against you, nice and warm and comfortable. And then you started to kiss me. Soft, gentle kisses at first. Such lovely kisses. And then I imagined pulling you down on top of me and those lovely kisses turned more passionate. Hungry kisses, I would call them. Because I am hungry for you, my love, for your lips, for your strong arms around me, even for the sound of your heart beating so steadily and comfortingly under my ear when I lie with my head on your chest.

Promise me, my darling, that when I return, we can spend a whole afternoon on your bed, wrapped in each other's arms, kissing until we can't feel our lips any more. That is what I will dream of when I try again to sleep.

I had better sign off now and ponder a way to get this to you without exposing our secret.

I have no idea how to write the Gaelic words you taught me (words that I repeat over and over in my head so I won't forget them), so I shall just take a stab at it and hope for the best, but remember, my darling boy, tor graw uhgum ditch.

Devotedly yours,

Mx

She put her pen down and folded the paper, sealing it carefully in an envelope and then tucking it safely at the back of her writing folder, away from prying eyes.

On a whim, she pulled out another piece of paper and began experimenting with changing her writing. Generally, when she addressed a letter, she would use her usual copperplate writing. Perhaps altering it would mean she could send a letter to Tom without alerting anyone to the fact that it was her writing.

She tried writing with her left hand, but that was an illegible disaster. She tried to circumscribe the curlicues and flourishes, which did look different, but perhaps not different enough. And then she tried writing in capital letters. It looked peculiar, but it definitely didn't look like her writing. That was it, she decided. She would use capital letters to address the envelope. She would err on the side of caution and not address the envelope until she had thought of a way to send it, though. The last thing she needed was for her mother to get hold of the letter and discover her secret. That wouldn't do at all.

Mary rose from the dressing table and returned to bed, turning over and over in her mind the problem of how she would get this letter to Tom.


The solution to her problem presented itself to her the very next morning.

Mary took a stroll through St James' Park with her aunt while her mother lingered in her bed at Belgrave Square. Along the way, her eye caught on a bright red post box, and she almost laughed out loud at how obvious and simple the answer to her conundrum was. How could she have forgotten how ordinary people sent correspondence through the postal system?

The only problem was that she would have to buy stamps. And then it occurred to her that she could simply ask Mead for a number of stamps as she normally would and stash a few away for letters to her beloved. As long as she wrote to other people too, Mead wouldn't notice her siphoning off a few stamps.

As Rosamund prattled on about some acquaintance of hers, Mary turned her mind to her next problem – how to slip out of the house to post the letter without the inconvenience of a chaperone.


'It's disappointing, that's all I'm saying,' Cora complained to her sister-in-law. 'How many of these families have we entertained over the years? How many have we socialised with? How many would I have considered staunch friends? And barely any of them are prepared to receive Mary while these rumours are swirling around London.'

'One never knows who one's friends truly are until the chips are down,' Rosamund remarked, lifting her teacup to her lips.

'No, apparently not. Still, Amelia Dunsany has finally come through. She is hosting a dance tomorrow and has extended an invitation to the three of us,' Cora said, remembering the relief and gratitude that had flooded through her when her old friend's letter and invitation had arrived.

'Ah, yes, dear Amelia. It's a pity she doesn't have a bachelor son,' Rosamund observed, putting her cup down. She eyed her sister-in-law carefully. 'I have to ask, Cora; these rumours, is there any truth to them?'

Cora sighed, her eyes flicking to the closed door to the drawing room. 'Can I trust you to be discreet?'

'Of course, you can! Mary is my cherished niece! I would never do anything to cause her harm,' Rosamund responded, bristling at the slight.

'Then the answer is both yes and no.'

Rosamund frowned in confusion, delicate lines creasing her forehead. 'Yes and no? How can it be both?'

Cora leaned forward, lowering her voice. 'Mary was compromised by Pamuk, but it was not consensual, not by her account.'

Rosamund blanched, her hand going to her chest in shock. 'He… he attacked her?'

'She says he raped her,' Cora said, bluntly.

'"She says"? Do you not believe her?'

'Yes, I do. Although that is not what she led me to believe the night it happened?'

'The night it happened?' Rosamund's eyebrows rose. 'Did you know about it straight away?'

Cora hesitated and then decided her sister-in-law might as well know the full story. 'You know he died at Downton?'

'Yes. It was quite the talk of the town.'

'He died in Mary's bed while he was… well, I don't think I need to expand on that,' Cora said, not inclined to paint a more detailed picture.

Rosamund stared at her, horrified. 'He died during the… the… attack?'

'Yes.'

There was silence for a moment while both women contemplated that.

'Oh, that poor, dear girl,' Rosamund breathed, shaking her head. 'Well, I suppose you could say he got his comeuppance in short, swift order.'

'And left us with a problem to solve.'

'Cora, that's rather harsh. Mary is not a problem,' Rosamund chastised, shocked at her sister-in-law's callousness.

'Oh, no, Rosamund. I didn't mean Mary. I meant his corpse. In her bed. We had to shift it back to his own room to prevent anyone from finding out what had happened,' Cora clarified.

'Oh, my goodness! I never even thought about that. What did you do?' Rosamund asked, transfixed by the unfolding story.

'We carried him back to his own bed,' Cora said, her mind reliving that terrible, fraught journey across the darkened Abbey.

'We?'

'Mary and I, and Mary's maid, Anna.'

'Goodness,' Rosamund exhaled, slumping back against her chair, shocked by this revelation. 'How… enterprising of you.'

'We didn't have a lot of choice,' Cora said, glumly.

'Still, carrying a dead body across one's home. That cannot have been easy.'

'It's not a memory I like to dwell on, but it had to be done to save Mary's reputation. Not that it appears to have done that,' Cora said, bitterly. 'I just don't understand how anything could possibly have got out. Neither Mary nor I will ever breathe a word of it to anyone.'

'The maid?' Rosamund asked, her eyebrow rising in question.

Cora shook her head. 'No. Anna would never betray Mary. She is devoted to her.'

'Not even if there was some money in it for her?'

'Not even if there was a mountain of gold in it,' Cora said firmly, sure of Anna's loyalty.

'Hmm, if you say so. I'm not sure I'd have that much faith in my servants with such a juicy piece of gossip,' Rosamund replied, not convinced that Anna – however loyal she appeared – was not responsible for the rumours surrounding her niece.

'No, she would nev – ' Cora broke off as the door to the drawing room opened and Mary came in.

'Aunt Rosamund, may I ask Mead for the key to the garden in the square?' Mary said, hovering in the doorway.

'Why?' Cora asked, looking suspiciously at her daughter.

'I have the beginnings of a headache and I thought perhaps some fresh air might stave it off,' Mary answered.

'You should not go alone.'

'Oh, Mama, it is literally yards from the house. All I wish to do is walk in the garden and perhaps sit on a bench. I hardly need a chaperone for that. You'll probably be able to see me from the window if you really want to.'

'It's perfectly safe, Cora,' Rosamund put in. 'I often do the same myself when I feel the need for fresh air.'

'Is it open to the public?'

'No, that's why Mary needs the key,' Rosamund replied, only just refraining from rolling her eyes at her sister-in-law.

'Very well then,' Cora said, magnanimously. 'You may take a turn in the garden, but don't stay out there for too long.'

'Yes, Mama,' Mary said dutifully, uncrossing her fingers behind the door, delighted her plan was working.


In the garden in the centre of the square, Mary was careful to walk a full circuit twice, noting that the gate on the opposite side of the square to Rosamund's house was out of sight of the window. And, quite fortuitously, that was where the post box was sited.

On the third circuit, she slipped to the gate and unlocked it, walking briskly to the post box. She took her letter to Tom from her pocket, and checked the lettering on the address once more, satisfied that it looked nothing like her normal writing.

'Take my love to my darling boy,' she whispered as she pushed it into the slot, feeling slightly foolish for talking to herself, but pleased that all her machinations had paid off and the letter would soon be winging its way north to Tom.

She hurried back into the garden and continued walking for several more circuits before choosing a bench to sit on in plain sight of the drawing room window just in case her mama should choose to check up on her.


The dance was in full flow, with couples whirling around the floor. Normally, Mary would be with them, right at the heart of it, but tonight, the fashionable young men were steering clear of her.

On several occasions, she had seen some of her male acquaintances coming towards her, but then they'd apparently caught the eye of their disapproving mothers and diverted to another young lady instead.

It seemed the rumours were still in full flow.

She kept her head high, ignoring the little knots of matrons and gossipy girls casting glances at her and whispering. Instead, she amused herself by imagining Tom in these surroundings. In reality, she knew he'd feel like a fish out of water, but left to her own devices, she summoned an image of him in white tie, smart and achingly handsome, a real man compared to so many of the weak-chinned, lily-livered fops around her now.

She could see him perfectly in her mind's eye, walking towards her, his hair brushed to a shine, asking her to dance. He would bend over her hand and kiss it, smiling up at her, his beguiling blue eyes full of mischief and affection. And then he would straighten up and offer her his hand, pulling her onto the dance floor. They would twirl around, him holding her close, and she would be the envy of all these small-minded debs, with the arms of her gorgeous man tight around her.

How she wished it could be so. With Tom beside her, all the disdainful looks and whispered jibes, all the conversations that suddenly ceased when she walked by, none of them would matter. Nothing else would matter. Because she had him, and he knew the truth and still loved her.

A crippling wave of sadness washed over her, threatening to make her cry, her little fantasy crashing and burning as she realised that was exactly what it was: a fantasy. It could never be real. Tom would never be accepted in this world of small-minded, petty people.

It didn't matter that he'd read more books of all stripes than anyone she'd ever met. It didn't matter that he had a calm, analytical mind and a passion for debate. It didn't matter that he could fix a mechanical object as soon as look at it. It didn't matter that he was kind and respectful. It didn't matter that he loved her completely and deeply.

All these people would ever see was that he wasn't one of them. That he hadn't been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. That he wasn't top-drawer material. That he was Irish, not English or even Scottish.

The thought of any of these people – these awful, awful people, who weren't fit to lick his boots – being horrible to her lovely Tom simply because of his birth sliced deep. Look at them now. They were judging her, and she was one of them. What would they say about him if he was here with her? What would they say about her for loving him?

She curled her hand into a fist, pressing her nails into her palm, willing herself not to shed so much as one tear in this soulless place in front of these hateful people.

'Mary?'

She looked up, blinking away the tears scratching at the back of her eyes, and plastered on a smile, feeling it turn genuine as she realised who was talking to her.

'Evelyn! How lovely to see you!'

'And you. May I sit with you?' he asked, gesturing at the empty chair beside her.

'Of course.'

Evelyn flicked his tails up to sit beside her, elegant and comforting. 'I didn't know you were here. I thought you were in Yorkshire, otherwise I would have called on you.'

'Oh, it was all quite unplanned. Mama took it into her head to come to London and insisted I come with her,' Mary said as airily as she could.

'Right,' he said, nodding uncomfortably. 'And how has it been? London.'

Mary sighed, her shoulders slumping, realising Evelyn knew about the rumours. 'If I'm honest, it's been awful.'

'I've heard the rumours. And I want you to know that I've been doing my best to squash them. I don't know where they came from but I'd hate you to think I had anything to do with them,' he said, looking at her anxiously.

'I never thought you did. Although I would like to know where they came from,' Mary said, at a loss to understand who disliked her enough to spread malicious gossip about her.

'I don't know, but I'm trying to find out,' Evelyn replied, a determined set to his jaw. 'There were a fair few people there that weekend, but no-one obvious springs to mind.'

'That's what's been puzzling me, too,' Mary said, grasping onto that. 'If Amy Fortescue or Peter Hampton had been there, I would have known straight away where the rumours started. Neither of them has ever scrupled about gossiping about people even when there was nothing to gossip about, but they weren't there. And neither were any of their cronies.'

'I'll do my best to get to the bottom of it, Mary, I promise you. And I will let you know when I do,' Evelyn vowed, his heart going out to his friend.

'Thank you, Evelyn,' Mary said, pressing a quick hand to his arm in gratitude. 'You're already doing enough simply by talking to me. Aren't you worried any association with me is going to tarnish your reputation?'

Evelyn shook his head, giving her a small smile. 'No, Mary, I am not. In fact, let's show them. Would you care to take a turn around the dance floor with me?'

Mary cocked her head, returning his smile, feeling a wave of affection for this thoroughly decent man. 'I would love to.'

He stood up and offered her his hand. Mary took it and let him lead her to the dancefloor. She smiled at him again as she settled into his arms.

'You're a good friend, Evelyn,' she said, grateful to him for his kindness when everyone else in the room had shunned her.

'I hope so. Because I will always be your friend. Always. I hope you know that,' he said, whisking her around as they began to waltz.


Mary stepped onto the small terrace for a breath of fresh air as Evelyn went to get them a drink. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, feeling lighter for having her friend there with her tonight.

'Well, well, well, Mary Crawley as I live and breathe,' a voice said from behind her.

She opened her eyes, clenching her jaw and then pasted on a smile, turning to see the owner of the voice. 'Percy. How are you?'

'Very well. More to the point, how are you?'

'I am also very well, thank you.'

Percy Allingham drew closer, just as oily as she remembered. He'd always been someone she tolerated rather than held any affection for, having always found him somewhat discomforting and sly. Arrogant to a fault, he was the type who thought he was God's gift to women, an opinion Mary had never seen any solid evidence for.

'I've been hearing things about you,' he said, coming to a halt beside her, much closer than she felt comfortable with.

Mary took a step back, only for him to follow her.

'Well, whatever you have heard, I can assure you it's not true,' she said, tightly.

He lifted a hand and ran a finger down her bare arm. 'Oh, I'm not so sure about that. I hear you've been giving your favours away. To a foreigner to boot.'

'No, I have not. That is a lie,' Mary countered stiffly, backing away from him again.

Allingham followed, and Mary realised with a stab of horror that he'd backed her into a corner with no escape.

'I thought perhaps I could have a go,' he said, reaching out to pull her towards him.

'A go?' Mary croaked, feeling somewhat sick.

'Yes. With you. If you're giving it up for Johnny Foreigner, I should think you'd be gagging to have a good stiff English cock up you, and lucky for you, I'm more than willing to oblige,' he smirked, snaking his hand down to grab between her legs.

Mary stiffened, memories of Pamuk flooding into her mind, feeling as vulnerable now as she had then. And then suddenly, as clear as a bell, she heard Tom's voice in her head: there are things you can do if it happens again.

She straightened up and swiftly raised her knee, jerking it hard into Percy's crotch.

Allingham let out a cry, grabbing at his crown jewels. 'You bitch!' he wheezed.

Mary stepped up close to him and shoved his hand away, closing her hand over his privates and squeezing hard, eyeball to eyeball with him, white-hot anger thrumming through her. 'A bitch, am I? For defending myself against a would-be rapist? Your mother would be so proud of you. Call me whatever you want, Percy, but you will never touch me ever again. I have given my favours to no-one and you will not be the first to experience them. Do you understand?'

She watched in satisfaction as his eyes began to water.

'I said, do you understand?' she asked again in a voice like ice, tightening her grip on his privates.

'Yes, yes! Christ, please stop!' he moaned, shaking his head.

'Are you going to say sorry?' Mary asked, squeezing again.

'Yes! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!'

'Are you going to do that to any other woman?'

'No! No! I promise! Jesus, please!'

Mary released him, watching as he fell back from her, cupping himself and staring at her like she had two heads.

'Mary?' Evelyn said, appearing behind Percy with two glasses of champagne. He looked from her to the Allingham heir, now cowering away from her. 'Are you all right?'

'I am now,' she said, sailing past her unfortunate attacker and plucking the champagne glass from Evelyn's hand. 'Shall we go back inside? I find the company on this terrace to be most distasteful.'

Evelyn stepped back to let Mary pass him but lingered for a few seconds to eye Percy Allingham thoughtfully. 'Thought you could try it on, did you?'

Allingham glared at him resentfully.

'Looks like she taught you a richly deserved lesson. She's not the easy pickings you thought she'd be, is she? Because the rumours aren't true, Allingham. Perhaps you could make that known. Otherwise, I might make it known that you're not the gentleman you should be with women.'

Still staring daggers at Evelyn, Allingham nodded reluctantly.

Evelyn threw him a disdainful look and turned to hurry after Mary, wanting to check she truly was all right. He found her in a corner of the room, away from the dancefloor.

'Are you sure you're all right?' he asked in concern, noticing that she was shaking. 'What did he do?'

'He... he threatened to... he said he'd... he thought the rumours were true, so he thought I was fair game,' Mary whispered her voice shaking as much as she was now the adrenaline was wearing off.

'But you fought him off,' Evelyn said, admiration in his voice.

'Yes. A friend - a good friend - taught me how to defend myself against men like him,' she said, taking a deep breath.

Evelyn looked at her consideringly. 'Men like him... and Kemal Pamuk?'

Mary shot him a look, panic edging into her eyes, wondering if Evelyn knew.

'Did... did Kemal... did he think you were fair game too?' Evelyn asked, a horrible suspicion surfacing in his mind as he thought back to that weekend and how his friend had made no secret of his attraction to Mary, of how he'd pursued her. He also remembered Mary rushing back into the drawing room at one point in the evening, Kemal following her, and how she'd stayed away from him after that.

She stared at him mutely, her silence saying more than any words, and his heart sank.

'Oh, Mary,' he whispered, feeling wretched. 'I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I ever brought him to Downton.'

'It wasn't your fault, Evelyn,' she whispered, her shoulders slumping. 'You weren't to know what he'd do.'

'No, but I'd heard rumours about him liking the ladies rather too much,' he said, bitterly.

Mary dropped her eyes to the floor, unable to think of anything to say.

'So, the rumours...' he said, the whole horrific scene unfolding in his mind.

'I didn't give myself to him! I didn't!' she hissed fiercely, her head jerking up.

'No, no, of course, you didn't,' Evelyn said quickly, anxious to reassure her that he believed her.

'Then you believe me?' she asked, hope trembling in her voice.

He nodded, quick and firm. 'Yes, of course, I believe you.'

'Thank you, thank you,' Mary breathed, surprised by how grateful she was to hear those simple words.

'And I'll do everything in my power to quash these rumours, I give you my word. I won't stand by and let you suffer for that... that bastard's actions,' he said stoutly, his uncharacteristically foul language betraying the strength of his feelings on this matter.

'You won't tell anyone, will you?' Mary asked, holding her breath.

'No, of course, I won't. Your secret is safe with me,' he promised, thinking that was the absolute least he could do.

'Thank you,' she murmured, relief flooding through her.

'You certainly put the wind up Allingham,' he said, nudging her with his elbow.

She gave him a small smile. 'Good. I never did like him. He always thought too much of himself.'

'Well, you showed him. He won't forget about that in a hurry. Well played,' Evelyn said, raising his glass to her.

Mary lifted her own glass and clinked it against his, taking a sip as she finally began to feel her heart rate calm.


'One for you, Mr Branson,' Mr Carson said as he doled out the post in the servants' hall.

Tom looked up in surprise, taking the envelope as it was passed down the table towards him. It was good quality stationery, but he didn't recognise the writing.

'Who's writing to you then?' Thomas asked, biting into a slice of toast after he'd passed the letter. 'You don't usually get post. Not from London anyway. Who do you know down there?'

'I think you'll find that's Mr Branson's business and not yours, Thomas,' Mr Carson reprimanded crisply from the head of the table.

'I was only asking,' Thomas muttered, annoyed to be pulled up about it.

Tom stared at the London postmark on the letter that Thomas had remarked on and then shoved it into his pocket. He did have a couple of cousins in London, but they had never written to him here before. The only other person he knew in London was Mary. But it couldn't be from her, could it?

He ate his breakfast quickly, keen to go to the garage where he could find out if she'd managed to find a way to write to him.


In the kitchen yard, Thomas took a drag on his post-breakfast cigarette, watching Tom scurry past, heading for the garage. He couldn't help but think it was odd that he was getting post from London when he'd never had anything from that city before.

Knowing the Irish, Branson likely came from a big family, so it was possible he'd got a brother or sister or a cousin or something in the Big Smoke. But Thomas couldn't help but wonder at the coincidence of Lady Mary being in London just as the chauffeur started getting letters posted from there. It could be a coincidence of course, but he wasn't a big believer in coincidences.

He took a long draw on his fag, thinking about the writing on the letter. Lady Sybil got a letter from Lady Mary today. He'd given it to her at breakfast and she'd opened it straight away. It was all fancy flourishes, Lady Mary's writing. That one for Branson wasn't like that. It was block capitals. Quite business-like, really. Of course, she could always have got someone else to write the envelope, though. She'd be smart enough to do that.

He blew out a smoke ring, watching it dissipate as he thought about the chances of Branson's letter being from Lady Mary. It might seem fanciful, but he couldn't help but wonder. If there was something going on between them, she may very well want to write to him. She'd have to be careful, though. It would be quite the ballsy move, writing to mi laddo. But then the quality didn't play by the same rules as everyone else, did they? They always thought they could do anything they liked because, generally, they could.

But if they were caught writing to each other, Lady Mary and the chauffeur, well, even if his lordship would stand for all that – which Thomas very much doubted – Mr Carson wouldn't. He'd sack Branson quicker than Mrs Patmore could dice a carrot, and then he'd most likely pass out with shock if he thought that Irish git was getting his greasy mitts on his favourite Crawley daughter. In fact, thinking about it, Thomas would pay a good shilling to see that.

Maybe he'd write to Miss O'Brien down in London with her ladyship, see if she couldn't nosey about at her end and see if Lady Mary was writing billet doux to the chauffeur. That seemed like a good idea. It might all come to nothing. But it might not.


Tom sat on the stool at the back of the garage, a huge smile on his face as he read Mary's letter over and over.

He hadn't expected her to write to him, but he was thrilled she'd found a way. He ran his finger lightly over her attempt to write the Gaelic words he'd taught her, his heart swelling with love.

He'd write back to her tonight to the address at the top of her letter, he decided. She deserved a reply to make the long weeks apart more bearable.


Mary's heart skipped a beat when Rosamund's footman presented her with a silver tray with two envelopes on it at breakfast almost a week after she'd written to Tom.

The first envelope was from Sybil, but the second… the second was addressed to her in Tom's beautiful flowing writing.

'Two letters today, Mary,' Rosamund said over the rim of her coffee cup, quietly observing the way her niece sparked into life when she picked up the envelopes.

'Yes. One's from Sybil and the other is from a friend of mine in York,' Mary replied smoothly, silently thanking Tom for posting his letter from York and not Downton. That could have raised awkward questions.

'Oh, you'll have to let me know what darling Sybil has to say,' Rosamund said, picking up her fork. 'She always seems to have something interesting to talk about.'

Mary opened the letter from Sybil and scanned it. 'She says the weather is uncommonly warm for the time of year.'

'Yes, I suppose it is, even in Yorkshire.'

'Oh, she's been to York to listen to a speech by one of Mrs Pankhurst's lieutenants,' Mary continued, feeling a flash of jealousy as Sybil mentioned the interesting talks she'd had with Tom as he drove her to and from the Assembly Rooms in York.

'I bet Robert was thrilled about that. I wonder if she asked his permission beforehand,' Rosamund chuckled, imagining her brother's face when he found out where his youngest daughter was spending her time.

'She wouldn't go to York without asking Papa's permission,' Mary said, diplomatically.

'No, but she might not tell him the complete truth about why she was going there,' Rosamund said, sharing a conspiratorial look with her niece. 'You and I both know that while Sybil is a darling, she can also be quite disingenuous when the situation calls for it.'

'Hmm. Perhaps it would be better if we didn't tell Mama about this,' Mary ventured, raising a pleading eyebrow. 'I'd hate to worry her or for Sybil to get into any bother.'

Rosamund smiled. 'I quite agree, my dear. What Cora doesn't know can't hurt her, can it? It will stay between you and me.'

'Thank you, Aunt Rosamund,' Mary said, gratefully.

'Does she say anything else?'

Mary smiled as she scanned the rest of the letter, deciding to give Rosamund the headline news and not repeat the sections where Sybil was gushing over Matthew. 'Only that Cousin Matthew and Cousin Isobel have been regulars for dinner at Downton over the last week. She says Granny and Isobel have become regular sparring partners. Papa is quite at his wits' end by the end of most evenings and Matthew has apparently become quite adept at pouring oil on troubled waters.'

Rosamund laughed, picturing her mother's annoyance if the rather forthright Isobel insisted on disagreeing with her night after night.

'Do you know, Mary, I rather think Cousin Isobel might be just the irritant Mama needs to keep her from getting complacent in her dotage.'

'Her dotage? I don't think Granny would thank you for calling it that,' Mary said dryly, seeing the expression her grandmother would make perfectly in her mind's eye.

'No, but she's not here, is she? Which means I can say what I like, especially in my own house,' Rosamund said, happily.

'But not, I suspect, in Granny's earshot,' Mary replied in amusement.

Rosamund tilted her head, gazing at her niece, still smiling. 'Do I look like I have a death wish?'

Mary laughed. 'No, Aunt Rosamund, you do not.'

'No, and neither am I stupid, so perhaps that observation could also remain between the two of us.'

'Of course,' Mary nodded.

'Now, I have an appointment with my business manager to attend, so I must take my leave. And don't forget we are invited to the Challingfords for supper this evening.'

'How could I forget? Mama has been reminding me daily. And it's not as if my company has been in demand much over this last week or so, is it?' Mary observed, tartly.

'Oh, darling, I know it's been hard, but things will get better, I know they will,' Rosamund said lightly as she rose from her seat. 'Now, I must dash. Enjoy your day, my dear.'

Mary nodded at her aunt and clutched her letters, determined to find a private spot to read Tom's letter.


In the privacy of her bedroom, Mary sat on her bed and took Tom's letter from the envelope, desperate to see what he had written.

7th October 1913

Downton, Yorkshire

Mo chuisle, my darling,

Thank you so much for your letter. You'll never know how happy I was to get it. I did not think I would hear from you while you were away. I had resigned myself to only picking up snippets about you when I drive any of your family around, and then suddenly, there it was! A whole letter from you! It was like a miracle.

Mary smiled, picturing his face when he opened her letter and realised it was from her.

I miss you so very much, my love, of course I do. You are the first thing I think of when I awake and the last thing I think of before I sleep. And for most of the moments in between, you are at the forefront of my mind. You are always with me.

Although he'd been very clear that he loved her before she left Downton, the knowledge that he was thinking of her and missing her as much as she was missing him made her heart beat faster, warmth flooding through her.

It is torture knowing you are out there but not knowing how you are. I am not by nature an eavesdropper, but I find myself eagerly listening for any mention of you by your family when they are in the back of the motor. I swear my ears prick up at the sound of your name.

This week, I took Lady Sybil to York to listen to a speech by a suffragette. (And very interesting it was too; the lady delivered a powerful and passionate argument for women's suffrage, although there should have been more about universal suffrage, too, but I digress.)

And there he was, leaping off the page, her socialist lover, wanting to change the world. She could hear him saying the words, hear him talking about how wrong it was that only rich men could vote and decide what happened to the rest of the population.

Lady Sybil mentioned you during the journey and I asked after you (rest assured, love, she is the only family member I would do such a thing with). She intimated that your London trip was not much fun for you, and your own words confirm it.

I am sorry to hear you are being so cruelly treated, my love. Whoever these people are, they not worthy of you. If they cannot see you for the strong, resilient, courageous woman you are, they are fools. Because that is how I see you. After everything you have withstood, you have emerged stronger for it and I am so proud of you.

Mary bit her lip, emotion knotting in her throat at his words, describing how he saw her. She'd never thought of herself that way. If asked to describe herself, she'd have said stubborn, aloof and proud. Seeing herself through Tom's eyes was a revelation. And for him to say he was proud of her… well, that was everything.

Of course, that is not all I see in you. Have I perhaps mentioned before how beautiful, desirable and alluring I find you? My heart almost pounds out of my chest every time I think of you. You have captured me, heart and soul.

I live for the day when you will return, and I promise we can spend hours in each other's arms, kissing and cuddling and talking. Oh, Lord, just the thought of it, of the feel of you in my arms, your lips on mine, your voice saying my name, it drives me insane with want. I miss you so much. My cottage feels emptier knowing you have not visited, my bed colder because you have not lain in it.

I must move on before I drive myself mad thinking of you.

Oh, my darling, she thought, her heart racing, I will hold you to that. The picture he painted sank into her mind, making her sigh and long for him even more.

I have never been to London. I should like to one day see the sights you describe – perhaps even Buckingham Palace, although I am no great supporter of the British royal family. But, as you know, I have a great interest in history, and London is stuffed with it.

We are lucky to have the ancient walled city of York close by, but London is even older if only by a few years. I should like to walk its streets and soak up that history. And I should definitely like to see the beating heart of political power within the British Empire. I hear they allow members of the public to listen to debates in the Strangers' Gallery. I should like to do that one day and hear with my own ears what those who feel qualified to rule over us have to say. But that is for another day.

Politics had never interested Mary, but now she longed to take him to the Strangers' Gallery and watch his face as he listened to the members of Parliament debating bills and asking questions. She'd listened often enough to Tom talking passionately about something he'd read in the paper to know that he would be avidly interested and animated, dissecting the arguments and forming his own opinion.

Mo chuisle, I have just read your letter again and I was drawn once more to your description of us lying together exchanging kisses. You describe it so beautifully; I can picture it perfectly.

You say you are hungry for me, which makes my heart soar. I reply that if you are hungry for me, I am ravenous for you. My lips miss yours, miss travelling over your soft, soft skin.

I can't help but think fondly of that spot on your neck that makes you arch your back and moan so breathily and delightfully when I focus my attention on it. You know the place I mean, don't you?

She raised her hand to her neck, her fingers ghosting over the exact spot he was talking about, her eyes glazing over for a moment remembering his mouth on her skin and all the delicious feelings it sent racing through her body. If only he were here beside her now...

That may well be one of my favourite parts of your beautiful body, my love. I confess that sometimes it gives me quite lascivious thoughts. If you respond so wonderfully to my lips on that spot on your neck, how deliciously might you tremble and quiver and moan if I were to kiss other, more intimate areas of your body? That thought has kept me company many a night and does things to me, arouses me in ways that I should not commit to paper.

Mary gasped, pressing on the sensitive spot on her neck again, her imagination running wild. How she wished he had given in to her exhortations to make love to her. What memories she would have had to nourish her during these long weeks apart...

The thought of his lips on other parts of her body sent heat flushing through her, her stomach swirling with excitement, her chest tightening with desire. Add to that the image of him perhaps lying in bed excited by thoughts of her body and what he might do to her, and she felt quite breathless. He'd told her in the woods how he took care of his thing when it stiffened. Could he perhaps be doing that when he thought of her? Is that what he dare not commit to paper? How very stimulating that thought was.

The thought of you sets me aflame, my blood running hot for you, mo chuisle. I yearn for you and I burn for you. Know that you hold my heart, my very soul, in your delicate hands. There is nothing I would not do for you.

I am counting the days, the hours, the minutes until you come home. And when you do, I will kiss you and hold you for as long as you will let me.

Tà grà agam duit, mo chuisle.

Your ever loving and devoted,

T

xxxxx

PS I found your attempt to write Gaelic beyond adorable and the fact that you repeat those words to yourself. I know Gaelic is a strange language that does not sound how it is written. For the avoidance of all doubt, I have written the words I taught you above. And I want you to know, love, that they are as true now as when I taught them to you.

Mary gazed at his letter, biting her lip, all sorts of feelings rushing through her. He hadn't held back; he'd put everything he was feeling, everything that was between them on the page, and she felt energised, brimming with love and lust and confidence.

Tom was hers just as much as she was his. And that was all she needed to know to get through whatever these next few weeks threw at her.