Eleven o'clock the next morning found Tom standing by the open rear door of the motor outside the main entrance to Downton Abbey as Mary came striding through it carrying a small reticule, her head held high.

'Good morning, Branson,' she said, offering him a brief nod, acting no different than usual.

'Good morning, milady,' he replied, giving her his hand to help her into the car. He shut the door behind her and stepped smartly to the driver's door, sliding in behind the wheel. He set the car in motion and drove them down the long, winding drive.

Once they were out of sight of the house, Lady Mary sagged in her seat, her rigid posture crumpling with relief.

'Goodness, you're a sight for sore eyes, Tom. I've spent all night and this morning worrying that Papa would commandeer you and the motor for something. I was beginning to make plans to sneak out to your cottage under the cover of darkness.'

Tom looked at her in the mirror, raising his eyebrows. 'I don't think that would have been a wise move, milady.'

'No, probably not, but I fear I am not in my right mind at the moment. All I can think about is whether there might be a child growing in me right now. His child. I feel like I just want to scratch it out.'

Tom said nothing, unsure how to respond to that.

'Did you manage to find everything you needed?' she asked, sounding worried.

'Yes, I did,' he said, nodding. 'The tea is steeping, I just need to warm it when we get to my cottage.'

'Right. Good. That's good,' she said, a relieved look appearing on her face.

Tom drove through the village, taking the main road to York before turning off a mile or so later and taking the back roads to his cottage. As he had the day before, he parked the car as discreetly as he could. His cottage was secluded enough that there were unlikely to be many – if any – people strolling by, but he didn't want to take any unnecessary chances.

Mary followed him into his cottage, seating herself at the kitchen table again as he busied himself pouring the tea into a pan to warm it. She watched him in silence for a minute or two, then stood, picking up the bag she'd brought in with her.

'May I use your bedroom, please, Tom?'

He looked at her in surprise. 'Milady?'

She gestured at the bag. 'I brought a change of clothes. You said the tea will make my womb cramp and bleed. I've brought, um, feminine supplies, but then I began to worry how much blood there might be. I can't return from a supposed lunch engagement covered in blood.'

'Oh, right, yes, of course,' he said, impressed by her foresight. 'Go right ahead. You know where it is.'

Mary hesitated before speaking again, a blush staining her cheeks. 'Er, I also brought a sheet. I thought, well, I thought maybe if I was in pain, I might need to lie down, and I didn't want to spoil your linen if the bleeding is heavy. So, I stole one from the linen closet.'

Tom stared at her in surprise. It hadn't occurred to him that she might need to lie down or that she might bleed through her clothing. 'Oh, that's… that's very thoughtful of you, milady.'

'Well, I don't want to be any more of a nuisance than I already am,' she said, almost shyly.

'You're not a nuisance.'

She gave him a small smile. 'Oh, I think I am. You're just too kind to say so.'

'Not at all, milady.' Tom smiled back at her, another moment passing between them.

'I'll just, er, pop upstairs and put on something more suitable then,' she said, picking up the bag and gesturing at the kitchen door.

'Yes, yes, of course,' he said. He watched her go then went back to preparing the tea, trying not to think about her changing her clothes in his bedroom.

When she returned, she'd swapped the chic clothes she'd been wearing for softer, less fancy garments, obviously older and more worn even though they were still of a superior quality. A long, dark skirt, a simple blouse and a cardigan.

'You know, I had a whole story prepared for why I was taking a bag with me to a lunch appointment just in case Mama asked me,' Mary said out of the blue, tracing a whorl of wood on the table with her finger.

Tom looked sideways at her. 'You've thought of everything. Did her ladyship say anything?'

Mary shook her head, biting her lip. 'She didn't ask. She hasn't so much as glanced at me even once all morning. She's so angry with me.'

'Well, excuse me for speaking out of turn, milady, but she's directing her anger at the wrong person. She should be more concerned with making sure you are all right,' Tom said firmly, his respect for the countess dropping even further.

Lady Mary slid a glance at him but didn't reprimand him for his assessment of her mother's behaviour.

When the tea was ready, he poured her a cup and sat down at the table with her.

She stared at the cup. 'How many cups do I need to drink?'

'At least three. Probably four to be sure.'

She looked up at him. 'Is it going to hurt?'

'I don't know. I've never been there when the girls drink the tea.'

'Right. Well, I suppose even if it does hurt, it's better than the alternative.' She picked up her cup and raised it in a toast. 'Bottoms up.'

Tom watched as she drained the cup. She put it down, pulling a disgusted face. 'Oh, good grief, that is foul!'

'Sorry,' he apologised, feeling guilty.

'No, no, it's hardly your fault, is it? It is what it is. I didn't expect it to taste like amber nectar. Fill me up again,' she said, gesturing at the teapot.

'Don't you want to wait a while? Let it settle,' Tom asked in surprise.

'No, I want to drink that horrid concoction as quickly as I possibly can and then wait for it to do its wonderful worst,' she said, decisively. 'If a thing has to be done, a thing has to be done, no matter how unpleasant. There's no point beating around the bush.'

Tom poured another cup and watched again as she forced it down in one go. A minute or so of deep breathing later, she waved her hand in a circular motion at him.

'And again.'

'Are you sure, milady?' he asked, furrowing his brow in concern.

'I'm sure.'

This time she reached for his hand as she swallowed half the liquid and then stopped, dropping her head for a few seconds before finishing it off and setting the cup down.

She let out a small burp and clapped her hand over her mouth, eyeing him in mortification. 'Oh, I do beg your pardon.'

Tom grinned at her, amused. 'Don't worry about it, milady. We all do it. Better out than in. Church or chapel, let it rattle, as they say.'

She blew out a breath, then closed her eyes, steeling herself. 'Top me up, Tom.'

'You're sure? Three might be enough,' he said, worried that she was drinking too much of it too fast. Because he'd never been there when his mother administered the tea, he wasn't sure of the proper way to do it.

'Better safe than sorry, and I'm almost there now. It's nearly done,' she said, squaring her shoulders. 'Come on, give me another cup of your delicious tea.'

Tom poured the final cup then laid his hand on the table, palm up, offering it to her. Mary looked at him and took it. She picked up the cup one last time.

'Here's to damning that man's soul to hell,' she said then drank it all down, squeezing Tom's hand harder and harder as she got through it.

'Ugh,' she said, putting the cup down, leaning forward, wiping her mouth and then bracing her arms on the table. 'That was positively the rankest thing I've ever had the misfortune of tasting.'

'Well done, milady,' Tom said, slightly in awe of the way she'd pushed through and drunk all the foul-smelling tea so quickly.

'So, what now? Do we just wait?' she asked him, putting a hand to her belly and pulling a face.

'Yes. Would you like to swill your mouth out?' he asked, wondering if that might at least take the nasty taste away.

'If you wouldn't consider it too indelicate,' Mary said, putting her hand to her mouth as the taste hit her once more.

'Not at all. I'll get you some water. You can just spit it in the sink.'

Tom fetched her a glass of water then stepped outside to let her rinse her mouth out in private. He came back into the kitchen when she called his name.

'Will you talk to me? I think it might help to have some distraction.'

'What do you want to talk about?'

Mary sat down, gesturing at him to join her. 'Tell me about how you came to be at Downton. You're a long way from home.'

Tom sat down and began telling her about the path that had led him to Downton. Mary listened, grimacing and rubbing at her stomach now and again. Her skin grew pale and clammy and after thirty minutes or so, the cramping began in earnest.

'I think you might be more comfortable lying down, milady,' Tom said in concern as she dropped her head down onto his kitchen table.

'Mmmmm, I think maybe you're right,' she groaned, her arm wrapped around her midriff.

She bent double as she tried to stand, grabbing onto the table, her knuckles whitening. Tom came swiftly round and caught hold of her.

'Lean on me,' he said, softly.

She turned towards him, grimacing again, and he put his arm around her waist, looping one of her arms around his neck. 'I'll help you upstairs.'

Mary sagged against him, the cramps wreaking havoc on her body as they stumbled to the stairs. Tom took one look at the narrow flight of stairs and knew they couldn't make it up there like this.

'I'm going to have to carry you, milady.'

'Twice in two days,' she said, a giggle escaping her, despite everything. 'Honestly, Tom, you're going above and beyond your duties so much, I'm going to have to finagle a rise in wages for you.'

'I think his lordship would be more likely to dock my wages if he ever finds out about this,' he muttered as she tried to stand up straight only for her knees to buckle beneath her again. Tom hoicked her upright, her hand clutching at the neckline of his waistcoat.

'He won't find out,' Mary promised then bent double again as another bout of spasms took hold of her.

Tom swept her up into his arms, surprised once more at how light she was. Mary curled against his chest, clinging onto his neck as he carried her sideways up the stairs and kicked the door to his bedroom open.

'Goodness, that was very manly. You know, this could be seen as quite romantic in other circumstances,' she murmured into the skin of his neck, her breath leaving a little damp patch there.

'Except for the cramps, it might be,' he said, feeling something warm flare in his chest at her words. 'Although in other circumstances, there's no way you'd be here.'

He eyed his bed, seeing that she'd already spread her purloined sheet somewhat untidily on it. Tom walked forward and laid her gently down on the bed. He stepped back looking down at her.

'I'll give you some privacy.'

'No!' Mary shot out a hand to him, grasping his fingers. 'No, please don't leave me.'

'Are you sure you want anyone seeing you like this?' he said, gently. 'You might be embarrassed to see me when all of this is over.'

'No, I won't. I will never be embarrassed to see you. Please, Tom. Please stay with me. You've already been witness to so much and… and…'

'What?' he asked, feeling wretched as he watched her groan and writhe in pain again.

'I'm scared,' she whispered, looking up at him, her eyes wide. 'I don't want to be alone. Please.'

Tom stared at her, unable to resist her plea. 'All right, I'll stay with you. I'll just go and get a chair to sit on.'

'No, don't go,' she said, squeezing his hand as more cramps viciously twisted her insides. 'No, don't bother with that. Just… just sit on the bed beside me. And keep talking to me. You have… arrrrghhhh… you have a very soothing voice.'

Tom gazed at her, then sat down, propping his back against his headboard, one leg stretched out on the bed, the other foot on the floor, somehow feeling that was more respectable than being entirely on the bed with her.

'What do you want me to talk about?'

'Anything. Tell me a story, recite me a poem, anything. I don't really care as long as I can hear you talking,' she gasped, clutching at her stomach again.

Tom settled down and started to tell her an Irish folk story his mother had told him and his siblings when they were children. Beside him, Mary lay on her side, alternating between writhing and trying to hold herself as still as possible, groaning whenever the cramps seized hold of her, scrunching up her womb.

Partway through his recitation, she reached for his hand and put it on the small of her back.

'Will you rub my back for me, please?' she asked, plaintively.

Tom stared at his hand on the small of her back and swallowed. He was surely going to hell for this. And he was quite certain that would be the least of it if Lord Grantham ever discovered the events of today. But in the end, his only concern right now was making her feel as comfortable as he could.

He pulled his other leg onto the bed, turned on his side and began to rub her back, closing his eyes when she let out a small sigh.

He took a deep breath and went back to telling her a story, trying to take her mind off the pain she was going through.

About an hour later, Tom woke up to find himself lying on his side, his nose in Lady Mary's now untidy hair, his arm over her waist. She too was lying on her side, curled against him, her back to him, warm against his chest. And she was finally still, breathing softly, fast asleep.

He pulled back slightly, gazing at her lying there, her head pillowed on his arm, and he felt his heart swell with affection. But then he checked himself, closing his eyes for a moment. He couldn't allow himself to feel affection for her, not when she was who she was, and he was who he was. There was no point in forming a hopeless attachment. That way madness lay.

He looked out of the window at the colour of the sky and suddenly panicked about the time. He lifted his arm from her waist and dug in his waistcoat pocket for his watch, a necessary item for a chauffeur. The face showed him it was quarter past two. He should probably wake her up.

Instead, he found himself watching her sleep, her hair pulled from the neat coil she'd had this morning. Wisps of it stuck to her face, where he saw her cheeks carried more colour than they had earlier.

'Milady,' he whispered.

She didn't stir.

Tom reached up and carefully pulled an errant lock of hair from her cheek, tucking it gently behind her ear. 'Lady Mary,' he said, a little louder.

Still nothing.

'Mary,' he said, moving the arm under her head a little in the hope of jostling her awake.

Her eyelids fluttered and then she opened her eyes, looking confused at first by her surroundings. She looked around, and then stilled when she saw his hand lying on the pillow next to her head.

'Oh. Oh, er, I'm so sorry, Branson, er, Tom,' she said, flustered. She sat up, edging away from him to the other side of the bed, looking embarrassed. 'I must have fallen asleep.'

'We both did,' he said softly, watching as she blushed harder at the realisation that they had been asleep on the bed together. 'How are you feeling?'

Her hand went instinctively to her stomach. 'Um, all right, I think. The cramping has stopped.'

'Good. That's good. I should probably…' he said, pulling himself upright and gesturing self-consciously at the bedroom door. 'It's getting late. You should probably change back into your other clothes.'

'What time is it?' she asked, suddenly anxious that all of this had taken longer than they'd planned.

'It's only about twenty past two, so you don't need to rush, but I should probably get you home before the hour is out.'

Mary nodded, her eyes darting around the room instead of looking at him. Tom held back a sigh, realising that reality was already setting in and she was thinking about the implications of this situation.

He stood up, hoping that removing himself from the bed would calm her nerves.

'Would you like a cup of tea – proper tea – before you go? I'm going to have one.'

'Oh, er, yes, yes, please. My mouth feels terribly dry,' she said, finally meeting his eyes.

'Well, I'll go and make it. There's fresh water in the pitcher and the, er, privy is just outside the back door if you need it,' he said, his hand already on the bedroom door.

Mary nodded. 'Thank you.'

Tom nodded back at her, took one last look to imprint the sight of her sitting on his bed in his mind and left the room, leaving her to tidy herself up.

When Lady Mary came down to the kitchen, the dishevelled girl with the soft edges was gone and the young society lady was back. Now she was in her elegant clothes again, she seemed far removed from the girl he'd had sleeping in his arms a mere twenty minutes ago.

'Do I look presentable?' she asked awkwardly, standing just inside the door. 'I've done my best to tame my hair, but I'm no Anna.'

'You look beautiful,' he answered then wanted to bite his tongue as she looked at him in surprise. 'I mean you look just like you did when you left the Abbey this morning. Perfectly presentable for lunch in York.'

'I'm not so sure,' she said, moving to peer at herself in the window pane above the kitchen sink and patting the back of her hair. 'I'm sure everyone will be able to tell immediately that my hair is all wrong. I'll just have to keep my hat on until I get to my room and hope for the best.'

'If anyone says anything, just tell them we had a spot of bother with the motor and the wind took your hat while I was fixing it,' Tom said, giving her a small smile.

Mary smiled at him in the window. 'And you said I was the one who thought of everything.'

He shrugged, picking up the teapot and pouring tea into their cups. 'I won't tell anyone that of my own accord, but if anyone asks me, I'll confirm the story. That way you can be the one to decide whether it is needed.'

'Thank you.'

'Would you like something to eat?' Tom asked as she sat at the table. 'Only it just occurred to me that you're supposed to have had lunch and you haven't actually eaten a thing.'

Mary wrinkled her nose. 'No, thank you. I'm feeling a little too delicate to eat.'

He cast her a concerned glance. 'But you're all right?'

'Yes, I think so.' She looked down at her hands, colour rising in her cheeks. 'I think it worked. I… I've had some bleeding.'

'Then it will all be worth it,' he said, gently. 'All the pain and the subterfuge.'

Mary nodded, picking up her teacup. 'Yes, it will all be worth it.'

They sat in silence drinking their tea. When she put her empty cup down, Tom checked his watch.

'It's almost three o'clock. We should probably make a move now. That way you'll be home before anyone can get suspicious.'

Mary nodded again, rising to her feet, watching as he shrugged on the green jacket of his uniform and buttoned it up. When he'd finished, she took a couple of steps, closing the distance between them.

'Tom, I… thank you. Thank you for everything. You've been… well, you've been simply marvellous these last couple of days. I don't know what I would have done, what would have become of me without you,' she whispered then took one final tentative step forward, laid her hand on his chest and kissed him softly on the cheek. 'Thank you.'

Tom stood stock still as she rocked slightly back and they stared at each other, almost nose to nose. Every instinct in his body told him to curl his arm around her waist, pull her back in and kiss her, but he didn't. Instead, the seconds stretched until Mary seemed to come to her senses and took a step back, removing her hand.

She turned back to the kitchen table, picking up her hat and fixing it in place, using the kitchen window as a mirror again. Tom watched her, noting the colour in her cheeks in her reflection. She met his eyes in the glass and held his gaze long enough for his heart to start thudding. He took a small step forward and it was enough to break the spell. She dropped her eyes, severing the connection between them, and tugged on her gloves before turning.

'Well, I think it's time for you to take me home, Branson,' she said, a smile plastered on her face.

'Certainly, milady,' he said, settling his chauffeur's cap on his head, drawing on his own gloves, playing his part in reconfirming their roles in real life.

Mary smiled at him - a genuine smile this time - and then headed for the door.

Tom pulled up outside the magnificent frontage of Downton Abbey and stopped the engine. He got out of his seat and moved to open the back door of the car as Thomas pulled open the Abbey doors.

Lady Mary took his proffered hand and stepped out of the car. She squeezed his hand discreetly as she did so, casting him a quick look.

'Thank you, Branson. You've done a sterling job this afternoon.'

'Thank you, milady,' he replied, keeping his face a pleasantly neutral mask even as he responded to her secret touch with a subtle squeeze of his fingers on hers.

He stood to attention until she'd moved into the Great Hall, and then he closed the car door, somehow feeling that he was also closing the door on the recent intimacy of their relationship. From now on, he was sure they would simply be the earl's daughter and the earl's chauffeur, with no other connection between them.

'Did you have a pleasant lunch, milady?' Carson enquired as Mary reached the bottom of the stairs.

'Very pleasant, thank you, Carson, although I confess the journey to and from York has tired me somewhat today. If Mama or Papa enquire as to my whereabouts, could you tell them I have gone to lie down for a while, please?'

'Certainly, milady,' Carson said, inclining his head.

He watched as Lady Mary hurried up the stairs to her bedroom, worry for her weighing heavy on him after all the unpleasantness surrounding the death of the unfortunate young Turkish gentleman. Young women were so ill-equipped to deal with that kind of thing. He would keep a close eye on her, he resolved.

Mary heaved a sigh of relief when she made it to her bedroom without seeing anyone else. She hesitated, trying to resist the impulse then gave in and ran across to the window, parting the voile to look down at the drive, watching with greedy eyes as Tom drove away, heading back to the garage. She gazed at the car, tracking it until it was out of sight, fancying she could see his green tunic through the window.

She dropped the curtain and turned back to her room, wrenching the buttons on her coat open. She pulled it off, dropping it on the chaise longue then pulled the pins from her hat and took that off too, dropping it on top of her coat. Her shoes were next.

She sat down on the edge of her bed and closed her eyes, thinking about everything that had happened today. The tea had been disgusting, the cramps it brought on had felt like the worst of her monthlies with extra force added. And yet, she had the strangest feeling this was a day she would treasure in her memory.

She lay down on her bed, keeping well away from the side Kemal Pamuk had breathed his last on, and closed her eyes again.

Tom hadn't left her side for one minute throughout the whole excruciating experience. He'd held her hand as she drank the tea, he'd held her upright when she couldn't stand, he'd carried her when she couldn't walk.

He'd told her stories to distract her, his lovely, soft, lilting voice washing over her bruised senses, calming her down. He'd rubbed her back to offset the terrible ache in her womb. And she'd fallen asleep in his arms, feeling safe and comforted with him there to watch over her.

It was strange really that she'd felt as easy about being with him as she had. In her whole life, she'd barely spent any time alone with a man until those dark moments with Pamuk and the last few days with Tom.

She'd never slept in the presence of a man before, and certainly not wrapped in the arms of one. And although she'd been shy about it when she awoke, it hadn't felt wrong. Not with Tom.

It was all very confusing. Two days ago, she'd been foolishly taken in by the swarthy beauty of Mr Pamuk. His dark eyes, his dark hair, his white teeth. Now, all of that had been replaced by thoughts of blue eyes, a green uniform and a gentle, Irish lilt.

A week or so ago, she'd barely even registered the arrival of her father's new chauffeur – now he filled her thoughts.

Mary sighed. This wasn't like her. None of it was like her. How she was feeling and acting now, running to the window to watch Tom drive away, that was more like Edith, who seemed to moon over any remotely good-looking man who crossed her path.

Mary had always rolled her eyes at the way her sister behaved; always moonstruck and desperate for love to make an appearance in her life. That wasn't Mary. It never had been. She had never expected love to play a part in her life. She'd understood from an early age that her eventual marriage was more likely to be about duty than love. And her brief engagement to Patrick had underlined that fact for her. Even now, with Patrick gone, she was expected to make an advantageous marriage. Indeed, her mother and grandmother were already scheming to marry her off to Matthew, the new heir to the Grantham title, despite his inauspicious origins.

That's why she was usually so practical, not one to waste time on thoughts of things that would never come to pass. And that's also why the last few days had been so out of character for her. The handsome foreigner could never have been a serious suitor and yet she had been swept away by the charm of the man until he proved himself far from charming. And now, she found herself contemplating the virtues of another man who could never be a suitor. Yet both men had had a profound effect on her life in the span of just two days.

And while the supposed gentleman had revealed himself to be anything but, the servant had proved himself to be a worthy gentleman. And both of them had turned her world upside down.

But enough was enough, she thought, giving herself a firm telling-off and a mental shake. Pamuk was nothing but a bad memory now that would hopefully fade fast. And Tom… Tom was an impossibility. He was the good memory she would attach to the last few days to rid herself of the nightmare of Pamuk. That was all he could ever be. Anything else… well, it could never be. Never.

It wasn't until he went to bed that night that Tom noticed the sheet still on top of his coverlet and the bag of her clothes on the floor on the far side of the bed under the window.

He stared at the sheet, seeing Mary lying on it once more.

It was too fine for his room. He would have to make sure he returned it along with her clothes.

He lifted the sheet and folded it carefully, then raised it to his nose, feeling foolish even as he did so. It smelled of her perfume, a gentle, flowery fragrance that reminded him of summer days. He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her in his arms, her back warm against his chest.

Then he shook his head, reprimanding himself for his foolish behaviour. Lady Mary Crawley was not for the likes of him. She was far beyond his reach. They'd spent two days in each other's company under extraordinary circumstances and that was it. From now on, they would simply be a servant and daughter of the house.

Tom bent to put the sheet in the bag and then closed it up. It had been a mad two days but now it was over. And that was an end to it.

Author's note: I'm neither a medical professional nor a herbalist, so all the stuff with the tea is imagination based on a bit of research on good old Google.