The Creggan White Hare

by phantomwriter05

PROLOGUE - in 1935, Haunted by a tragedy of which he was blamed, a young adventurer searches an abandoned Gilded Age Manor in Newport, Rhode Island for a precious heirloom of the once Levinson family. But danger lurks around every corner as he is hunted by Mercenaries hired by a former Ottoman Noblewoman to avenge her son who died long ago in Lady Mary's bed. COMPLETE!

8. Mo Ghile Mear - Part II

A bump in the road jarred Mary out of the trance of ten months ago and into the present.

She blinked rapidly from the passenger's side of the MG. When she turned next to her she noticed the side-long glance of blue eyes watching her from the driver's side. The shadows of nightshade drew odd silhouettes upon the pale and stern face of Henry Talbot as he drove quietly. They led the train of motors that began with them, then Mamma and Papa in the middle, and Tom, Bertie, and Edith at the rear. Henry had insisted on driving, as he always did. They had the fastest and swankier of cars and it became rather family protocol for Henry and Mary to lead the family precession, as it set 'an obvious precedent' as Papa liked to say. Of course, Princess Mary had asked them all to stay – especially Tom – but they had all been desperate for their own beds after the whole Royal Circus had left town.

For a long time, Mary and Henry traded glances, but said not a word. This had never used to be them. Not even a year ago, the quiet moments, the awkward silences would be filled with a rueful smirk on Henry's perfect – and wholly unEnglish – teeth and an amused 'what?' or 'What's on your mind now, Mary?' as he looked ahead. But now when they traded glances, when there was a pregnant pause, they, he, endured it till it passed. They didn't know what to do with themselves now. It was always rather a contest, a prolonged competition, their marriage. They liked to test the other's limits and when they found them, they'd laugh rather than get angry. But now that they had both found the other's limits, what they were capable of as people … it was no laughing matter.

She could say that Henry was just tired. He had spent three months an ocean away at car shows in New York, Chicago, and Detroit. And both he and Tom had been overdue in Italy before then, looking over what they had to offer, studying their advancements in the motor trade. All in all, Henry had spent more time away than he had been at home. That came with a sort of road weariness that Mary could've appreciated. But she knew that being tired wasn't the case.

They had made love for the first time in months that afternoon.

There was a hope, for the both of them, that after being apart for so long that they might be able to find the intimacy that always came naturally. No one understood - or least pretended not to understand – what it was that drew them together. Lady Mary was an aristocrat, fit for the royal house, destined to marry a prince or duke. Henry Talbot was 'the seventh son of the second son', well born, but nowhere near inheriting anything but his mother's finger paintings and his father's diabetes. Lady Mary managed an estate and Henry drove cars. There was nothing in common that they held any interest in but one thing, and one thing only ... Sex.

Both Lady Mary and Henry Talbot enjoyed sex, at any moment, at any time, wherever it might be had. Henry was a mad man for it and was often known for his proficiency in the act. There was not a table in all the land that did not know the double meaning of his talent with 'the gear stick'. And he was proud of it, bellying up to every club and dinner party as the celebrated ace of race cars for the chaps, and the knowing smirks and looks of the Ladies eyeing him in anticipation for his other talents.

Meanwhile, Lady Mary had found herself, after marriage to Matthew and his loss, rather obsessed with sex. She was found to have a man's appetite for it - something rather rare in a woman. It was born out of her love for Matthew, then her missing him, and finally her need of it as a sense of some sort of missing intimacy in her life. But somewhere down the line, it became more important than anything … all that mattered. For a long time, it was all she could think about. No one really knew where it came from, or why Mary built her life around it. But there was a silent agreement that there was something unhealthy growing from the constant need.

For a while, there was not an issue. Henry had to be a fool of a man who did not appreciate, did not worship, a wife who didn't say 'no', who built her life around the mischievous look and wordless invitation across the library at tea. Mary wanted it and Henry was good at it, what more could they ask for? But they soon found such a thing was a band-aid. They were husband and wife – true enough - they enjoyed one another's company, and they were seemingly in perpetual honeymoon. But what was thought of as love, seemed really nothing more than perpetual lust. And the longer they were married, the longer they both began to realize that they had the potential of being good, maybe even close, friends … but it wasn't the same as the others around them.

They saw how deeply Bertie and Edith had loved one another. Lord and Lady Grantham had never been closer since they successfully raised their family and seen them squared away in their own growing ones. Even watching Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes from afar made them realize that they did not have, exactly, what the others in their family had. And for a while that was fine, it suited them. If anything, they would always have Tom – the perpetual bachelor that could never move on from darling Sybil. As long as they had intimacy, as long as they could make love and find that chemistry, the rest seemed like window dressing.

But it was just before Caroline's death when the one thing that glued them together was peeled away.

It was a slip up, a strange moment of … something that Mary couldn't explain. It nearly tore her apart, and she spent months going over it in her head, tormenting herself. She could never, never, forget the way Henry looked at her afterward. The moment, the true moment, that their entire marriage fell apart. There was no killing frost, Caroline was not in any danger, and there was no sickness throughout the village of Downton. The whole day was fine, one of the very best in recent memories.

They had won "Best Of" at Ripon's Fat Stock Show. Mason, Andy, Tom, and herself, had done so much work with that generation of pig stock, two years of slop and breeding. Their pig, "Squeak" – named by Sybbie - had been so plump and grand that they took a picture of Mary and Mason with the prized porker and placed it in the Townhall. She was teased endlessly by the family, but it was a proud day for old Mason, and she wouldn't allow anyone to take it away from him. In fact, it had been a rather advancement in her turn from socialite to country farmer in the pride she felt over the whole business. She thought all that hard work, years of her life, deserved a little treat. A knowing smirk, a trailing hand across Henry's back as Tom showed off a progression of their pig's evolution from piggling to being served at the King's breakfast, she imagined.

The rest she didn't understand. She didn't understand why he was there, what he thought they were doing, and why he didn't say anything? All she knew was that she was caught in his gaze, his eyes, and something about it, about him, and him alone, watching her … no, she still couldn't make herself believe it. It was a fluke, a strange crossing of the wires … she didn't mean it. The pleasure, the explosion, it couldn't be stopped. It was two things at once that happened instantaneously. He had been at the door and she was in throes of a deep ecstasy that enslaved her. There was nothing she could do, there was no strength in her to make Henry stop, and he was there, watching her take it …

Her marriage ended that day, that hour, that moment a name, one beloved name, left her lips. She didn't know why she said it, but she did, she screamed it in pleasure. She was sweating and panting, resting on her ivory belly and red elbows in leisure on their silk topped bed. She closed her eyes as she moved damp strands of her bob out of her face. Then, she craned her head to look at the door. But it was closed. For a moment she thought she imagined it in the mirror, him standing there at the door, watching her, transfixed on her in her most erotic moment. But when Mary looked up, Henry was shocked, staring in disbelief at his wife's cat like nude lounging.

'What … what did you say?'

'What do you mean?'

'You said …'

'I didn't say anything.'

'Yes, yes, you did.'

'Oh, darling, it was just in the moment. I'm sure I say endless things when you have me like that.'

'Not that.'

'Why, what did I say?'

'You, jolly well, know what you said, Mary.'

'No, I really don't.'

'You called his name.'

'Whose name?'

'Don't lie!'

'Your cross, Darling?'

'Don't … don't call me that.'

'Whatever is the matter? Henry?!'

'I have to go.'

'Dar- Henry!'

'I, I, no, Mary … no!'

'Whatever it was, I'm sure I didn't mean it! Henry! Henry!'

It was Edith all over again. She felt like she was sixteen years old, wrathful, scared. She looked for him all day, but he hid himself exceedingly well. Anna didn't know why she wanted to find him, and Mary did her best to hide the wild emotions tearing her apart. But her lady's maid, her best friend, remembered that look on her mistress's face from long ago. Then, she was sure that Anna lied when she said she didn't know where he was … just like with Edith when they were girls. Tom and Sybbie had gone for a walk and Mary ran them down. But Tom didn't know where he was, and Sybbie was frightened about the grip that Mary grasped her arm with as she interrogated her daughter. Tom broke them apart, telling her that they didn't know where he was and leave Sybbie be.

It was Thomas who had hidden him, she knew it. Yet, Mary had given up the search and instead waited for him. Antsy and nervous, she paced in the nursery for hours. Both Caroline and Johnny Bates watched her from their play pen anxiously. When the gong rang, she went to her room and found Anna laying out her gown. They did not speak, though her maid tried several times to engage. It was uncomfortable and oppressive, knowing that Anna knew that something was wrong, that it had something to do with that dreadful day when they were girls.

Mary looked at herself in the mirror and was horrified by what she saw. A woman - not a girl, not an unexperienced virgin - a grown woman that had looked into cerulean eyes, the eyes of her own child, and in that moment, in his gaze upon her, he brought her to … she said George's name. Lady Mary Talbot violently orgasmed to the watching gaze of her own son as she screamed his name while she was with another man.

That night she came to his and Sybbie's room, knowing that Thomas couldn't hide him forever. George was alone. Sybbie must had gone to sleep with Tom or between Mamma and Papa. The boy was wide awake in the midnight hour, staring quietly at the moonlight patterns on the floor from the window - like Matthew used too. This only made Mary's already troubled heart quake at his nearness. But when he saw Mary enter his room and felt her sit against him on the bed, he immediately turned over, showing her his back.

She tried to explain what it was he saw, what she was doing – not really, but enough to ease his concerns and confusion of what would probably be upsetting for one so young. But George didn't respond. When she laid her concerned hand upon his shoulder in longing desperation for him to talk to her, he shrugged it away, as if her very touch scolded him – as if she were something filthy. Then, a contrarian anger of shame and fear rose in her. Mary's tone was haughty as she chastised him for not knocking, for being childish in assuming that he could just walk into other people's rooms unannounced and uninvited. But he didn't respond, refusing to look at her, acknowledge her.

"Very well. I am a mother of a young man - an heir to an estate - not a baby. If you see my son, tell him his mamma wishes to speak to him."

"If I had a mamma who acted as disgusting as his, I wouldn't want to talk to her either."

It came at her like a slap to the face. She reeled a moment, her eyes wide in shock and amazement. Fissures appeared throughout her heart and something from a darker young ladyhood reared its ugly head. The gnawing doubt, the guilt, and the self-hatred of a teenage girl. Her child, her boy, her baby, didn't even know what the word meant … but she knew the sentiment of her child's words. Lady Mary Talbot knew when she was being called a degenerate.

Before she knew it, Mary, in a sudden rage, had snatched George by the collar and turned him over on his back. But before she knew what to do with him, she felt small palms slam against her forehead defensively, violently shoving her backward. There was a loud rattle of the children's toy shelf as their display cluttered to the floor. The boy immediately shot up out of his bed, standing on the mattress to match Mary's towering height. An equal look of shock and wrath was etched on his mamma's pristine face. But before they could take it any further, the door to the children's room opened and Thomas bounded inside quickly. There was something knowing, alarmed, in his countenance as he saw George standing aggressively on the bed and Lady Mary with her back to the toy shelf, Ms. Sybbie's dollies about her bare feet.

'Now, Master George, what has Mrs. Hughes told you and Ms. Sybbie about feet on the bed?'

'Sorry, Mr. Barrow …'

'It's late, Milady. Master George should be asleep by now, don't you agree?'

'So it is. I hadn't realized the time.'

'Of course, Milady.'

'I'll say goodnight, George.'

'Make sure to shut the door.'

The fissures spread as Mary could not hide the equal look of reproach and mortification on her face at George's double meaning in the parting shot.

When she returned to the East Wing, away from Thomas - who lingered to guard the young master and Sybbie's door against her return - she let out a breath of anxiety. With squeezed shut eyes in horror and disappointment, Mary tilted her head up and threw a fist down angrily to her side. Then, she braced herself with one arm on the corridor, the other clutched her taut belly. That was the second time that she and George had gotten physical with one another in a year.

The first time had come so fast - one moment they were arguing, the next they shoved one another, and then before they knew it, they were rolling around on her bed. Mary grappling the small child in her satin knickers as George tore off her slip while trying to gain leverage in the sudden wrestling match. Henry and Anna had to break them up. She had profusely apologized since then. And George and she had, till today, become closer than they had ever been in his entire life. But now it was all lost in a strange and frightening moment of relived trauma from her teenage years.

All she could think was how she had liked it, how she had never felt more beautiful, sexier, than when her grandfather had watched her undress, pose in the mirror in the jewels he gave her. It was not like it was with Matthew. That was purely love, the right kind of love, the once in a universe kind of love. But that darkness, that sickness of greed in her lust to be worshipped had come to haunt her. She couldn't understand, frightened to realize that she didn't know. Mary didn't know if it was the memory and longing of Matthew and his touch and feeling inside her that had brought her to that terrible misunderstanding. Or was it something worse still - had it been the thought of George, watching her like Grandfather used too, the memory of mischievous voyeurism that instantly made her ...

But either way it exposed a great and terrible flaw with Henry. In it she suddenly realized, questioned existentially, if her insatiable greed for physical pleasure was a symptom of something much more nefarious … a continuous, unfillable, hole in her heart where Matthew and their intimate connection had been. And now the only time it was ever filled was when George met her gaze, when all that was left of Matthew was nearest while in pleasure.

It was a discrepancy that Henry could not replace.

What was her relationship with Henry? What was she doing with him? They had sex, a lot of it, as much as they could. When they came together, everything fit, physically and spiritually. The sex was what made things work. The perpetual afterglow as she went places and did things of which she had no interest in. She felt like a heroine in one of Edith's terrible young adult short stories she writes for the daughters of her subscribers – "Lady Mary goes to the racetrack", "Lady Mary's day at the car show", "Lady Mary goes to the pub." It always felt like something new and exciting. They were emotions parroted, manufactured, by Tom and masked by Henry's physical chemistry with her own.

But when the afterglow came and went, she realized that she didn't want to be there, didn't want to do the thing she found herself doing. The awful truth was that she wanted Henry to be in her life, but she didn't want to be in Henry's. She found his world and interests abhorrently tedious. She admired the man, found a great deal to like about him personally. But he wasn't … wasn't Matthew. The man that she had loved, body and soul, was a part of 'the family business', rebuilt it with her in mind. She was born to this life, bred to it, and Matthew complimented it, complimented her, in every way. Even now, in a strange way, her life still revolved around him and their partnership, in this estate, this business that he built for her and their child.

She had once made love as a natural consequence of being crazy for someone beyond reason and sense. Now, she only had sex, only had the need and want of the feeling of a release, of the need not to be alone. Henry had filled that place time and time again. But she found that he was becoming more and more a friend, and less of a husband. They lived for the bedroom, their intimate time together, and then, rather disappeared into their own worlds from sunup to teatime. She was sure that was the way that most marriages went, when the bloom came off. And friendship was a goal that one would want to shoot for in a life of long happy marriage. But that day had unveiled something that had not been obvious till then.

There was no intimacy in the way that Henry and Mary were having sex. It was just something they did, a joint hobby, as a couple that bird watched or traveled the world together. They had a rhythm, a routine, a method down to a science. But what truly frightened Mary Talbot about that day - a day that would haunt her for the rest of her life - was that it was run of the mill rough sex. Then, in an unexpected gaze that captured her as she watched in the mirror … it was like what it had been with Matthew. It was like making love again when she looked into George's eyes at the wrong time.

Was that what Grandfather felt about her? All the time that Papa, Mamma, Aunt Rosamund, and Grandmamma, said that he was a sick old man - diseased and terrible. But had he lost the luster with Granny? Had he the same urges and found that connection in Mary's eyes? These questions froze the woman's blood and she was deeply, deeply, afraid of herself. She had lost the plot, the reason, and could not get it back.

She suddenly questioned everything about her love for George, her desperation for his. Had her grief for Matthew, her longing for him, manifested in their son? Had she damaged him forever? Would he think of her, look at her, and remember that she was his mother? Or would he forever see her on a bed of silk, on her hands and knees, staring at him longingly through the mirror in a way that made her anything but his beloved mamma. Would he only see a terrible and perverse debauched woman that looked at him, not as a son, but as if he were his father?

Would she live long enough to see herself become Grandfather?

Henry acted as if he had gotten past what happened the next day. She tried to talk to him about it, explain it, but Mary found him infuriating in the casual way he assured her that it was fine. It was just one of those strange things that happens in life, he said. He once slept with a woman in France during the war who screamed her mother's name as she orgasmed. So, a woman screaming a son's name – a child she clearly loved and associated with happiness – was not the strangest thing he ever heard in bed. Yet, for all his 'honesty', just like George, he shrugged out of her touch, pecked her on the cheek instead of the lips, and went to work without breakfast.

She was in a haze for most of the day, wanting George to come to her, to at least let her explain what had happened. But her son spent most of his day, as he usually did, downstairs with the staff. Tea was painfully awkward. She sat in the corner of the library sofa with Caroline on her lap as Sybbie played with her. But as her girls giggled, her eyes were drawn to Tom and Henry talking with their back turned, facing the refreshment table. When she found her boy, George had been playing checkers with Papa. She was pondering if she might take Henry at his word that he had just wanted to move on from the mistake, the fluke. There was always a chance to make George understand what he saw, to realize that it wasn't something bad, that he'd understand someday … that she didn't mean to scare or make him feel uncomfortable. That she never meant for him to see her in that way. That she loved him so terribly much.

But the death blow to her marriage came in that hour.

'George, can you be a chap and hand me that brochure over there?'

'Get it yourself.'

The look on Henry's face was one that she would never forget. It was mixture of shock and confusion – never outrage. For a moment, he, along with everyone else, watched George in wonder and amazement. There was a look of wrath, of resentment, of seething in his eyes that refused to be focused anywhere but at the checkers board. But there was no mistake, whatever it was that bothered George so, that got his blood up … it had everything to do with his stepfather.

Mamma – the only person that could reason with the lad - tried to get him to apologize, but her grandson was cross and uncompromising in an anger that was all consuming in deeper resentment. It was something molten and palpable, even across the room. Caroline shifted in Mary's lap nervously, anxiously, sensing the electrified tension in the air. Sybbie had eyes that were wide, her hand absently petting and soothing Caroline's chocolate curls as a protective older sister. Mamma, not sure what to do, sternly ordered him to his room, telling him that he could forget supper.

Yet, in that moment, mastered by a wrath and personality that flashed of a future teenagerhood they didn't look forward too, George Crawley retorted back at Lady Grantham that she could count out breakfast while she was at it. Then, he kicked over an end table that had been in Lady Violet's family for a century in spite, snarling 'let's make it official' as he did it. This violent outburst of a black temper that no one had to look far too know where he got it from had shocked them. And it was in paternal anger – perhaps seeing himself in his own heir - Papa rose to his feet in outrage and roared at the boy to get out of the room - as a baseball umpire throws out an unruly manager.

However, they were all rewarded for Lord Grantham's angry outburst with what Mary would sure to become Tinnitus. Caroline met her Donk's wrath with a howling screech of dissent for raising his voice at George - the gravest of sins in the baby's presence. But her high pitched squeal of rage was cut short by the slam of the library door that rattled the sundries off the mantle and sent them crashing to the floor as George stormed out. When he was gone, Lord Grantham - clearing his ears with a finger - grumbled bitterly with a shake of his head a phrase most commonly associated with George Crawley by all of his male relatives -

'Cheek of the Devil.'

But as Papa ranted about him spending too much time with Barrow - Sybbie slipping away to go after her best friend - Henry stared into his cup. Tom tried to comfort him that George wasn't himself – a rather excuse that people used when Mary was at her worst – but he told him that he didn't blame George. Then, without a word, that blame was cast upon Mary in one disappointed look. It was then, in that moment, that Henry Talbot knew. He knew why Mary had called out George's name in bed, why Anna had mentioned that Mary had torn up the house looking for George yesterday, and why his stepson was irrationally angry at him.

George had seen them together … and Mary didn't stop it.

Now, over a year later, they knew the writing on the wall, Mary and Henry. They both knew that it was over. They hadn't realized it, or wanted to realize it, till that afternoon, till they made love. They tried desperately to find a connection, find the spark again. But it just wasn't there anymore. Caroline's death was the final nail in a coffin that was being hammered shut months before. Perhaps had it just been them, if they both came into the marriage unencumbered, with only Sybbie as part of the deal, they could give it more time. They certainly would've been able to forgive one another for what happened. After all, there was nothing that they nor anyone could honestly do to stop what happened to Caroline. She was dead already by the time George had uncovered and alerted Thomas of the hospital's mistake with the baby's medicine.

But they weren't both unencumbered when they married. And now an inescapable phantasm lingered over the reconstruction of a life that was in shambles. George would not accept Henry as his father. He had never forgotten what he saw in their bedroom, and however irrational it was, the boy hung onto a deep resentment, a disdain, for the man and what he saw him doing to his mamma. But how to move on from what Mary did, not once, but twice? She had let him see them, made him a part of the experience, her experience. Then, before they could even find the right method, the right approach, to come to him and heal the rift … he was sent on a senseless and cruel suicide mission by Mary that had no chance, whatsoever, of succeeding.

For weeks Mary had pondered if her boy would ever love her again. Henry didn't know if their marriage could survive George's resentment of his stepfather. Now, ten months later, they got their answer … and had to find a way to live it down. The boy had loved Mary so much that he did not blink at doing what she asked, begged – on her knees – for him to do. Even amidst the rift between them, her boy's endless love was so strong, so pure, for Mary that he thought he could save his sister, when no one and nothing could. But he would never have had to go, would never have had to be put in that position if Henry hadn't frozen up, hadn't slid down against the gallery - unable to move in fear and despair. Flashes of Charlie burning alive under his racing motor on the side of a forest road flashing in his mind, leaving him traumatized.

In a way, it was death by motor - a husband and a best friend - that cursed George Crawley's existence in the hauntings of Mary and Henry. And as a result, a young boy bore the brunt, if not all, the blame of what happened to an innocent baby girl. But most of all, he almost died from his mamma and stepfather's inabilities to master their own fears. Now the guilt, the shame, had been too much to overcome. They both, together, had traumatized and then ruined a young boy's life, a boy they thought would be their son together. And no amount of sex, however amazing, could patch together the failings of what they saw now as a superficial marriage of convenience, a matching of attraction, sex appeal, and physically beautiful specimens that had nothing in common.

Tonight, the Royal Ball in Harewood had been their swan song, their last huzzah. They danced, they drank, they smiled and laughed like old times. Tonight, Mary would put on her most luxurious lingerie and he'd wear her favorite sent. Then, they'd do the only thing that they had ever gotten right in their marriage. But come tomorrow, when they awaken, that would be the end of it. A London flat, a lawyer, papers to sign, and a tightening of the belt at the social ridicule in the newspapers. Even now, they smirked, and had knowing looks they traded. It was a terribly sad affair all together, the coming of an end of what had seemed to be a happily ever after.

"Henry – I …"

"What's this?"

"What's what?"

Mary saw it herself as they pulled up to the drive of Downton Abbey. There, by the great doors, was Andy and Albert – the hall boy – moving trunks of things onto the back of a pickup truck. Barrow stood at the doors observing the scene, the tall man's hands behind his back, chin up straight. Mary frowned as they circled round. She sat up in her seat as Henry pulled up across from the front of the truck. She could almost hear her papa from the motor behind her saying "What the Devil?" She didn't even wait for Henry to shut off the MG. When the door clapped shut, she was curiously met by Anna, who she didn't expect to be still here. In fact – with the nightcap that Henry and she planned – Mary had rather been counting that she wouldn't be.

"Anna, what is this?" Mary asked.

"Oh, Milady, I'm ever so sorry." Anna looked distressed … but more guilty than anything.

"For what? What are you sorry about?" She glared as she paced up the drive, gravel slushing under high heels.

"What the Devil is going on?!" Robert asked, jumping out the car and jogging up to Mary and Anna.

"I'm sorry, Your Lordship …" Andy said as he pushed a familiar trunk into place. "But they have a warrant." The young man looked confused and uncomfortable.

"What?!" Mary said in outrage.

"A warrant?" Lord Grantham parroted in shocked confusion.

He turned back to find his wife storming up, quickening her pace when she heard the one word that she hadn't been expecting that night. By this point Edith, Bertie, and Tom had joined Henry at the MG, none of them entirely sure what was going on. Lady Edith nodded to something said, placing a silk gloved hand on Henry's forearm as she paced to join her parents and sister. The gold of her brand new ballgown shimmering as she moved past the lit ground floor windows. Behind her, the sons-in-law strayed together, gathered around the MG's hood. But slowly they followed as both Lord Grantham and Mary pushed forward toward the doors.

"Barrow, what is going on?!" Robert addressed the statue still figure.

The man did not flinch. "I would see to Mr. Murray, Your Lordship." There was something cool and stiff about the dapper man's countenance – his eyes never meeting theirs.

"Murray?!"

There was a troubled exclamation in Robert's voice as he moved past. The rest of the family, Mamma, Edith, Bertie, Henry, and Tom, all followed. But Mary remained a moment longer. Her red tinted amber eyes peered deeply at Thomas Barrow, who remained at attention for a few beats longer. Then, slowly, he turned and matched his mistress's gaze. And it was there, behind the veil, she saw something grimly smug. A perilous but long overdue sense of justice that he deemed was right. She misliked that look on her butler, on Thomas Barrow more than any other. But she said not a word as he returned to his management of the meager packings of the common farm truck.

"Lord Grantham … I'm sorry to inconvenience you, especially at this time of the night, but there is business to be done. A hard one, I – uh – I imagine."

Mr. Murray – the House of Grantham's solicitor for twenty-five years – stood in the foyer. The older man with bristling mustache and a few wisps of grey hair combed over a large bald spot on his head was much like everyone else of the staff … uncomfortable. There was something very formal, too formal for anyone's liking, about the man. The first thing they noticed was a file folder in the stocky fellow's hand as he walked up and shook with Lord Grantham. But Papa was not looking at Mr. Murray at all, instead his gaze was drawn to the Great Hall.

There were men, tenants, that stood in flat caps, worn hats, tweed and corduroy double-breasted coats. They looked grim, tired, and – most of all – ill favored. But what drew most eyes were what they were carrying. A stalking rifle, three hunting shotguns, and a Webley service revolver. The sight of fully armed men, waiting in their home – which the king and queen had just vacated – was not a happy one for those taken unawares with things being loaded on trucks and talk of warrants. Each man stood quietly, their weapons at ease, nowhere near the ready. There was also decorum, a level of respect, no one sat in the chairs or on tables. They each stood patiently and with soldier's discipline that was trained in them from the war.

Lord Grantham and Tom knew each man's name and knew what it was they formed.

"Murray …" Robert said gravely. "Can you explain to me why an armed deputized company is standing in my hall?" He asked wrathfully.

For a moment, Murray balked. He turned behind him toward one of the columns by the grand staircase to look at something that he must've know was there, for no one saw a thing … at first.

"Well …" He cleared his throat. "I regret to inform you that there has been an item, items, reported stolen." He pieced out.

"Was there a robbery when we were gone?" Cora asked worriedly. "Because, I can't see how that's possible, we just hosted the King and Queen." She frowned.

"It's a jolly bold thief if it's true." Henry muttered slipping off his coat.

"No … Your Ladyship." Murray looked extremely uncomfortable. "There hasn't been a reported robbery at Downton – per-se." He cleared his throat.

"I don't understand?" Cora shook her head.

"There has been a report of items stolen by a member of the house." Their solicitor grunted.

"How perfectly absurd." Edith chimed in shock.

"One of our staff?" Mary asked, somehow remembering Thomas's smugness.

"No … Lady Mary." Murray cut her off. "I'm afraid it's you that has been accused of this theft." He sighed.

Mary's face suddenly lost all color.

"That's not possible." Henry strode next to his soon-to-be ex-wife.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Talbot. But it is true." Murray held out the file to show them.

"That's preposterous!" Robert said in outrage.

Mary scoffed. "Nonsense." She suddenly smiled. "Someone's having you on …" She searched Murray's eyes. "Surely …" But when he didn't change expression, the levity left her again.

"I'm very sorry, Lady Mary, but no one is 'having me on'. I am very serious." There was a graveness to his look.

"This is a farce!" Tom shook his head.

Lord Grantham stepped forward. "Who accuses her?" he asked.

Murray looked down at his shoes.

"Who accuses my daughter?!"

"I do."

From the shadows of one of the columns by the grand staircase – the one that Murray had kept glancing out at – a silhouette appeared.

("The Spirit Temple" – The Noble Demon)

He was short, shorter than Lady Grantham. As he stepped into the light, they saw that he wore a hooded cloak of weathered and travel worn black. It was of greater interest to them for the outline stitching was crimson red but upon the bordering of it were strange writing of what Robert recognized as Ancient Egyptian. The woven symbols tailed at the edges of the black material in gold script that depicted protective spells from "The Book of the Dead". But much attention was drawn to the center of the cloak that bore the unmistakable Hieroglyph of "The Eye of Horus" - gold with the outline of crimson on a black field. The item looked tattered and worn from much and hard wear through its ownership in the silhouette's possession. Upon his collar bone was the cloak pinned by a badge of a silver star with four points, of which the bottom was elongated.

Under cloak the figure wore a type of suede double breasted jacket, though the material looked foreign - woven from a type of hemp unseen but to those that cultivated and grew it upon the ocean's bedrock. One might have thought it brown, yet, it seemed to fuse with the darkness of Downton's shadows and the Egyptian cloak – a type of camouflaging material that morphed to the lighting of the room, making the wearer harder to see in the day and night from unfriendly eyes. Upon the shoulder sleeve of the coat there was a finely stitched symbol – a rune of Hyborian origin that the wearer had earned in daring feats of valiantry as a personal symbol.

Peaking from under cloak, girded to his side, they saw the hilt of a sword in a shabby brown leather scabbard. The Sikh Rajput was unadorned, sable, but for the ancient runes etched upon the blade – of these runes did they not belong to the Sikh race, but of a much older and ancient civilization of pre-history of the West. When drawn, the blade sang cold and sharp, but to a man grown had it seemed no bigger than a short sword, but in the hand of the smaller figure was it of proportion to his height and size.

When he stepped between the family and the front door, he drew back his spell arched tattered hood with one hand. He revealed himself to be, in fact, not a small man … but a child, a young boy.

He had a full head of thick shoulder length waving blonde curls that were shaggy and unkempt. The boy's skin was sun kissed, darker than he was born too after months in hot and arid places of the deep desert and deserted river islands of the Nile that were filled with ancient ruins of temples of forgotten civilizations. Both his hands were covered by brown cloth fingerless gauntlets. And it was noticeable, even in the distance, that on the uncovered tops of his fingers were runes of ancient Hebrew drawn by quill that scrolled down like tribal tattoos to his fingernails. Unsure of their meaning or use, it was clear that they served some utility in spell weaving or blessing against one foe or another, fore foe he had surely faced with the wounds that he bore.

About his brow was a silk bandage made from a beautiful and mysterious woman's under slip. A dark red of old blood stained through the material of the tight surgeon's quality dressing. Upon his cheek there was two deep and jagged gashes given from a hook hand. There was also a sling that the boy wore on his right arm. Yet, like his head bandage, the sling was made from the linin blouse of the same woman who had bound his head with her slip. And it seemed that by the end of their adventure up the Nile – and in no thanks to her fearless and quickly beloved young companion - Ms. Mina Murray had nothing but a torn silk slip and long navy-blue scarf to keep her covered.

So here is marked the evidence of battle with the cruel and monstrous black sorcerer "Odolwunga: Giver of Life" and his darkest and most evil creation against nature and, indeed, God himself, in "Dununga" -'The Man-Ape'.

This monumental and famed adventure in the afternoon tide of the British Empire does not come into this tale. Fore, the boy would not speak of it to any, not even many years after this night. Of the simple and humble fisherman who found an evil golden tablet of the Hyborian Age at the bottom of the Nile, of its corruption that twisted him into a dark and evil figure, and the young women of noble British birth he kidnapped from their cruise on the river - this was known by many. The story would ever be immortalized in the pages of "The Sketch" by the pen and typewriter of Lady Edith Pelham. But of the full tale of Odolwunga, of the creation of his Man-Ape, and their fate – there were few that knew the truth of that famed duel between a young swordsman in one of his first adventures and a dark power of the ancient world.

"Come, sir, state your name and show us your proof." Lord Grantham strode forward.

"Robert …"

Lady Grantham came to her husband's side and placed a silk gloved hand upon his forearm. When he turned, he found his wife's eyes glassy and suddenly filled with emotion. In that moment she did not need to say anything, not to him. With a wild look he reeled back and gazed over the boy that stood before them. Bandaged, arm in a sling, looking like a vagabond wayfaring magician whose origin could not be guessed. But then he saw it as well. The blonde waving curls – uncut in the last ten months when they had last saw each other. His wife and youngest daughter's cerulean eyes - much more haunted and harder than he had ever seen them. Then, he would've almost denied it, of whom it was standing before them. But when he turned, he could do neither of what his heart protested against when he saw his daughter's expression.

From the moment he drew down his hood, she had known. For all that could and would be said of Lady Mary Talbot, one could never deny that, at a very glance, she could always be relied upon to know her child. Maybe she could not recognize him, was blinded by his apparel or his appearance, but she could never not look up at that face - however worn and hard, grown and grim - and not love it more than life itself. And in a rare clarity, in shock, did the truth of that love, never tarnished or afear, had she recognized that there were only three people in the world, three children, of which that love came from.

"George?"

The very name, spoken aloud, caused everyone and everything in the room to stop. Even those who knew who he was stared, waiting to see if his family would react in the same manner they had when they first saw him. But of that family, they were stunned in shock and disbelief. No one had seen George in ten months. He had disappeared with only Isobel and Dickie knowing – tenuously - where he might have gone. In his recovery and his absence much of the fallout of the mismanagement of his treatment among the House of Grantham had been bandaged – not healed.

Lady Grantham had not forgiven her husband, but she had allowed him to return to her bedroom. Lady Edith had been reconciled to her family since then with the help of her mother and Marigold. And it had been for the first time some days ago, since that horrible New Years, that Lord and Lady Hexham had stepped foot in Downton Abbey. Though, as for Marigold, she had come often, to be with Sybbie - of whom found herself suddenly alone in the big house without her best friend and adopted brother to be at her side.

But what once was nearly healed, now, at his mere appearance, the bandage had been removed to find the wound was poisoned.

All of Mary's heart suddenly turned to the boy. She wanted to rush to him and take him in her arms. Her longing in revelry of days not so long ago when she could pick him up and hold him to her breast. It was her joy; he was her joy. What it was to hoist him up and carry him, to feel his warmth against her, to smell his hair, and admire his features up close, smirking lovingly to herself as she swayed him back and forth in her loving arms. With every part of her being she wanted that again. And Mary Talbot would've done anything to have it back as it was before.

But that small boy in short pants and tweed, their matching silk ties, and coordinated clothing – he didn't exist anymore. The figure in hooded cloak and suede double breasted coat was not a boy you could pick up, sniff the hair of, nor admire closely as you swayed back and forth with him tightly in your arms. He was battle worn, fierce in look and feel, and so incredibly hardened. The first ever growth spurt had come in his absence and he was now taller and leaner, his tan and recent struggles had made his features more prominent and sharper. Indeed, despite his appearance, he now bore a more pronounced sense of likeness to his family than a small cuddled child. The boy in foreign raiment, hand etchings, and wild look was more alien to the glamourous ballroom dressed family that looked upon their son and saw no one they knew or recognized.

He was still a child, a boy of quite a young age. However, the same could not be said for his look. Grim, joyless in seeming, had been his countenance. His familiar cerulean eyes were stern and sorrowed, not yet loss of all innocence, but gained of worldly knowledge that was far ahead of other children. He was someone who had known sadness, grief, and betrayal at such a terribly young age that their fresh scars mismatched to his appearance.

He had known the rock bottom of a life so shortly lived and tried to overcome it by seeing the world as it was, only to find its cruelties no more a cure for his ails than an acidic placebo for cancer. Now, his sorrow was wed to hard truths and mementos of costly duels and battles that he was too young to fight and understand. The result of such things was anger, a great anger unmatched and unmistaken upon setting foot in the very hall where his previous life had come to an end.

"My darling …" Cora had tears brimming in her eyes. "What happened to you?" she left Robert's side. "Where have you been?" She said in an emotional hush, striding toward him, undeterred by his appearance and grim countenance.

"Don't touch me."

The boy's voice suddenly got cold, hard, and sharp like a perilous icicle.

The very idea, the notion, was foreign to Cora. All his life, every day of it, she had petted him, kissed him, and took him in her arms. She had fed him from her own breast when Mary would not. She remembered the hours in the rocking chair of Nampara's parlor, humming all her favorite band music songs from her young womanhood as he suckled her, both watching the fire in the hearth. He had her eyes, her curls, and Mary's brows and chin. Sybil had only died so recently, and he had her face, her look, and nothing in the world had brought her more comfort than to see her again, to know her daughter lived on in both her grandchildren. And now, was his resemblance to her lost baby even stronger in the near year of his disappearance from their lives. Yet, now the very idea that he did not want her, that he looked upon Cora with anger, with disdain, was the absolute height of sacrilege to her very heart.

Lady Grantham was stopped dead in her tracks, hurt seen deeply and nakedly on her fair countenance. The echo of the youth's voice, the darkness and anger, shocked his family. He did not sound like the George that they used to know - the little lisp, his Aunt Sybil's raspy tone. It was something, a fair echo of all that was missing in the house, that had been beaten out of him by tragedy and a hard tutoring. He was now more articulate - highly so for one his own age - and there was an advancement of education that was startlingly apparent in the calculation and observation of his cowled eyes.

It was now fully understood that whatever had happened while he slept, he was no longer ignorant. And in his mind, given such little answers, he instead put a blanket blame and resentment on everyone's shoulders. Everyone who had been there, everyone who stood by, who did nothing as a boy died in the very spot he now stood. It was all who had stood and watched him being evicted from his own home. He had no names, no context, and so they were all guilty … they were all to blame.

"Lady Mary …" Murray cleared his throat. They all turned when they saw that George did not speak to anyone, he simply gave a curt nod to the lawyer. "As you're aware …" he shifted uncomfortably. "You came to me some months ago, six, perhaps?" He offered.

"Seven." Edith chimed in, still staring at George in amazement, her heart burdened with so many questions.

"What's this?" Lord Grantham frowned.

"Perhaps now is not the time for this." Mary quickly replied, looking to George with a face that was nearly eaten by guilt laden panic.

"Time for what?" suspicion was in Tom's voice at the knowing tell in his sister's voice.

Murray looked to George and sighed. "My Lady …" He drew out. "I assure you that His Lordship is quite aware of what has transpired in his – uh – absence." He gave her a knowing look, a look that said that it was the crux of why he was here in the first place.

There was a wild look of shock and dismay when she turned back to her boy. Then, she felt it, all of it, in a single look. The anger that was bordering rage, the seething heat of his cold stare that bore deep into her. His teeth grinding under pressed lips and the betrayal of the moment that he was given the documentation and was told what it meant had not dispersed. Mary had wanted to blame Edith, of course she would've told, first chance she got. The miserable little afterthought wouldn't be able to help herself. But from the look of the youth, his clothing, his tan, and certainly his wound dressings, that he had just arrived. Which meant that someone else had told him.

"Mary … what have you done?" Her mamma looked sternly at her daughter, sensing the panic in Mary … and the building rage in George.

She did not answer - refused.

"Very well …" Murray took her silence as a go-ahead. "As you're aware, Lady Mary, you came to me seven months ago." He gave Edith a nod in acknowledgement. "With the want to terminate your parental and guardianship rights to Lord Downton." He shuffled papers.

"What?!" Cora nearly shouted in dismay stalking away from George.

"Mary?" Even Henry seemed taken aback by it.

But Lady Mary Talbot did not flinch at the sudden revulsion about her. She saw her father look shocked, mortified by what he heard. But more painful still was Tom's reaction. He did not shout, did not speak, he simply squeezed his eyes shut as if endearing a great and terrible pain. And she knew that it was the endless torment, the prolonged suffering, of loving her, of being her friend, her brother. The thought that Mary would do something like that, something that terrible, brought about a physical sharpness to his broad chest. And she was sure that he – like herself – questioned in that very moment what about Mary ever made him love her. But they didn't understand, no one could, it was something she had to do.

Not for her sake, but for his, her boy's.

"As you know, you signed over guardianship to Lady Hexham with the expectation that upon his return Lord Downton would be named Lady Grantham and Lady Merton's co-ward till he came of age." Murray did his best to power through the static of emotions that were crackling and snapping about him.

"Edith, you knew about this?" Cora turned to her daughter.

"I did …" She remained stalwart. "Bertie accompanied me when I signed the papers." She glared almost hatefully at Mary.

"And you didn't think, either of you, Mary, Edith, Bertie, to tell me?" Cora looked as if she might faint from the absolute madness of what she was hearing.

"It wasn't our duty to do so." Bertie let his ever-veiled dislike for his sister-in-law slip as he observed the snake herself in old resentments of the past months.

Cora looked flabbergasted. "Well it was someone's!" She snarled in outrage, just stopping herself from raising her voice.

In all of this, George still had not spoken. The youth stood stationary, still as a statue, his free hand resting on the pummel of his Sikh sword, his grip so tight its tremor rattled the blade inside the leather scabbard. The only person who watched over him was Lord Grantham. It was wonder and guilt that mixed together to form a great and lined regret on his face for a grievous mistake made. And had it been anyone else, he would've been the 'bigger man' and immediately gone to apologize and make amends. But the boy wasn't just anyone. He was Robert's heir, his grandson, their only boy – his only boy. And it had taken him over thirty years to realize the mistakes that he had made with Edith on one night in Brancaster after finding out Marigold maternity. It wasn't till after Sybil's death that he realized the mistakes he made in keeping her at arm's length due to the love of her life. Thus, learning the lessons of previous follies, he might have gone to Sybbie and Marigold to profess his shame and need for their forgiveness.

But George Crawley wasn't a little girl, a woman – a Victorian upbringing that conditioned Lord Grantham to be surprised by the forthrightness of the fairer sex, and pleasantly surprised of their strength and tenacity in the modern world. Robert, instead, had a different, harder, standard for men – especially his heir. And he knew not any mechanism or emotion that he deemed appropriate to show contrition to a grandson that was so alien in look and feel after this ten-month transformation. He was not a little chap in sweater vest, tie, tweed, and short pants … now he was a taller, tanner, and unkempt adventurer with a Rajput blade and grave countenance. And for a boy that Robert loved as deeply as he had his own children, did he – in the end – treat him much too like a child of his own. And in this, to great tragedy, did he refuse in pride and fear from either making excuse or apologizing for what had been done.

And thus, from that night on, would Robert Crawley view his own grandson as an antagonist to all he and their family held dear in tradition and holding, rather than treat him as the son he had never stopped loving.

"If you remember, Lady Mary, I advised against it." Murray continued.

"It was noted." Mary said quietly, taking ill-favor at being pushed and cornered by the solicitor.

"Yes, well, one of the things that was talked about, that I tried to make clear, was part of the entail involving you and Mr. Crawley's marriage contract." He began.

"It was fairly standard - very generous to Mary, in fact." Robert returned to the land of the living. "I negotiated it myself with Matthew." He replied.

"Yes, but I dare say, Mr. Crawley's estate was and still is much more complicated than that, I assure you." The stocky fellow cleared his throat. "As I tried to inform you, Lady Mary …" Murray seemed hesitant to press, sensing an anger rising in Mary at the very mention of Matthew's estate, of the man she loved, in the same conversation as her signing away their child to Edith and Mamma.

"What is it, Mr. Murray? What are you getting at?" She sighed in haughty exasperation.

"Very well, I'll be blunt." He frowned. "When you sighed your parental and guardianship rights to Lord Downton away, you triggered a clause in Mr. Crawley's estate. It is called "The Warleggan Clause" and has existed in the Crawleys of Nampara's family estate since they were The Poldark's under Captain Ross Poldark and Lord Geoffrey Charles Poldark. And it was they who placed it in future contracts to protect their heirs from predatory guardianship in case of the loss of both parents." Murray began to explain.

"Yes, Yes, but what does it mean?" Robert spoke for an increasing agitated Mary.

"It means, Your Lordship, that when Lady Mary gave up being Lord Downton's mother, she forfeited her rights and ownership to Mr. Crawley's estate … all of it." He cleared his throat.

"What?!" Mary suddenly whirled on him.

"Surely not." Robert shared in his daughter's outrage.

"I'm afraid so, Your Lordship." Annoyance to a near impertinent level crossed the man's face. "As I warned Lady Mary …" he began.

"I know all that!" Mary shook her head, eyes closed in deep agitation.

A glare creased the lawyer's frown. "Good …" He said almost flippantly. "Then you also know that every item of clothing, item in his name, and all inheritance of Mr. Crawley … down to his likeness in pictures, reverts immediately to Lord Downton's possession." He explained.

There was a flash of panic in Mary's eyes and she said it before she could stop herself, knowing how terrible it would make her sound.

"The Estate?!"

She hated herself almost as much as the knowing look on her own lawyer's face.

"That might be a different matter entirely." He turned to Lord Grantham. "Because, Mr. Crawley's Will is vague, his investments might have been divorced from his personal estate. Furthermore, till Lord Downton is of age, he cannot – legally – take ownership nor management of any property he may or may not own. In this matter, and in the ambiguity of circumstance, I suggest that as Lady Hexham is his Lordship's legal guardian and manager of his affairs, and Ladies Grantham and Merton his benefactors. I would advise you to set up a sort of 'Board of Trusties' so that Lord Downton's interests are represented in the Estates management till such time as this quandary is settled." He explained.

"Nonsense!" Mary said in outrage looking over her silken younger sister in disdain. "Give Edith a voice in the running of the Estate? The very idea!" There was a guttural revulsion in her condescending dismissal.

"Why is that so hard for you to believe?" Edith rose to Mary's challenge.

"You don't know a fig about the land, nor do you care." She placed a fist against her waist.

"Oh, trust me, Mary, it isn't that complicated … surely, if you can do it, then anyone can." Her sister shot back.

Her mouth hung open in offense at the reviving of old accusations and rumors from their teenage and young womanhood of Lady Mary Crawley always being quite stupid and exceedingly unclever. The memories of the ridicule, the smug look on Edith's face as she presented her perfect grades to Mamma and Papa, while Mary spent much of her education hiding her own. Now, she felt it again, the shame and anger of her younger sister's superior nature for numbers and ledgers that would now be looking over her shoulder. Yet, while Edith might have been the bookish one, she knew herself to have an instinct and a talent for this sort of business. And the last thing she wanted was for her birth right, her destiny, to be usurped for the next decade by Edith's large nose.

"I won't allow it!" She declared.

"You don't have a choice …" Cora said darkly. "When you gave away George, you gave away your rights to this estate." There was a chastisement in her mother's voice that made her feel fifteen again. And she felt she had rather let herself down by acting like it.

"The management of this estate is mine! Matthew named me his heir, he gave it to me, not George!"

There was something incredibly dark and almost violent in her voice that took everyone by surprise. A shadow crossed her face at the idea of Downton Abbey being taken from her. A dark voice whispering anxieties and outrages to her broken and vulnerable heart.

"Not anymore." Edith challenged.

In the heated moment, Murray quickly stepped in. "As solicitor to all, I advise you, strongly, not to pursue any course of action as of yet. Maintain the status quo, with these new additions, till the absolute need for clarity of succession." His voice quieted, his eye turning to the deputized tenants who did their best to seem like they weren't listening.

Both Robert and Tom knew what the lawyer meant. The village and county had rose up against them once already. They had rioted in the New Years, burned down the vicarage and smashed up Tom and Mary's Estate office. Even now, ten months later, the peace found in the County Grantham was extremely tenuous. People snubbed and shunned Lady Grantham on the street. They refused to stand in Lord Grantham's presence. And they had flat out refused to serve Mary in the village. Henry's windshield smashed in Ripon; the word "Coward" painted on his driver side door. And a rock thrown at he and Mary as they drove by in Thirsk. Neither Mary nor – and especially - Henry could do their shopping and business in the county any longer.

The fires of resentment toward the House of Grantham was not cooling fast enough and Tom Branson – having grown up throughout Ireland's troubles – knew what came next if anyone in the family puts one foot wrong. And if the news that Mary could be displaced, that she had tried to disinherit George while he was away, got out, they might have a full-on armed rebellion to drive Mary and Henry, maybe even Robert and Cora, off the Estate and possibly from the county itself. Yet, in the end, there was only one person in the entirety of the framework of everything that ran in their world who had a deciding factor in their very fate. And George still chose to remain silent.

"The Warrant?" Robert asked trying to wrap his head around everything coming at them.

Murray shook his head, sighing in weariness of the hour and the tumult within it. "Lady Mary, upon signing the document and its filing, had three weeks to turn over all of Mr. Crawley's former possessions to their rightful owner. She failed to do so." He said gravely. "Thus, upon Lord Downton's return to England and the appraisal of the situation he returned too …" He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "He rather chose – against legal counsel - to file theft charges against Lady Mary." He nodded, looking to George. "Which was within his rights … but, I dare say, rather ill-chosen considering the timing of such things." He trailed off.

"That's outrageous!" Robert exclaimed to his heir, who glared darkly at him, unmoving.

Murray shifted. "To be fair – and to the letter of the law – she is in breach of the entail, Lord Grantham." He replied seriously.

"But theft?" Henry replied.

"Only if she refuses to surrender said items." He held out a list.

Immediately, Mary grasped and glanced over it. There were many things she did not recognize that she was sure Matthew had kept at Crawley House and Nampara. But then, there were other things that she did know. His cuffs that he always had trouble with that only Moseley could fit. A precise accounting of tuxedo and tails shirts and coats. His, their, wedding attire. Jewels, bracelets, and necklaces that were bought for her in Matthew's name. Even her engagement … her wedding ring! Their wedding pictures! It had all been there, everything that the man she loved more than life itself had ever given her, doted on her in fevers of great love and affection. Even the stuffed great dame with bejeweled collar that she had given him as good luck in the war, that he never parted with, and that he left behind before traveling to Scotland – the very reason she would ever belief in her soul that misfortune had found him.

Her mouth hung open and in shock, turning to George. But the boy did not flinch, his eyes falling coldly upon the mamma who would rather see him die than pay two funeral bills, who gave up being his mother so quickly after he recovered. And in return for these grievous and hateful crimes he had visited revenge upon her ten-fold. In a flash of rage and betrayal, George Crawley hit back by wounding Mary where it would pain her the most. As he was stripped of his home and honor, he would strip her of her memories and her strength. Her son, her only child, would get her where she ate and slept … and bleed her dry before her very own eyes. It was a thought process, an understanding, between two people who loved one another so ferociously it was now, in a shared grief and mourning, so easily mingled with hatred.

And it was, in his uncompromising and hateful glare, that a deep panic swelled in her taut ivory belly as she peered down at the list again. It was their entire life, their entire marriage, put on a list of things, memories, that she was now required by law to surrender. And as she glanced at the names of all the totems, the talismans, that had given her power and strength when Mary thought she would never have any again, a deep anger rose in her heart.

A voice that was not her own began to whisper to her black and hateful thoughts.

"Mary!"

The paper made a starling noise as Lady Mary Talbot ripped it in half, then fourths, and sixes. She did so after pacing within feet of the wayfaring figure of her own son. With a look of ice-cold countenance, she sprinkled the shards of the list on the rug in front of his face. Then, giving a cock of her head and lifting her eyebrows, Mary bobbed her head as she gave a look of exceeding superiority. With one action she challenged, in mockery, whatever authority she perceived the pirate thought he had in these baseless proceedings. In that moment she did not see a son, a child she loved. In her mind, in her heart, she saw only an adversary, a foe, a challenger to the memories of the man she loved – to everything she held dear.

SHRREEENNCK.

She did not flinch, though a cold chill went up her spine and anxiety flourished when she saw the glint of the drawing of a blade. The sharp glitter of the edge of a Rajput sword was caught in dim lamps and corner lights of Downton Abbey's Great Hall. The ancient ruins of pre-history etched upon the silvery blade were reflected upon the walls and across Lady Edith's torso as they glittered like ice in the morning sun. The sword sang and whined in the drafty air of the open great doors of the castle – an enchanting and perilous melody that hummed with a stroking reverberating chill in the echoing hall. But the most nervous quality of the sight was the notches upon the razor edges of the pale blade. More so than the dripping of blood, had there been no greater evidence of his use of it in recent battle and the fierceness of the conflict that had left their scars.

A sudden look of anxiety crossed Mary's features at the slow creeping madness that started to take hold in her boy's glare. In the times before, in the days when they were mother and son, they argued. George was as foul tempered as Sybil had been at his age, ready to fight at the drop of a hat. But still he had been deferential to Mary, even if he didn't know her as well. There was a reverence, a respect, for her words and actions. They had never truly fallen in, never had a close relationship, but love was never an issue. She knew George loved her, secretly worshiped her, thought her the most beautiful woman in the world. And she cherished it, remembered it, when they were rancorous in their many disagreements.

But the moment that sword left the shabby leather scabbard, Mary did not recognize that boy. There was no love in his eyes, no reverence. Now, there was only hatred and rage. She had betrayed him, left him to die. In his heart, he would not forget the look that she had given him when he came minutes – mere minutes – too late to save the baby. What she saw in George's eyes when he looked at her was a cold and unfeeling automaton, a monster – not a mother. And at her provocation, her lack of respect shown, a boy now rigorously trained, every day, all day, for ten months straight would not stand for her – her – to think that she would ever again not pay for things done and said to him or in his presence.

Lady Mary Talbot was not his mother, she was not the secret saint he prayed to in private – she was the destined frightful old woman who kept everyone to the mark … and he would not allow any such person to exist.

Sights, amazing and terrible, wonderous and horrible, lived in his mind. Battles and duels, situations of desperation and hopelessness had found him. It was a life, a state of mind, that haunted him. A do or die danger to every tense moment. It was not what a child should have to know so early, or learn to live in. But he had sought it in the death of his sister, the betrayal by his family, and the search to existential questions that were fundamental. And now, finally returned home, those many adventures and struggles still were instinct. Lost forever was the decorum, the tact, of civil disagreement. When Mary offered him insult, mockery, he answered it with steel and the urge to wipe the smug look off her face - the woman he loved with all his heart, the woman who threw him away like garbage, and the woman who left him to die.

"George! Wait, wait!" Tom strode forward, addressing the young boy he had known so well all his life. "Just give her a moment." He pleaded.

"I don't need a moment …" She said coldly, trying and failing to dominate her child in their locked dueling glance.

"Shut up, Mary." Henry muttered in worry, stepping between her and her son.

At this sudden turn, Murray held his hands out. "Hold, please, Milord …" He announced. "We have most of the items already." The solicitor tried to cool the sudden situation. "Mrs. Bates has helped and accounted for all the items on the list, and the footmen have packed and loaded them." He assured George.

To this, Mary now understood why Anna apologized and looked so guilty. It was a betrayal. Her best friend since they were tweens, since she was a ward to Mrs. Hughes – Elsie at the time – when she was nothing but the head housemaid in Grantham House and Anna a foundling. After everything they had been through together, everything they had done and seen. Of everyone, Anna knew what Matthew had meant to her, what they had gone through to be together. Yet, at the threatening of prison, at the beckon call of George, she so cheaply threw that meaningful friendship away.

"There is only one item still missing from the list." Murray turned to Mary. "A piece of Jewelry that belonged to Mistress Elizabeth Chenowith Poldark, a necklace." He consulted the file for assurance.

Everyone in the room turned and began to stare at the woman in black and shimmering silver ballgown. Atop her shorn cinema bob of straight chocolate locks was a shining silver hair clip tiara with sparkling diamonds on a field of jet. She wore three layers of long chains about her long white neck that draped across her breasts and cleavage. But at the last was the centerpiece of the look, of which everything was drawn … including the stares of the room.

A gift from Matthew at their first night dining together in Monaco as husband and wife on their honeymoon. It had belonged to a great-great-grandmother - greatly beloved and legendarily beautiful. To see the woman he loved wear it, the cherished centerpiece of Mistress Poldark's collection, and after a century in a vault, was like heaven to Matthew. Since then it had been the prize of Lady Mary's jewelry box for so long. She loved it above all her shimmering and shining ornaments, wearing it only on special and momentous occasions. Indeed, had she played it well, fore tonight the queen had Mary sit by her side. She had become a glamorous and beautiful decoration in the midst of a ball, a statement of perception of the glamour and majesty of their court. Mary to the Queen's right and Henry to the King's left. And Mistress Poldark's necklace had fed the opulence and glamor of all the queen wanted at her right, at her want for the lady she wished to possess.

Now, at the last, when she had lost everything else - her daughter, her son, her marriage to Henry, and now Matthew's possessions - all that was left to lose was her favorite necklace … Matthew's first gift.

"No."

Covering the precious item with her black gloved hand, she argued with Tom and Murray. And with a cold and fey defiance she turned to the young figure that was held at bay by Tom's goodwill and Henry's shielding of her. Pushing her soon to be ex-husband aside, the glamourous beauty stepped toward George and his drawn blade, her back straight, powerful in look and forthright in entitlement. She glared at him, absorbing his disdain for her, letting it empower her, fuel the authority that he hated so much.

He didn't know him. That boy, that shabby and wild worn 'Wizard's Pupil' didn't know Matthew. A squealing pink babe - mindless and base of instinct like a squalid piglet - that was all he had been in Matthew's arms, the only time he ever held that boy. What did this bastard know of the dimples of his smile? Of his ability to be angry and yet convey in a look, even in an argument, how much he loved you. What did he know of his sweet tooth? His love of inappropriate jokes and his abysmal tact for telling them. What did he know of the warmth of his arms or the sacredness of his kisses? What did he know of his crooked smile?! Or the way he looked at her every time he awoke in the hospital after being wounded - so joyful, so grateful, to have survived long enough to see her beautiful face! What did this little animal, illegitimate usurper, know of a man whose sole contribution to his life was dying a little death as he took her against a rock while skinny dipping in "The Pool of the Lady" in the Haunted Woods?

"You might as well run me through. Because, I'll be dead before I ever surrender it to you, Orphan."

The word incensed George, and she saw the blow land in the blink, the flinch, at it being said to him. But she didn't care, not anymore. She had lost everything now. He had taken everything from her. A dark voice whispering to her cruel words that echoed in her broken heart and were spoken allowed.

"I will never, never, let you have it. Any of it!" She spoke between clenched teeth. A wheezed voice of darkness lay in the foreground of her sudden and terrible foul words. "You who murdered your father! Who killed his sister! And ruined my marriage!" She got closer to the boy and his Sikh blade. "With every breath you've taken, from the moment you were born … YOU'VE STOLEN MY LIFE!" Her eyes were wide with hatred, heartbreak, and longing that cried in anguish of every lie she spoke.

In that moment, forever, for all to see, there was shown on the grave and darkened face of the twisted countenance of the beautiful Lady Mary Talbot, Matthew Crawley's greatest nightmare. Prodded, threatened, and finally shown in full light with all its terrible nuances was "The Grantham Blood Curse". The jealousy, the loss of reason, and the stolen sanctity of a vile greed. Never before, in all the centuries of the House of Grantham, since the days of the Tudor reign - when Downton Abbey was returned to the Grantham Line by Catherine of Aragon - had such a sickness of the mind ever come on so quickly or taken so wholly to any. In the days of her forefathers, it took decades forty, fifty, years before it became so prevalent as it was almost immediately the moment Lady Mary took control of the ancient estate.

Her words were poison - her face twisted with a hatred that no mother should ever have for a child so young. It was as if she was possessed, as if some demon had taken ahold of her. Grief and sorrow winding and coiling about the shards of a broken heart, their glass edges tearing and burrowing deep into her soul, bleeding out the luminous lifeblood. The pain, the torment, making her base and mindless in anger and rage that was directed at everything and everyone, especially, exclusively, to herself. And to find all that she held dear, all that she felt was left to her, to be taken away, in recompence for her selfishness, filled her with a deep and nihilistic dread of an empty existence.

He didn't understand, George was incapable of understanding, all that she had done for him - was trying to do for him. She was wicked, evil, and wholly unmaternal. If she did not do what she had too, give him to Edith, Mamma, and Isobel, she'd ruin him, hurt him. How could he be so stupid? How could he not see her love at work in all of this? He did not need the Estate, Downton Abbey, and he certainly did not need her. Why could he not see that she had released him, given him a freedom that his father and she never had? Did he not know that now he could do whatever he wanted, go where he dreamed of? All doors were open to him.

Why couldn't he see that this place, this castle, and all its burdens, they all belonged to her … Downton Abbey was Mary's alone and no others!

Suddenly, among the shock and disgust of the foul words spoken, something forcefully and without remorse grasped the silver necklace about Mary's long and supple pale neck. It gave a chiming clink as it was yanked off her. Immediately, in a stumble from the force of its removal, Mary whirled to see that it had been Henry that had taken it. She immediately, instinctually, lounged after it. But the taller man held it away from her as she fought for it. And with a hard grasp, harder than she thought was possible, he cuffed her silk clad wrist. Then, with a wild look of confusion, she gazed deeply into her husband's eyes.

And it was only then, at the end of her dark tirade, at the end of her marriage, at the end of everything, did she see herself as others did. Never, not even after Caroline's death, had she ever seen such insurmountable pain. From the time he lay spent atop her that afternoon, to dancing with him at Harewood under Granny's hopeful eyes, had it all been amicable, a sad but romantic end to an affair that had once held such great promise. But now, she saw the heartbreak, the pain.

George Crawley hated Henry Talbot's guts; and he would swear to kill the man if he ever saw the coward set one foot on his land after that night. But Henry did not grudge such a hatred, fore it was earned. And still, harder to wear such a label as a coward, was a man of exceeding decency, who even baring such a terrible branding, knew … no mother should ever have said the things she had to her own son.

He had already killed his daughter, ruined a boy's life, and now he would not allow himself to be used as a bludgeoned weapon against a child. He could not sit by while his and Mary's own mistakes were used to hurt a boy that they already had twice over. And such a heartbroken and disapproving look on Henry's face cowed Mary. Then, she looked away in sudden and soul killing shame of sobriety in the passing of darkness from her heart. She did not fight him any longer, allowing Henry to restrain her.

It was a poor return for a stolen baby sister, stolen honor, and a stolen childhood. But Henry Talbot did what he could to mitigate such losses as he had compounded in the underhanded toss that he gave Elizabeth Chenowith Poldark's necklace to her direct descendent and heir. It was then, in a show of skill and inherent talent, that George caught the silver necklace on the flat end of his sword's blade. With a flick of his wrist, he popped the necklace high into the darkness of the gallery of Downton Abbey. As it hung in seeming suspension, the boy gave a twirling flourish of his sword before sheathing it. finally, at the last, he held his only usable hand out where his foremother's necklace landed perfectly in his covered palm. And it was, in the entire quick and smooth demonstration of great aptitude of swordsmanship, that dark cerulean eyes never left Lady Mary. Twice he tossed up and caught his mamma's prized necklace, ignoring the look of amazement by the rest of his family at the display that no one believed a young boy could be capable of ten months ago.

The ancient Hebrew symbols etched in black ink on his fingers were prominent as he clutched his great-grandmother's necklace in his hand. Mary could not bear to look into her boy's eyes as he raked her with his gaze. It was hurt, a pain of words, accusations, that would tear apart a man grown. But for a young child, would he carry them for the rest of his life, and long, even begrudgingly, would he believe them to be true, for it was spoken in anger and hatred by the only person in the universe whose opinion mattered to any young child.

The boy stood silently, trembling, in anger, resentment, and unbearable sadness. It was not for the first time that he felt the blows of being accused of being a murderer by a bereaved mother. and in the still of many cold and silent nights, the boy – and the man he would become – could ever see the stricken, human look, of the monstrous albino abomination he impaled with his sword in defense of a chained Ms. Mina Murray. Evergreen and fresh were the pained sobs 'The Man-Ape' had given as George drove it into the dirt of the fighting pit of the ancient ruins of a forgotten coliseum. But what would haunt him ever more was the wailing and tormented screams of the Viceroy's daughter, the teenager they had come to rescue. Her torn and filthy silk dress, her traumatized and broken eyes, were seared in George Crawley's mind forever as she cradled the sobbing and fearful creature in its death throes. She turned to the young hero and screamed in rage and pain, rocking the shrinking figure – more human than ever before - back and forth. It was an anguish that he had seen before and could never forget … The sudden and terrible grief of a mother holding her dying child.

"Murderer! MURDERERHERHERHER!"

Now that trauma, that confusion, was revisited in the terrible words of Lady Mary to her only child, so freshly come home from that horror. And a part of him, then, now, and always, would believe it of himself. It was then, in the weight of the screams of the violated great lady holding her abomination of a child and his mother's venomous sting that it seemed that whatever held the boy together would collapse. But such strength, a strength that should not have been tested nor had to be found so early in life, held in the assault on everything that he thought he knew of himself. Too many trials of combat and terror in ten months, in a world so alien to the fairy halls of Downton Abbey, had hardened the boy like iron to the ravings of a selfish and cruel tyrant infected with the sickness of an ancient madness of greed.

The boy cleared his throat and sniffed, faltering only once in a child's sigh of holding in all the pain and shame of things spoken that he could not deny when from his own mamma's lips. And, indeed, in that moment had it took everything in Lady Mary not to go to him and beg forgiveness for everything she said that was never meant at all. But when he looked up, there was only the same savage fierceness that kept his family at bay. Quietly, he stuffed the priceless necklace into his jacket pocket.

"Mr. Murray …" George turned to the Solicitor. "The matter is concluded." He stated.

"I – uh – Yes, Milord …" The man could not hide his relief.

Yet, before leaving, he reached into his inner coat pocket. In his gauntleted hand they saw a large coin - clean and shimmering in gold. He slipped and slid it smoothly through his marked fingers before he flipped it with his thumb high in the air, arcing it. The flicked metallic ring startled Mary as it spun right at her. Opening her black silk covered palms, she caught the item.

Her red tinted amber eyes were amazed to find a large coin, a thirty-two-carat golden Spanish Doubloon. Both Henry and she were mesmerized by such a piece of fathomless treasure that they had only heard and read about. Mary's thumb tapped and pushed the priceless coin across her silken palm. Her eyes were wide and stricken as she looked back up at George who observed his mamma.

"For your trouble, Milady …" There was a terrible coldness in George's voice. "May it bring you better fortune than I could …" He turned to leave, drawing his hood over his head.

"And may you live long enough to discover its true worth when you look to it for comfort."

There was a deep shadow that passed over George Crawley's face as he walked out of Downton Abbey … never to dwell in its halls ever again.

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"Mary can be such a child sometimes … She thinks that if she puts a toy down, it'll be sitting there when she wants to play with it again."

– Robert Crawley

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Entr'acte Music

" Mo Ghile Mear" - Mary Black

(A Traditional Gaelic Scottish and Irish Jacobite Lament)