AUTHOR'S NOTE: For those of you who like following Edith and Sir Anthony in this story I have to apologise for the practical absence of them in this chapter – Mary and Matthew took it over completely with their drama. We will go back to them in the next one, when I can focus on them properly. In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy this one.
Mary's bedroom, Grantham House, December 1913
Edith practically skipped on the short walk to Mary's bedroom after Aunt Rosamund's Winter Ball. She was already in her nightgown, but she still had Anthony's ring on her finger, she could not think of taking it off. Besides, she was not at all sleepy and could not resist confronting her sister.
She found Mary at her vanity, also dressed for the night, but seemingly lost in thoughts as she was staring at herself in the mirror. Anna was already gone.
"So, who would you say won?" asked Edith, so exhilarated she did not even manage to sound smug. She hardly cared about the bet right now. She was engaged to be married! To such a wonderful man, whatever the family said! She looked at her beautiful ring for a hundredth time and barely stopped herself from twirling in joy. "I would say I did. Anthony did state his intentions first. And we're engaged now!"
Mary rolled her eyes tiredly.
"I hardly care," she said indifferently. "But if we keep to actual terms of our bet, I won. Matthew was the first to propose properly and we never specified what the answer should be, or if there even has to be one. We definitely never said that the winner must become engaged. But like I said, I don't care anymore. If you want to think yourself the winner, be my guest."
Mary's indifference put a dent in Edith's triumph more than anything else ever could. She frowned at her sister in annoyance.
"Why are you so gloomy? Haven't you had Cousin Matthew dancing attendance on you the whole night?"
Mary just shrugged, not deigning to answer. Edith looked at her speculatively.
"Why are you stringing him along so? I would have thought you would jump at the opportunity to become a countess. Is it because you would have to be just a solicitor's wife for God knows how long first?"
"Don't you have a wedding to plan?" snapped Mary irritably.
"Not at two in the morning," pointed out Edith reasonably, making Mary glare at her harder.
"Then go to sleep! Or anywhere else you want, as long as it's out of my room."
Edith took a step towards the door, but hesitated. For all her snapping and glaring Mary was hardly her usual superior and dismissive self. In fact, she looked downright miserable and Edith's conscience easily suggested a possible reason for that.
"I've heard some rumours about you," she said hesitantly, her stomach twisting unpleasantly when Mary's shoulders sagged at her words. "Is that why you're upset?"
"What do you think?" asked Mary, but again halfheartedly at best. When she looked up at Edith, her expression was full of resignation. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this, Edith. It's a good thing you did get engaged, I hope the scandal will touch you very little. I'm very worried about Sybil's debut though."
"You think this could ruin it?" asked Edith, her stomach twisting twice as hard at the thought. She never intended to hurt Sybil in any way!
Mary shrugged.
"I don't know. I hope not. But a scandal of this proportions in the family is hardly helpful in making it a success."
"Then why were you so stupid and brought it on all of us?" exclaimed Edith. She did feel bad, she'd never felt so bad for anything she did, but it all would not have happened if Mary hadn't allowed herself to be seduced in the first place.
Something flashed in Mary's eyes, too fast for Edith to interpret it, but then she straightened herself, her face adopting her usual haughty mask.
"You wouldn't understand," she said dismissively, reaching for her jar of cold cream to highlight the end of their conversation. "But I can promise you that I'm going to do whatever I can to fix it."
Jack Weatherby's flat, Piccadilly, London, December 1913
Jack Weatherby, a London solicitor and Matthew's Oxford friend and former coworker's bachelor quarters were small, but comfortable and elegant in every detail, down to the leather armchairs set by a window overlooking Piccadilly, with a small, graceful table in between them, perfectly sized for a decanter of whisky and two glasses. Normally Matthew very much enjoyed sitting there with his friend and talking about all subjects under the sun as they were slowly drinking, but today he was agitated as he had never been before.
"Jack," he said desperately. "I need you to listen to me ramble and pull the holes in my arguments. I've been going over it all in my head the whole night and the whole day and I think I'm going mad."
Jack nodded, getting comfortable in his armchair and gesturing for him to start. When Matthew did, he found he couldn't stop. It all poured out of him: his overwhelming love for Mary, her upbringing and the pressure she was under to marry for the good of the family, never her own, the unfathomable delay in giving him an answer to his spontaneous proposal all the while assuring him of her love, and finally the rumours and the revelation that while she promised him an answer before Christmas, she at the same time promised one to Tony Foyle straight after.
"It sounds bad, doesn't it?" he said miserably, raking his hand through his hair. "I'm a naive fool."
Jack put his head on his hand and looked at him curiously.
"Why do you think so?" he asked calmly.
Matthew stared at him incredulously.
"Haven't I just told you?"
"You told me a great many things, some good, some bad, and all of them hopelessly mixed up. So let's separate them. What does sound the worst to you and makes you feel you're a fool?"
Matthew sighed heavily and raked his fingers through his hair again.
"I think the rumours must have some truth in them," he said reluctantly, his whole insides twisting into knots at the thought. "Mary did say that she did something very foolish and that she couldn't regret it more. I saw how she flirted with that man – I've never seen her so attracted to anybody else. And finally, Foyle said that she didn't know about the rumours until a few days ago, but she clearly had a secret she was too scared to confess to me weeks before, so it couldn't be about the rumours themselves. She probably wanted to tell me the truth about what happened."
"I think it's a reasonable conclusion so far," agreed Jack. "And we will come back in a moment to what it means. But do go on."
Matthew swallowed.
"If the rumours are true," he said with a wince. "Then it all makes sense. She didn't know that they spread, but she was clearly afraid that they might, so she was reluctant to refuse either me or Foyle in case she needed one of us to marry her to try to salvage whatever she could of her reputation. She has been holding both of us on a string as a contingency plan."
Jack raised his hand.
"Now, wait a moment," he interrupted. "Do you truly think that she was treating you the same as Foyle? That she lied to you when she told you she loves you?"
Matthew went quiet.
"No, I don't," he admitted painfully. "I can't think that of her. But I am so very afraid that I am just deluded, that I just don't want to believe that I could have been so fooled, so naive, so mistaken about her character. Everything in me screams that I wasn't, that she really does love me, but taking all the rest of it into account, how can I believe that?"
Jack nodded thoughtfully.
"So the things looking bad could be summarised as so: Lady Mary had an affair with that diplomat who unfortunately died in her bed. In her need to cover it up she worked to charm both you and Foyle, stringing you both along, and now, when the chickens came to roost, she is trying to fool one of you enough to marry her despite knowing the truth? Well, if that's true, you really picked the worst kind of woman possible to fall in love with."
"But it isn't true!" objected Matthew, his eyes flashing. "I know it sounds like that, I know I made it sound like that, but it isn't!"
Jack looked at him intently.
"Why? Just because you don't want it to be true?"
"No!" exclaimed Matthew, getting up to pace the room. "It's because it doesn't make sense! If she wanted to use either me or Tony like that, all she had to do was to accept one of us straight away, like her mother was pushing her to do."
He stopped suddenly.
"Cora must know," he said, seeing her behaviour in a new light. "That's why she was so adamant about it. She was pushing Mary to get married before the story had a chance to spread."
"But Lady Mary didn't marry any of you," said Jack quietly, his eyes trained on Matthew as if willing him to think. "What did she do instead? What did she tell you?"
"That she loves me," said Matthew breathlessly. "That she would marry me but she needs to tell me something first. That she did something stupid which she regrets. That she doesn't want to marry Foyle."
"So? What does that tell you?"
"But she promised Foyle an answer as well! How do I know that she didn't promise him all kinds of things? That she didn't tell him she loves him too?"
"Matthew," said Jack with exasperation. "I've never met Lady Mary. I don't know a thing about her character other than what you told me yourself. But you just told me that there was no reason for her to string you both along for months when she could have picked one of you and be safely married before either of you learnt about the scandal. So tell me, what reason could she have for her behaviour?"
Matthew swallowed heavily.
"I can only think of one," he said quietly, his eyes wild and scared. "That she does love me and wanted to be honest with me, but was too afraid to speak, so she delayed."
"And Foyle?"
Matthew grimaced.
"She was stringing him along," he said brusquely. "As a contingency plan if I reacted badly to her confession. She scheduled her answer for him after she had a talk with me."
Jack nodded.
"So where does that leave you?"
"I don't know!" cried out Matthew desperately, starting to pace again. "So she might truly love me – it does seem reasonable to assume so – but it still means she was with Pamuk and that she was coldly keeping Foyle in the background, in case it didn't work out with me."
"It might be so," agreed Jack. "Although I will point out that you don't know what exactly happened with Pamuk. You heard a rumour. The circumstances suggest there might be some truth in it, enough to influence Lady Mary's behaviour to you and Foyle. But you won't know what happened until you speak with her – if you're going to believe her of course."
"I will believe her," answered Matthew quietly. "Even if it makes me a naive fool, I will believe her."
"Then there is only one thing for you to decide," concluded Jack. "Will you be able to accept or overlook whatever happened with that diplomat and her behaviour towards Foyle or should you tell her that she was right to have a contingency plan in place because that is simply too much for you?"
Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, his whole body radiating pain at the thought of giving her up and watching her marry Foyle out of necessity.
"I don't want to give her up," he said, opening his eyes slowly. "But it is a huge shock to learn all this. I don't know... I don't know if I am able to accept it all."
"Then this is what you must consider first before you're ready to meet with her," said Jack seriously. "If you can't accept it and it turns out to be true, you must release her. You would only end up resenting her otherwise. But if you think you can, that you love her enough, even knowing those things about her, then you must be very sure of it when you two speak. Because from everything you told me, Lady Mary is in a desperate situation and she will act to save herself if she thinks she can't rely on you to help her. She sounds like a pragmatist."
Matthew laughed.
"She is," he said, shaking his head. "She's been telling me that from the beginning."
"And yet, for all her pragmatism, she could neither deceive you nor give you up," noted Jack musingly. "Some of your romantic sensibilities must have rubbed on her."
Matthew laughed again then shook Jack's hand.
"Thank you, Jack," he said earnestly. "You gave me the clarity I desperately needed."
"So what are you going to do?" asked Jack curiously.
Matthew sighed.
"I don't know yet," he admitted. "I have to think about it more. But at least now I know which questions to ask of myself and her."
Train from London to York, December 1913
The train ride from London to York and then to Ripon was a long one and right now Matthew was very happy about it.
He needed to think.
Could he accept the things he did learn about Mary? Fully accept them, without even a morsel of resentment or judgement to poison their relationship? Because Jack was right; if he couldn't, he should not marry her. It would only result in a disaster. But of course the panic he was feeling at the very thought of breaking things off with Mary and retracting his proposal was a complicating factor. How was he supposed to think about it rationally when everything in him rebelled against losing Mary?
He did his best though. He started with Foyle because it was easier. When he allowed himself to reflect on it properly, it did fit into his existing understanding of Mary. How was her keeping Foyle as a contingency plan different from her provisional agreement to marry Patrick? In both cases she was putting her family's interests and wishes above her own feelings and in both cases she was doing it with obvious reluctance, seeing no way out. Could he really judge her for it, considering her precarious position? Foyle said that half of society shunned her now over the rumours. Matthew was aware that what he knew about their extent and their effect on Mary's life was probably just the tip of an iceberg. No, he couldn't really fault her for trying to save herself and her family, even if he found her methods questionable – and even though he most definitely felt angry about it and the obvious lack of trust in him which it implied.
Mary only needed to line Foyle up because she clearly didn't trust him to accept her while he knew. He couldn't help feeling hurt by it, even though he did realise that his present dilemmas and soul-searching was the best proof that Mary's caution was warranted. He was actually grateful to Foyle for opening his big mouth and telling him all this because it did give him time to think it all through without putting his foot in when blindsided by Mary. He shuddered at the thought of losing her simply by blurting out the worst thing possible in his first shock of learning it all. But going back to his original dilemma, he could disapprove of Mary's approach, but he could not condemn it. All in all, he didn't think she even lied to Foyle about anything. The man was perfectly capable of deluding himself.
Foyle out of the way, Matthew had no choice but to consider Pamuk. The reason Mary paid any attention to Foyle whatsoever. The most likely reason why she was not yet engaged to him. And it rankled to think about the handsome diplomat and the way Mary responded to his charms. Oh yes, it rankled.
He frowned, probing his feelings on the issue. What was the main gist of his problem with it? Was it moral outrage or was it jealousy? Because if it was jealousy – and he was jealous, there was no doubt about that, he had been jealous already during that fateful evening when he had been forced to watch Mary sparkle in front of him while barely acknowledging his existence – well, he didn't have any proper right to it now and he hadn't had it then. He and Mary had barely spoken with each other back in March. They could hardly even be called friends. Whatever she had done with Pamuk, there had been no betrayal of him. And being jealous of her past was perfectly baseless, even if hard to overcome.
But was he outraged that she had done it in the first place? Did this new knowledge diminish her somehow in his eyes, made her less worthy to him? He had promised her once not to judge her over her secret – could he keep that promise? Or did he put her against the standards he had been taught to uphold and found her wanting?
Matthew rubbed his forehead tiredly. That was the main question, wasn't it? And the answer, for all his tumultuous feelings, was glaringly obvious.
Library, Downton Abbey, December 1913
Two days after the Winter Ball, Mary was sitting listlessly on one of the sofas in the library, mostly tuning out Edith's excited babbling about Sir Anthony coming for dinner and the start of official wedding planning. To be honest, she couldn't care less. Matthew sent her a telegram that he was going to take the morning train from London, where he stayed a day longer to meet with an old friend of his, and he would love for her to go for a walk with him upon his arrival.
That was it. There was no way to delay anymore. She had to tell him everything and most probably lose him forever.
She could not think that it would also mean she would have no choice but to marry Tony. She would deal with the Tony question later, when she had to, but now her brain was full of Matthew and Matthew alone, with no room for anybody or anything else.
If only he could not despise her completely… She had no hopes that he would still want to marry her, not after knowing everything, but if he could at least forgive her enough to remain her friend…
She startled when she spotted him through the window, walking briskly in his black coat and hat.
"Please excuse me," she said, getting up. "I feel a desperate need for some fresh air. I'm going for a walk."
She did not wait for any questions before she left the library and asked Carson for her coat.
Downton grounds, Downton Abbey, December 1913
By mutual if unspoken agreement they walked quite a distance from the house before either of them spoke. Neither of them felt like small talk and they were both aware that the conversation they were planning was one which required complete privacy and no interruptions.
Finally, Matthew broke the silence first. They were by Diana's Temple, with the house looming in the distance.
"What is it that you need to tell me, Mary?" he asked gently. "You promised to give me the answer today."
His heart clenched at the sight of her pale, terrified face and the way she hugged herself as if to keep herself together.
"I did," she said, visibly swallowing before she could continue. "And I will tell you. Only, it's very hard for me to do so."
"Why?" he asked, keeping his tone deliberately gentle.
"Because you will despise me when you'll know and I can't bear that!" she cried out, her eyes huge and desperate, and looking at her like that it was very easy for him to be sure.
"You're wrong," he said, making her look up at him wildly. "I never would – I never could – despise you."
She shook her head.
"I know you think so now," she said despairingly. "But you don't know what I've done."
"Is it about Mr Pamuk dying in your bed?" he asked and his heart clenched again when she backed away from him, somehow getting even paler.
"You know?" she whispered.
"I heard rumours," he admitted quietly. "And, after some thinking, I came to the conclusion that they might be partially true. It explained a lot of things which have been puzzling me for months."
"What must you think of me," she whispered with bloodless lips. "I wanted to tell you – I should have told you when you first proposed, I knew I should have – I never wanted you to learn like that – but I was so afraid…"
"I know, Mary," he said, aching to comfort her, but knowing that they had to talk it all out first if they were to have any chance of getting past it. "You were on the verge of telling me several times, weren't you?"
"Yes!" she confirmed fervently. "I was. I really tried, but the words just didn't come past my mouth. I could not stand the thought of losing you, of you despising me for it."
"But I do know," he repeated, "or at least I have a rough idea, and I don't despise you, Mary."
"How can you not?"
He took a deep breath to fortify himself.
"First of all, I am not sure that what I do know is accurate," he said. "I heard a rumour. Rumours tend to be exaggerated or wrong."
"Oh, you got the main gist of it," muttered Mary darkly, closing her eyes. "He did die in my bed."
Now it was Matthew's turn to swallow and try to push the image she created out of his mind. But the way she said it made him focus for the first time on the other part of her story than the fact that Pamuk had been in her bed in the first place and what exactly he had been doing there.
"God, Mary," he said, horrified. "I can't even imagine how terrible it must have been for you."
She closed her eyes again.
"It was a nightmare," she whispered. "One from which I never woke up."
"But he was found in his own bed the next morning. However did you manage that?"
Mary laughed harshly and opened her eyes.
"Haven't you heard? They say I dragged him."
Matthew frowned.
"The whole length of the house?" he asked incredulously and she laughed again.
"Obviously the authors of the rumours are not as familiar with Downton as you," she said dryly and then added soberly. "Mama and Anna helped me carry him. We thought that this would be the end of it, but somebody must have seen us and spread the tale anyway."
Matthew nodded, his imagination still feeding him visions of how truly nightmarish it all had to have been.
"Foyle mentioned that you've been shunned over it," he noted and for all his soul-searching he could not keep bitterness from his tone when he asked. "Is that why you promised to give him an answer to his proposal after Christmas?"
Mary's eyes widened in shock, only for her to roll them a moment later.
"Of course it was Tony who told you everything," she huffed in annoyance but, seeing his expression, looked at him apologetically. "I told you the truth, Matthew. I do not care about Tony. I do not want to marry him. But when he learnt of the rumours and came to tell me that he wanted to marry me anyway, when I knew that most likely no other man ever would, I couldn't outright refuse him."
Matthew felt his anger resurge.
"No other man… So I see you didn't have much faith in me, did you?"
"How could I?" cried Mary back. "Tony was only willing to help me because he refused to hear or believe the truth. You're not a fool like him and even if you were, I would not be able to keep it from you. I had to tell you everything. How could I expect you to forgive me when you knew every tawdry detail?"
"Because I love you!" shouted Matthew. "And I would have thought you would trust me before arranging to accept another man's proposal behind my back!"
"I didn't want to!" Mary shouted back, tears appearing in her eyes. "But what could I do? You have no idea, Matthew, what they are saying, how they were all treating me! And it's not just about me either! Sybil could be ruined right there with me, despite never doing anything wrong, and even Edith could be affected, despite her engagement. How many people do you think will even accept invitations to her wedding with me in utter disgrace? How could I force Mama, Papa, Granny to face the scandal I brought on their heads? I tried to avoid it for as long as possible, but with my story already out there, I had no other choice but to salvage what I could."
"And doing what you could meant making arrangements with Foyle," said Matthew in cold fury. "Rather than finally talking to me."
She stared at him incredulously.
"Then what are we doing now?" she pointed out angrily. "Why do you think I pushed Tony until after Christmas? How many times do I have to repeat that I don't want to marry him for you to believe me? But I thought that there was no chance of you forgiving me for it all, so yes, I didn't refuse him. I just wanted to speak with you first, on the minuscule chance that I didn't ruin everything."
She looked at him imploringly.
"Are you saying," she said tremulously. "That I didn't ruin everything? That you still want to marry me, knowing what I did?"
The air which left Matthew's lungs in a big rush seemingly took most of his anger with it.
"No, you didn't ruin everything," he said and his heart fluttered at seeing Mary's eyes grow wide with sudden hope. "But you must be completely honest with me, Mary, about all of it: Pamuk, Foyle, me. I must be sure where I stand with you."
"I am!" she assured him, then corrected herself. "I will!"
For a long moment, they both just stared at each other, struggling to gather their thoughts.
"Why did you do it, Mary?" asked Matthew finally. "Was it love? Because if it was love…"
"How could it be?" she exclaimed immediately. "I didn't know him!"
"But then why would you?"
"It was lust, Matthew, or a need for excitement, or something in him that I… Oh God, what difference does it make? I'm Tess d'Uberville to your Angel Clare. I have fallen. I am impure."
He couldn't stand listening to her describing herself in those terms. Whatever she had done, she was not defined by this one act.
"Don't speak of yourself like that," he said sternly, but she just shook her head.
"The fact remains that I am made different by it," she said fatalistically. "Things have changed between us."
He swallowed, forced to acknowledge the truth of her words. And yet…
"Do you love me?" he demanded more than asked. Mary's head, lowered earlier in shame, snapped up so she could look at him.
"Of course I do!" she said firmly. "So much! I would have told you long ago if I didn't."
"And I love you, so terribly much," he said softly. "I don't want to give you up because of one mistake which you made before we loved each other."
She gaped at him, clearly afraid to believe him.
"You mean you've forgiven me?"
"No, I haven't forgiven you," he said and hastened to finish his thought when he saw her stricken expression. "I haven't forgiven you because I don't believe you need my forgiveness. You didn't betray me, Mary, you didn't sin against me. Whatever you did back then, it's not for me to judge you for or forgive. And I don't believe you should be defined by it."
"Then you are one of the kind," she said wearily. "Everyone else does."
He stepped closer to her.
"I love you," he repeated simply. "It was a huge shock to learn of it all, I won't deny that, and I am still angry at you for not trusting me and stringing Foyle along as a backup, but none of this changes the fact that I want you to be my wife."
She swallowed.
"You truly do?" she whispered. "Still?"
He inclined his head.
"Still," he said firmly and then smiled. "And forever. I can't imagine not loving you, whatever happens."
"Even if I do something to infuriate you? Or something you find horrid?" she asked, but he could see the burgeoning joy in her eyes and he felt as if he could laugh in relief and joy himself.
"Even then," he confirmed. "Even when I'm so furious with you I won't be able to speak to you for some time. But I knew you could be perfectly horrid from the beginning of our acquaintance and you've always been maddening; this is not something which could put me off you. It clearly hasn't so far."
She laughed.
"You can be maddening too, in your own way," she said with conviction and he laughed as well.
"But you think you can love me anyway?" he asked teasingly and barely restrained himself from kissing the brilliant smile on her face.
"I'm sure of it," she said. "I can't imagine not loving you either."
"Then will you give me your answer?" he asked, reaching for her hand.
Mary's eyebrows rose playfully.
"You've never properly asked me, you know. You just told me to marry you and you should know by now that I don't like doing what I'm told. You must say it properly. I won't answer unless you kneel down and everything."
He looked at her in pure exasperation, but knelt on the frozen ground. A flurry of snowflakes started to fall around them and when he looked up at her face, lit with happiness despite tears in her eyes, he thought she never looked more magical.
"Lady Mary Crawley, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"
"Yes!" she exclaimed and within moments he was back on his feet, with Mary in his arms and he was spinning her around in the purest happiness he had ever experienced.