AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Now, this chapter, unlike the previous one, practically wrote itself :) And I am very pleased to say that the next one has been already written for nearly two years now and should be posted on the weekend, after I edit it a bit. We're hopefully going to finish this story with a bang and a proper share of drama :)

I hope you'll enjoy it!

Matthew smiles when the car stops in front of the entrance to his and Mary's cottage and William comes out to help him to get out of the car and into his wheelchair.

"A good day, sir?" he asks cheerfully, taking Matthew's hat and coat when they enter the hallway.

"Quite good, Mason. And yours?"

"Very good too, sir. I've been inspecting your summer clothes and have a list of items which need altering or replacement for Lady Mary's review. I feel quite accomplished."

"I am pretty sure she is going to significantly expand your list, Mason. Lady Mary does love to keep with fashion and she absolutely insists on making me do the same."

Matthew grins at Mason and wheels himself to the sitting room in search of his wife. He opens the door to the bright and cheerful cream and gold room and is greeted by the sight of Mary dozing peacefully on one of the comfortable sofas, her hand cradling her round belly.

And, for the first time in months, if not years, Matthew consciously realises that he is truly happy.

He's aware it won't last all the time. Even later today he may again be brought low by one of the myriad reminders of his hated disability and related limitations. He may be brought low tomorrow by another setback at his physiotherapy session in York. But right now, at that moment, he is happy. He came back from a productive day at the office – he's been working a few hours a week at Harvell and Carter in Ripon, in addition to the growing volume of files sent to him by Jack, just to get back into the thick of it for now, after four years long break. What's more, he came back to his beautiful home which he shares with his beautiful wife, pregnant with their child. He came back home to Mary. It is a realisation of dreams which he had for years feared impossible for one reason or another – and yet here he is and he appreciates it with his whole being. He focuses hard on that feeling, vowing to remember it when his frustration threatens to flood him with mystery again.

He wheels himself slowly to Mary and can't resist delicately brushing her cheek with the knuckles of his hand. The fact that he's allowed to do that – that she loves him, despite everything, that she is his wife – still overwhelms him at times. He considered her lost to him so many times, one way or another, and yet here she is, by his side, and claiming to be happy to be there. He makes another silent vow to never take it for granted. To take care of her and their child to the best of his limited abilities.

There he goes, thinking of his blasted injury again, even in that moment of happiness and tranquillity. But maybe it is unavoidable, with how little progress he's made over the last two months despite the work he's been putting in getting better. He feels more and more, that's true – he can feel touch on his legs and groin now, and some of the stronger sensations of hot and cold – but any control remains elusive, despite all his efforts to rebuild his muscles. He can hold himself upright at the parallel bars now and even swing himself down their length, which makes the doctors speak about trying the crutches next, but as big step as it would be, it's nowhere near enough. Getting out of his damn chair is something Matthew yearns for with his whole being, but it's not enough, nowhere near enough. He wants to be normal. He wants to walk, not just haul his dead lower body on crutches. He wants to make love to Mary fully, give her another child after this one is born. Yet all of this remains stubbornly elusive, out of his reach, and for all his so-called progress no doctor is willing to make any promises that he'll ever achieve any of it. It makes him want to scream sometimes.

Mary stirrs lightly under his touch and he reminds himself again to count his blessings. He might have lost a lot – so much, so damn much – but he still has so many things in his life to be grateful for. He must remember it, however hard it is at times. He must remember it for Mary and the baby.

They don't deserve to feel like an afterthought, as if they were not enough. They are his life.

Even if he can never stop wishing that he was whole and healthy to take care of them.

xxx

They are barely announced by Carson at the entrance to the library when Cora walks over to them with enthusiasm and a letter in her hand.

"Sybil is coming home for Easter," she announces, with excitement lighting up her whole face at seeing her favourite daughter again. "She writes that she's bringing home a friend – a journalist – and asks for a room for him to be ready."

"A friend?" asks Violet immediately, her tone deeply suspicious. "Is it one of those suffragette female journalists or is she bringing a male friend?"

"A male friend," says Cora slowly, lifting her eyes briefly from the letter to send a rather wary look at Robert, "Mr Branson, a reporter working for Freeman's Journal, although Sybil writes he recently published some articles in The Manchester Guardian and The Sketch as well."

"Freeman's Journal?" asks Robert with a frown. "I can't say I've heard of it, but the name suggests one of those socialist rags. Which, in Sybil's case, is probably par for the course when it comes to her taste in friends."

"I'm more interested in the fact that this male friend shares the name with your former chauffeur," says Violet with a shrewd look in her eyes.

"I suppose it's a common enough name," notes Cora uneasily.

"It must be a coincidence, of course," concludes Robert dismissively. "Only imagine, Sybil inviting our former servant to Dowton as her personal guest!"

Mary and Matthew try to stay inconspicuously quiet which unfortunately doesn't fail to draw Violet's attention.

"Do you know this mysterious Mr Branson?" she asks.

Mary, being hell of a lot better liar out of the two of them, takes the burden of answering.

"A little," she admits in her 'butter wouldn't melt' tone. "He's been serving with Matthew for a time."

"An officer?" Robert visibly perks up. "That's not too bad."

"He served bravely," Matthew pitches in, deftly avoiding confirming Tom's rank or the circumstances of his enlistment. "Was captured by the Germans during their Spring Offensive and managed to stage a successful escape back to his unit with some other soldiers."

"Mr Gregson told me his writing is quite impressive and insightful," adds Mary. "That's why he commissioned several articles from him and introduced him to the editor of The Manchester Guardian during a press dinner he brought Mr Branson to."

"Do you know anything about his family?" asks Cora, apparently not wholly convinced that a journalist is quite what she hoped for Sybil. On the other hand, with the dearth of available young men, she's also not ready to dismiss him out of hand. God knew that in those difficult times even the scions of the best families often needed a profession of some kind.

"Very little," admits Mary honestly. She's never asked Tom much about his life after all. "I know he's from Dublin."

Cora's face takes a slightly pinched expression.

"An Irishman," she says faintly.

Robert's expression turns displeased.

"An Irishman and likely a radical. Freeman's Journal does not inspire any confidence, that's for sure!"

"From what I know, he is rather political," says Matthew, suppressing a wince. He and Mary were supposed to soften the oncoming blow by easing the family slightly into the shock they were all about to receive, but he can't help thinking that they're bungling up their job already. On the other hand, was there any way to prepare the Crawleys for Tom Branson? "But then, most of the Irish are nowadays. The very future of their country is at stake."

xxx

Edith comes to the cottage the very next morning.

"I know you," she says, vaguely accusingly, her eyes suspicious and narrow. "I know when you're playing at something. So what is this business with Sybil's friend?"

Mary tempers her instinctive glare in response. She doesn't trust Edith in the slightest – she would be the very last person Mary would ever confide in – but Tom is Sybil's secret. For all Edith's whining about being left out of Sybil and Mary's relationship, she was fond of Sybil; everyone was fond of Sybil. It might be worth it to tell her the truth earlier, give her time to be shocked now instead of later with everyone else. Edith wouldn't make a good ally – nobody listened to her anyway – but she'd likely be an ally, and one ally was better than none.

"Sybil's friend is our former chauffeur," she says bluntly without further preamble. "And Sybil is bringing him over to announce her engagement to him."

Edith gasps so violently that she ends up coughing and choking. Mary, with an eyeroll, thumps her helpfully on the back. Hard.

As soon as she's able to speak, she glares at Mary resentfully.

"You could just tell me it's none of my business. You didn't have to make jokes like that."

"I'm not joking," counters Mary composedly. She needs Edith cooperative, not combative. "I'm dead serious. She's been in love with him for years and him being drafted was the real reason she decided to go to France. They've been engaged since he was released from the Army last November."

Edith gapes at her.

"Oh my God," she says faintly. "You're actually serious." Then some suspicion returns to her gaze. "How long have you known?"

"Not the whole time," answers Mary honestly, "but she told me while we were still in France."

Edith scoffs.

"Of course," she says bitterly. "Since you got so very close there."

"We did," confirms Mary matter-of-factly. "Now, are you going to be on Sybil's side in all this or not? Because I'm warning you, if you run to anyone and tell on her before she has the chance to, it'll be Sybil who will never speak to you again, not me."

"I wouldn't!" cries Edith instantly, offended, but seeing Mary's visible scepticism adds more firmly, "I truly wouldn't. I didn't betray your secrets to Papa, did I?"

"Just to the whole damn rest of the world," mutters Mary resentfully, but makes a dismissive gesture before she and Edith can get back into the old argument. They have a more urgent matter on hand than their acrimonious history. "Never mind, I believe you. Question is, will you stand by Sybil when she and Tom come tonight?"

"Tom," says Edith faintly. "You're really chummy with him too, aren't you?"

"Well, he is going to be my brother soon," Mary points out impatiently. "So I decided I could just as well treat him as one."

"But you know it's insane?" implores Edith. "Marrying a chauffeur?"

"Of course it is," agrees Mary easily. She might be on Sybil's side – and Tom is not wholly bad, she can admit that – but it is still insane. "Good luck convincing Sybil of that. I tried."

That seems to settle the matter for Edith.

"If you didn't manage to convince her, then I have no chance," she says matter-of-factly. "And I don't believe she will listen to Papa, she never does. He is going to go ballistic though. He didn't even want to let her go to a medical school, I can't even imagine how he's going to swallow that."

"He will kick her out of the house and disinherit her, and that's if he doesn't call the police on Tom for trespassing and attempted kidnapping," predicts Mary gloomily. "Unless, by some miracle, we'll manage to talk him out of it."

"We will need a miracle," agrees Edith, but then she looks at Mary with uncharacteristic determination. "But we will do everything we can to help her out."

"Of course we will," Mary answers, feeling that strange connection with Edith that very, very occasionally reminds her that they are related in more than blood and mutual dislike. "She's our sister."

xxx

Matthew can't honestly say whose face is more of a sight when the new chauffeur lets Tom out of the car – Robert or Carson's. Tom, steadfastly ignoring the shock he's just causing, assists Sybil in getting out of the car as well before he straightens and greets his unwitting hosts.

"Lord Grantham," he says, with a short bow. "Lady Grantham."

He's not calling them 'my lord' or 'm'lady' – he's addressing them as an equal – and it's most definitely noted. Matthew finds the shade Carson's face is getting quite worrying.

"Mama, Papa, Granny," says Sybil brightly. "I'm sure you remember Mr Branson. I invited him to come home with me, because we have some important matters to discuss with you."

Robert finally regains his ability to speak.

"Important matters?" he asks, his voice already rising, when Violet interrupts him with an urgent hiss.

"Are you sure you want to do it here? I'd think the drawing room or the library should be more comfortable."

That seems to wake Cora out of her own stupor, and she hastily gestures for everyone to follow her inside with the ease of a practised hostess who survived more than one social disaster.

"Yes, please do come in. Carson, please bring the refreshments to the library. I'm sure you'll enjoy the cake, Sybil – Mrs Patmore made your favourite."

As everyone obediently shuts their mouth for now and follows Cora into the house, Matthew, looking at Tom's straight back and determined face as he walks past furious Carson with his head held high, thinks that one thing his soon-to-be-brother definitely doesn't lack is courage.

xxx

The enforced detente finishes as soon as they all take their seats in the library, of course. Sybil and Tom choose to stand by the fireplace, presenting an united front, and Robert is pacing by the windows, too worked up to sit still.

It's Violet though who speaks first.

"Would someone please tell me what's going on? Or have we all stepped through the looking glass?"

It's clear to Matthew, at least, that she knows what's going on. She might hope she's wrong, but she knows she isn't, really.

Sybil takes a deep breath and grasps Tom's hand, either supporting him or taking support from him – or both.

"Tom and I are engaged to be married," she says, and she sounds almost calm. "We have been for months, ever since he was released from the Army."

"What?" erupts Robert, his voice thick with shock and instant rage. "You've been engaged for months? How long has this ridiculous affair been going on?"

Tom raises his chin.

"It's not a ridiculous affair," he states firmly. "But if you ask how long we knew we loved each other, the answer is years. It's not a spontaneous decision for either of us."

Robert only goes redder.

"And all the time, you've been driving me about, bowing and scraping, and seducing my daughter behind my back?"

"I don't bow and scrape, and I've nor seduced anyone. Give your daughter some credit for knowing her own mind."

"How dare you speak to me in that tone? You will leave at once!"

"Oh, Papa –"

"This is a folly, a ridiculous, juvenile madness –"

"Sybil, what do you have in mind?" asks Violet calmly, ignoring her raging son, much to his dismay.

"Mama, this is hardly –"

"No. She must have something in mind, otherwise she wouldn't have brought him here tonight."

Somehow this calms them all down a little. Matthew sends his mental thanks to the Dowager, even if he knows very well that any calm can be nothing but temporary. Soon enough it's going to occur to Robert that Mary and Matthew clearly knew about it all – that they met and spoke with Tom – and that they willfully kept it from the family.

"Thank you, Granny," says Sybil. "Yes, we do have a plan. Tom's got a job on a paper in Dublin now. I will continue studying for my entrance exams and try to get into the Royal College of Surgeons in Dublin. Whether I pass or not, I'll go there to join Tom anyway."

"To live with him? Unmarried?" exclaims Cora softly.

"I'll live with his mother while the banns are read. And then we'll be married and I'll either study to be a doctor or get a job as a nurse."

"What does your mother make of this?" asks Violet, looking at Tom shrewdly.

"If you must know, she thinks we're very foolish," admits Tom defiantly.

"Oh, so at least we have something in common," observes Violet dryly and Matthew sees the corners of Mary's mouth twitch upwards in suppressed amusement.

One clearly not shared by Robert, of course.

"I won't allow it! I will not allow my daughter to throw away her life!"

"You can posture all you like, Papa, it won't make any difference."

"Oh, yes, it will."

"How? I don't want any money, and you can hardly lock me up until I die. I came here with Tom to invite you all to my wedding – I would dearly love to have you there – but I will understand if you can't. I will mourn it but I will understand. But if you think that you are going to change my mind, you're mistaken. I can promise you one thing: tomorrow morning, nothing will have changed."

Sybil's speech, however heartfelt, served well enough to remind Robert who exactly has historically defied him to help her out with her schemes. He turns abruptly towards Mary and Matthew, and Matthew feels her fingers tighten on his in anticipation of the onslaught.

"You!" Robert roars. "You are giving her enough money to proceed with this madness! You knew it all, I bet – and you lied to me!"

"We did know," admits Mary before Matthew can. "I longer than Matthew, although not from the beginning. For a long time, I didn't say anything because I hoped it would blow over. I didn't want to split the family when Sybil might still wake up," she shrugs with a half-apologetic glance at Tom. "Then I realised that she's determined to proceed with this and that there's nothing I can do except to make sure she's doing it with as much support and resources as I can give her. That's why Matthew and I decided to help her with covering the cost of her schooling. That's why we kept it secret from you until now – because the choice is to help her or to lose her and abandon her to poverty to boot."

Matthew sees Tom bristle at the mention of poverty but thankfully he doesn't start quarrelling about the definition of it with an earl's daughter. At least not right now.

"The responsible choice would have been to let us know and prevent the whole sorry situation from progressing so far!" answers Robert, not at all pacified by Mary's admittance. "Not enabling it!"

"They enabled nothing!" Sybil jumps back into the fray. "Don't you understand, Papa? I love Tom and I'm going to marry him, whether you, Mary, Matthew or anyone gives me any money or not. I want to be a doctor, to dedicate my life to helping people, but if I can't do that, I will be working as a nurse and fine with that. I am the one choosing all of this, because it is my life on the line. My future. I'd like you all to be on my side because you are my family and I love you all dearly, but it's not going to change my mind about any of it."

Robert sees that she means it – and predictably explodes.

"Be it as it may, it's still my house and if you don't leave it right this moment, I'm calling the police," he directs at Tom. "You might have seduced my daughter and messed with her head but if you count on the connection giving you any money or another advantage, then I promise you you're going to be disappointed. You're not welcome in this house and you'll never be, and if she marries you, she won't be either," he turns towards Mary and Matthew with a thunderous expression. "As won't anyone who enables that madness. I can't take Mary's settlement back, but the house you live in is still mine."

Matthew hears Mary's gasp at this statement – notes her hand flying to her belly in instinctive alarm – and sees red himself.

How dares Robert threaten taking away the home from Matthew's wife and child. How does he fucking dare.

"We will go then," he says quietly but with steel in his voice. He means every damn word and he needs Robert to hear it. "Because you're right, it is your house and we can't stay without your permission – and there is no way we would turn our backs on Sybil and Tom. Ever." He turns toward Mary and the rest of the family and says, half as a reassurance to her, half as proof of his seriousness. "We are neither poor nor friendless. If supporting Sybil means we aren't welcome here anymore, we're going to make home for us somewhere where we are."

Even with her fingers startling to tremble in his hand and her face alarmingly pale, Mary nods decisively.

"I can't imagine my son being born anywhere else other than at Downton," she says, looking Robert straight into eyes. "But if it can't be avoided, then so be it. He won't be any less the future Earl of Grantham if he is born in London."

Matthew doesn't need to see Robert's flinch to understand that Mary went straight for the jugular there. Her father's threat must have hurt her even deeper than he suspected for her to lash out with that kind of vicious if unsubtle precision.

If Robert could threaten Mary with taking Downton away from her – again – then she could threaten back with taking what he's been craving all his life – an heir born of his own blood. Robert's weakest spot for hers.

But Mary's threat doesn't only hit Robert.

"I won't be kept away from my grandchild," announces Cora, her eyes flashing. "Or from my daughters. Everybody, please calm down. There's no need for…" she trails off, searching for words.

"Theatrics?" suggests Violet helpfully, earning herself a glare from her usually placid daughter-in-law.

"We can and will discuss all this in a civilised manner," Cora continues. "I think we all need a moment to rest before dinner and clear our heads – I know I do."

"Is Tom still invited to dinner then?" asks Sybil, making her father bristle, but it is Violet who answers her first.

"Oh, do go away for now, Mr Branson. I think you stirred enough trouble for one evening. Any more excitement and neither of us will be able to eat a bite."

Now it's Tom's turn to bristle.

"I won't leave Sybil to face you all alone," he vows hotly.

Violet rolls her eyes.

"We're not going to eat her or lock her in the attic, however attractive some of us might find such methods of persuasion. Besides, do you truly think that your presence here tonight is going to help much with cooler heads prevailing?"

Sybil sees the wisdom of that argument, even if Tom does not.

"Go," she says. "I'll let you know how it all went tomorrow."

Tom gives in, with as good grace as he can maintain under the circumstances, and they all depart the library with wary glances at the others. It is, all in all, rather anticlimactic.

xxx

The younger generation, including Edith, gathers in Mary and Matthew's living room for an impromptu strategy session before dinner at the big house.

"I can't believe Papa threatened to throw you out!" rages Sybil, pacing around in an eerie echo of her father. For all her own current anger at Papa, Mary can't deny a wave of fondness at the thought. "Just because you two are not ready to write me off – that's so patently unfair!"

"It is his right," says Matthew tersely. "Even if it does make him sound like a villain from a cheap novel. But I meant what I said; if it comes to that, we'll be fine. We'll just rent a flat in London again. Don't you worry about us."

Matthew is right, of course. They will be fine, whatever happens. The six weeks they spent in London showed Mary plainly enough that they could live there. There would also be easier access to doctors and the law firm Matthew was soon going to become a partner at. The presence of many of their friends and all the attractions London holds a short walk or drive away. It wouldn't be a bad life.

But Mary is going to be the Countess of Grantham one day and the Countess of Grantham lives at Downton Abbey. She fought for her right to stay here too hard to allow anyone to force her out. Even Papa.

Still, her head aches too much to make too much of a fuss over it now. She's given Papa food for thoughts with the reminder of her baby. Hopefully it will be enough to make him pause and hold his horses. However little he thinks of Mary and however angry he is with his current heir, Papa longed for an heir of his blood all his life. Mary is reasonably sure he won't be willing to lose him now, when the baby is within weeks of being born.

As if hearing her thoughts, the baby squirms in her belly, pushing some sharp appendage into Mary's ribs, and she can't restrain a wince. She can't wait to cease being so damn uncomfortable half of the time.

"I still don't like it that you're going back in there without me," grumbles Tom, his expression thunderous and his arms crossed. "What was the point of dragging me here if you're perfectly alright with allowing them to kick me out?"

Sybil rolls her eyes impatiently.

"I needed you here to announce our engagement. Now I need you to step back while I fight to keep my family."

"So I'm supposed to just sit on my arse and twiddle my thumbs?" counters Tom, angry enough that he doesn't even notice sliding into crass language which he is usually very careful to avoid around Sybil, never mind Mary. "What use am I of here?"

"You're supposed to support me!" yells Sybil. "If you think it is easy for me to battle the people I love, or that I don't need you nearby to come crying to you about it afterwards, then you're an idiot!"

Mary winces again at the volume, feeling it echoing painfully around her skull.

"If you need to yell, go do it somewhere else," she demands crossly as she's rubbing her aching temples. "Don't you have rooms somewhere, Tom?"

"Yes," says Tom with a wry smile, but he sends an apologetic glance at her. "I'm staying at Grantham Arms. Somehow I wasn't expecting to use the guest room at the big house after all."

"I think Carson would have a heart attack if you did," said Edith, obviously trying to lighten the discussion. "I've heard Mrs Hughes tell Mama he was feeling poorly as it is."

"No wonder," mutters Tom. "He'd see me hanged if he could."

Nobody refutes his statement; there's no way to deny it's true. Carson's wrath at what he perceives as Tom betraying the unspoken contract between the family and the servants in the most atrocious manner possible probably surpasses even Robert's.

"You're soon going to have the Irish Sea between you and him," says Sybil ruthlessly. "And then, when we visit, he's going to have to deal with the fact that you're my husband."

"You're so sure we'll both be invited then?" asks Tom, raising his eyebrow.

"Of course," answers Sybil adamantly. "Even Papa is not going to stay mad forever. It may take him a few years, but he will relent eventually. Come, we've disturbed Mary long enough and she needs some rest before that dinner, Matthew as well if I know him. I'll walk you to the village and come back to try to make Papa see reason."

She marches Tom out unceremoniously.

"This is going to end in tears," observes Matthew reflectively.

Edith snorts.

"Maybe. But they won't be Sybil's."

xxx

When Matthew and Mary enter the drawing room before dinner, they find Sybil and Robert already there, right back at it.

"It's probably a good sign we couldn't hear them from the entrance hall," Matthew whispers to her and, despite it all, Mary barely contains a chuckle.

"So you've nothing to say against Tom except that he's a chauffeur?" challenges Sybil and Mary sees how difficult it is for Robert to stop himself from responding that Tom being a chauffeur – even if a former one – is exactly the point.

"Don't be such a baby. I'm not asking you to agree with the system. Merely to acknowledge it," he says instead, clearly exasperated beyond belief, but not yelling anymore. It's obvious he's trying, and Mary can't help feeling sorry that he's not going to get an inch as a reward, not from Sybil.

Other than hopefully not losing any and all contact with his youngest daughter, of course.

"But I don't acknowledge it," counters Sybil firmly but also keeping her voice down and even. "You want me to give up the man I love for a system I don't believe in. Where's the sense in that? Your threats are hollow, don't you see? I won't be received in London, I won't be welcome at Court. How do I make you understand? I couldn't care less."

Judging from the way Robert is getting red again, it's a very good thing that Violet picks this moment to enter the drawing room.

"I do hope I'm interrupting something."

"I only wish you were, but I seem to be getting nowhere. Have you seen Cora?"

"Oh, she's lying down still, and can we blame her? Now, Sybil, dear, this sort of thing is all very well in novels, but in reality it can prove very uncomfortable. And while I am sure that Branson has many virtues –" Robert glares at her, but she continues undaunted, "Well, no, no, he's a good driver."

"I will not give him up."

"Don't be rude to your grandmother."

"No, she's not being rude. Just wrong."

"This is my offer. I will stay here until Mary's baby is born. To avoid the impression I've run away and because I promised her I'll be here for that. Then I'll go back to London to finish my preparations for the entrance exams, and later to Dublin, where we will marry – and whoever wishes to visit will be very welcome."

"Out of the question."

"Will you forbid Mary and Edith?"

Robert opens his mouth to answer and Mary is preparing the immediate retort that she is married now and he can't forbid her from doing anything – if anybody could, it would be Matthew, except he of course wouldn't dream of it – but Violet raises her hand.

"No, no, don't say anything you may have to retract."

"Know this: there will be no more money. From here on in, your life will be very different."

"Well, bully for that," answers Sybil flippantly, and it thankfully closes the topic for now.

xxx

The dinner proceeds, in a tense expectancy of the return of hostilities at any given moment. Mary's headache hasn't gone away and in fact is pounding against her temples with increasing viciousness. The dining room feels overheated and stuffy, despite the deep cut and light fabric of her evening gown, and all in all, she'd love nothing better than storming out of here and burying herself in her own bed. Alas, there's no way she can leave Sybil to the wolves, not tonight, not if Papa is throwing threats of disinheriting her and kicking Mary and Matthew out to boot. She hopes that her reminder of the heir she hopefully carries has been enough to bring him back to his senses, but she's not going to bet their home on it. So she sits here, irritable and miserable, and cursing Sybil, Papa, Tom and the world in general in her aching head.

Matthew, of course, notices.

"Darling," he asks, quietly at least. The last thing Mary wants is to draw attention and fussing from the rest of the family. "Are you quite alright?"

"Fine," answers Mary curtly, pasting a smile on her face, and curses inwardly again when it does nothing to dissuade the concern radiating from her husband. "Just a smidge of headache."

"Maybe we should go home then?" proposes Matthew, and adds, clearly reading her grimace right. "Or you could lie down upstairs for a bit?"

"I'm fine," insists Mary, and turns towards Isobel, who has joined them for dinner. She's been invited when the dinner was supposed to be to celebrate Sybil's reconciliation with the family after her extended stay in London and nobody cancelled the invitation after the afternoon dramatic reveal. Isobel has been fully informed on the particulars in the meantime, of course, and only Matthew's pointed reminders are keeping her from offering all her thoughts on the subject. "Isobel, how are your refugees faring?"

To be honest, Mary doesn't truly care much about war refugees at the moment, but if there is something guaranteed to make her mother-in-law talk at length, it's bringing up one of her pet charity projects.

It should hopefully fill the awkward silence at the table at least before another quarrel erupts.

"I must admit, I'm rather concerned," says Isobel, indeed looking troubled. "It appears quite a lot of them are falling ill – and spreading that dreadful illness throughout the county. The hospitals in York are at full capacity again and it doesn't look much better in ours either."

"Well, if they have brought Spanish flu, it's not your fault," comments Matthew, but it does little to ease Isobel's frown.

"Isn't it? Mrs Dupper's new maid has got it, and the Lanes' two labourers, and I placed them all."

"The flu is spreading with or without your work," persists Matthew. "It's been going on for months now, all over the world."

Sybil overhears their conversation and joins in with a worried frown of her own.

"The numbers are frightening. They're starting to say that it may cause more deaths than the War."

"The War itself didn't probably help," says Matthew thoughtfully, his eyes distant. Mary's hand automatically moves to grasp his, ground him in the here and now. "With the devastation it caused in so many places, the displacement of people, hunger and poverty – no wonder people are getting sick and dying."

"Not much of such devastation touched as here in England, thankfully," comments Robert. "And yet the Spanish Flu doesn't appear to spare us either. Sir Nigel Anstruthers lost his heir to it last month."

"It is quite a strange disease, nothing like we've seen before," says Isobel. "Normally, it's the children and the elderly who are most vulnerable to influenza. Yet, with this one, it's the young and strong who are dying the most. It's really quite disturbing."

Molesley, who has been filling in for Carson, slops some wine while pouring it into Isobel's glass.

"Mr Molesley? Are you quite alright?" asks Matthew immediately. His former valet might be easily flustered, but his hands are always steady while serving at the table.

"I – I'm alright," stammers Molesley, looking alarmingly green. "Thank you, sir."

"I don't believe you are," comments Matthew with a frown, but before Molesley can answer, it's Cora who stands, appearing unsteady on her feet. Mary notes guiltily that in her irritation and preoccupation with her own headache, she didn't even notice how quiet her mother has been all evening.

"The awful truth is, I'm not quite all right, and I'm afraid I'm going to ask you to excuse me."

"I'm so sorry. Would you like us to call Doctor Clarkson?" asks Robert, visibly worried.

"Not now, darling. It's too late."

"He's coming anyway, your lordship, for Mr Carson," pitches in Anna, and it settles the matter.

Mary hardly keeps track of a conversation through the meat course – it's nothing involving yelling or threats of disinheritance at least, so she focuses on playing around with the food on her plate, her appetite nonexistent. In fact, she feels increasingly queasy. The baby is probably pushing against her stomach again. She thinks resentfully that she can't wait for him to be out.

"Doctor Clarkson says he got ten cases already," says Isobel, apparently still on the topic of Spanish Flu, when Jane walks in with a carafe.

"Ah, I thought Molesley had joined the Temperance League," jokes Robert, making Jane shake her head.

"I'm afraid he's been taken ill, m'lord. I am sorry."

"Molesley, too? Good heavens, everyone's falling like ninepins."

Mary hears it over the increasingly loud buzzing in her head and for a moment she longs to simply cut it off. Surely it would make her feel better.

"Darling?" asks Matthew, and it's the fear in his voice which forces Mary to focus and pay attention. Matthew so rarely sounds afraid that it must be something serious. "Are you alright?"

She wants to assure him that she is – she briefly considers attempting it – but the pounding in her temple reaches a crescendo and makes it a hopeless business, forcing her to admit defeat.

"Do you know, I'm not at all well, either," she says tiredly, rising to her feet. "I'd like to go home."

Before she knows it, Sybil is by her side, steadying her. Mary is surprised how good it feels to lean on her sister; she hasn't even realised how much she needed it until she felt Sybil's strong arm around her.

"Maybe you better lie down upstairs?" suggests Sybil, her frown reflecting Matthew's, if less visibly anxious. "I don't think you should walk to the cottage."

Mary considers it briefly – she's so tired suddenly that even going upstairs sounds like an insurmountable challenge – but then her gaze falls on Matthew's chair and his fearful eyes and she steels in determination.

"No," she says firmly. "I want to go home. Send for the car."

"I can drive you," offers Edith quickly. "It'll be faster than summoning Whites."

"Well, I think I should go and help," announces Isobel, and Mary would protest, she absolutely would, but the prospect of his mother being there until the doctor arrives seems to ease the tense line of Matthew's shoulders, so she grudgingly agrees.

As she's leaving the dining room on Sybil's arm, Matthew, Isobel and Edith making for an entourage behind her, she hears Granny commenting dryly:

"Wasn't there a masked ball in Paris when cholera broke out? Half the guests were dead before they left the ballroom."

"Thank you, Mama. That's cheered us up to no end."

It did indeed, thinks Mary, and then focuses fully on not getting sick all over her shoes. She quite likes this pair.