Hello, my dear readers! Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed! A slightly longer chapter than I planned for this time, but I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Four: Survivors

Downton Village, 1919

Isobel could hardly believe her luck when she saw Cousin Mary leaving the post office. She had been trying to find a way to speak to her alone for weeks now, and so far, she had failed miserably. Cousin Mary rarely came with her mother and younger sister for tea if invited, and barely spoke anyway except to make bitter, sarcastic comments.

Yet Isobel sensed that there was more to this beautiful young widow than her cold mask revealed. She had observed that while everyone seemed to be protective of Lady Mary, nobody appeared to be making any real effort to bring her out of her grief and back into the world of the living. She was permitted to be rude and silent, to wander the house and grounds like some dark spectre without anyone truly talking to her. And it could not be allowed to go on.

Isobel was sure Mary's family had the very best of intentions in leaving her to recover in her own time, but she was quite sure they were doing more harm than good. She remembered well (how could she ever forget?) how lost and broken she had been herself when Reginald had died, but she had simply had too much to do to fall apart and abandon the land of the living, as Lady Mary seemed to have done. There had been her nursing and her charity work, and Matthew of course, and she had simply pushed herself through it, grieving and struggling to go on every day, and managing because she had to.

But Cousin Mary seemed to have nothing to occupy her time, and despite having been married several years before her husband's death, she was still living in her childhood home with her parents. She was being shielded from the world, but all that allowed her to do was wallow in her sorrow. She had a daughter of course, but as far as Isobel could see, she had nothing to do with raising her own child.

The poor girl needed someone to pull her out of the pit of grief and self-pity she had dug herself into, and if her family weren't going to do it, Isobel would have to do it herself.

And so when Isobel saw her, she marched quickly over and invited her in for tea. Cousin Mary tried to protest that she had errands to run, that she had promised to be back, that she couldn't possibly impose, but Isobel would listen to no excuses, and soon, they were sitting together in the sitting room of Crawley House, being served tea by Molesley.

Isobel watched as Cousin Mary stared down at her cup, looking as usual as if she was only partially present. She wondered how to begin.

"I hope your sisters and parents are well?" she asked politely.

"Yes, perfectly well thank you," came the polite but emotionless reply. She didn't offer any further information, but Isobel hadn't expected her to.

"And you?" Isobel asked.

Mary looked up at this, her eyes cold. "As well as can be expected," she said sharply.

It would have been foolish to expect a more positive response, but Isobel couldn't help but be a little surprised by Mary's defensiveness as such a simple and banal question.

It struck Isobel yet again how closely Cousin Mary's attitude resembled Matthew's. Determined to be miserable, and defensive when anyone even tried to draw her out of it.

She was beginning to hope that perhaps Matthew was doing a little better after that awful night when he had finally cried in her arms for all that had been lost, all the pain that he had tried so hard to bear in silence to avoid seeming weak. He was still weary and bitter and so terribly unhappy, but she knew for the first time that he was trying, and here, in this new place, surrounded by new people and away from the noise and chaos and memories of the city that he had found so hard to bear, she thought he might be beginning to heal.

Of course, now he had started work again, far too soon in her opinion, he was often so tired and in so much pain when he came home, any progress he had made was hard to see. He had been sleeping poorly since he had been wounded, and it had not improved with the move to Yorkshire, and he was just so tired all the time, she didn't see how he could possibly be managing at the office.

It was, of course, the nightmares that kept him from sleep when he was so very tired. He never spoke of it, but she knew.

Nobody had ever mentioned the words shell shock, and he was certainly nowhere near the state of some of the men she had seen and treated. But the war weighed heavily on him, and much as she would have liked to pretend that what ailed him was grief for Lavinia, and the strain of the long recovery from his injury, she had to admit to herself that he had been lost and angry long before Lavinia's death; it had been a long time since he had truly been himself. The startling at loud noises that had made Manchester so unbearable for him had begun long ago, and her sweet-tempered little boy had been replaced by a bitter and sometimes short-tempered soldier at least from when he had come home wounded, and quite possibly long before that. All that had really changed since Lavinia's death was that he could no longer find the will to hide how much he was struggling.

How terrible it was that so many young people had been subjected to so much pain and grief. The worst war in history followed by the influenza epidemic that was still claiming lives all over Europe. It was horribly, horribly unjust.

And yet Matthew was here, alive when so many men of his generation were not, and however hard things were, she would never allow herself to forget how lucky she was.

And impossible as it may seem, they would all have to move on one day. Including Cousin Mary.

"I know it must be very hard for you, and especially to have Matthew here so soon," Isobel said gently.

"Don't pretend you understand. You don't," Mary said bitterly.

"No, I don't understand. Nobody understands anybody else's unique way of processing grief, and I have no idea what it must be like to have your whole future snatched away from you with one telegram. But I do know that now you have lost one future, you must build yourself another." Perhaps, Isobel reflected, she was saying too much to a woman she barely knew. But someone had to say it, and Mary's family were clearly not doing so.

"Have you considered finding something to occupy your time?" she tried, "It helps to keep busy, and there is always so much good one can do with one's time. There are charities that would be glad of your support, and I would be glad to bring you along to some of the meetings I have been attending."

"Charity work is my sister Sybil's domain," Mary replied haughtily. "And I would not need your introductions, should I ever decide to devote my time to such causes."

Isobel could not help being a little put out by that. Of course Lady Mary Crawley was accustomed to being queen of the county and having everyone she met grateful for her mere presence, and never having to be introduced anywhere in Yorkshire, but that world was disappearing now, and Isobel was becoming increasingly certain that Lady Mary would in fact need a great deal of assistance and encouragement to do anything beyond seeing to her own comfort and preferences or wallowing in self-pity.

But she was here to help, not to judge, and the aristocracy could hardly help the bizarre way they were raised to think of themselves as inherently superior to everyone else.

"Perhaps you would like to be involved with organisations helping other war widows. I know there's a group that meets in Thirsk, they help each other out with applying for pensions and share childcare, and it might be nice to have the company of people who understand, whom you have something in common with. I'm sure they'd all be very grateful for your presence, and you could be such a tremendous help to them."

Cousin Mary looked up from her tea and stared at Isobel as if she had just suggested she start work sweeping the streets.

"I do not believe we would have anything in common, or that they would particularly welcome my presence," she said, sounding rather bored. "I know nothing about these women, and they know nothing about me. I do not require a pension, or childcare, or company, so I see little to be gained from spending time with housemaids and shopkeepers simply because their husbands are dead."

It was certainly more words than Isobel had ever heard her speak together, but really, she was reaching the end of her patience with Cousin Mary's determination that her situation was somehow unique, and that there was nothing to be done to improve it. She felt so desperately sorry for her, but when tragedy struck, there was little to be done but to move on as best one could. Cousin Mary just needed to be made to see that, without being blinded by aristocratic prejudice.

Isobel took a small sip of tea as she considered her next line of attack.

"You have a daughter, do you not?" she asked brightly, hoping that this line of questioning might prove more productive.

Cousin Mary gave a short nod. It was not a very enthusiastic one, and Isobel wondered yet again why this child was never mentioned or seen. Of course she knew that the children of aristocratic families were usually raised by nannies, with very little input from their actual parents until they were old enough to join the adults at the dinner table, but in this case, it was only rarely acknowledged that there was a child at all. She could not understand how a woman who had recently lost her husband would not cling to her child as his last gift to her.

"Then," Isobel continued boldly on, "you must put aside your own disappointments and build a future for her."

She was shocked to see the depth and intensity of the anger that suddenly appeared in the younger woman's eyes.

"You understand nothing," Mary said. "Don't pretend to know anything about me or my daughter. I will see to her future, and my own, and I do not need to be told how to do so."

Isobel didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when at that moment, she heard the front door opening. It had to be Matthew, although he was home a good two hours before he normally was. It was a nice surprise to have him home early, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that he and Cousin Mary did not get on. With Mary clearly upset and angry, and Matthew likely exhausted and therefore bad-tempered as he often was after work, she doubted the scene was going to be very pleasant.

Matthew tried not to groan as he slowly pushed himself up and out of the car. His boss, a kindly older man who had lost his only son in the war, had sent him home early in his own car after noticing that his back was paining him more than usual. Matthew was furious with himself for failing to hide his discomfort. Physiotherapy the day before had been particularly hard, and he hadn't bothered doing his stretches that morning because he had just been too tired. He was regretting it now.

He was trying so hard to ignore the fact that his injury still bothered him, to get on with his work, to push through his pain and exhaustion, but now, he had to admit to himself that he was rather relived to be home. For once, he would happily put up with Mother's fussing. Being allowed to moan and groan and complain as much as he wanted and being brought medication and hot water bottles and hot drinks and sympathy was exactly what he needed. And it would probably please Mother for him to admit that he needed her help.

He walked slowly to the front door and opened it quietly in the hope of avoiding Molesley. His efforts were of course entirely pointless; Molesley seemed to have a sixth sense for when there was work for him to do, and he appeared almost immediately. Matthew tried to hide his irritation when the valet insisted on helping him out of his hat and coat despite his protests, but was fairly sure he had offended the poor man again anyway. He didn't have the energy to care.

He left his second stick near the door and limped towards the sitting room. As he approached, however, he heard voices.

"Lady Mary is visiting, sir," Molesley said quickly.

Matthew sighed deeply. Of all the days for someone to be there, and of all the people, it had to be Lady Mary on the day he was so exhausted. He considered going to a different room, escaping before his presence was noticed, but at that moment, Mother opened the door and greeted him warmly, exclaiming her surprise at having him home early. He barely listened, feeling rather despondent as the prospect of his quiet, peaceful afternoon disappeared before his eyes.

"Come and sit down, Matthew. There's tea left," Mother said cheerfully. "And Cousin Mary has paid us the compliment of a visit."

"How delightful," he muttered. Mother shot him a sharp look of disapproval.

Matthew looked down. He was trying so very hard to make things easier for Mother, to appreciate all she did to help him and to listen to her even when he disagreed, but today, he was just too tired to deal with any of it.

Schooling his expression to disguise as best he could his irritation and exhaustion, he limped slowly into the sitting room, wishing already that he had not left his other stick by the door.

Cousin Mary was sitting on the sofa, looking as angry as he felt. Dressed in black, as she always was. And yet somehow perfectly poised and impossibly elegant, and rather out of place in his sitting room. She really was very beautiful, and for a moment, he couldn't think what to say, how to manage her sudden appearance in his day.

"Cousin Matthew," she said coldly. Acknowledging his presence more than actually greeting him.

"Cousin Mary, how nice to see you," he replied after a pause that - he hoped - was only slightly too long. Her look of disbelief made him feel like an idiot. Why should he pretend? She didn't.

He walked slowly over to his armchair and lowered himself to sit, suppressing a groan as something in his spine pinched. If Cousin Mary wasn't there, he could have put his feet up and relieved some of the pain. But she was here. He was unreasonably angry with her.

Mother managed to keep up a stilted and horribly awkward conversation for several minutes, about her charity work, and goings-on in the village, and any number of other things that he imagined Lady Mary was quite as indifferent to as he was. He didn't participate except when it was unavoidable, and when he did, he knew his voice was coming out short and irritable and unfriendly. He knew he was probably being rude, and he hated it, but he simply lacked the energy to do anything about it.

Cousin Mary, he realised after a while, was finding the situation as unbearable as he was. She appeared to be perfectly calm and collected, if perhaps a little bored, but on closer inspection she began to look as if she desperately wanted to flee. He almost felt sorry for her, despite his irritation at her presence, as he slowly gathered that Mother had all but dragged her here against her will. He knew what that was like, to be so overpowered by Mother's enthusiasm and determination.

When she finally made her escape, citing the need to be back in time to change for dinner, Matthew sighed with relief and finally put his feet up on the footstool. He closed his eyes. Finally, some peace. Such a relief.

He missed her presence already.

He heard mother come back into the room, and without opening his eyes, he knew she was watching him.

"What do you want, Mother?" he asked irritably.

"Could you not even try to be polite to Cousin Mary?" she asked.

"Why should I? She doesn't bother being polite to me. She hates me." Why shouldn't he be allowed the same privilege?

"She's very unhappy, Matthew. I know she's unfriendly, but…"

Matthew opened his eyes. "Unfriendly? That's quite an understatement!"

"She is grieving, and she needs someone to help her see a way out. She may not have been at the front, but everyone in this country fought their own war, Matthew, especially your generation."

"Do you think I hadn't noticed that?" he asked in disbelief. "Do you think I have somehow failed to realise that everyone I know is dead, or mourning someone who is? But does she think she's the only person who's unhappy? Does she think she's the only person ever to have suffered? For God's sake, her husband died over a year ago and she's still wearing black and acting as if she's the only war widow in the country. She doesn't know what suffering is! Even her mourning clothes cost more than most widows have to live on. She's wallowing in self-pity when she is one of the most privileged women in England."

He didn't know what had made him say it, and even as he spoke, he was aware that he wasn't truly angry with Lady Mary. But he was so frustrated and so tired and so angry with everything and everyone, he just couldn't help it. And it was true. Lady Mary had no idea how the rest of the world lived. She lived in a house that was practically a castle, with servants waiting on her hand and foot, including raising her daughter for her, and all the time, there was real suffering in the world.

He was sorry she had lost her husband, truly he was, but that didn't excuse her rudeness, her bitterness, her coldness, her snobbishness, her disdain for him and his middle class ways, the way she seemed to dismiss him simply by raising her perfectly arched eyebrows, the way she stirred something in him that he would much rather ignore…

But mother was looking at him in that sad and disapproving way again.

"Everyone suffers in their own way, Matthew," she said. "Try to think for one moment about what it means to be a woman in a world full of power and wealth that can only ever be possessed or inherited by men. Before you try to tell me that rich people don't suffer, remember that the castle she lives in, the money that buys her expensive mourning clothes, everything that makes her so privileged, will never belong to her or her daughter. It will belong to you."

Matthew stared at her, her words finally breaking through his fog of exhaustion as he realised with a sharp shock that she was right.

Belgravia, London, July 1913

Mary stared at her reflection in the mirror as Anna brushed out her thick, shiny hair. She searched her reflection for the grown-up, sophisticated married lady she was, but found only a nervous young girl, too pale in her white nightdress. That only served to make her more nervous. Because Lady Mary Crawley was never nervous. She was brave, fearless, undaunted by life's challenges.

But that had been the old Mary, the Mary of before the night a handsome Turkish diplomat had died in her bed.

Tonight was her wedding night, and there was a very real danger that Patrick was going to find out. Perhaps she should have told him, but she somehow hadn't quite managed to find the moment. She and Mama had formulated an answer that was not a lie in case he asked about the lack of blood: women who spent a lot of time on horseback often didn't bleed.

It was a joke. Her white wedding dress, her white nightdress, her supposed innocence of marital relations. It was all a lie.

She wasn't afraid of the unknown like most brides were on their wedding night. She knew what it would be like. She knew there would be pain, but perhaps not as bad as last time. She knew it was pleasure for the man but duty for her. She didn't mind. She was ready to do her duty, and once she was pregnant with a son and heir, she wouldn't have to go through this again.

She startled when she heard a tentative knock on the door. She took a deep breath.

"You may go, Anna. Thank you."

Anna gave her a reassuring smile and left.

"Mary, may I… may I come in?" Patrick asked through the door.

"Yes," she replied, carefully keeping her voice level.

The door creaked slightly as Patrick pushed it open very slowly. Mary was suddenly irritated. Why should he be nervous? Why couldn't he just open the door like the future Earl he was, like a man rather than a nervous boy?

He didn't look much like a man in his pyjamas. They looked new, and seemed to be slightly too big for him. She was reminded of all the times she had seen him in pyjamas when they had been children together, and it made the whole situation even more ridiculous.

He stared at her, his mouth hanging open a little. She raised one eyebrow. He shook himself.

"Your hair… it's so… so long. It's… you're… you're beautiful, Mary," he said shyly.

She smiled. "Thank you."

He walked slowly towards her. "There's no need to be afraid, Mary. I'll be gentle, I won't hurt you. It's… well, it's quite nice. Intimacy, I mean."

"I'm not afraid, Patrick," she said irritably. Honestly, she had always been the one to ride the fastest, jump the highest, reach the top of the tree they had secretly climbed as children. Patrick had always been the one who was afraid. "Let's just… get it over with."

He looked a little hurt, but he nodded. They walked towards the bed, the atmosphere suddenly horribly awkward. Patrick had always been just a family member to her, yet she knew he had had a crush on her since he was fifteen. If they had both married for duty alone, or for love, perhaps it would have been easier. But as it was, their hopes and expectation of this marriage were so very different.

She had been right. It hurt less than it had with Pamuk. It was bearable, and Patrick was certainly enjoying it. 'Lie back and think of England' was the general advice, but for her, it was 'lie back and think of Downton'. They might have conceived an heir, however unpleasant the process had been.

It was over quickly, and Mary was grateful. When Patrick had lain still for a few minutes, breathing heavily, he looked at her and she knew he was going to ask permission to stay in her bed.

She didn't want to say no, so she said, before he could ask, "I'll see you in the morning. The train is at ten, is it not? I'll take breakfast up here."

"Yes," he confirmed, clearly disappointed, but trying his best to hide it. "Goodnight, Mary, my beautiful wife."

He got up reluctantly and went back to the dressing room. Mary breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the door.

She stared up at the ornate ceiling of the largest guest room in Aunt Rosamund's house. She had never liked her Aunt's taste in decorating, and she would be happy to be gone.

She wasn't some lovesick newlywed, but she wasn't unhappy. She could live like this, she told herself firmly. Patrick was sweet, if more than a little dull, and he hadn't insisted on sleeping in her bed. Tomorrow, they would set off for Italy. However boring her companion, she would enjoy seeing Florence and Venice and Rome.

She had escaped the waiting room, and she was determined to make the most of it.

She went to sleep smiling.

1919

The church had become Mary's sanctuary in the past few months. It was the only place nobody would try to talk to her or ask why she was there, and her unsociability could be interpreted as piety and prayer. She never went on Sundays anymore; dark memories of Elizabeth's christening were too fresh for her to bear the crowds and the noise and the ceremony, and the thought of being expected to talk politely about things that didn't matter to people she didn't care about was just too much. But every other day, it was a haven of silence.

It was not the house of God to her. Her faith, which had never been strong, had been severely shaken by the horrors the war had brought, and every prayer she could remember saying during those four long years had done nothing to save Patrick or give her a son. And yet she was glad, in a strange, complicated way, that those particular prayers had not been answered, as she could never wish away Elizabeth nor imagine a world without her. A son would have made things easier, she was only too aware of that, but it was the world and the law and her father that had disappointed her, not her daughter. Never her daughter.

She took her usual spot, near the front, but not too near. Hidden in the shadows, as far from the aisle as possible. She had learned through trial and error that this was the place where she was least likely to be disturbed. She closed her eyes and let the silence soothe her troubled thoughts.

After her encounter with Cousin Isobel, Mary had hesitated several days before venturing into the village. The conversation had unsettled her more than she was willing to admit, even to herself, and she could not bear the thought of Cousin Isobel probing and judging and interfering in her private affairs again. But she needed this time away from the house, needed the peace and silence away from her parents and the servants, and she refused to allow her new relatives to make her feel unwelcome and unsettled in the village that had been hers since the day she was born.

She used her time here to get what she wanted her own way, through planning rather than prayer. No God had ever seemed to be listening to anything she had ever tried to say to Him, and she had learned over the years that the only person she could trust to save her was herself. There was no Perseus to swoop to her rescue, this was no fairy-tale or legend, this was her life and she had to do everything she could to ensure that Elizabeth at least escaped the invisible chains that bound women born into families like hers.

Cousin Isobel's insinuation that she was not seeing to her daughter's future adequately had stung, but it had also forced her to think more seriously about what needed to be done.

She had decided by now that her only choice was to fight the entail with everything she had. Papa would never support her, she knew that now, and Mama had given up too. Granny was still on her side, and that was a great advantage in anything, but so far she had not come up with any solid plans. Mary needed someone who could actually help her fight back. Murray was Papa's creature entirely, and so her first step must be to find her own lawyer to take on her case. She had very little idea of how to do that, but it surely could not be terribly difficult. She would go to York or London and find someone, and she would not give up until she had succeeded and won her birth right for herself and Elizabeth.

She was under no illusion that it would be easy, but it was necessary, and she would manage it somehow. She was not the useless wailing, wallowing widow Cousin Isobel seemed to think she was; she did not need to search for an occupation in a charity or some pathetic support group for war widows because her occupation was and always would be Downton.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the door opening behind her. She did not turn, hoping that whoever it was would assume she was deep in prayer or reflection and leave her alone. She would rather not know who was there.

But the footsteps as they approached were odd; hesitant and uneven, interspersed with the tapping of what must be a walking stick, and Mary felt her stomach summersault in a manner reminiscent of the odd sensation of Elizabeth moving in her womb. The sound was too familiar to ignore. Cousin Matthew.

Since her encounter with him at Crawley House, he had intruded into her thoughts more than she would have liked. She still disliked him thoroughly, and she was certain that would never change, but when he had arrived so unexpectedly that afternoon, she had been unable to sustain any feelings of real animosity towards him when he had so clearly been in pain. She did not know the details of his injury, had given it very little thought until then, but she had not needed to be a nurse to recognise the set of his jaw, the awkwardness of his movements, the stiffness of his posture, and against her will, she had felt herself softening towards him, just a little. She did not want him at Downton, would never want him here, but she could not prevent herself from beginning to see him as the wounded soldier he was rather than merely a barrier to hers and Elizabeth's happiness.

Even so, she hoped he would not notice or recognise her, or that he would at least respect her privacy and sit far away.

This turned out to be a futile and forlorn hope. At each step he took, she wished for it to be his last so that she would know he was a comfortable distance behind her. Yet he did not stop, but continued past her towards the front, sitting finally on the very front pew. He was across the aisle from her, but she could see him well enough that her peaceful time alone was over.

She attempted to regain her peaceful state of mind and return to her plans, but after a few minutes, she was forced to give up. He was not loud, Cousin Matthew, but his presence was somehow impossible to ignore. His slightly hunched form drew her eyes against her will, and she found she could not concentrate on anything else.

He did not appear to be praying, although she wasn't certain how she knew. Perhaps it was because she never prayed herself that she could recognise that he sought something else here, as she did.

After a few minutes, she gave up. She would come back another time. She stood up as carefully as she could, not wanting him to turn and see her, for if he did, it would surely be impossible for them to escape a conversation.

Another futile hope. He heard her move, and twisted in his seat, something in the slight furrowing of his brow and the set of his jaw hinting at the discomfort the action caused him.

"Lady Mary," he said, his voice low, as seemed appropriate in a church.

"Cousin Mary, please," she said immediately. It was expected of her to say it, although in truth, she wanted no further signs of intimacy between him and her family than was absolutely necessary. If her plans succeeded, he would not need to remain part of the family anyway.

"Cousin Mary, then," he said. "I'm sorry to disturb your solitude."

She was not certain what to say. Only a moment ago, she had been angry with him and she should be glad he was apologising. But something in his eyes showed a little too much understanding for her liking.

"The church does not belong to me," she said eventually. "I could hardly begrudge you the use of such a place."

"But you came here in search of privacy. Peace," he said. It wasn't a question.

"So did you," she replied. That wasn't a question either.

They stared at each other for a long minute. Then Cousin Matthew shifted slightly in his seat and winced. He stilled, taking a deep breath. Mary swallowed uncomfortably as she felt the pull of some emotion she did not care to identify.

"It helps, I think," he said suddenly. "The quiet."

She thought of Patrick, startled almost to tears by the crash when a footman dropped a serving dish. She thought of Papa, and the pain in his eyes when Elizabeth cried in his hearing. She thought of herself, unable to bear even the quiet but painfully cheerful chattering of the maids when they cleaned the rooms nearby.

Her own voice sounded too loud to her as she replied. "Yes. It does."

Silence reigned again. Then…

"Do you pray for him?" Cousin Matthew asked. "Your husband? Patrick?"

"Patrick," she whispered. She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of all the times she had prayed for him when he was alive, of how silly she had felt kneeling at her bedside like a little girl in the nursery. Little good it had done anyone. "No. Not anymore. He's gone. Prayer won't bring him back."

"No. Nothing can bring them back." The hollow emptiness in his voice was almost frightening. "Sometimes," he continued in the same tone, "I wonder if they're not the lucky ones."

She felt as if she should say something positive, tell him he was being ridiculous. But she despised empty platitudes, and she had nothing meaningful to say. Patrick had said once that all that kept him going was the thought of his home and his family, of her. Cousin Matthew had lost his fiancée, mere months after coming home from hell. What could she possibly say that would make that better?

"Perhaps," she said eventually. "But your mother is luckier still. To have you home and safe."

He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. "Mother…" he began, before breaking off. He sighed. "I haven't been much of a son to her recently."

"I'm sure she understands," Mary said. Cousin Isobel was so clearly the type of mother who would be proud of her son whatever he did and however he behaved. If only she could feel the same certainty and security that her parents could ever feel the same about her.

"She thinks I ought to apologise," he said after a moment. "To you. For… being rude, I suppose."

"And do you think you need to do so?" she asked. He had been rather rude the other day, barely looking at her, and answering his mother's questions in reluctant monosyllables. And yet at the time, she had felt so trapped by Cousin Isobel's well-intentioned but entirely unsolicited barrage of interfering questions, his unexpected arrival had been almost welcome.

He seemed to contemplate that for a minute. "I think I was angry, the other day. And it wasn't at you. I know…" he swallowed hard. "I know this is an impossible situation for you, and the world is unfair, and it's all so very wrong. So yes, I think Mother was right, about more than my behaviour that afternoon. I am sorry. I'm sorry I'm here, and I'm sorry it's all such a mess, and I'm sorry if I'm making it even worse than it is already."

She watched him, looking for any sign that he was insincere, and finding none.

She gave a small nod, accepting his apology, even if it changed nothing.

They were silent again. It should have been awkward; her standing a few rows back, him twisted uncomfortably to look back at her, and more pain and resentment between them than could possibly be solved by one stilted conversation, one apology. By any number of conversations and apologies.

But it wasn't awkward.

There was not quite a truce, and certainly not a friendship, but contrary to all logic and against her will, a bond was forming between them that Mary could not understand and could certainly not explain. Here, on this neutral ground, they were not rivals or relatives, but simply two young people grieving for all that had been lost. Reluctant survivors of a catastrophe that never seemed to end, struggling to see how to build a future on the shattered ruins of the past, and yet knowing that they had no choice but to go with the impossible business of living. If not for themselves, then for those who loved and depended on them.

Cousin Isobel, a mother who clearly loved her son more than anything. Elizabeth, with nobody to fight for her except Mary.

And she would fight. But perhaps her fight would not have to be against Cousin Matthew.

Next chapter, Sybil will finally have more than a couple of sentences to contribute, and there may be another glimpse into Mary's past. I have a busy few weeks coming up, so expect it in 3-4 weeks, but it may take a little longer.