Chapter Five: Spring

Downton Abbey, Winter 1913-14

Marriage was living up to Mary's low expectations in every way.

She had bought herself more freedom, more respect, had secured her future, and that of her mother and sisters. She had done her duty, and she had no right to be disappointed when she had known exactly what she was doing when she had married her cousin.

She didn't dislike Patrick. In fact she liked him more now that they were married. He loved her and flattered her, and although she felt nothing but a distant affection in return, she rather enjoyed having a husband who adored her. And Edith was horribly jealous.

She endured marital relations by thinking every night that they might have conceived a son. Sometimes it wasn't unpleasant, but there was never any excitement. But then, she had had enough of that to last a lifetime, she supposed. This was duty, not passion, and there was no need to confuse the two.

Except she wasn't pregnant yet.

She allowed Patrick into her bed every night he asked, and after months of marriage, she wasn't pregnant. Nobody said anything, not when she was in the room at least, but she didn't need to hear the words to feel everyone watching her for signs. Of course, nobody could watch her as closely as she watched herself.

And there was nothing. Month after month, nothing.

Patrick didn't care. He said that of course he would be happy to have a son, but there was no urgency. He was enjoying having her to himself, he said, enjoying being young and having fun and traveling to London whenever they liked. He thought he was being kind, Mary knew him well enough to know that, but he only made her angry. Did he not care about the future of Downton? Did he not see that providing an heir was her most important duty, and that if she failed, it would be she who would be blamed? Did he not understand that if they did not have a son, the estate would one day pass to a stranger, who might be a chimneysweep for all they knew?

Papa was different. He was impatient, just as she was. They understood each other, even if the pressure was becoming unbearable.

Patrick bought her expensive jewellery for Christmas. Pretty enough, but boring. She bought him cufflinks and tie pins. Equally expensive and equally boring. Mary felt the endless decades of dull Christmases and pointless, impersonal gifts stretching out before her, and pushed the thought away as best she could.

She found her excitement riding, as she had hoped. She was allowed out alone now, as she was no longer Papa's responsibility, and she was quite accomplished at persuading Patrick to let her do whatever she liked. How ridiculous it was that she was anyone's responsibility at all. She rode dangerously fast, jumped dangerously high and loved it.

She helped Sybil prepare for her first season, hoping that her sister would find a husband who could match her intelligence and sprit. Hoping that she wouldn't have to worry about finding a husband at all for many years yet. Mary had married for duty, and because of this, Sybil and Edith's futures were secure. She couldn't care less about Edith, who seemed to be wasting her freedom and security to court old Sir Anthony Strallen of all people, but Sybil deserved to take full advantage of the freedom of choice that Mary had bought her sisters with her marriage.

Life was better than it had been before. She was no longer stuck in a waiting room.

But she felt as if something was missing, something vital. She was bored. She wanted someone to listen to her, not because she was Papa's daughter or Patrick's wife, but because she had things to say, thoughts and desires and ideas that Patrick would patiently listen to and promptly forget. She wanted to argue, to debate, to be challenged, and there was nobody to do it. Patrick was too sweet and peace-loving. He wanted so much to make her happy, but he never knew her well enough to work out how.

It wasn't enough. None of it was ever quite enough.

Spring 1919

Mary stared out the window at the garden. She had been sitting in the window seat for the past hour, and was vaguely aware that it was becoming uncomfortable. She didn't move. Why bother?

This was how she filled so many of her days now, sitting alone in her bedroom, watching the world that was somehow carrying on, oblivious to her pain. The beauty of the bright flowers now in bloom, the weak spring sunshine, the view of the grounds she knew and loved better than anyone, none of it aroused any emotion in her but the emptiness that had been her constant companion for so many months now.

She barely noticed when the bedroom door opened. Whoever it was would leave her alone when they saw her sitting like this. They always did.

Except this time, they didn't. And from this, Mary deduced the identity of her visitor without having to turn and look.

"Sybil," she said, her voice sounding distant and empty even to her.

"Anna said I'd find you here," Sybil said cheerfully. "I thought we could go for a walk. It's lovely outside."

"You go. I'm… fine here," Mary replied.

"Then your definition of fine is quite different from mine," Sybil said firmly. "I want to talk to you."

When Mary didn't respond, Sybil added, "About my plans."

At that, Mary slowly turned her head to look at her sister. She knew what this was about. She gave a deep, weary sigh.

"Can we not speak here?" she asked, unable to find the energy or motivation to even think about going out.

"No," Sybil said firmly, "I can't talk about it here, you know I can't. And you need some sunshine, which has been rare enough that we should take advantage of it now. Please, Mary. You're the only one I can trust."

And at that, Mary knew she couldn't refuse. Her own life might be as good as over, but Sybil was still young and happy and hopeful, and Mary was going to do whatever she could to keep her that way.

Even if that meant helping her run off to Ireland with the mad socialist chauffeur.

Matthew sighed irritably, and finally giving up all pretence of work, he shoved the lid on his fountain pen and closed the file had had supposedly been reading. It was no good. He couldn't concentrate.

Since the day he had come home to find Cousin Mary in his sitting room, Matthew couldn't seem to get her out of his mind, and she was most certainly not welcome there. She aroused in him equal measures of anger and guilt, and yet her fragile, haunting beauty lived up to the description his thoughts had given it, and haunted him.

And his mother's words haunted him equally… "Remember that the castle she lives in, that money that buys her expensive mourning clothes, will never belong to her or her daughter. It will belong to you."

He had known, of course. He had been aware from the moment he read Lord Grantham's first letter that he was going to be forced to take the place of a dead man and steal away the wealth and the house and the title that should have been Lady Mary's. But in his fog of self-pity and black moods, he had seen it only as a burden, because that was all it could ever be to him. He had failed to understand that for Lady Mary, it was not the same; it was all she had ever known, and if the law were fair, it would be hers without question.

She would hardly be left destitute, but the fact that her house was a castle should not have allowed him to forget that it was still her home.

How could he have been so blind?

And then for that day to be so quickly followed by their strange encounter in the church… He did not know quite what to make of it. She had seemed so different there, so much more human than the brittle ice queen he had become accustomed to. They had both sought solitude that day, but somehow, despite all that lay between them, they had found a brief, quiet companionship in their shared grief.

Or he thought they had. She was so very hard to read, he almost wondered if he had imagined that brief moment of connection.

He did not understand it, did not understand her, or the way he behaved in her company.

He had been avoiding her ever since, feeling off-balance at even the thought of seeing her, but he knew it couldn't last; his excuses for declining invitations to dine at the big house were beginning to sound weak even to him.

He sighed again. He had been sitting at his desk for the past hour, and had nothing whatsoever to show for it. It was a good thing that most of the 'work' that occupied so much of his time was not actually expected of him. He took on more than he was asked to simply to give himself something to do in the evenings and at weekends, an excuse not to engage with the world.

Now, however, 'the world' seemed far more appealing than the thoughts he was unable to escape. Perhaps some fresh air would distract him.

He pushed his chair back and slowly pushed himself to his feet using the desk for support. His back throbbed, but the pain had been his constant companion for so many months now, he barely thought about it. He took his stick from where he had left it leaning against the desk and made his way slowly to the hall. He considered leaving without telling Mother, not wanting to have to face the bright smile she was sure to give him when he told her he was going out. She was always telling him he needed to get out of the house more often, that fresh air would lift his mood, that taking short walks would be good for his recovery. He didn't want her to think he had taken her advice.

But when he reached the door to the room where he knew she was engaged in writing letters, he knew that she deserved the courtesy of being informed that he was going out. And if she thought he was taking her advice, and that made her happy, then that had to be a good thing. He was well aware that he had not been an easy person to live with in recent months, and at moments like this, the constant weight of guilt that was always with him became a sudden rush that was impossible to ignore. She was not the cause of his troubles. In fact, her presence was the only thing that had got him through everything that had happened.

He swallowed hard and pushed the door open.

His mother turned and smiled brightly, as he had been sure she would. He tried and failed to smile in return.

"Have you finished work for the day? You've spent so many hours locked up in your study on such a lovely day, and surely they can't be giving you so much to do that you have to work all weekend." Her voice was so cheerful and normal, Matthew almost smiled. She knew perfectly well that his workload was entirely self-imposed, but she let him keep up the fiction, and he was grateful.

"Yes, I'm done for today," he said, trying to mirror her tone of voice. "How are you getting on?"

Her smile broadened, and Matthew felt another rush of guilt. It was so easy to make her smile, and yet he so rarely made an effort to be friendly.

"Very well thank you. This is such a lovely place to sit, with the view of the garden, I'm quite sure it makes writing easier. And it's such a lovely day outside."

"Yes," he agreed, unable to think of anything else to say. When had ordinary conversation become so impossibly difficult?

"Why don't you go out and get some fresh air? It will do you good," she suggested, watching him with soft concern.

Matthew pretended to pause and think before replying, "You know, I think I might. You're right, it's nice weather. Shame not to go out and enjoy it." He even managed a smile.

She positively beamed, and Matthew was painfully glad he had had this conversation.

"That's wonderful. Don't push yourself trying to go too far, and you must take two sticks, and be careful of rough ground, but… have a nice walk," she said.

He nodded, then returned to the hall. He put on his hat and coat quietly so Molesley wouldn't appear and try to help him, took his second stick from its place by the door, and set out slowly into the weak spring sunshine.

"Must it be so soon, darling?" Mary asked, her voice coming out a little strained.

The conversation seemed to be going around in circles yet again, and her patience with the rather unworldly optimism that she loved so much about her little sister was beginning to wear thin. It was liberating to be having this conversation outdoors, to finally be able to talk freely about Sybil's mad plans without the fear of being overheard, to find an outlet for her frustration with the situation through walking faster than she might otherwise have done. But attempting to bring some reality and pragmatism to the situation was proving a near-impossible task as Sybil made her naïve case for freedom

"It isn't soon, Mary," Sybil insisted stubbornly. "Tom has waited almost three years, and loved me for longer than that, and I can't go on living a lie, changing for dinner and pretending everything is going back to how it was before the war and listening to Mama hint and hint about finding a husband. Not now I've found a way to escape it all. I know it seems as if I've only just made up my mind, but I think I knew weeks ago really. I just had to be sure. And now I am. The war is over, and it's time to move on with our lives."

"But nothing is settled here. Mama is still weak from the flu, whatever she says, you know that better than I do. Papa has not recovered from the war at all, and now we have Cousin Matthew and his mother here to interfere and complicate everything, and I'm not even close to finding a way to break the entail. The war is over, but this is not the time yet, Sybil." Mary sighed, looking out across the fields as she searched for the right words to continue. "And are you truly sure? Can you ever be? You can't possibly know what your life will be like with him. You think your nursing has taught you all you need to know about the real world, but-"

"You just want to delay and delay until I give up on him, or he gives up on me!" Sybil said before Mary could finish her sentence. "You don't understand, Mary. I love him! That's all that matters to me. The world is changing, and stupid old-fashioned ideas about the right order of things and titles and propriety just sound ridiculous. I know nothing is settled here, but there will never be a perfect time, and I can't wait forever. I'm going to marry Tom, and there's nothing you can do to stop me!"

Mary, feeling suddenly hot with indignation, stopped abruptly and turned to look at her sister. "Don't you dare, Sybil, don't you dare tell me that I'm not supporting you or that I'm not being fair. I could have gone to Papa, I could have refused to help you, I could have had Branson dismissed months ago. Perhaps I should have!"

Sybil opened her mouth at that, looking as angry as Mary felt, but Mary silenced her with a look and continued before she could interrupt. "I haven't, and I won't, because I love you, and I want you to be happy. You must understand that this is a very drastic thing to do. I'm not making you delay because I want to stop you." Although if I thought I could, I still might, she added silently. "But I need you to think very carefully about what you're doing, to be very, very sure, because your life is going to be very different from anything you've ever known. This is going to shock the family, and I'm afraid we've all had enough shocks in recent years to last us a lifetime."

She took a careful breath as her voice began unexpectedly to tremble a little, then said more calmly, "Papa lost the man he loved as a son just over a year ago. When you tell him you're going to marry Branson, he's going to feel as if he's losing you too."

"But he's not losing me!" Sybil almost shouted, a note of desperation in her voice. "I still love my family, and you will all be invited to my wedding."

"For God's sake Sybil, don't be so naïve!" Mary exclaimed, exasperated. "This isn't fairyland. What did you think? You'd marry the chauffeur and we'd all come to tea?"

Sybil huffed impatiently. "Of course I know it won't be simple, but I'm perfectly happy to go on being friends with everyone."

"Married to the chauffeur," Mary said disbelievingly. Sybil had grown up so much in the past few years, it was easy to forget sometimes that she was still very young. It was impossible to forget now.

"Yes," Sybil replied, resolutely. "Anyway, he'll be a journalist soon, which sounds better for Granny."

Mary inclined her head and gave a small smile of acknowledgement at that. Granny would hate it all anyway of course - how could she not? – but there was nobody quite like Granny for taking a bad situation and working with whatever she could find to 'minimise the damage'; the family chauffeur was impossible, but a journalist… she would surely find a way to make that sound better than it was.

"So you will move to Ireland?" Mary asked after a moment, still hardly able to comprehend the idea of Sybil being so far away. Getting on with her life while Mary remained where she was, trapped between a past too painful to remember and a future she may be fighting for years to secure-

"Ireland is his home," Sybil said, cutting across Mary's thoughts. "Of course we'll go there. He's almost certain of a job at a paper there now, and it will be a real chance for him. For us. But you can visit, with Lily." She paused, her expression softening. "I'll miss her, and you."

Mary's heart ached suddenly as it struck her that with Sybil gone, there would be nobody left to call Elizabeth by the nickname Sybil favoured for her niece. Mary had resisted at first, but over time she had found she rather liked it. Elizabeth was the name of the Queen regnant of England's Golden Age, the name of the child Mary was determined would one day be heiress of Downton; Lily was the niece Sybil doted on, the baby Mary loved more fiercely than she had ever known she was capable of. Family.

"Then don't go so soon," Mary suggested. "Let him go to Dublin, and then you can use the calm to consider." Stay for Lily's birthday, for her fist steps, her first words.

Sybil exhaled dramatically. "I don't need to consider! How many times do I have to say it? I am sure, and I do know my own mind."

"I just don't want you to be trapped when you can't possibly know the consequences of what you're doing," Mary insisted, unable to prevent her mind from straying briefly to the damage done by her own naivety when she had been Sybil's age. A smile, a daring jump over a stream, a stolen kiss, a scream that never happened and the sudden terror of being caught up in something out of her control when she had been so sure she knew what she was doing…

"Of course I can't know what our life will be like," Sybil said. "But I know what my life will be like if I don't marry him, and I know I can't live that life. You know I can't. And I can't wait any longer to be with the man I love. Hasn't the war taught you that we need to grasp every chance at happiness we get? Please, please try to understand."

Mary sighed deeply and looked away. How many times had they had conversations like this over the years? Sybil with some new idea or plan or complaint that she would try so very hard to make her older sister understand; Mary protesting, but often understanding a little too well for her own comfort.

Over the years, Sybil had threatened to run away from home more times than Mary could count. She had once got as far as the gate at the edge of the grounds before being found and persuaded to return home for food and a coat, neither of which she had thought to take with her in all her seven-year-old wisdom. Even at eighteen, threatening to run away if Branson was dismissed for taking her to the ridiculous rally - oh, the irony! – she had never actually thought through how it might be accomplished.

Mary, at five or six, had taken it far more seriously when she had tried to run away herself, had planned it for weeks, had put on her best and warmest clothes and slipped away downstairs to ask Carson for some of the silver to sell…

Yes, she understood the impulse, the need to get away.

And now Sybil was doing it for real, finally escaping a life she no longer wanted in a manner more dramatic than anything Mary would ever have contemplated. When it was done, there would be no going back.

It was mad.

But Sybil was right. The war had showed, in the cruellest way possible, that any hope of happiness needed to be grasped with both hands. A lesson she had learned far too late. She thought of all the moments when she could have opened up to Patrick just a little more, could have let him stay in her bed, could have allowed herself to feel for him the passion she had tried to bury forever with a dead Turkish diplomat.

It was too later for her now, and she only had herself to blame. But perhaps things could be different for Sybil.

"Alright," she said eventually. "Alright. You have waited. You can't wait forever. I don't agree with what you're doing, but I suppose I must accept that you're going to do it."

"Oh Mary, thank you!" Sybil cried. "It means more than anything that you're on my side."

"I'm always on your side, darling. But you must plan this properly. You don't need Papa's permission, but you're not running away from home like a silly child. Branson must be sure about this job before you say anything, and you must have a plan for where you will live until you can be married. And we must find the right time to tell Mama and Papa. It will be a disaster however you do it, of course, but I think you should wait a few weeks… until after Papa's birthday, and Patrick's, and all of it…"

It seemed pointlessly sentimental to her, but they had finally received confirmation of Patrick's death so soon before his birthday and Papa's, she supposed the dates would always be tainted. They would probably never know the actual date of his death, so it seemed irrelevant to her, but Papa, judging by his reaction to Mama's tentative suggestion of a small celebration, evidently saw it differently.

Sybil paled suddenly. "Oh God, Mary, I'm so sorry, I'd forgotten it was so close, I…"

Mary shook her head. "No, no, don't apologise. It's not for me so much as for Papa." And if it would keep Sybil from taking the final leap of telling the family for a little longer, it could only be beneficial. "But… I think you must wait a few weeks."

"Of course I'll wait," Sybil said softly. "Tom will understand."

"You know that all I want is for you to be safe and happy," Mary said after a moment.

"Oh Mary, of course I know that. I only wish there was a way I could make you happy," Sybil said earnestly.

She reached hesitantly for her sister's hand and squeezed it. Mary's returning squeeze lacked Sybil's enthusiasm, but she did not pull her hand back, and she could see that for Sybil, this was considered a small victory. Mary wondered briefly exactly when her family's expectations of her had fallen so low.

She shook her head. "Don't waste your wishes on that. I don't wish, I act, and I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure Lily is happy, whether I am or not. I shall be perfectly fine. Now let's make plans for you."

Sybil squeezed her sister's hand again, and they walked slowly back towards the house.

Matthew felt quite proud of himself when he reached a bench that proved to be the perfect destination. He had noticed it a week or so ago, hidden away a short distance along the path up to the Abbey by a bush that had obviously grown significantly since the bench had been built. It was not far outside the village, but felt far removed from the bustle of village life, looking out over trees and fields rather than buildings. He was a city boy, and had always loved Manchester, but this… this was actually rather lovely.

This was the furthest he had managed to walk without stopping, and although his back and legs were aching, it was an ache he almost relished as a demonstration of his success. He was forced to admit to himself that the fresh air made him feel significantly better than he had felt locked up in his study. He closed his eyes and leaned back. He had almost forgotten what sunshine felt like on his skin.

It was the best weather he had seen since they had arrived, and it had made the village seem different somehow, less grey, more lively. Windows had been flung open, women were talking in doorways and outside shops, and he could still hear the sound of children laughing somewhere just out of sight. Bright spring flowers were blooming everywhere.

But now, inevitably, his mind strayed back to places he would rather not revisit. He remembered the last time he had sat on a bench in the sunshine, and the contrast between then and now hit him with a familiar pain.

A beautiful young woman sitting next to him, laughing and smiling, holding out her hand to display a newly received engagement ring, the diamond glinting in the sunlight…The fresh, floral scent of spring in the carefully tended park... The laughter of children, blissfully ignorant of the pain and suffering and death that was taking place at that very moment, just across the Channel…

He shook himself and forced his mind back to the present, opening his eyes to look out across the fields again. Dwelling on the past was just too hard.

Dwelling on the present, however, soon proved to be equally hard; sunshine and fresh air, it seemed, were not enough to banish thoughts of Lady Mary.

I wonder if she rides across these fields, he thought as he tried to enjoy the view. Cousin Edith had told him once that Mary had loved to hunt before the war, that she had always been eager to be there for the kill. He had never felt the slightest desire to hunt, and he was fairly sure Cousin Edith had meant it as some sort of insult to her sister, but thinking about it now… She must look magnificent on horseback… elegant and fearless and daring on the jumps…

And worst and most pressing of all, the thought that this, everything he could see, the fields and the flowers and the farms, this was her land, her flowers, her spring. And he was only here to enjoy it because of an archaic law that meant it would all be his instead. Will she ever forgive me? Can I ever forgive myself?

She was everywhere, in the estate itself and in his mind, and it terrified him.

And suddenly, she seemed to have walked straight out of his mind and into the real world, for Matthew could hear a voice that was unmistakeably hers.

"You've never even been to Ireland! How can you possibly know?"

Matthew blinked. It couldn't be anyone except her, he would recognise her voice anywhere but… she sounded so different, the lively incredulous tone such a contrast to the anger that was so frequently the only emotion she showed in a voice that was otherwise dull and hollow. The thought of seeing her so unexpectedly unsettled him more than he wanted to admit, and he wondered if he ought to leave before Cousin Mary and her companion got any closer. But somehow, he found himself rooted to the spot, unaccountably intrigued by the conversation.

"Tom talks about it. And you know I've been reading the papers." That sounded like Cousin Sybil.

There was a pause, and Matthew heard the two sets of footsteps approaching. Was the bench well enough hidden for him to stay here out of sight? Was that terribly rude? It probably was, but how could he possibly face Cousin Mary? But he knew he couldn't walk fast enough to get away before they reached him…

"Branson will have to give his notice soon," Cousin Mary said, even closer now. "He can't still be the chauffeur when you tell Mama and Papa."

"Tom," Cousin Sybil corrected earnestly, "You know you must learn to call him Tom now."

"It hardly matters while he's still the chauffeur," Mary replied dismissively.

Matthew frowned, wondering briefly why Cousin Sybil would be on first-name terms with the chauffeur. But that was hardly his greatest concern at the moment. It was none of his business, and he really must make his presence known soon, and it was beyond dishonourable to be eavesdropping in this way…

"Mary, you know why it matters. I want you to know each other, and you'd like him if you really knew him, I know you would."

Cousin Mary didn't reply, but the footsteps were so close now, Matthew knew he needed to do something. He took his sticks, and pushed up to his feet with a supressed groan, staggering a little as he got his balance. The ache in his back and legs asserted itself, but ignoring it was easier than usual as his thoughts left no space to notice anything except the fact that Lady Mary was by now surely just around the corner...

He stepped forwards carefully just as his cousins turned a corner in the path, and found himself almost directly in front of them.

"Cousin Matthew!" Cousin Sybil exclaimed, smiling even as her eyes widened in surprise at seeing him there. But Cousin Sybil could hardly hold his attention when her older sister stood only a step behind her.

Matthew stared, unable to find the right words. For a moment, he wondered quite seriously if he was dreaming. Because how else could Lady Mary be standing before him looking so impossibly lovely, and yet so very different? She was still dressed in black of course, but her cheeks were flushed with an unexpectedly healthy glow from her walk. Her eyes held a brightness he had only ever caught momentarily in the midst of one of their frequent arguments, and she seemed so impossibly beautiful and alive.

But his cousins were both staring at him, and he had to say something.

"Cousin Mary, Cousin Sybil," he said, thankful he wasn't stumbling on his words.

"It's wonderful to see you out," Cousin Sybil said earnestly. "We haven't seen you at Downton for so long." Her smile brightened again. "You must be walking so much better to have made it this far."

Matthew blinked, too distracted to feel his usual shame at any mention of his injury. "Yes."

"Your therapy must be going well," Cousin Sybil persevered. "I knew Sister Cooper would help you, she must be so pleased with your progress. Is this the furthest you've walked? You look better for the exercise."

"Yes," he said again. "I… it's a beautiful day. It seemed a shame to stay indoors." It was not precisely true, but it was the same lie he had told his mother, the sort of lie that made well-meaning people like Mother and Cousin Sybil happy.

"That's what I said to Mary," Cousin Sybil said enthusiastically. "Spring is so lovely here, don't you think? And summer feels so close now. I'm glad you're feeling well enough to enjoy it."

Matthew forced a smile again. His eyes darted across to look at Cousin Mary. Again. It seemed she had been looking at him too, because her eyes caught his for just a moment before darting away.

She still hadn't spoken a word to him. And of course, he hadn't directly addressed her.

He shifted his weight a little as he felt a twinge in his back, and Cousin Sybil – such much a nurse, so like Mother – caught him instantly.

"Of course we mustn't keep you standing here," she said, watching him with gentle concern. "I'm sure you were on your way home. But I'm so happy we saw you, and please come up for dinner soon, I know Papa has missed you."

Somehow, Matthew stumbled his way through a promise to attend the next dinner he was invited to, and another agreement on the lovely weather, and finally an awkward goodbye.

But before they parted ways, he towards the village and they towards the Abbey, he could not prevent himself from glancing one again at Cousin Mary. And again, he caught her eyes for a brief moment, as she looked at him at the same time. He took a sharp breath. So did she.

And then she was gone. He wondered for a moment if he had gone mad, or fallen asleep and dreamed it all.

But as he set off slowly towards Crawley House, his thoughts full of flushed cheeks and dark hair and the sudden electric thrill of catching her eye, he recognised with a wry smile that his attempt to rid himself of the spectre of Lady Mary Crawley by escaping the house had had the very opposite effect.

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who had followed, favourited, read and reviewed! I hope this chapter was worth waiting for - I certainly enjoyed writing something a little happier than previous chapters. Expect the next chapter in 2-3 weeks, in which we'll be going back to 1914...