Chapter Eight: I don't have a heart

Downton Abbey, March 1916

Patrick arrived home on leave looking every inch the officer and behaving, rather incongruously, like a schoolboy home for the holidays.

Unsure how else to react, the family matched their welcome to his, and greeted him much the same as they had when he had been a schoolboy or university student spending as much time as he could at Downton to avoid his father. The brightness of his smiles and the enthusiasm of his conversation made it easy to ignore the uniform, the thinness of his frame, the face that had aged several years in as many months.

For Mary, this was both a relief and a source of deep confusion. Of course she had far more experience of managing him like this, as her irritating cousin who could never take anything seriously, and she slipped easily back into their old dynamic, permitting his attentions and his constant demands on her time, and trying to find it more flattering than irritating until she could find a moment to escape.

Yet when she thought of how things had been between them the last time she had seen him, she did not know what to make of him now. When he had come home that first time from training, he had seemed so different, and they had, in the short days and nights they had spent together then, begun to know each other in a different way as his boyish immaturity had begun to give way to the seriousness of a man who was coming to realise what he would soon be facing in France and to truly value the life he was leaving behind.

Now, she began to wonder if she had imagined it all.

Their first night together was peaceful, domestic, calm. He came to her bed, as shy as on their wedding night. Mary smiled at him in welcome, and they did their duty, neither of them mentioning the weight he had lost or the new scar on his chest.

When he rolled off her afterwards, he looked tired enough to fall asleep, and Mary was on the verge of telling him that, for tonight, he was quite welcome to do so; he had just come home from war, after all. But habit roused him, and he awkwardly kissed her goodnight before returning to his room.

It was only the next day that she began to realise that Patrick's joy at being home and seeing his family had concealed only temporarily what should have been obvious to them all from the start: that the war had left neither his spirits nor his mind untouched.

He seemed troubled that morning, no longer overwhelmed with relief to be home, but quiet and jumpy. Papa was desperate to spend time with his beloved son-in-law and heir, but Patrick politely declined his offer to take a walk around the estate. Instead, he shyly asked Mary to accompany him on a picnic. It was still early spring in the north of England, and hardly warm enough for a comfortable walk, never mind a picnic, but Mary could hardly say no to her husband when he was only home for a few days before he would have to return to the trenches, and she swallowed her objections and put on a heavy coat.

Patrick carried the basket himself, and led her to a secluded spot by the lake where they used to swim as children. He hardly spoke as he spread the blanket and helped her set out the food, and Mary, unable to judge his mood, merely commented on the fact that it was a good spot to stay out of the wind. It was awkward between them, but that was nothing new.

Only when they were settled and sipping the very nice claret Carson had found for them did Patrick look up at her suddenly with an air of intense desperation, catching her by surprise.

"I want to remember this moment," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off her. "I want to remember you, here, sipping wine from a glass and looking so impossibly elegant even on a picnic blanket."

Mary carefully put down her glass. "Then you must make the most if it. I don't make a habit of abandoning all dignity to sit on the floor, you know," she replied, raising her eyebrows and hoping to lighten his strange mood.

"You could never abandon your dignity," he returned softly. "The Queen doesn't have your dignity, my darling."

Mary stared at him. Patrick did not call her 'darling', or 'sweetheart', or anything else. She was 'Mary' to him, she had always been 'Mary' to him. They had known each other as cousins too long for her to be anything else.

But sitting here, alone with him in this spot where they had spent so many happy hours with Edith and Sybil as children, she was suddenly aware, in a different way than she had been before, that he wasn't only her cousin anymore. Of course they had been married almost three years, but in this moment, it struck her for the first time that he was the only man who would ever have the right to call her his darling, that she was the only woman he would ever speak to with such open affection, and that he had a perfect right to do so. Patrick was still her cousin in blood, but that wasn't what they were to each other anymore.

If he said she was his darling, she supposed she was.

"I wish I had a camera to capture it," he continued, oblivious to her confusion. "But my memory will have to do." He seemed to be talking to himself more than to her, speaking his thoughts as they came to him. "A photograph wouldn't be safe anyway, I'd lose it, or…" He broke off, shaking his head and looking distant.

"Capture what?" she asked, frowning down at her wine.

"You," he said earnestly, as if that explained everything. "To capture you. My beautiful wife in my favourite place. I want you with me, you see, when I'm… away. I need you, really. To know that whatever it's like out there, you're still here, Downton is still here. To know there's somewhere where the trees and the grass are green, and Lady Mary Crawley is still as elegant and dignified as ever."

He pushed his hair back with rather more force than was required, leaving it sticking up all over the place, and Mary felt an unexpected urge to brush it back to order. She didn't, of course.

She wondered if she should reach out and hold his hand, or offer some other gesture of comfort or affection, but she didn't know how. That wasn't who she was. Sybil, of course, would know what to do, but she, the cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley, had no idea what her husband wanted of her.

"I want to carry the picture with me always," he almost whispered. "But a photograph might be ruined in a day over there. So I have to keep you in my mind. And hope that doesn't get ruined over there too."

Mary found herself looking into his blue eyes and saw an anguish in them that she had never seen before. She felt suddenly as if she was on the edge of an abyss, as if all the awfulness of the war that had hardly touched Downton except as a series of worries and inconveniences was too close for comfort. She could have stepped back, retreated, and she wanted to. But something drove her on to take a step closer to the edge.

"What's it been like?" she asked softly.

She regretted it immediately.

Patrick's eyes went wide and his jaw worked, but he didn't seem to be able to get his words out. Her heart clenched in a way that was strangely unfamiliar. She wanted to turn away, to pretend she had never asked, and at the same time, she felt again that strange urge to take Patrick's hand or brush back his hair, to apologise for her words and offer comfort she knew she couldn't adequately provide.

"You know, the thing is…" He stopped, then swallowed, his eyes closing briefly as if in pain. "The thing is, I just can't talk about it."

Mary nodded and gave in to the temptation to look away. It had been a stupid question. She had read the papers, which made it sound unpleasant enough, and she wasn't stupid enough to believe they told the whole story. It was war, of course it was unspeakable. She should never have asked.

"Well, we won't talk about it then," she said brightly, still unable to look at him. "Have you tried some of this quiche? It's heavenly, and you must take full advantage of Mrs Patmore while you're home."

The war wasn't mentioned again, and they spent the rest of the day wary of each other.

That evening, one of the servants dropped a plate. It fell onto the serving table at the side of the room rather than the floor, and fortunately didn't shatter, but the noise made Patrick inhale sharply and squeeze his eyes closed for a moment. His hand were white as he gripped his cutlery too tightly, and when he let go of his knife to reach for his wine glass, Mary saw that his hand was trembling slightly. Nobody else saw, but Mary did.

Intimacy that night was a rushed duty that even Patrick did not seem to particularly enjoy, and they hardly spoke a word to each other. He left as soon as he had his breath back, and Mary didn't know whether to be relieved or worried. She shook off her concern, annoyed with herself for worrying when she was usually so eager for him to leave as soon as possible.

Sleep did not come easily.

It must have been the early hours of the morning when she was woken by a sharp cry from the next room. She wondered for a moment if she had dreamt it, and rolled over to try to sleep again, but as she closed her eyes, she heard an anguished moan. Her heart pounding, she pushed back the covers and hurried to the door to Patrick's room. She hesitated. She rarely went through that door; it was always Patrick who came to her, never she to him. But as she stood with her hand on the doorknob, she heard him moan again, and it gave her the push she needed to open the door.

The curtains were open, moonlight streaming in and illuminating the room in an eerie cold glow, revealing the sight of Patrick lying perilously close to the edge of the bed, tangled in his sheets and writhing in his sleep.

Mary stood for a moment, paralysed by indecision, although not by shock. She had heard stories of soldiers affected badly by their war experiences, and after Patrick's strange behaviour all day, it was hardly a surprise. But she knew nothing that might provide any guidance on what she ought to do now, and if she ever had, she had forgotten it.

Instead, she remembered with a sudden and unsettling clarity her father shouting at the top of his voice in the middle of the night, soon after his return from South Africa. She had been a child then, and Nanny had kept her from going to investigate. But when she had asked her mother about it the next day, Mama's face had crumpled and she had explained sadly that sometimes people that had survived terrible experiences had nightmares about them, and that war gave men a lot of terrible experiences. She wasn't to worry, Mama had said, but it might happen again.

Mary never had heard it again, but she had never forgotten the terror in his shout that night.

The memory seemed to release her from her indecision.

She felt strangely detached from the reality of it all as she rushed over to the bed and put her hand on Patrick's shoulder. She shook him gently, calling his name softly, her voice sounding somehow as if it came from someone else. He didn't wake.

She spoke louder, and shook less tentatively, and he cried out suddenly. She jumped back several steps in shock and fear as he jerked under her hand and opened his eyes.

His breathing came in heavy gasps as he came back to himself, and Mary watched half in horror, half concern. He saw her and stared for a minute, his mouth open but silent.

"Mary," he finally choked out. "Mary."

She walked slowly back to him, wishing she knew what to do, wishing she was a softer, kinder person who would be able to comfort him properly. Wishing she was anywhere else but here. He held out a hand to her, reaching for a lifeline in a stormy sea. She took it. He pulled her close, and then down onto the bed with him, and she offered no resistance.

He cried in her arms. She held him, whispering inadequately that she was here, that he was alright, that he was at Downton, at home, with her.

"I'm sorry," he said eventually as he calmed down. "I'm so, so sorry Mary. I shouldn't have woken you, I'm sorry, I'm weak, I'm…"

She shushed him, told him he didn't need to be sorry. It all felt so unreal, holding the husband she didn't love in her arms in the strange light of the moon and comforting him as best she could. But whatever he had seen in his dream had been beyond anything she could imagine. She had judged him weak when he had cried over the death of his awful father, but she judged him not at all now.

She had been living in a dream world, aware of the war of course, but protected more than she had realised from its effects. Now it was here, in her home, in her husband, and it scared her.

Mary felt, even as she held him in her arms, that she had somehow failed a test. She did not know what she should have done differently, except perhaps to have avoided asking about the war, but she knew that she had managed the day poorly.

She had never doubted her suitability for her role as wife to the heir, but she wondered uncomfortably if she was perhaps terribly unsuited to being the wife of a soldier. She had learned and perfected everything a lady of her position in life ought to have learned and perfected, and she had always been so certain that there could be nobody with as much right to be the next Countess of Grantham as she had.

But now, in a world that had gone mad and begun to tear itself apart, and to tear apart all its young men in the process, she feared that Patrick did not need all her best qualities and charms and accomplishments. He did not need her competence, her elegance, her beauty or her wit. He needed the heart she didn't have and the love she couldn't give him. She held him tighter.

It was a long time before they fell asleep.

The next morning, when they awoke in each other's arms for the first time in almost three years of marriage, both behaved as if the previous night had never happened.

Perhaps this was the way to manage it all, Mary thought to herself as she allowed Patrick to kiss her enthusiastically in the bright light of the morning: the unspeakable must be left unspoken, and all the inadequacies and imperfections of their marriage ignored indefinitely.

It was the first nightmare she witnessed and woke him from and pretended had never happened. It was not, by a long way, the last.

Downton Abbey, 1919

Mary put down the book and reached out to touch Lily's soft cheek, taking, as she always did, one last minute to gaze at her perfect little daughter. She recognised so easily now the moment Lily's breathing changed when she dropped off to sleep, and wondered at the way her tiny features relaxed, her delicate eyelids drooping and closing over soft blue eyes. So like her father's…

In those early weeks when everything had been dark and difficult, when Mary had almost despaired of ever loving her daughter as she should, it had been moments like this that had given her hope that perhaps there was space in her cold, inadequate heart for such an impossibly beautiful baby.

Now, so many months later that it felt like a lifetime (and of course it had been a lifetime for Lily), reading to her daughter before her afternoon nap and watching her fall asleep had somehow become Mary's favourite part of the day. Perhaps she would still have denied it if anyone had asked, but nobody ever did.

She would never have chosen these circumstances, would never have wanted a life in which there were so few demands in her time that she was often free to spend as much time as she wanted with her daughter. But oh, how much of Lily's life she would be missing if things had been different!

But Lily was sleeping soundly now, and Mary did not intend to stay in the nursery for the rest of the day. This room, as well as her bedroom, was usually her sanctuary, her refuge from a world and a family in which she no longer seemed to have a place. Today, however, she need not hide away. She had seen Papa heading out for a walk from which he had yet to return, and Sybil and Mama were in York, shopping for new hats with Edith, and for once, the house was hers alone. The prospect of finding something to read and settling down on one of the comfortable sofas in the library made her smile, and made leaving the nursery far easier than it often was.

The house was impossibly quiet as she went downstairs, even the servants seeming to have vanished, and she felt calmer than she had in a long time. Such solitude was a rarity; the house was finally theirs again after years as a convalescent home, but with Sybil left without an occupation, Papa wandering the halls feeling lost and aimless, and Mama always interfering, the luxury of empty rooms was something she intended to take full advantage of.

When she entered the library, however, she discovered with a jolt of surprise that she was not alone; Cousin Matthew was sitting on the sofa to the right of the fireplace. She might have been angry at the intrusion into her quiet, temporary freedom, but before she could decide how she felt about his presence, she noted with concern that he was leaning forwards, his elbows resting on his legs as he cradled his head in his hands. Questions of what he was doing here alone were silenced as she wondered what was wrong with him. Should she say something, ask if he was well? Or leave him in peace?

"Cousin Matthew?" she asked, realising only after she had spoken that she was using the same soft voice she had been using with Lily.

He startled slightly at the sound of her voice, then slowly straightened up and looked at her, squinting slightly as if the room was too bright despite the overcast skies outside which provided the only light. He made no move to get to his feet, telling her that something must truly be wrong for him to so forget his manners.

"Mary," he murmured, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Then he seemed to realise what he had said, and said quickly, "I mean, La… no, Cousin Mary. Sorry." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

Something about the way he had said her name made Mary's heart clench. He had never called her that before; he still struggled sometimes even to call her 'Cousin' rather than 'Lady'.

"Are you unwell?" she asked, walking slowly towards him. She didn't know how to behave, what to say. He looked so pained and tired and defeated, so different from her favourite sparring partner at dinner.

"Headache," he replied shortly. "I'm waiting for Cousin Robert, but I…" he broke off, rubbing his temples and breathing a little too quickly.

"Do you get them often," she asked gently, "the headaches?"

"Too often. Since… after…" he broke off again, but Mary took his meaning. Since the war. Again she felt the unfamiliar rush of tenderness, the instinctive understanding between them that meant she so often heard and understood the words he could not speak.

"You should be lying down," she said, trying for practicality. "Darkness and quiet, that would help." He couldn't just sit here waiting for Papa in this state, she saw that immediately, and there would be no point anyway, as he was likely to be entirely useless for any discussions about the estate Papa probably wanted him for. Nor did she want to send him home in the car like this. "You should rest in one of the spare rooms here."

"No, I… I can…" he protested, but Mary ignored him.

"Of course you'll stay here. I can ring for Carson, he can…"

"No," he said quickly. "Please, I… I'd rather not…"

He didn't finish, but again she understood without his having to say the words; he did not wish to be seen in this condition, not by the servants whom he still didn't feel entirely comfortable with, who already thought him inadequate as a replacement for Patrick. She realised suddenly that he probably felt the same about her, but that it was now too late.

"Alright. I'll show you to a room you can use."

He offered no reply, but moved to reach for his walking stick, which leaned on the edge of the sofa. She reached it first and handed it to him, and thought she heard him muttering his thanks. But as he pushed himself to his feet with more difficulty than usual, it was immediately obvious to Mary that the upstairs guest rooms would not do; he would never make it up the stairs. She considered it, and settled for one of the small downstairs bedrooms as a suitable destination – a remnant of Downton's time as a convalescent home that had been retained for the rather depressing reason that with so many young men injured in the war, they were likely in future to have guests who would find the stairs a trial.

She walked slowly as she showed him the way, concerned at his gait, which was even more awkward than usual. He followed her in silence, and she said nothing, certain that noise made his headache worse. But when he stumbled as his foot caught on the edge of the rug in the hall, she took his arm to offer additional support.

To offer assistance like this never came naturally to her, any more than accepting it came easily to him, but somehow, alone together in the otherwise silent house, it felt inevitable. This, in a way, was only an extension of what they were to each other already; allies who were always the first to notice each other's distress, and the first to unobtrusively offer assistance.

Yet somehow, this was more than that. Mary felt an unfamiliar tenderness, a softness… it was not new, but it had come before in flashes, instants when she had seen his pain and felt it almost as her own for a moment so fleeting as to be easily forgotten. Now, unavoidably aware that every step hurt him, she felt an answering ache in herself that was impossible to ignore.

She was suddenly assailed by thoughts of bullets and shells and the fragility of human life and flesh, and wondered at the improbability of anyone having survived so many years in such immediate danger. How close they must all have come to death, how incredible than any of them had come home at all. And yet here he was, and she was immeasurably glad of it.

They had never been so close to each other as this, and as she took as much of his weight as he would allow, she was acutely aware of the unfamiliarity of having a man holding her far closer than would be considered proper, and of the strange thrill it gave her despite the circumstances. He was tall, she realised, taller than her in her heeled shoes, taller than Patrick had been...

They reached the room, and she carefully released his arm to push the door open and precede him through it. She reached automatically for the light switch, but thought better of it as she remembered how he had squinted even in the dim light of the library. The bed wasn't properly made up, but there was a sheet on it, and pillowcases, and it would do well enough for a brief rest. She could make a bed now, Sybil had made her learn, but it would take too long, and it was better that she didn't have to try.

Matthew went straight to the bed, letting out a weary sigh as he sat down heavily and propped his stick against the bedside cabinet. He pulled impatiently at his tie, but only succeeded in tightening the knot as he struggled. Feeling rather uncertain about the whole situation, Mary watched him tug ineffectively for a few seconds, his frustration growing, until she could watch no longer. She went to stand in front of him and gently loosened and removed the tie, folding it carefully and laying it on the bedside table, then stood back, feeling rather awkward.

It struck her that she had never done this for before, not even for Patrick, that it would probably never even have occurred to her. Everything between them had always been so awkward, mitigated only by the familiarity of the politeness and formality that had been with them even in the privacy of her bedroom. The simple act of helping him with his tie had been outside the bounds of what was expected of her, and so of course she had never done it.

With Cousin Matthew, everything felt entirely different. They had started off so much at odds, they had never passed through that stage of an acquaintance when careful politeness and formality were required, and had somehow arrived together at this peculiar alliance that sometimes seemed to be tipping towards friendship. A friendship that had led her to this situation which, now she thought about it, was highly improper; to be alone in a small room with a distant cousin she barely knew, undoing his tie and thinking about how it felt oddly more intimate than most of her marriage had been…

She was called back from her thoughts when Cousin Matthew began to shrug off his jacket, wincing at each careful but impatient movement. She helped him, and hung the jacket off the back of a chair. Then kneeled down and removed his shoes for him, seeing that leaning over would hurt his back.

If Patrick had been injured, would she have done the same for him? She wanted to believe she would, but feared it was far more likely she would have had a servant see to his needs. Oh, she would have seen he was well cared for, would probably have worried about him, but she could never see herself helping him like this. Only in the dark privacy of their disturbed nights had she ever done anything even remotely similar, holding him in her arms to calm him after his nightmares, or helping him undo the buttons of sweat-soaked pyjamas when his hands had been shaking too much to manage it…

Cousin Matthew lay back with a groan, seeming to relax a little as he closed his eyes and breathed through the pain.

"Should I call Dr Clarkson?" she asked.

"No," he said quickly, wincing at his own voice. He moderated his tone and said more carefully, "No, it's nothing."

"Or Cousin Isobel?"

"No, she'll only worry… come up and make a fuss. And… please don't tell Cousin Robert," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't bear for him to… to see… to know that-"

"Of course I won't," she said briskly, understanding immediately his need to hide his pain to avoid the inevitable fuss and pity. "Nobody comes in here. Don't worry about it. Just rest."

Of course Papa would be back soon, and she would have to think of some excuse for Matthew's absence that wouldn't have Papa telephoning Crawley House. And the servants must know he was here, she supposed, she would have to make sure they didn't say anything. But Anna would say whatever was required of her, Branson had reason to make himself useful, and Carson would do anything for her; hiding Matthew for a few hours would not be difficult.

"I'll be back in a moment," she said softly, slipping out of the room, desperate to flee and wishing at the same time that she didn't have to leave him.

Matthew returned to consciousness slowly. His head ached still, but he was warm and comfortable, and felt remarkably relaxed.

He heard a movement nearby, and opened his eyes. Or tried to. Panic rose in his chest as he realised there was something over his eyes, that he couldn't see, and he reached up and desperately felt for what was obscuring his vision, his mind leaping instantly to gas blindness, even as the rational part of his brain told him he was not there anymore, that it couldn't possibly be that. His hands found a damp cloth, and he pulled it off, only to wince as he was deprived of the relief it had been providing. The ache behind his eyes hit him hard.

He blinked several times, confused and in an increasing amount of pain from the low lighting that was still too much for his head. This wasn't his room in Manchester, or his new one in Crawley House, it was…

"It's alright, Cousin Matthew," a soft voice said. He turned his head too quickly and felt suddenly nauseous from the movement. But before he was forced to close his eyes again, he saw her: Lady Mary, his sharp, cold cousin, sitting at his bedside and speaking in a voice softer than he had heard from her before. If his head didn't hurt so damned much, he might have wondered if he was dreaming.

"You're at Downton," she continued in the same soft voice. And it all came back to him. Barely sleeping all night and waking with a pressure in his skull. Arriving a little early and waiting for Cousin Robert in the library. The headache that had been threatening for hours hitting him with full force. The pain that was now so familiar, and no less bearable for that. And then his beautiful cousin, looking as aloof as ever, but speaking softly, helping him without complaint to a spare room. Helping him undress and lie down, covering him with a blanket, placing a damp cloth over his eyes. Oh God. How humiliating.

"I… um, I'm sorry," he said awkwardly. "About this. You didn't have to…"

"It's nothing. You're unwell," she said simply. So practical, as if it could possibly be nothing, helping her pathetic invalid cousin…

"I have aspirin," she said then. "You should take it."

He forced himself to push up a little against the pillows, relying on his upper body more from habit than necessity. The position made his back ache, and his head was worse too, but he took the offered pill and swallowed it with some delightfully cold water she held to his lips. He sighed and lay back down, still embarrassed that she was seeing him in this state, but too tired and in too much pain to do anything about it.

He closed his eyes. He heard her wringing out a cloth, then felt the newly cool cloth being laid across his eyes again. The relief it brought made him sigh again.

"I hadn't cast you as Florence Nightingale," he muttered.

"You do know this house was a convalescent home during the war," she said archly. "I could hardly escape doing something to help out occasionally. I couldn't leave all the moral high ground to Sybil; she might have been lonely there."

He found himself smiling slightly, despite everything. She seemed so determined for everyone to see her as cold and heartless, but her actions now told a different story, and he had only to think of the conversations they had shared to know she was not at all the ice queen she had first appeared to be: her strange, encouraging openness when they had met in the church, her quickness in rescuing him from difficult conversations over dinner, the realisation that she might love and care for her daughter after all, and of course her words to him that memorable evening when they had broken so many of the barriers between them and laughed together over the salty pudding… Perhaps too soon to say for certain that anything is beyond repair…

He couldn't tell where the façade ended, and the real Mary began.

"Papa is home, but he doesn't know you're here," she said after a few minutes' silence. "And I know you didn't want me to tell anyone, but I think you should see Dr Clarkson. You look terrible."

"No. No, I'll be fine," he said quickly.

How could he possibly explain to her his dread of being prodded and poked by yet another doctor? How could he make her understand that he had spent months having people look down on him with pity as an invalid and a cripple, and that he never wanted to see that look again? How could he tell her how painful it would be for her father to see him like this after Cousin Robert had spent weeks taking each tiny encouraging sign of further recovery as an event worthy of comment and celebration, so clearly delighted at every hopeful indication that his heir would not always be a cripple?

"This happens a lot," he tried. "It will pass. But… thank you. For not telling."

"I can get you into the car without anyone seeing, I think," she said, without acknowledging his gratitude. "Anna is the guardian of greater secrets than this, and Branson will be… discreet." There was something odd in her voice as she said that.

Branson. The chauffeur. Cousin Sybil… Don't go there.

"What time is it?" he asked. The thought of moving made him want to cry, but he needed to get home at some point, and Mary could only hide him away for so long before someone noticed. What a ridiculous situation he had put her in.

"Almost five," she replied.

God, he had been asleep for almost two hours. He would have to leave soon, or Mother would send out a search party. That really would complete his humiliation.

"I should go," he said.

"Wait until the aspirin starts working," she advised. "Half an hour or so."

"Alright. Half an hour."

"I'll go and tell Branson," she said.

He gave a low hum of agreement. She left. He felt oddly bereft of her presence.

Branson, of course, was perfectly discreet. Mary did not believe the man actually liked her, but he had reason to make himself useful to her, and he was not a stupid man.

And as she watched him giving Cousin Matthew a firm, steady arm to lean on as he struggled on the gravel as they walked to the garage to avoid the attention the front door would attract, she thought that perhaps Branson wasn't just looking after his own interests. He seemed to genuinely want to help this man he didn't even know, to truly care that he was in pain and needed help, and yet managed to do it all without a hint of pity, which she knew by now Cousin Matthew hated more than anything.

She would never approve of her sister's future husband, and she would always wish Sybil had made an easier choice. But Branson seemed to be a decent man, and she felt a growing, grudging respect for him. It would all be a terrible mess when it came out, and the scandal would cling to the family for years to come, but she could no longer believe that Sybil had made a truly terrible choice. Just a terribly naïve one.

She wondered what Matthew thought of Branson. Whether he thought of him at all. He was probably in no state to worry about it now, but would he wonder later why Branson had been so willing to help? Was he already wondering every time he was at the house why Sybil was on first-name terms with the chauffeur? She really must speak to him about what he had overheard that day on the path, and as soon as possible, but it seemed so impossible to broach the subject.

As she came to know him a little better, she was beginning to think that Cousin Matthew might actually be an ally rather than an enemy to Sybil's plans, but the whole situation was going to require such careful management, and she would rather not have any unknown elements interfering. And she wasn't entirely certain she wanted him to support Sybil's questionable decisions when there remained the remote possibility that she might change her mind before it was too late.

Perhaps she ought to speak to Sybil about it. And yet she felt a strange reluctance to do so, a sense that it would be pointless, because Sybil didn't know Matthew as well as she did. No, Sybil would never handle the situation as well as she could.

Next time she saw him, she decided. Next time she saw him, she would find out what he knew and tell him… something.

Although with her trip to London planned and appointments with several promising lawyers arranged for next week, she might not see him for some time. If all went well, she might be away several weeks.

But she need not worry about it now. Matthew might wonder, might even suspect the truth, but he would never say anything, she was quietly confident of that.

"Thank you again, Cousin Mary," Matthew said as he settled into the car with Branson's help.

"It's nothing," she replied, and she meant it.

"It's not nothing," he insisted. "You have no reason to be kind to me, and I can hardly blame you for resenting me so bitterly. So thank you."

She inclined her head slightly, uncertain how to respond. She didn't think she did resent him so bitterly now, not anymore. She resented the reason for his presence, resented his resistance to their way of life, resented the ease with which Papa had come to trust him more than her, but her bitterness... that was reserved now for the entail, and everyone who had refused to fight for her. Papa foremost among them.

"Goodbye, Cousin Matthew," she said. "I hope you will be well again soon."

"Goodbye, Cousin Mary," he replied, giving her a soft smile despite the tightness in his jaw that told her he was still in pain.

She stepped back, and nodded at Branson, who closed the door as gently as possible, surely trying to minimise the pain the noise would cause his passenger.

"Thank you, Branson," she found herself saying as he opened his own door.

He looked at her for a long moment, studying her expression and trying to measure her sincerity. She didn't make it easy for him.

"You're welcome, Lady Mary," he replied carefully.

She almost said something at the clearly deliberate replacement of his usual 'milady' with this less deferential form of address, but she stopped herself. He was testing the waters, seeing how far he could go, and it was terribly impertinent. But he was going to marry Sybil, and she was allowing it, and one day, if she was to remain as close to her sister as she hoped, she would have to form some sort of cordial relationship with her brother-in-law. She gave him a small nod, and his lips twitched into a small smile.

He jumped into the car, closed his own door carefully, and she stood back as he drove away, leaving her standing alone, feeling strangely open and vulnerable after her strange afternoon.

She suddenly wanted to see her daughter again. Nanny would frown at her for disturbing Lily's schedule, but she would not allow a servant to put her off seeing her own child. Perhaps she could dismiss the Nanny for the evening, feed Lily herself, put her to bed and take a tray in her room afterwards. Avoid the trial of dinner with her family. Yes, that was exactly what she wanted to do, and if Mama and Papa complained, she need not worry about it. She would be in London in only a few days anyway, and free from her parents' constant demands and judgements.

She walked back towards the house quickly, anticipating happily the thought of the familiar warmth and weight of her little girl in her arms.

"What about you? What about your heart?"

"Haven't you heard? I don't have a heart, everyone knows that."

"Not me, milady."

Author's Note: This is far longer than I intended, and consequently took longer to finish off and edit than I had planned for... But I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you again to all my lovely readers for sharing in my enjoyment of this story, and especially to everyone who has taken the time to leave a review.

Next chapter, Matthew finally meets Lily!