Hello everyone! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed the last chapter or gently prodded me regarding when this chapter might be ready - it's the best motivation in the world to know people are still interested.

I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long, but now it's finally finished, I hope you enjoy! You might want to go back and re-read the previous chapter to remind yourself of what's going on...

Chapter Nine: Disappointment

July 1918

The unseasonable summer rain drummed relentlessly against the windows, drowning out the crackling of the fire and the heavy footstep that accompanied the Earl of Grantham's equally relentless pacing. The downpour had been constant since it all began, just after breakfast the day before, and Robert's pacing had paused only briefly for unwanted meals, unsatisfactory rest, and desperately needed drink.

Mary was having a hard time of it. Even Robert, in all his blessed ignorance of such matters, could tell that. This was a time dominated by women and the knowledge only they possessed, and they were thankfully telling him very little of the details of what was taking place upstairs, but it had been more than a day and a night now, and the activity surrounding his daughter's bedroom had increased in the past hour, signalling that the end was drawing near.

This was the fifth time he had done this now, taken his place downstairs with Mama for company and waited for news that was always too long in coming. Three daughters and Edith's little boy, and now this. It never got any easier.

And of course, this time, there was so much more riding on the outcome. He had always wanted a son, of course, but there had always been the possibility of another pregnancy, another baby, another chance at an heir. For Mary, that could never be, and the future of Downton rested on whether this baby was Patrick's heir, the future 8th Earl of Grantham, or a daughter who would have to be passed over in favour of a stranger.

Even after all these months, Robert was unable to quite accept that Patrick was gone forever. The boy had only ever lived at Downton for the first year or so of his marriage, and he had been away so much during the war that his absence did not feel unusual, and certainly not permanent. Without a body to bury, without a date to mark his death, without any opportunity to say goodbye beyond a painful and inadequate memorial service, so like the one held for James after he had been lost on the Titanic only a few years before, it never quite felt final.

Today, he could not forget for one moment that it was absolutely, completely, and inarguably final.

If the child was a girl, and he had prayed and hoped and wished so terribly hard that it wouldn't be, the letter he had already written to the next heir would be sent.

The son of a doctor. From Manchester of all places. What a strange place the world was that the third cousin he had never known had been a doctor.

Of course, even this distant cousin who might be the heir was not a certain prospect. He was in France, a Captain on the front lines, and that was not a safe thing to be. If anything happened to him, they would have to search even further afield to find the next distant cousin. Mama had said something about chimneysweeps and labourers, and while Robert doubted it could possibly be quite that bad, he would really prefer never to find out.

And it all depended on the child his daughter was bringing into the world at this moment.

Mary had been completely closed off about everything since that first telegram had arrived. She had pushed herself on through morning sickness and exhaustion that had left permanent dark circles under her eyes, had sat stoically through the memorial service and accepted everyone's condolences without visible emotion, and even in this past month when she had been visibly uncomfortable, her movements slow and heavy, she had carried on. She had not cried once that he had seen. But nor had she smiled, or seemed in the least bit interested in the baby she carried, except for her determination that of course it would be a boy.

And today they would find out.

Murray was here, and although it was due to chance rather than design that his visit had coincided with the baby's birth, Robert had asked him to stay, so that everything could be settled as soon as possible. It was all impossibly complicated, with the entail, and Patrick's will, and what remained of Mary's settlement, and the fact that Patrick had only ever been heir presumptive, and the uncertainty about the child and the possibility that everything would have to go to some stranger who, for all they knew, could be blown to pieces at any moment. Having Murray here was a great reassurance and a help, although Cora thought it in rather poor taste to have him here at such a time, when they should be glad of any grandchild, even if it was a girl.

He took a long sip of whisky, barely noticing the taste he usually savoured. There were bottles of champagne lined up and ready to be opened in the event of the birth of an heir, and what he drank now hardly mattered.

And then suddenly the door was opening, and there was Cora, looking a little dishevelled, but clearly here to impart important news.

"Well?" he asked quickly, meeting her halfway across the room as she came towards him.

"It's over, and Mary is as well as can be expected. Sybil's with her now."

He relaxed a little, but couldn't leave it at that. "And the child?"

"She's perfect," Cora said, her voice too bright to sound quite natural.

"She?" Robert asked unnecessarily. He had heard her perfectly well.

"A beautiful baby girl," Cora confirmed, trying to smile. Robert had to look away.

What should have been happy news was the collapsing of the last pillar of the pre-war world. After everything he had done for Downton, everything he had given to ensure its future and the futures of his eldest daughter and his heir, it had all come to nothing. His beloved home would go to a stranger who could not possibly care for it as it should be cared for, and Mary and her child would have nothing.

"Damn," he said under his breath. He turned away and went to the window. The rain persisted, blurred and distorted by the tears he would never dream of letting fall. What a complete bloody mess.

"Robert…" Cora tried, coming up behind him, "I know you're disappointed, but she's a lovely baby. She has the most beautiful blue eyes, just like Patrick's. And surely now you must see that you have to try to break the entail. For her, and for Mary. You must…"

"It can't be done," he said shortly. "A daughter cannot inherit the title. Even if it were possible to do something about the money, I could never make the next Earl of Grantham a landless peer, or split and ruin the estate. The entail cannot be broken, Cora. This is the end of it."

He turned to Murray, unable to even look at his wife, acutely aware that it was her money that was lost as well as his home. "This is it then. We must send it," he said gravely.

"Yes, my Lord," Murray said.

"There really is no other way?" Robert asked one last time. He knew the answer, but he had to be certain.

"No. I'm afraid not."

"Then do it. Send the damned letter."

The fortunate Captain Matthew Crawley would be his heir, and Mary and her daughter would be left with nothing. He had rarely been so disappointed in his life.

He was so preoccupied, so sad and angry and confused at the mess the war had made of everything, it did not occur to him until much, much later to go and see the baby that had changed everything by being born a girl or the daughter who had laboured for two days only to be confronted with endless disappointment.

By the time he remembered that he had a new grandchild, Mary and the baby were asleep, and when he went up to see them, the hired nurse was fiercely guarding their rest. He would have to wait until later the next day.

And then, the next day, Murray had urgently needed him to sign something and look over some investments, and then Clarkson had needed to look at Mary again (Cora told him it was nothing to worry about, perfectly normal after a difficult birth, he wouldn't want any details…), and then it had been dinner time, and suddenly it was late, and he had missed Mary's brief windows in which she was able to receive visitors yet again.

He would regret it profoundly, and would apologise sincerely that it had taken him so long to find the time to see them, but by then, the damage would already be done. Lady Mary Crawley did not forgive easily.

1919

Matthew pushed himself up from the bench and stood for a few moments in the dappled sunlight. After a long session pouring over maps and plans and accounts, it was wonderful to be out in the fresh air and sunshine, and despite the ever-present ache in his back and legs, he still relished the novelty of this freedom, of being able to move, to walk, to roam where he wanted with nobody hovering over him and no need for assistance beyond that provided by the stick he still relied on.

And yet the thought of succeeding in the search that had brought him to be wandering the grounds of the Abbey was as terrifying as it was thrilling, and it was with difficulty that he forced himself to set off again, heading in the direction of a secluded bench Cousin Robert had directed him towards.

Cousin Robert had not seemed to be particularly surprised when he had asked where he might find Cousin Mary, and had seemed pleased to be able to direct him towards the spot where she was likely to be found, as well as a couple more of her favourite places where she might be if he couldn't find her there. He had eyed Matthew's single stick with concern for a moment, seeming to realise that if he was to search each of these locations it would become quite an expedition, but he had seemed beyond delighted when Matthew had explained that he was working on managing longer distances with less assistance.

Of course, Cousin Robert didn't know that the reason he wanted to see Mary was to thank her for all she had done when he had his headache, and he certainly didn't know that only a few minutes into his search, Matthew was already beginning to doubt the wisdom of his confident assertion that he could manage such a distance on uneven ground with so little support. He had already had to stop at the first bench he saw that wasn't visible from the library.

Robert was always kind and understanding, never showing the impatience he must surely feel at Matthew's slowness and inability to do something as simple as climbing a stile when they went on their tours of the estate, but he seemed so convinced that his heir was recovering remarkably well, Matthew had barely been able to look him in the eye when he had expressed a wish to see Mary. If Robert knew the truth of all that had happened only a few days ago, he would surely be so terribly disappointed.

As if Matthew was not enough of a disappointment as it was.

But it was not truly Cousin Robert who concerned him now.

He had spent the past few days in an agony of anticipation, desperate to see Cousin Mary to thank her and apologise for the trouble he had caused her with his humiliating infirmity, and yet mortified at the thought of seeing her again after she had seen him in such a state. She was always so elegant, so perfectly poised and in control, and he was forever embarrassing himself, proving over and over again what a disappointment he was as heir, what a poor substitute for her dead husband.

And yet she had helped him that day with such calm competence, such a welcome absence of pity, he hardly knew what to think. She had seemed to understand so easily his terror of being seen in such a vulnerable and pathetic state, and had gone to such lengths to keep him hidden from prying eyes, he hardly knew how to thank her.

They had been getting on better in recent weeks, he thought, but he had done nothing to deserve such kindness. And still she had given it, incongruous as it may have seemed with her usual cool detachment and dismissal of the struggles and troubles of anyone except herself.

He realised he had reached the dense patch of shrubbery behind which Cousin Robert had told him he would find the bench Mary favoured and paused for a moment, afraid both of seeing her and of the possibility she wouldn't be there. He very much doubted she wanted to be disturbed, but he would be working for the next few days, and he could not leave it much longer to speak to her.

He stepped forwards, and peered cautiously around the thick bushes, then froze as he heard a familiar laugh, followed by a delighted, childish giggle.

The sound caught him by surprise, but it only took his brain a second to catch on. Of course. Cousin Robert had mentioned it, but he had been so focused on the thought of meeting Cousin Mary, he had forgotten that she was out with her daughter.

His heart gave a strange leap of excitement. He had been curious about the child since he had learned of her existence, but ever since the night Cousin Mary had come down late to dinner with the faint scent of baby powder and sweet milk mixing with her perfume, he had hardly gone a day without thinking of his sharp, distant cousin as a mother.

He took another step. Then stopped, transfixed by the scene that greeted him.

The bench he had been searching for was unoccupied, but in front of it, a pale blue blanket had been spread out on the grass. And sitting on it, impossibly, was Mary. Her black clothes stood out in stark contrast to the soft colours of the warm, hazy day, but her unguarded smile seemed to banish any thoughts of grief or mourning. And sitting in front of her, the fortunate recipient of such a lovely smile, was a baby, dressed in white, waving pudgy little arms in the direction of her delighted mother.

He didn't mean to watch, didn't mean to intrude upon their privacy. But as he stood by the bush and watched the cold and careful Lady Mary laughing as she moved a toy horse across the rug while her daughter crowed in delight, he didn't dare intrude on this little sanctuary, this little space where Lady Mary apparently melted her ice queen heart and became human.

Predictably, he ruined it. His back gave a sharp twinge, and he tried and failed to contain a hiss of pain as he shifted awkwardly to try to ease the pressure in his lower spine.

He cursed himself silently as he realised he was far too close for this to have gone unnoticed, but it was, of course, too late.

Cousin Mary startled slightly, then turned towards the sound. Her eyes met his, and she stood up hurriedly.

"Cousin Matthew!" she cried, her eyes wide with surely more alarm than was warranted by his appearance.

Except, he realised, he was still part-way behind a bush, and he had been spying on her. A perfectly reasonable reaction on her part, then.

He stepped sheepishly out into full view and came towards her. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was looking for you, and I heard you, and… well, I didn't want to intrude, but…"

"You though you would spy on us instead?" she demanded, her cold mask sliding back on so easily and completely he began to doubt he had ever seen the soft smile she had given her daughter.

"I'm sorry," he said again. He winced at another spasm from his back and shifted his weight again, beginning to quite seriously regret his confidence in his ability to wander across the grounds with only one stick.

She caught him, of course. "Sit down," she said. An order, not a request, delivered with an air of impatience.

He limped over to the bench and sat. She sat next to him.

There was silence for a long moment, until the baby, clearly feeling the loss of her mother's attention, gave a loud, impatient cry and launched herself towards Cousin Mary's legs.

Mary picked her up and bounced her a little on her knees, and the baby quietened almost instantly. Mary's expression softened infinitesimally.

There was another awkward silence. Matthew watched the baby, unable to look at her mother.

"Might I be introduced?" he asked after a moment.

Mary turned and looked at him oddly for a moment, then seemed to decide he was serious and turned the baby in her lap to face him.

"My daughter, Elizabeth Crawley. Lily, darling, this is Cousin Matthew."

She didn't say 'Cousin Matthew, the man who is here to steal your home and fortune', but he heard it all the same.

"I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Elizabeth," he said formally. He felt completely out of his depth, trying to make a joke of the awkward formality of it all, but unable to work out how.

His greeting was returned with a loud "Babababa!"

Matthew was startled into laughter, and was surprised when he looked up to see Cousin Mary on the verge of laughter too.

"We're still in the early stages of working on her manners, I'm afraid," she said.

"I think her manners are delightful." Everything about her was delightful, from the blonde fluff on her head, to her impossibly large blue eyes, to the grass stains on her white clothes that told of an afternoon of freedom from the strictures of the nursery.

"Of course you do," Cousin Mary said, rolling her eyes, "but thankfully for her future prospects, I have higher standards." He smiled, knowing somehow that this comment on his manners was playful rather than a continuation of the completely serious criticisms she had flung at him in the early weeks of their acquaintance. Perhaps it might even qualify as a joke.

"I'm sorry for spying," he said. "I was up at the house to have the meeting I was supposed to have with Cousin Robert the other day when I… well, anyway, I wanted to see you, to thank you for what you did then." He couldn't quite look at her as he spoke, and focused instead on watching the baby grabbing at and apparently trying to eat the beads of Mary's necklace.

"I told you, it's nothing," she replied, detaching her daughter from her necklace without even looking down. "Please don't feel you have to make anything of it. I'm glad you're feeling better."

He nodded. "It's not nothing. But yes, I'm perfectly fine now."

She seemed to be about to reply, but at that moment, the baby seemed to lose interest in the necklace she was being repeatedly denied access to, and started wriggling in her mother's arms. Mary struggled for a moment to hold her, then gave in and set her down on the rug to play with her toy animals. There seemed to be a whole farmyard, Matthew realised, as well as a rather out-of-place elephant.

Mary turned back to look at Matthew.

"And I suppose you're forgiven for the spying. If I am to sit outside, I suppose I must accept the risk of being found."

"Ah, so the shrubbery is intended to keep unwanted company away. I thought it might be."

"It didn't do very well at keeping you away," she commented, her tone unreadable.

"Am I unwanted?" he tried, watching her carefully.

Her eyes widened a little and she swallowed noticeably.

"I haven't quite decided," she said finally.

She held his gaze for a long moment, her eyes challenging him, and he felt his heart pick up at the thought.

They both looked away at the same time when the baby – Elizabeth - let out another loud shriek and startled Matthew a little by tugging hard at his trousers. He looked down to see her gazing up at him with impossibly clear blue eyes. She squealed and held out a toy horse to him, wriggling excitedly as she sat and looked up at him. He glanced at Mary, but her polite smile gave nothing away. He turned back to the baby and took the offered toy, and was thanked with a few words of incomprehensible babble.

"Is this your horse, Elizabeth?" he asked. "It's a very handsome one."

The baby continued to babble happily.

Matthew glanced at Mary again, then back at her daughter. Feeling more than a little ridiculous under Mary's scrutiny, he started to move the toy across his leg towards the baby, trying to imitate a horse's trot. That won him the most delightful giggle he had ever heard, and he did it again. And then again, and again, and then with his best attempts at the sound of clopping hooves, and every time, Elizabeth's happy, bubbling laugh made him want to carry on forever.

And then, without quite knowing how it happened, Matthew was on the floor, leaning on the bench with his legs stretched out in front of him, making animal noises while the baby giggled and squealed and handed him each of her toys in turn so he could make the appropriate sound for her. He knew he must look ridiculous, and his back would pay for it later, but it was better than awkwardly leaning down to reach every toy that was given to him, and Elizabeth seemed so very happy with his efforts, he knew he would never regret it. There was nobody there to see apart from Mary, who had seen him in a far more humiliating position, and it seemed a very worthwhile cause to lose his dignity to.

He was fairly sure he even heard Cousin Mary laugh when he attempted to snort like a pig. An even more worthwhile cause to sacrifice his dignity to.

Eventually, the baby seemed content to sit still and suck the tail of her toy horse, and Matthew looked up to see Cousin Mary watching them both with a distant smile on her lips that didn't seem to match the melancholy expression in her eyes.

"You're good with her," she said quietly.

Matthew looked up at her, unsure how to respond.

"She's easy to play with," he said honestly.

She frowned, and he wondered what on earth she could object to in what he had said. He looked away awkwardly. She was absolutely his favourite person to talk to, but she was so prickly sometimes, how was he supposed to have a comfortable conversation with her?

"Is she?" Mary said, sounding mystified by his simple statement.

"I like children," he explained. "And babies are very sweet and easy to amuse when they're not crying. And Elizabeth here seems to be quite happy at the moment, so…"

"Lily," Mary said softly. "I call her Lily." She smiled suddenly, a small smile, but a beautifully fond and tender one. "And believe me, she does cry when she wants to."

"I suppose all babies do," he said. "But she's a lovely child, truly."

"Thank you." She picked up her daughter and pressed a light kiss to her little forehead. Elizabeth – Lily - giggled happily, and Mary did it again before setting her back down on the rug. She watched her daughter for a moment, then looked away.

"She looks like her father," she said, her voice oddly distant.

Matthew didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

"He never met her. That's the worst of it," she continued. "I know she looks like him, but he never even knew she existed."

"I'm sorry," he said woodenly. What could he possibly say that was not painfully inadequate? The war had destroyed not only his generation, but little Lily's too. How many children must there be left with a missing parent, or no parents at all?

Lily crawled over to him and started trying to climb onto his legs. His aching muscles protested, and he grit his teeth as he helped her onto his lap. But when she was settled, she stopped moving and seemed content to sit there calmly, enjoying her new seat, and she was light enough that her weight barely bothered him.

"He would have loved her," Mary said, her voice still distant, detached. He understood that. Without maintaining some distance, how could one get through the day, with the pain and loss always there, threatening to overwhelm and drown out the rest of the world?

"Everyone would love her if he was still here, if there was a chance she would have a younger brother," she continued.

"Surely your family love her now?" he asked hesitantly. "I understand it must be hard, but even so, she seems… so terribly easy to love."

"She was a disappointment to them," she said, barely repressed fury evident in her voice. "She will always be a disappointment to them. As I am."

He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," he said woodenly, knowing how painfully inadequate it was to say it.

Mary gave a small sigh, as if dismissing the pointless sentiment.

"I mean it," he said, twisting slightly to look directly up at her from his position on the floor, ignoring the protests of his back. "I've said it before, and I know my saying it again won't help. But please know that I realise it's an impossible situation for you, and if there was anything I could do to change it, I would. You are far more capable of running the place than I will ever be, and Lily deserves the world. The law, the entail, this whole situation is wrong, I'm sorry to be part of it."

Mary stared at him, her expression unreadable. "You mean that, don't you?"

"I'm not in the habit of saying things I don't mean," he said, perhaps a little defensively, and it stung a little that she could be surprised at his honesty. Had he ever been anything but honest with her?

She looked away, smiling a smile that was so sad and distant, he wasn't sure how it was a smile at all. "I'm afraid I am," she said after a moment.

"You're what?" he asked, confused yet again by her cryptic way of talking around a subject.

"In the habit of saying things I don't mean. Or at least, I mean them at the time, but later…" she shook her head, barely a twitch. "I hope you've learned by now never to listen to a word I say."

He frowned. "I don't believe I have learned that. You have a great many interesting things to say, and I rather enjoy listening to them."

Her eyes widened at that, and he wondered how anyone who seemed so proud could be surprised at such a small compliment.

"When we argue, do you truly believe that I agree with every point I fight for?" she pressed. "Because I don't. Perhaps I believed in things once, I don't know, but now…"

He looked at her for a moment, trying to understand why this conversation felt so meaningful. "Our debates wouldn't be nearly as interesting if we agreed, would they?" he tried.

That won him a proper smile. "No. I don't suppose they would. And I do like a good argument."

"Then perhaps we should see more of each other," he said, the words leaving his mouth before he had time to think through what he was saying.

She was silent for a moment, watching him, her expression inscrutable. Then she looked away, and Matthew was sure he caught another smile on her lips before Lily wriggled a little and forced him to turn his attention back to her.

He released her back to the rug, then began the laborious process of pulling himself back up to sit on the bench. He could not regret playing with little Lily, but he would be grateful to be sitting comfortably again. He had been working on getting up from the floor with Sister Cooper in his physiotherapy sessions, but he wasn't quite there yet, and only by using the bench, and with some assistance from Mary, was he able to get back up, sit with relief, and lean back, slightly breathless and trying to ignore the pain in his back.

"You shouldn't feel you have to do everything she wants, you know," Cousin Mary said after a minute. "She's very sweet, but she can be quite the little tyrant when she wants to be."

"I'm afraid I'm already too far gone in falling for her charms," he laughed, still a little breathless. "And Sister Cooper would probably be pleased to see me doing some exercise outside of physiotherapy sessions. I'm not always as diligent with it as she would like."

"Perhaps you should spend more time with Lily then. She'll keep you as active as you like."

He watched her carefully, trying to judge her sincerity. "I'd like that," he said carefully.

"Nanny would disapprove of you spoiling her, but I find, more and more, that I don't particularly care what Nanny thinks," she said. "Or anyone else, for that matter." She sighed deeply, closing her eyes and looking terribly weary.

"Nobody ever talks about her," Matthew commented, watching the baby suck on her horse's tail. "Lily, I mean," he added awkwardly, "Not the nanny."

"She makes them uncomfortable," Mary replied, her voice a little too light to be quite natural. "She's a reminder of Patrick, and they can't forget that the only reason things are as they are is because she's not good enough because she's a girl."

Matthew stared at her. Was this the first time he had heard her say Patrick's name? He thought it might be, and he felt unbalanced somehow, as yet another forbidden topic fell between them.

But before he could work out what to say, Mary sighed deeply. "Sybil loves her, of course," she said fondly. "She could never be disappointed with a girl. She hopes Lily will be of the generation to grow up with equal rights for women, without having to chain herself to railings or end up in prison being force-fed semolina. I'm sure you've noticed that she's become rather political."

Matthew inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. "And you? Are you at all political?" he asked.

She considered for a moment. "Sometimes." He didn't know what to say to that, but after another pause she continued. "I don't know if you knew, but Patrick used to work at the Foreign Office. He gave it up to come and live here when we married, to come and learn about the estate, to be the heir. But they called him back when the war started, and I went with him. It was difficult not to be political to some degree when I was hosting dinners for his colleagues."

He watched her, intrigued. "You enjoyed it," he said, suddenly certain of it.

"I did," she agreed. "It was the first time I had lived away from Downton."

"But you didn't stay?"

"No. It was hardly worth keeping the house open just for me, when there was no reason to be there anyway. And there was so much to do at Downton, with so many men disappearing off to war. I was the future Countess, it was only right that I was here, to do what I could to keep it all going. Jarvis was too old to be sent to fight, of course, but he's never been particularly proactive, and so much was changing so quickly…"

He was ashamed yet again at how wrong he had been about the lives of his Downton relatives. He had been so sure that they would leave all the difficult parts of running the estate to lawyers and agents and anyone else who could spare them any effort or exertion. Yet Cousin Robert seemed to live and breathe his love for Downton, and Mary had taken on responsibility for her husband's inheritance before it had even been hers. And now it would be he who benefitted from her efforts.

"I'm sure you were magnificent," he said. "I'm only just beginning to realise how much work goes into keeping the place going, but it's… a lot."

His comment was greeted with the same wide-eyed surprise he had seen earlier, and again he wondered how she could possibly be surprised by the barest acknowledgement of the hard work she had surely put in to help keep such a large house and estate running efficiently during a war.

Unsure if he had said something wrong, he changed the subject.

"What about your views on women's rights? Do you agree with Cousin Sybil?"

"I believe women should have the vote on the same terms as men, and I believe any law that says Lily is not the equal of any boy is wrong. But I can't quite share Sybil's optimism. I think change, when it comes, will be slow, and the pace will be set by men. And it won't come quickly enough for me. Maybe not even soon enough for Lily to benefit as much as Sybil thinks she will." She smiled. "But I think Lily will prove anyone who doubts her wrong. She is named for the greatest queen this country ever had, after all."

"I'm quite sure she will one day be quite capable of defeating an Armada," he said, smiling at the determined little girl.

"Queen Elizabeth had very little to do with that, you know," Mary said. "Whatever the stories say. Even a queen can't control the weather."

"And yet we can almost believe she was capable of directing the winds. It's a good story."

"But she is also remembered for her favourites, for Lord Dudley and the rumours… the questioning of whether she was truly the Virgin Queen… that's hardly a sign of strength and bravery. Hardly a story to be proud of."

There was a strange catch in her voice as she said that, and again, Matthew got the sense that the conversation was somehow more meaningful to her than it was to him.

"I suppose you've read Kenilworth then?" he said, sure he was somehow missing the point. "But you still named Lily for her."

"I think the good she did and the strength she showed outweighed the rumours," she said. "Nobody is perfect, I suppose, and I was making a point with the name. About the unwanted daughter becoming her father's greatest legacy."

Matthew's heart clenched as he thought of it, of Mary holding a tiny newborn baby in her arms and knowing that all her hopes for her future were ruined. And making sure that everyone would know how unjust it all was.

"I like her name," he said quietly. "It suits her. A strong, regal name, and a softer nickname for those who love her. And," he added, "nobody in history is ever quite as brilliant or as terrible as they seem. They were only ever people, flawed as we are."

"I don't think anyone is quite as they seem," she agreed. "Not only in history, but…" She sighed. "Everything is always so much more complicated than it first seems."

There was a long silence then, contemplative rather than awkward.

They both looked down suddenly as Lily threw her toy horse under the bench and couldn't reach it. She started to wail, then gave a plaintive cry of "Mama!". Matthew blinked, staring at the baby.

"I didn't realise she could talk," he said, watching in surprise as Mary found the little horse, handed it back to Lily, then picked up her daughter and bounced her on her lap. "I had thought she was rather young for it." Then, feeling rather embarrassed about his ignorance, "Is that a stupid question? Sorry, I confess I know next to nothing about babies."

"Oh, believe me, I know what Nanny tells me and nothing more. But she is rather clever," Mary said with evident pride. "She is young to be talking, I think, but she's only got as far as 'Mama' and some indistinct babbling that sometimes sounds like words. She might have said 'ball', but it was only once. We're working on 'horse', aren't we darling?"

Lily seemed to realise she was being addressed, and demonstrated her verbal prowess by letting out a stream of delighted babbling as she held out her toy horse and waved it around in her mother's face. Mary had to lean back a little to avoid being hit.

"Then I suppose I'll have to start trying to teach her 'bike', if I am to persuade her over to my side early," Matthew said, watching the baby, still rather in awe at the fact that this was Mary's daughter, that this happy child had be born in such difficult circumstances, and yet seemed to be loved so deeply by her mother.

How had he ever thought to judge her for being a poor mother, when he had known her so little?

"I don't believe she's ever seen a bicycle," Mary replied with a smile. "You won't win on this, I'm afraid."

"Is that a challenge?" he asked, deciding to take it as one anyway.

"If you like. Although I warn you, you're in competition for Lily's next word with Sybil as well."

"Oh? And what is Cousin Sybil trying to teach her?"

"'Aunt Sybil'. Which I think is probably too difficult, but I suppose Sybil wants…"

She broke off, and took a sharp breath, seeming to catch herself in the act of saying more than she intended. Matthew could almost see her walls going up again as her expression stiffened and she looked away. He didn't know what to say.

Then she turned back to him, all levity gone from her tone and expression. "Sybil wants Lily to remember her."

Matthew watched her carefully. "Is Cousin Sybil going away?" he asked

Mary sighed, and looked away from him, shifting Lily in her arms slightly. "I don't know how much of a surprise this will be to you. Certainly less than it was to me when I first found out. I know you heard something on the path that day we met near the village."

He was reminded suddenly of Ireland and Sybil's politics and that strange conversation he had half-overheard… you've never even been to Ireland… you must learn to call him Tom… I want you to know each other…

"I didn't hear much," he assured her quickly, embarrassed about his unintended eavesdropping. "But I heard enough to know it was none of my business. Don't feel you need to tell me anything you don't want to."

"Everyone else will know soon enough anyway," she said with a sigh. "I think I'd rather that you know than leave you to speculate. Sybil intends to marry Branson. You mustn't say anything, because nobody else knows, but they're determined that it will all come out soon."

"I see," he said, feeling rather lost.

"Do you?" she asked sharply. "Do you see what this will mean for us? For the family? For you, now, I suppose?"

"I might not be part of your world, or understand all its rules," he replied. "But I do realise that this… will break a lot of those rules." He still wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to respond, unable to work out quite what Mary's view of the matter was.

"And you're… what, letting her? Helping her?" he asked tentatively.

She turned back to him, her rolling her eyes. "Nobody has let Sybil do anything since she started training as a nurse."

"But you're not stopping her?"

She didn't answer directly, and shifted Lily in her arms again before replying. "I want her to be happy, and she says Branson is the best chance at happiness she has ever been offered."

He studied her expression carefully, increasingly certain that she was not quite as opposed to Cousin Sybil's plans as he might have expected her to be.

"I suppose the war has taught us to seize any hope of happiness we are presented with," he said quietly. "If we are lucky enough to be presented with such a hope."

Her face remained a mask of disdainful detachment, but something in her eyes changed. She didn't reply, and there was a long, difficult pause. Matthew had no idea what to say, and Cousin Mary seemed determined not to respond to his statement.

Only when Lily tried to pull her mother's necklace, and had to be forcibly detached from the beads, did the atmosphere lighten a little. Matthew offered to take the baby for a moment, and Mary accepted gladly, both of them close to laughing again at Lily's apparent devastation at being denied the necklace yet again.

Matthew tried to distract himself by focusing on Lily, helping her stand on his legs while he held her up, but he couldn't quite ignore the additional glimpses of pale, impossibly smooth skin he was granted as Mary adjusted her blouse to tuck her necklace inside it. He swallowed hard and looked at Lily again as he searched his mind for something to say.

"I suppose your father will be very angry?" he asked finally. "About Cousin Sybil."

"We're expecting a volcanic eruption on the scale of Vesuvius," she said wryly.

"And you? Are you…"

"I'm not angry, if that's what you're asking. But of course I would stop her if I could."

Matthew said nothing to that, feeling as if he didn't know anyone involved well enough to comment.

Lily reached for her mother, and he handed her over.

"You don't seem very shocked," Mary commented after a moment, watching him curiously.

"It's none of my business. I don't know Cousin Sybil well enough to say how it will be for her, giving up all of this, but if she believes she will be happy, it's not for me to have an opinion."

"You're a rare man to think so," she said. "Most appear to believe it their place to have an opinion on everything."

Matthew gave a small shake of his head. "I don't believe that's a trait entirely reserved for men."

"Perhaps not entirely," she acknowledged. "But it certainly seems to be a trait most commonly associated with them."

"Perhaps. Although you have met my mother."

"I'll concede that, I suppose." She almost smiled. "My grandmother too. I dread the day Granny finds a common cause with Cousin Isobel."

"I'm not sure there's much danger of that," Matthew said. "They seem too busy battling it out to find a single thing they agree on." Although he did rather suspect Mother was enjoying her eternal war of words with Cousin Violet, and that perhaps the Dowager Countess did not mind so very much either. Mary probably had a good point.

"Apart from interfering in my life," Mary said, with just a hint of bitterness. "They've taken different approaches, but they do seem to have that in common at least."

Matthew's heart clenched as he remembered her expression as she had caught his eye across the room in her silent plea for help that night of the salty pudding. She did not deserve the judgement of others, and he had been one of the worst culprits, and he had to show her how strongly he felt about it.

"Then you should know I've spoken to her," he blurted out. "Mother, I mean. About giving her opinion on how you want to live your life. I'm not sure how much it will help, but I think she will give you a break at least."

She tilted her head slightly, watching him closely. He felt rather hot under his stiff collar, and wished she would hurry up and say something. But she was Lady Mary, and she would not be rushed, and finally, her expression shifted a little, a barely perceptible softening around her dark eyes. "Thank you," she said sincerely.

He swallowed hard, feeling an unaccountable urge to reach for her hand. "It's your life," he offered. "It's not for anyone else to have an opinion, unless you ask for it."

"My life? I only wish it were!" she said incredulously.

He blinked at her, surprised. He opened his mouth to say something, to ask what she meant, but she continued without prompting.

"Women like me don't have a life, and certainly not a life of our own," she said, frustrated and resigned at the same time. "We spend our youth stuck in a waiting room until we marry, and then just as we hope our life is about to begin, we find that all the freedom we have gained is entirely at the mercy of our husbands' whims. If our husbands die, we wear black and grieve, become chaperones for the younger girls, and perhaps look after children. But unless our husbands leave us property and independent fortunes, it's just another waiting room, except this time we're waiting either to remarry, or to die. Always dependent on someone else."

Matthew looked down, ashamed. "I've made you angry," he said apologetically, shaking his head in annoyance with himself, but still unsure quite where he had gone wrong.

She looked up at him with an expression that was startlingly unguarded; not quite a smile, but something like one. "My life makes me angry," she said with a small shrug, "not you."

Matthew felt his throat get tight, and could think of nothing to say. Sometimes it felt as if every time he came closer to understanding her, to breaching the walls she appeared to have put up around her heart, he would realise he had been approaching it in completely the wrong way.

He had erected his own walls, of course. Every man in France had needed to. There were some things that were simply impossible to speak of, and others that could be spoken of only when one's protective walls were strong enough to keep one's emotions closed off at a safe distance from the conversation.

But where he had built walls, she seemed to have built impenetrable fortresses. He wanted to know her, to understand her, but it seemed that her walls were protecting something too painful to be exposed, and he wondered if it was wrong of him to try. She seemed so open in that moment, but in her openness was a startling vulnerability that reminded him of the first time he had set eyes on her, too pale and too thin, and looking so impossibly unhappy…

And yet here they were, sitting together with the daughter she rarely spoke of, enjoying the sunshine together and sharing thoughts that were more personal and meaningful than he had ever believed possible when he had first arrived. They no longer needed their unspoken rules of engagement, no longer needed to keep to an argumentative script in order to enjoy each other's company.

And now, as they sat in silence, it was not the silence of an inability to connect, but a silent acceptance, a moment when they were comfortable enough in each other's company not to need to say anything more. And despite all that still remained unspoken and misunderstood and broken between them, it was… nice.

Finally, Mary spoke again, her voice soft and melodic.

"I should go in now. Lily's almost asleep."

Matthew remembered that voice. When his headache had been so bad that even his own voice had hurt him, hers had seemed to wash over him in soothing waves.

He turned slightly, and looked down to see the baby cradled in Mary's arms, her eyelids drooping adorably as she struggled to stay awake. He realised she had been so quiet for the past few minutes, he had almost forgotten she was there.

"Of course," he replied, imitating Mary's soft voice as best he could. "And I should ask them to call the car round to take me home. Mother will be wondering where I've got to."

She tilted her head slightly. "You won't say anything to Branson? Or to anyone else?"

"Of course I won't. It's none of my business, and none of anyone else's who doesn't already know. I'll stay well out of it unless you need me for anything."

"Thank you," she said sincerely.

Lily had finally given up the struggle to stay awake and closed her eyes, and Mary shifted the baby in her arms so she was rested her head on Mary's shoulder. She stood up carefully.

"Goodbye, Cousin Matthew," she said.

"Goodbye Cousin Mary. And tell Lily I said goodbye too. It seems rather impolite to have failed to do so myself before she fell asleep, especially after we were so formally introduced."

Mary looked as if she were trying not to laugh, and Matthew felt his heart soar at the knowledge that he could do that to her, could bring that wonderful light to her eyes that was so rare to see.

"I'll be sure to convey your best wishes and compliments, and I'm sure she'll receive them with gratitude."

They shared another smile, and the next moment, she was gone, carrying her sleeping daughter back towards the house.

Matthew watched her until she disappeared from his view, then sat for a while longer, happier and more at peace than he had been in a long time. Perhaps there were subjects they still could not touch on without pain, but surely now, after meeting her lovely daughter and sharing such an interesting conversation, after being let into her sister's secret and trusted to keep it to himself, their alliance and fellowship had become, quite definitely, a friendship. And there was nobody in the world with whom he would rather be friends.

I won't bore you with long explanations and excuses but suffice to say moving house and a long recovery from covid haven't left much time or energy for writing. I'll do my best to have the next chapter out as soon as possible though.