Hello readers! I know it's been forever - I've been letting the perfect be the enemy of the good on this chapter, in addition to having a very busy year, so I've decided I just need to get it posted! The last scene has been written for years, one of the first parts of this story that came together for me, so I hope you enjoy it! Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who has left reviews, especially months after the chapter was posted - I would never have found the motivation to finish this chapter without them.
Chapter Eleven: A Suitable Heir
Mary was four years old, and she had a new sister. She liked this one a lot more than the last, but nobody else seemed to agree. Nanny was busy, Mama was still in bed, and Papa was disappointed. Mary didn't understand, not properly, but she knew the baby should have been a brother.
It only took a few days of hiding and eavesdropping to work out that she should have been a boy too, and that there might not be any more sisters or brothers now, and that this was a bad thing.
Girls, she learned from her various hiding places behind curtains and under desks, were disappointing. She herself, along with her sisters, were disappointing. And there was nothing she could do about it.
Mary was nine and Papa was leaving for South Africa.
"You look after your sisters," he said, trying to sound cheerful. Mary could see that he wasn't.
"Even Edith?" she asked, glancing back at her sister, who was weeping and wailing like a baby banshee.
"Especially Edith," Papa confirmed. "She understands more than Sybil, but she's not old enough to be strong like you are."
"I'll look after Mama too," Mary promised, suddenly feeling herself stand straighter to bear the responsibility she was being entrusted with. Papa would be gone, but he knew he could trust her to be strong and brave, and she would never let him down, she would do everything he said, and maybe if she was good enough, she could be head of the family one day instead of silly Cousin Patrick, who cried almost as often as Edith did and had once got lost on a walk around the estate. "And the estate, Papa, I'll look after everyone at Downton, and I'll ride to the farms like you do, and…"
"Don't worry about all that, Jarvis and Murray will take of everything," Papa said quickly. Mary felt something inside her shrink and deflate. "You just concentrate on being good for Mama and kind to your sisters." He took a steadying breath. "I know you'll be strong, my darling girl."
Mary bit her lip and swallowed her objections. Papa was leaving, and she didn't want their last words to be cross. "I will Papa," was all she could say.
And then he was pulling her into his arms, holding her close in a way she could never remember him doing before, and she squeezed him back and wished the moment could last forever. It didn't.
Mary was ten when she looked up the word 'entail' in a dictionary (Papa was still away, Cousin James visited more often than anybody wanted him to and never kept his voice down). She was thirteen when she read Pride and Prejudice, and fourteen when she was informed that she was to marry Patrick, and why. He was no Mr Collins, but the injustice of it all was infuriating.
She argued with Papa, and then with Mama. She slammed the door on Edith before she could start yet another row. She cried alone in frustration at the injustice if it all.
And then she made her decision, decided on her priorities, and went to Papa to ask to be allowed to join him and Patrick the next time they went out on estate business. If she was to be Countess to Patrick's Earl, she would make sure she kept up with knowing as much about the estate as he did, because even at fourteen, she could see that Patrick would never understand Downton as she did.
Papa just smiled at her, apparently amused by her very serious request. "Don't worry about that, Mary. You just watch your Mama, and she can show you all you need to know about running Downton. I'll speak to Fraulein Kelder and you can be excused from some of your lessons. You won't need to concern yourself with all the farms and the finances of it all, Patrick will have that all in hand when the time comes."
Mary did not want to be excused from her lessons to follow Mama around, but her protests fell on deaf ears. When Patrick went for a ride around the estate with Papa the next time he visited, Mary was left helping to plan a dinner for some of the dreary neighbours to celebrate Patrick's arrival for the holidays.
Mary was sixteen, and Anna was putting the finishing touches to her hair, styled in a far more grown-up fashion than she was accustomed to. Patrick was home from university, and he would be seeing her for the first time in months. She had to look the part as the future mistress of Downton.
She met him and Cousin James in the library, and was pleased when Patrick stared at her in awe.
She was happy to see him, and glad he seemed happy to see her, and he had so much more to say now he had been at Oxford for a year, even if it did seem he had spent more of his time playing cricket than reading books. He was watching her with a new interest, an interest she was beginning to find she enjoyed from men even if she hadn't yet had her first Season, and he seemed happy to listen to her talk about all manner of topics. She had missed him.
Cousin James was largely ignoring her, which was exactly what she preferred, and Mary felt quite pleased at the prospect of having Patrick here for another summer now he seemed more willing to speak to her as an adult.
But of course it couldn't last. It didn't take long for discussion to turn to the new farm machinery being trialled on the Harris Farm, and Papa was quick to suggest taking Patrick to see it.
"I can show him around," Mary said eagerly, desperate to spend as little time with Cousin James as possible. "We can ride." Patrick really was at his best on horseback, laughing and competitive and joyful, and if she didn't exactly care about farm machinery, she did feel she ought to know what was going on in the farming of the land that would one day be hers.
Cousin James laughed, barely glancing in her direction as he turned to Papa to give him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "Oh Robert, what have you been teaching her? I hope you're not raising a little country farmer or worse, a bluestocking who thinks she understands business because she once read a book about it." He turned to his son and sneered. "Although I suppose if Patrick's exam results are as disappointing as we expect, he might need a woman's help to manage the estate."
Papa said something conciliatory, encouraged Patrick to keep trying and that university exams weren't everything, defended Mary.
But the only part of his speech she remembered later was his promise to her that she needn't worry: he himself would show Patrick the fields where the new machinery was being trialled. Mary and her knowledge of her own home were irrelevant.
Mary was twenty-four and a woman now, a wife, and she knew well enough that asking Papa would get her nowhere. So when she saw the way things were going on the estate as the war stole away all the young men and the money and left no enthusiasm for anything beyond the immediate needs of feeding the country, she spoke to her husband instead.
And as he always had done, he listened patiently but little interest. The business of running the estate bored him, and it was clear that he was baffled as to why she might actually want to be involved. It didn't matter; she didn't need his interest, or his understanding, only his cooperation, and she was quite accomplished by now at persuading him.
And so the afternoon before he was to leave, yet again, for the front, they stood around the table in the library and studied the large map of the estate Papa had laid out.
"Are you sure about this?" Papa asked, looking between Mary and Patrick.
"Yes, Papa," Mary said immediately. "I want to." She turned to Patrick and widened her eyes.
"Yes," he agreed quickly, "I don't know how long I'll be away, and I trust Mary to know what's best."
It took a little more persuasion, but in the end, it really was that easy; all she had needed to allow her some say in the estate that had been her home all her life was her husband's support and her father's willingness to grant his heir any wish it was within his power to bestow. Patrick wanted his wife to be his representative, and Papa wanted Patrick to be happy, and whether Jarvis liked it or not was largely irrelevant.
And the next time Patrick was home, when Mary had read and read about the dullest of topics, had made the great sacrifice of spending several hours in Edith and Anthony's company, had slowly come to realise quite how much had been hidden from her about the way Downton functioned; when she had been forced to recognise the ways the money was slipping away with nobody to stop it, when she had seen the old men and exhausted widows trying and failing to scrape a living from farms that should have been profitable, she had the beginnings of a plan.
The first step, the step she discussed with Patrick even in her letters to him at the front, was to sort out Papa's investments so that the dissolution of a single company wouldn't ruin them all. Stocks and shares were Patrick's domain, possibly the only useful thing Cousin James ever taught him, and it wasn't hard for him to convince Papa when Murray was already strongly in favour of change.
Then she decided they needed a better plan for the separate farms to cooperate with each other to share what little labour and equipment was available. That, she could accomplish herself. She still knew very little about the day-to-day realities of farming, but she didn't need to; all that was needed in the end was someone to be there to oversee it and referee disputes and organise a system that it turned out most of the farmers wanted to try anyway. It worked, and she glowed in Papa's praise and pride.
And then, when Patrick was home again, there to stand next to her and repeat the words she had said herself in a way Papa might listen to, she could bring up her next plan.
"We need to renovate the cottages," she said as they stood yet again over a map. So many of the tenants she had spent so much time with recently couldn't manage the land anymore, and it would be cheaper to give them a cottage and for the estate to farm the land properly. Of course, that was too radical for Papa to cope with in the immediate future, but the cottages would be the first step, and then they could manage it all gradually without frightening off Papa and Jarvis with too anything too radical.
Patrick loyally agreed, and Papa acquiesced easily enough, pleased as they all were with the dividends from the new investments.
"I will supervise it," she said, surprised at how simple it all seemed. "I have the time, and I'm living here now. I can manage it."
"Mary, my dear, I don't think you quite understand what a commitment this would be. We'll find a way to manage it without having to bother you."
Mary barely refrained from rolling her eyes. "I do understand, Papa. We all have some form of occupation now, we have to, and you know I'm not suited to nursing or charity work."
Patrick had snorted with supressed laughter at that. She had shot him a glare, but there was little malice behind it.
Papa could hardly argue with that, and so it was decided.
And as Jarvis coughed and complained and worried, Mary looked over at her husband to see him smiling in a way that matched her triumphant mood perfectly. She caught his eye, and they smiled together, sharing what was perhaps their first moment of connection and unspoken understanding as a married couple. Mary thought of all the infuriating married-couple-looks her parents had shared over the years and almost laughed.
Perhaps, if they were fortunate, this might be what awaited them when the war was over.
They were not fortunate.
Downton Abbey, 1919
Friday
Mary's new shoes were digging into her feet. They were beautiful, expensive, and perhaps the only good thing to come out of her trip to London, and even they were causing her pain.
It was a small problem in the scheme of things, but on top of everything else it was enough to make her want to scream.
London had been an unmitigated disaster. She had tried everything she knew to try, had spent over a week enduring smug London lawyers with their stifling offices and ridiculous fees and insincere apologies, had spent endless evenings in loud restaurants trying to charm anyone and everyone who might be able to help her, and all for nothing.
And now, instead of coming home to the sympathy and concern which she might actually have wanted in the wake of such a disappointing week, she was being bombarded with endless praise of yet another lawyer.
She had seen it coming, had known that Matthew's presence made her superfluous to requirement, but somehow, in the curious flush of excitement and comfort she had found in his company, she had allowed herself to conveniently forget. She had let her walls down, just a little, lonely in her carefully guarded fortress of anger and grief, and finding it so impossibly easy to trust him with his soft, lopsided smiles and his startling honesty. And all that had happened was that she had been proved right in her need for the walls around her heart as the shock of the sting made it all the more potent.
Because in the ten days she had been away, it appeared Matthew had filled the hole left by Patrick and become a son to Papa. And just as Patrick had once been, Matthew was present in the house even when he was absent, and Mary was invisible again.
"Matthew's adjusting so well," Papa was saying now. "I admit I was worried when he first arrived, but he's doing so much better. He's a quick learner, very clever. I suppose his being a lawyer might be a benefit in some ways."
At least nobody else seemed to have anything to add to Papa's rhapsodising, but Mary was unsurprised when he continued regardless.
"He has so many questions, I don't have the answer to half of them. Of course, the tenants don't know him like they knew Patrick, and he can never quite make up for not having spent his childhood here, but it helps that he was in the war, and he's such an easy person to like. He'll be right at home in no time."
Mary concentrated on her food, quietly seething. Having lots of questions was obviously considered a virtue as long as it was dear, perfect Matthew asking them. If she ever tried asking anything that threatened to suggest she might be on an even intellectual footing with the men who knew everything, she was told it was too complicated for her or that she mustn't worry about it. She could no longer find it within herself to be surprised by double standards, but the sting of it never went away.
"I'll see him tomorrow, of course," Papa continued. "Shall I invite him to dinner? Cousin Isobel too?"
"You do remember we're going to lunch with the Leightons tomorrow Robert?" Mama asked.
"I can't, I'm afraid. Matthew wants to see the cottages, and I don't want to put him off. He's really showing an interest, and I think with his guidance we'll get back to work on them."
Mary looked up sharply. Nobody noticed.
"You'll restore a few every year from now on?" Mama asked.
"I think we will," Papa said eagerly. "It was Matthew's idea to keep on with it. Of course it was Patrick's project to begin with, but with everything that's happened, it's been rather neglected. Jarvis was reluctant, but I'm pleased we'll be going forward."
Mary almost dropped her fork. Patrick's project? In what possible world had it been Patrick's project? And in what warped version of reality had the cottages been neglected for any reason but that her input had no longer been wanted after Patrick's death?
Had Papa really forgotten so easily his pride in her initiatives, his reluctant but growing willingness to listen to her and see her as her husband's partner and equal? Or had she imagined it all, seen what she wanted to see? Had Papa simply been indulging her, believing Patrick to be behind all her ideas?
"I'm so glad. It will be wonderful for the people who'll live in them," Sybil said softly before Mary could find the words for her indignation.
"You'll be glad to hear that Matthew's conscience is much more energetic than mine," Papa said with an easy smile.
Mary gripped her glass too tightly, and the wine sloshed about and almost dripped onto the tablecloth. Oh yes, Matthew's conscience. Nobody had been interested in praising her conscience when she had first taken the dilapidated hovels in hand to make them habitable.
"But Robert, must it really be tomorrow? It will be the first time we've seen Agnes and Harold since poor Harry was killed. How could you forget the date?" Mama asked, exasperated and apparently unaware of the importance of the issue that was truly at stake.
"I'm not entirely sure you ever informed me," Papa replied irritably.
"Of course I did. I sometimes wonder to if you listen to a word I say. Of course, if you think showing Cousin Matthew around some cottages when Jarvis could do it just as well is more important, I can make your excuses," Mama said sharply. "I'm sure the Leightons will understand perfectly well that you have more important things to do than seeing them for the first time since they lost their son."
Papa seemed to puff up in indignation. "Cora, you know perfectly well I don't intend to be dismissive, but we really must get on with the work now we've decided to do it, and I've already arranged it all with Matthew. You know he works during the week, so it has to be tomorrow. It's so good to see him taking a real interest, and he's right, we can't leave the cottages in the state they're in."
And that was it, the final straw. Of course he had apologised for it all, but it seemed that in her absence, Matthew Crawley had replaced her, replaced Patrick, overwritten the efforts and successes of the past and pushed in to take the lauded place of heir. The son Papa never had.
Matthew had taken over her project, and Papa was letting him, and it seemed as if they had forgotten she even existed. They had certainly forgotten that extent of Patrick's part in the renovation of the cottages had been to persuade Papa that it would be worth the expense, and then to sit around sharing a hipflask of whiskey with one of the contractors when he had been home on leave.
She liked Matthew, it was impossible not to, but she had allowed his amiability, his vulnerability, his fellowship in grief to blind her to the fact that whatever they might both wish, he was the very opposite of an ally.
It might not be Matthew's fault, or not entirely, but Mary could not remain blind to the realities of his position any longer.
And he needed to know exactly what he had done to lose her trust.
"I will show him," she said, carefully maintaining her air of disinterest.
There was silence for a moment. Mary looked down at her plate, but knew without having to look that her parents, who had been at odds only moments before, were exchanging a look.
"You don't need to worry yourself about that, Mary," Papa said gently. "I know Patrick involved you in some of his plans, but you don't need to feel you have to carry on with it now."
Mary carefully set down her knife and fork, and looked levelly at her father, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Has it not occurred to you," she said icily, "that I might want to be bothered with it?"
Again, her comment was greeted by silence, and Mary's carefully controlled fury only increased. "You know perfectly well that Patrick was away in France far longer than he ever actually lived at Downton. You cannot possibly be unaware of the fact that he left me to manage his duties to the estate in his absence. But it seems to have slipped your memory that I have ever been or could ever be more than the wife and daughter who failed to produce an heir."
"Mary," Mama placated, "Your father only means that you don't need to worry about all that anymore. I'm sure you did a wonderful job during the war, but Matthew is here now, and things are different."
"You can hardly think I have failed to notice that things are different," Mary said coldly. "But Cousin Matthew wants to see the cottages. I was in charge of supervising their renovation. I am clearly the most appropriate guide for him."
She looked carefully at Mama, and then Papa, making it clear that the discussion was over. They exchanged another of their infuriating married couple glances, and seemed to agree to leave the conversation at that. How ridiculous it was that her parents found their soundest common ground in their alliance against her.
But she had won this battle. That counted for something.
Saturday
Matthew had spent less than thirty seconds in Mary's company before he noticed she was angry. It took him only a little longer to realise it was somehow his fault, and for the vague, unspoken hopes he had been cherishing since he had received her note that morning to be crushed unceremoniously.
He had hardly been able to believe his eyes when he had read the note informing him that Mary, not Cousin Robert, would be his guide to the cottages he had wanted to see. The tone had seemed rather curt, but it was such a short note, probably written in haste, he had thought little of it, and his heart had leapt at the thought of a few hours spent in her company, working together on the project that was now occupying his mind almost as much as Mary herself.
He had not seen her since that day in the garden with her delightful little daughter, and he had been so looking forward to seeing her again. It had felt that day as if they really were on the edge of friendship, both of them smiling more than they had ever done in each other's presence and laughing at Lily's antics.
He was quite certain he had never heard anything as sweet as Lily saying 'Mama', or seen anything that had made his heart lift quite like Mary's soft smile when her daughter wanted her attention.
He had missed her desperately while she had been away in London. The way she occupied his mind no longer felt like a haunting, but was the greatest comfort he had yet found since the end of the war, even when he was worrying about how she was coping with the difficult memories brought up by what must surely have been a difficult time of year. And although he didn't quite know how to tell her, or whether it was wise to do so at all, his new interest in the estate, and thus the cottages, was all for her and Lily.
And yet somehow, two weeks later, without seeing her or speaking to her or thinking ill of her, he had offended her. She was angry with him, and he was at a loss to figure out what he had done.
From the moment he had climbed awkwardly into the car, she had barely spoken a word to him, and the bare minimum that was required to maintain some hollow imitation of politeness had been spoken in icy tones he had not heard since his first days at Downton. He had racked his brains to try to think of a single reason her demeanour towards him could have changed so dramatically, but he could think of nothing. It stung more than he had expected.
The sting was made worse by the memory of the way his spirits had lifted when he had read her note and dared to hope that she might actually want to spend time with him. He had read the short note over and over, tracing the elegantly formed letters, and had unthinkingly placed it in his breast pocket. It was there still, a treasured symbol of hope and connection. Meaningless now. It had only been a few hours.
He should have known better.
The car stopped, finally, and Mary was apparently desperate enough to be away from the forced proximity of the back seat that she was stepping out of the car even as Branson came around to hand her out.
But even as she seemed unable to bear his presence, he caught her exchange a look with Branson as she nodded delicately in his direction, and a moment later, Branson was there to unobtrusively help him haul himself up and out of the car. Matthew did not know what to think.
He carefully got his balance with his sticks, thanked Branson, then turned back to see Mary staring off into the distance. Pointedly ignoring him? Giving him the privacy he needed to struggle to his feet? Assessing the health of the field she was turned towards? Daydreaming? He didn't know how to even begin to guess.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, and she turned with an air of impatience. His breath halted for a moment as he took in the sight of her, so perfectly at home and in control here, holding a folder of maps and papers and dressed in perfectly tailored tweed.
More surprisingly, she wasn't wearing black. He hadn't noticed at first, too distracted by the cut of her suit and the way it fit her slim body so perfectly to think about the colour, but now, in the sunlight, he could see that it was a very dark grey rather than black. The difference was subtle, but it was there. He wondered if it meant anything, if it signified a first move towards half-mourning, or if she simply didn't own the appropriate clothing in black.
He dare not ask, and she probably wouldn't appreciate him even thinking about it when she was cross with him. She looked beautiful either way.
She didn't seem to notice his admiration, and turned her attention to the row of cottages in front of them.
"These are the ones that are half-finished. There's a row nearer the village that was finished a few years ago, and there are more in a terrible state that have barely been looked at in decades. I thought these would be the best place to start, as a few months, maybe even a few weeks, would have them ready to live in." She paused, turning to him and flashing a smile that looked more threatening than friendly. "But of course, it's up to you. You might have a better idea."
"No, that makes sense," he said, trying to avoid saying anything that might antagonise her further.
She ignored him, and led the way to the house at the end of the row.
"The roofs were finished just before the work stopped on them, so at least there shouldn't be any water damage from that. These drainpipes need replacing, of course, but it looks as if they've held out well enough."
Matthew followed her gesture to look at the drainpipes, but they just looked like any other drainpipe to him. How on earth was one supposed to know if they needed replacing? And was he supposed to be able to tell that the roofs were new?
She didn't linger outside, and took a key from her pocket to open the front door. It creaked badly, and she sighed irritably.
"That's what comes of leaving work half-completed," she said under her breath. She led the way in and Matthew followed in silence. He struggled a little as his foot caught on the unexpectedly high doorstep, and only made it up on his third attempt. It was surely a measure of Mary's unexplained fury that she barely glanced around to make sure he didn't actually fall.
He had hardly realised how accustomed he had become to Mary's usual consideration for his slower pace and difficulty with steps, but he missed it now it was gone.
She said nothing about his stumbling as he righted himself and followed her cautiously through into the kitchen, and neither did he. But when she started talking, explaining about the water and the cupboards and the oven, he could hardly take in even the most basic of information as he wondered how it was possible for him to have done anything in her absence to explain her coldness. How had they gone from playing with her daughter and talking so openly in the garden to this?
"Are you even listening?" she asked, the sudden iciness in her voice breaking through his muddled thoughts.
He gave up pretending. "I wish you would tell me what I've done."
She stopped walking and looked at him coolly. She was obviously not going to make this easy for him.
He shifted his weight and adjusted his grip on his sticks, as if a more secure stance might provide some emotional bolstering.
"I know there's something. I might apologise if I knew what I was supposed to be sorry for."
"It would hardly be a sincere apology then," she said. "You cannot possibly be genuinely sorry for something without knowing what it is."
"Then tell me!" he said, exasperated.
"Is it truly such a mystery to you? Are you actually that blind?"
"Obviously I am," he responded heatedly, "given that I have no idea what you're talking about!"
They glared at each other for a moment, before she spun on her feet and led him into the next room without a word.
She started explaining about the half-finished joinery work on the rotting beams, and Matthew forced himself to pay attention, to remember why they were there and try his best to ignore thoughts that were irrelevant to the task at hand.
"How did they manage to find enough workmen to get this done during the war?" he dared to ask, hoping such a question couldn't possibly offend her, and genuinely curious.
"We had to be creative," she said shortly. "There were plenty of wounded men who could manage parts of the work, if not everything. With the right setup, there's a lot you can do without legs. And of course we started before everyone was conscripted. And we paid them well. We found ways."
Matthew stared at her, remembering his fellow patients at the convalescent home who had feared they'd be unable to go back to their old jobs even if their disabilities weren't so very catastrophic. And yet here, Patrick Crawley, apparently closely assisted by Mary given how much she knew about it all, had employed such men and thought it good sense and creativity, not mere charity. And it had apparently worked too, even if it had come to an end when Patrick died.
He was going to say something, to tell her how important it must have been to those men to have been given employment, when it occurred to him that perhaps he had stumbled across the reason she was so angry with him; the work she had clearly thought was important had stopped when Patrick had been killed, and now here he was, standing yet again in her dead husband's shoes.
"Cousin Mary," he started cautiously, unsure if first names were still a privileged they shared between them, "I'm sorry if it was wrong of me to take on Patrick's project. I thought… I thought it was the right thing to do. To honour his wishes to have it finished. But if I was wrong, then I'm truly sorry, and I…"
And there he was stuck. Perhaps he should promise that he would give it up if she asked him to, perhaps that would fix whatever had been broken between them, perhaps it was the right thing to say.
But he couldn't say it, because now he had seen the half-finished work and realised how comparatively easy it would be to make a significant difference to the accommodation available on the estate, he didn't believe he could, in conscience, give it up. Even now he knew it had upset Mary.
But he needn't have worried. She wouldn't let him finish the apology anyway.
She gave him one her spectacular eye rolls. "Do you actually believe Papa about Patrick's saintly devotion to the estate? When was he supposed to have done all of this, exactly? When he was spending every free moment riding and shooting and playing ridiculous schoolboy games with Billy Russell? When he lived in London? When he was in France?"
Matthew blinked, surprised. "I... well, I hadn't really thought…"
"Of course you hadn't thought," she said scathingly.
He didn't know what to say to that. He was surely missing something important about the whole situation, lost and ignorant about everything about Downton, from the family dynamics, to how much time it would have taken to supervise the renovations.
"Never mind. You'll work it out or you won't. We have work to do," she said briskly, before setting off again, her pace still less considerate of his carefully measured steps than he was accustomed to from her. He tried his best to keep up, cursing his damned back when his legs refused to comply.
He listened, mostly in silence, in awe at her unexpected knowledge of the way renovations were done, of the costs and workers and timescales. And after a while, when she seemed too focused on the renovations themselves to be angry with him, he dared to ask more questions. She knew the answer to almost every one, and if she didn't, she knew whom he ought to ask.
He had never seen her like this, brisk and efficient and knowledgeable. She was remarkable, and it was easy to ignore the apparent antipathy between them as they fed off each other's enthusiasm and started making firmer plans together.
The truth dawned on him slowly, with every new observation she made, every brief glance at the maps and plans she was holding, every authoritative statement about building materials and costs. She had told him, or near enough, that she had been involved in running the estate during the war. He simply hadn't put the pieces together or thought hard enough about the timings of it all to see the truth: that it was Mary's ground he was trespassing on in taking on the renovations, not her dead husband's.
"This was your project, not Patrick's," he said, unable to keep the thought to himself once he understood. It wasn't a question, really, and he didn't frame it as such. It was the only answer that made sense, that explained everything.
"It was," she confirmed, turning away from the plasterwork she had been looking at to look him squarely in the eyes. "Unofficially, of course. I saw the way things were going for other estates, and I was determined we wouldn't follow them. So I asked Patrick to speak to Papa, and eventually he allowed me to become involved in running the estate. As long as we maintained the façade that I was only representing Patrick's ideas." She looked away, and her tone became bitter. "It all ended after he was killed, of course. Nobody wanted my opinions when they were only mine."
Matthew's heart clenched as he thought again of how much more than a husband she had lost when Patrick had been killed. The estate and money and title, of course, but also the respect and independence her position as the future countess had apparently granted her. Again his mother's words to him all those weeks ago haunted him. Try to think for one moment about what it means to be a woman in a world full of power and wealth that can only ever be inherited or possessed by men.
Mary had been allowed a brief glimpse of what it felt like to possess even a limited degree of power and control over her destiny and that of the estate, and that could only have made it more painful when it was snatched away. Snatched away and given to him, a stranger who had done nothing to deserve it. No wonder she was angry with him, when even his attempt at an apology had been based on a complete misunderstanding of what had hurt her about the situation.
"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, "I'm sorry for taking it over, for being blind, for everything."
She watched him, her face impassive. He couldn't tell whether he was making things better or worse.
"You shouldn't have to give up on it," he said, his voice a little louder than he had intended. "We both know I haven't a clue what I'm doing. But you do. You have ideas, you made all of this work in the middle of a war, and if nobody else wants to listen to you, it will be their loss. I won't make their mistake."
She studied him for what felt like a long time. He felt suddenly very hot, and wished he had worn a lighter suit.
"You want my help in working on the estate that will never be mine?" she asked finally, eyebrows raised.
"I would make it yours if I could, Mary," he said, desperately hoping she would believe him. "But it can be your home forever if you want it to be. I don't know how long you will want to live here, but you will always have a place at Downton as long as I'm alive. I'm sorry we live in a world where I have to make that promise to you, but I mean it. And if you want a say in the estate, please know I will listen, and you won't need to pretend your ideas are somebody else's."
She finally looked away, walking over to the dirty window to look out.
He wanted to follow her, to comfort her, but she had walked away, and he doubted she particularly wanted his comfort at the moment. All he could think to do was keep apologising.
"I'm sorry if I've taken over your project, and I know I won't manage it nearly as well as you would. But it's the people who will live here that matter in the end, and whatever you may think of me and my views on the world, I do believe we agree on this. Help me with it, Mary. Carry on with what you were doing."
"You sound rather like Sybil, caring so much about the people who will live here," she said without turning away from the window.
"And you don't care?" he asked.
"I care about nothing but my own comfort and advantage, haven't you heard?" she said sharply.
"I have heard. But I trust my own judgement more than I trust the second-hand judgements of others. A lawyer's bias against hearsay, maybe. And I've seen little evidence that your character matches those judgements."
She did turn back to him at that. "I can't decide whether that's arrogance or good sense."
"Well I'd call it good sense," he said, "but then, of course I would."
That won him a smile, and he wondered if they were finally getting somewhere close to an understanding and reconciliation. But she led him on to the next room before he could get a reply out of her, and it seemed the discussion was closed.
He tried to listen as she explained something about the chimneys, but he heard perhaps half of it. Realistically, less than half. All he could do was watch her, unexpectedly in her element talking about building repairs of all things, and wonder what sort of idiot could fail to appreciate her for all that she was, all her sharp edges and fierce intelligence and determined competence.
Finally, they went outside, both of them blinking at the sudden change in light. She sat down on the old bench next to the door, and Matthew wondered whether it was for his sake as he lowered himself down next to her, trying not to groan in relief as the strain of standing too long eased a little.
"I do care," she said eventually. "Or at least, I'm not indifferent. But it's… rather difficult to explain."
"We have time, and I'm listening," he prompted.
She looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Growing up here… it gives you a different perspective on things. I don't care in the way you and Sybil do. But our tenants are our responsibility. These houses are our houses for our people, and it's only right that they're in decent condition. And we need… needed some of the older tenant farmers to move into them so we could farm the land more efficiently. That's it, the extent of my altruism. Don't expect anything else."
"I suppose for the people who live in the cottages, the reason their houses are in good condition matters much less than the fact the roof doesn't leak," he said carefully.
"Perhaps," she said.
They sat in awkward silence for a long minute, but when Matthew found the courage to look up, Mary was smiling at him.
"What?" he asked.
"I was just thinking how different you are from Patrick," she said, her tone unreadable.
He frowned. He was perfectly aware of that. He could never forget for a moment what a poor replacement he was.
She must have seen his uncertainty his expression, because she shook her head.
"I don't mean that in the way you think I do. He was my husband, and he was a good man, but he wasn't a saint. Believe me when I say you wouldn't want to be like him in every way."
"How do you mean it then?" he asked.
She sighed. "You listen. You look and think and make plans. You don't know anything about any of it, but you're genuinely interested, aren't you?"
"And Patrick wasn't?" he asked.
She tilted her head slightly as she thought. "Not really," she replied simply. Cryptic as usual.
Matthew thought about that for a minute. "I had always got the impression he was the perfect heir. With all these… projects going that you had to continue with when he was away. Or were they all your projects?"
"Oh, he was the perfect heir in Papa's eyes, certainly. He followed him around like a puppy, and Papa is rather fond of dogs." She laughed hollowly at her own joke, but her expression was wistful and nostalgic, and he wondered if she had perhaps found Patrick's behaviour rather endearing.
He watched her carefully, wanting to push to know more, but unwilling to interrupt.
"Papa had been taking him around the estate and involving him with almost everything since he moved here when we married, but Patrick just followed and nodded and smiled. The tenants all loved him, of course, and I do think he cared about them, as Papa does. But he never thought about any of it, never wondered about anything Papa didn't tell him about, never came up with his own plans."
"And he didn't… listen to you?" he asked carefully.
"He did," she said slowly. "But only because I was the one speaking. He used to think me so clever." She gave an unexpectedly bitter laugh.
"Then he had very good judgement," Matthew said sincerely.
"Yes, he did rather," she replied, sounding rather pleased. "On this, at least."
But that wasn't the whole story, he could tell. "But it wasn't enough?" he inquired.
"Tell me, if a woman listened to you only because she found you attractive, if she hung on your every word, however stupid an opinion you were expressing, would you believe she meant it when she said you were clever?"
Matthew stared at her.
She looked away. "Patrick thought I was clever, for a woman. He thought I was brave, for a woman. He loved me, as a future countess. I suppose in the way my father loves my mother. And they're happy enough."
"But it's not what you want?"
"I hardly matter what I want now, does it?" she snapped.
"Of course it matters," he insisted, "It matters a great deal. A very great deal."
She turned back to him, eyes wide, and held his gaze for a long moment.
"I think you may be the only one who thinks so. But thank you." She sighed before continuing,
"Patrick never understood Downton. I don't think he understood how estates worked at all, really. Papa tried of course. He was here every holiday as a child, but I suppose that was the problem. For him it wasn't work or duty. Downton to him was a paradise and a playground, somewhere to climb trees and swim in the lake and ride. A place for parties and sports. Somewhere he was free from his father, and wasn't at school."
Matthew frowned. "Cousin Robert mentioned his father… was he…?"
"Cousin James was a bully," she said bluntly. "Never to his equals or superiors, but always to his inferiors. And he had such a high opinion of himself, he seemed to have a lot of inferiors. Including all women and servants, and most especially his wife and son. Perhaps it makes me a terrible person, but I will admit to being glad he died before he could become my father in law."
She brushed her gloved hand across a patch of peeling paint on the arm of the bench, sending a flurry of dried grey flakes to the ground. It looked like ashes.
"Downton was an escape for Patrick. He thought his life here would be like a permanent holiday. But every luxury we have comes with a duty to care for the people and the land. My father taught me that. He taught Patrick too of course, and Patrick could parrot it back accurately enough, but he never understood."
"But you do," he said gently. "And Mary, I know I haven't given you much reason to believe it, but I want to know. I won't get in your way, but… I have wanted, for so long, to have something I can do, something I can change. Some way of rebuilding. It makes sense to manage this together. We can speak to your father about it if you like, or never mention it."
"There's no point talking to Papa about it," she said, the bitterness returning to her voice, even as her eyes showed nothing but sadness. "If he still wants to see it as Patrick's project, he won't care whether or not I'm involved."
Matthew didn't know what to say to that. Given what he had learned from Mary, and the contrast between her version of events and Cousin Robert's, he feared he did not know enough about the family to know whether that was true. He would bow to her judgement on the issue, for now at least.
"I wanted that too," she said quietly. Matthew blinked in confusion for a moment, and she sighed at him before continuing. "When I started the work. I wanted something I could do, something I could change and fix in a world that only seemed interested in tearing everything I knew apart."
"And you did," he said, something inside him aching as he realised quite how well he understood her. "You found something you could change, and you changed it. And I came along and accused you of being all stuck in the past and unable to change at all. I'm sorry I didn't see it."
She was watching him again, and he was glad when she didn't brush it off, didn't say that it was alright when it so clearly wasn't.
They sat in silence again for a long time before she spoke again.
"You're different now, from when you arrived," she said, her tone unreadable.
"How so?" he asked carefully.
"You're willing to see Downton as it is, to try to understand how you might live a life here. You're willing to change."
"I don't want to become a different person. I'll never be the heir I would have been if I had grown up knowing the place as you do." He sighed. "But if you don't change you die."
Mary rolled her eyes. "Plenty of people die anyway. You should know that by now."
From anyone else, the flippancy with which she said something so horrible would have angered him. From Mary, it made him want to apologise to her yet again for the injustice of her life, to help her see the light in such a darkened world, to protect her and comfort her and…
No. Best not to go there.
"I do know," he said gently. "But I'm glad you think I'm doing the right thing. You must know that your opinion on the matter is important. It should be you in my place, after all."
"You still think so? Even now you're coming to know Downton?"
"I think so with more certainty than ever. I don't need to believe it is mine by right to want to build a home here. Or to see the need for change."
She seemed to think about that for a long moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft. Wistful, perhaps.
"I used to be so frustrated with the world, to wish desperately for change, even if I never saw how it would be possible. Now, I sometimes think I hate change."
He knew instinctively that he had to respond carefully to this disclosure. "I think you have good enough reason to hold such an opinion, after the past few years. But," he added, gesturing to the cottages, "if we can manage to get these finished, at least we can comfort ourselves that this will still be here. Because we will have saved it."
And somehow, it seemed he had finally done something right, because she turned to look at him again, smiling properly this time.
"Yes. We will."
Monday - Offices of Harvell & Carter, Ripon
Matthew pulled out a fresh sheet of notepaper picked up his pen. This ridiculous contract was so complex, he would never remember its contents without detailed notes. In fact, he barely knew where to start with the notes.
These days, he no longer knew whether his work was actually difficult, or whether it was simply his inability to concentrate. It had been over four years since he had last worked as a solicitor, and so much had happened in that time, he barely felt like the same man. Starting at a new firm and dealing with very different companies and contracts than he had been accustomed to in Manchester only made things more complicated.
And here he was, getting distracted from his work because he was thinking of all the reasons he was so easily distracted. It was pathetic.
Of course, his job was unlikely to be at risk, however poorly he performed, as the firm had been quite desperate after so many men had been killed or permanently maimed by the war. It also helped that he was the heir to the Earl of Grantham, and shared the family's name, which was of course well-known and respected in this part of Yorkshire. But he had to prove to himself that he was still capable of working, that not everything about the man he had been before the war had been permanently destroyed.
He was finally making a start on his notes when his office door opened. He glanced up briefly and saw his clerk in the doorway.
"Someone to see you, Mr Crawley," he said.
"There's nothing in my diary," Matthew replied, barely pausing his writing as he tried to maintain his concentration.
"It's... it's Lady Mary Crawley, sir," his clerk said hesitantly.
Matthew's head jerked up, her heart suddenly racing. How could Mary be here, in his office, with no warning? This was the one part of his life that had so far been completely separate from his new family, and the last place he would have expected to see Lady Mary was his little office. How could he possibly face her here, now?
And oh God, he wasn't wearing his jacket. Damn, damn, damn. He pushed himself up to stand too quickly, forgetting how difficult it still was, and almost fell. He saved himself only by leaning heavily on his desk, and knocked over a pile of books in the process. Clumsy oaf, pull yourself together.
"Shall I show her in, sir?" his clerk prompted.
"Yes, yes, show her in at once," he said, cursing himself for not saying that immediately.
He took a cautious step back from the desk, still a little unsteady, and pulled his jacket from the coat stand. He was still in the process of pulling it on when Mary walked in, looking impossibly elegant in an embroidered black coat and a very fetching hat that framed her beautiful face so perfectly…
Pull yourself together, Crawley!
"Cousin Mary," he said, still struggling with his jacket. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Cousin Matthew," she said calmly, ignoring his clumsiness. She made no sign of intending to answer his inquiry.
"Please, take a seat," he offered, trying to gesture towards the chair on the opposite side of his desk while tugging on a sleeve. He nodded to his clerk to leave them and continued to battle with his jacket while Mary watched with slightly raised eyebrows. His ears and cheeks began to feel very hot.
"Wrong arm," she said after a moment.
"Hmm?" he asked. "I mean, pardon? Sorry, I…"
"You have your arm in the wrong sleeve," she explained coolly.
He stopped struggling and looked. She was right. Of course she was. He was certain his face was glowing in embarrassment by now. What must this look like to her, to see a grown man so flustered he couldn't put on a jacket?
He took his arm out of the sleeve, succeeded in putting the jacket on correctly, and finally sat down properly attired.
"I'm sorry," he said, a little breathless. "I… was not expecting anyone."
"That was obvious," she said coolly.
Matthew didn't know what to say to that. Somehow, it was always like this; Mary perpetually elegant and in control, him clumsy and flustered by her presence. What on earth must she think of him?
He braved a glance at her face, and saw to his surprise a glint of amusement in her eyes that belied the coolness of her tone. She raised her eyebrows slightly, and suddenly, they were back in the dining room at the Abbey, laughing at Sir Anthony and the salty pudding. He still felt a frightful fool, but his lips twitched, and so did hers, and they exhaled a breath of laughter together.
Smiling now, Matthew said hopefully, "I don't suppose we could pretend none of that happened?"
Mary took a moment to consider. "I'm afraid you're asking a lot of me, to forget something that may provide a source of amusement for many years to come when my thoughts grow dark."
"If remembering my fumbling will make you smile when you are in need of amusement, then I suppose I must allow you to remember it. Although I feel I must assure you that I can, on almost every other occasion, put on a jacket without difficulty," he replied, trying to disguise how sincerely meant his words were with an attempt at a light tone.
"I suppose I must take your word for it," she said, "given that you appear to have managed for most of your life without a valet."
"Yes," Matthew said awkwardly, not knowing how else to reply. He would be manging without a valet again very soon, he hoped. He had spent so many months being dependent on other people, he looked forward to the day he would be able to fully regain his independence. Molesley had been… well, Molesley had been there, and unfortunately very much needed, but once he was able to manage without help, Matthew hoped there might be a way to avoid having to tiptoe around the man's professional pride and dispense with his services as a valet, even if he really couldn't get rid of him altogether.
They looked at each other in silence for a long moment. It was so very odd having his cousin across the desk from him, and Matthew didn't quite know how to talk to her. She had made no indication as to whether she was here on a social call, or as a client, and he didn't know how to ask.
He still wasn't quite sure where they stood after their tour of the cottages. Mary appeared to have forgiven him for his many missteps and mistakes and they had tentatively agreed to work together. But then she had hardly spoken to him in the car on the way home, apparently deep in thought, and he had been wondering ever since if he had done something wrong yet again.
"I suppose this visit is rather unexpected," she said eventually.
Yes. Yes, it is, and I don't know how to deal with it.
"Yes. No. Well, perhaps a little, but I'm very pleased-"
"I need to consult a lawyer, you see," she said, interrupting his stream of confused words. "And I have found it difficult to go about finding a suitable one. But I believe you can help."
"Well, yes, I can certainly help you find-"
"No, I don't want you to help me find one. You're a lawyer yourself, and should serve my purpose well enough," she said.
He blinked a few times. "Of course I can help with whatever is required, but I thought Mr Murray would-"
She cut him off for the third time. "Murray is Papa's creature. I need someone who will work for me, and only me."
Deeply curious now, and unwilling to risk being interrupted in his floundering again, Matthew simply nodded for her to go on.
She looked at him oddly for a moment, a slight frown creasing her forehead. Then her brow cleared.
"I am going to find a way to break the entail," she said plainly. "If it takes the rest of my life, I will see my daughter granted her rightful inheritance."
Matthew stared at her.
"I realise it is an odd request to make to you of all people, but when we spoke in the garden, you said… that you thought it was terribly unfair, and when we spoke of the estate the other day, you seemed to understand what it means to me, better than anyone else ever has. And I know you may have felt you had to say so, but… I believed you."
"I do think it terribly unfair," he said immediately. He had thought so from the first, of course he had. The law was archaic and outdated and entirely unjust. "But surely this has been investigated already. The law may be wrong, but it is the law."
"I'll pay you the compliment that you do not wish to inherit just because nobody has investigated properly," Mary said.
"No, but-"
"Nor can Murray accuse you of making trouble when you are the one who would suffer most from a discovery," she continued, as if he had not tried to speak.
"You're right that I don't wish to benefit at your expense from an ignorance of the law," he said. "It's only that I cannot believe that Cousin Robert has not had this thoroughly investigated. I can't be the heir he would wish for, so my presence here must surely be due to an unavoidable necessity."
"Papa has given up," she said bluntly. "He was so certain Patrick's child would be a boy. As soon as Elizabeth was born, such a terrible disappointment to him, he was writing to you. Oh, he asked Murray to look into the terms of the entail, but keeping the estate, money and title together is more important to him than his granddaughter's rightful inheritance. He won't fight for me, or for Lily. So I must do it instead."
Matthew's head was spinning. He had never wanted this life, but now he was here, now he knew the estate and his new family, he felt an unexpected sense of fear and loss at the thought of it all being taken away. He wanted Mary to have what was hers, wanted little Lily to have everything he could give her, but the shock that the new life he was trying to build here might be torn apart again unsettled him deeply. His life had been turned upside down so many times in the past few years, he didn't know how to cope with yet another upheaval.
But the same was surely true of Mary. And the difference was that she only wished to regain what should always have been her inheritance, while he was benefitting from an unjust law. She belonged to the estate, to Downton, and it should belong to her.
"It would depend on the exact terms of the entail, and of the deed of gift when Cousin Cora's money was transferred to the estate," he explained, pleased when his voice came out relatively normally.
"That is what I need to understand: the exact terms. And then, we can work out what must be done to break it. If the law itself must be changed, I will do whatever it takes." Her tone was certain, confident, as if changing a law was nothing but an inconvenience.
Matthew felt a wave of admiration for her. Her determination, her willingness to do whatever was required to ensure her daughter's inheritance, despite everything she had lost, and her family's unwillingness to fight for her… She was truly remarkable.
There was no question, no dilemma for him.
"Then I will help you. I refuse to benefit at Lily's expense. Or at yours. The entail will be smashed, and Downton will be yours. I give you my word."
Author's Note: I'm not sure how many people are still reading this after such a long gap between updates, but I hope you're still enjoying the story! I love this story so much, and that's what's making it so difficult to write, because I need to do justice to the vision I have in my head of how it will all turn out. No promises when the next chapter will be out, but I'll do my best to get it written faster than this one!
And I'm thinking of adding an epilogue to Love Alters Not, and maybe posting the few extra scenes I've written in that universe as a separate series of one-shots - I don't think I'll ever manage to finish that story as I originally intended, but I do want to give it a proper ending. So look out for that.