Hello lovely readers! It's been far too long, yet again, but here's the next chapter - and far longer than I intended. This has been a challenging one, more than most, so hopefully updates might be a little quicker on the next few chapters, which are all planned out, although I can't make any promises.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy, despite the absolutely ridiculous length, and forgive any annoying errors - my last edit didn't save, but I'm determined to get this out tonight!
Chapter Twelve: The Entail
Manchester Royal Infirmary, August 1918
"Will you really not even let me read you her letters, Matthew?" Isobel asked, trying so unbearably hard to keep the despair and grief from her voice.
"She's better off forgetting about me, Mother. And I about her," he replied, his gaze fixed determinedly on the ceiling.
Isobel's heart broke to see her beautiful boy lying so sad and broken. This was the first truly coherent conversation she had managed to have with him, after he had finally turned a corner in his recovery and was conscious and awake for longer periods. It should have been a blessing, but given his current state of mind, it seemed in some ways a terrible curse.
He was so terribly unhappy, and there was nothing she could do to fix it. She hoped in time he would come to see that he still had a life to live, whatever the condition of his legs, but for now, it was all so new and fresh and awful, he could see nothing but despair.
"You cannot cut out the people who love you, Matthew," she said firmly. "You have a long road ahead of you to recover your health, and I'm not going to pretend your life is going to be easy even then. But there will be joy and hope and life ahead of you, if you can just try to see and work for it. There is so much you can still do with your life. You wanted to share your life with Lavinia, and she with you. That doesn't have to change."
He still wasn't looking at her, and she knew he was fighting tears again as his jaw clenched and he blinked too many times. She wished he didn't feel he had to be strong even for her, but after crying in her arms for hours when she had first arrived home, he had tried his best to be stoic and distant and bitter to avoid appearing weak. She knew her son.
"You know why I sent her away," he said after a moment, when he had regained enough control to trust himself to speak.
"Yes," she said heavily, and oh, how that knowledge broke her heart. That her kind, loving son, who had always been so good with children and had wanted a family so very much should have that taken from him was as cruel as the worst tragedies of the war.
"Then you'll know I couldn't marry her. Not now. I couldn't marry any woman." His voice was choked and bitter, but resigned, his tears constantly glazing over his eyes, but never falling.
Isobel was fighting tears herself now, but she knew she couldn't let him see even a hint of it, and carefully schooled her features and willed her eyes to cease their watering.
"It's too soon to decide on your whole future now," she said carefully. "I know it's awful, I know you can't see a way forwards, but one day, you may be ready to share your life with someone. And Lavinia will be a lucky woman if you choose to spend your life with her, on whatever terms you can work out between you."
Lavinia had all but fled when Matthew had sent her away, clearly overwhelmed by the whole situation, and at first, Isobel had been disappointed in the girl. But that had been two weeks ago now, and Lavinia had been sending letters ever since, proclaiming her undying love and devotion. All of which Matthew had refused to listen to.
"No one sane would want to be with me as I am now. Including me." And then he was breathing too fast and too hard, and with years of training as a nurse and a mother, Isobel was reaching for the bowl even as he choked out a warning that he was going to be sick.
She helped him lean over just enough to reach the bowl, rubbing his back firmly as he trembled and retched. He didn't have much in his stomach, but everything he did have, he lost, and Isobel couldn't help but worry that this was happening nearly every time he ate. The pain medication made him nauseous, but when they had tried reducing the dose, he had been in such agony, he hadn't been able to eat or keep anything down anyway. He needed so desperately to regain his strength, and she didn't know how they were going to manage it.
"It's alright now, my darling boy," she said gently. "You'll be alright in a moment."
When he stopped retching, she lowered him back onto the pillows and wiped his mouth with a cloth, carefully avoiding the cuts that were still healing on his face.
He gave a small, bitter laugh that contained no mirth or joy whatsoever.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I was just thinking," he said, his voice trembling slightly, "it seems such a short time ago I thought I was a disappointment to Lord Grantham as I was then. And now look at me. An impotent cripple stinking of sick. You have to admit, it's almost funny."
Isobel's heart clenched. She wanted to scold him for speaking about himself in such a way, but what good would it do to him in this mood? He sounded so unlike himself she barely knew how to speak to him, how to help in this impossible situation.
"All I'll admit is that you've survived the war, and however Lord Grantham feels about anything, that is quite enough of a miracle for me," she said firmly. Although in truth, she did worry about what these aristocratic relatives she had never met would do when found out about Matthew's condition. He would still inherit, of course, but when she imagined him having to face the disdain and disappointment of Lord Grantham and his family when he was so depressed and hopeless, she wanted to cry.
"I suppose he'll have to start his search for the next heir," he said bitterly. "Has anyone told him yet? That his disappointingly middle class successor has proved an even further disappointment?"
"You're still the heir, Matthew, you know how it works. And no, I haven't written, although I expect he will find out that you've been wounded at some point, these people always have the right connections."
"I'll have to tell him," Matthew said, his voice oddly blank and emotionless. "At some point, I'll have to write and tell him that I'm no use to him, and he'll have to go back to the family tree and find the next poor sod whose life he'll be turning upside down."
"You'll still inherit," Isobel pointed out. If there had been any mechanism for Matthew to avoid it, he would surely have found it by now, or Lord Grantham would, and terrible as his injury was, it didn't change the entail. Even if it did complicate who the next heir would be.
"If I live that long. Come on, Mother, Lord Grantham is younger than you and as far as I know, perfectly healthy. I know you don't want to talk about it, but I'm not going to outlive him."
Isobel couldn't stop herself inhaling sharply at that. It was a reality she knew they had face, however hard it was, but thinking about it was just too painful. He was past the worst of the initial danger now, finally, but even when he regained his health to whatever extent was possible, everything would always be so fragile for him, so uncertain.
"You don't know that," she said, trying to fill her voice with an optimism she was struggling to find. "Dr Fletcher believes you have a good chance of regaining your health, and medicine is making great advances every day. And you still haven't seen a specialist yet, there may more that can be done."
He didn't reply for a moment, and Isobel suspected he was trying to spare her from discussing it rather than actually acknowledging what she had said.
But then he spoke again, making Isobel's blood run cold.
"It would be a relief for everyone, in a way. Lord Grantham could find the next heir and not have to deal with me. And I wouldn't be a burden on you for the rest of your life," he said, sounding terrifyingly detached and casual about it even as his voice trembled.
Isobel wanted to cry, to scream, to slap some sense into him, to fold him into her arms and block out the world and make everything alright, to curse the war and curse her darling boy's overwhelming sense of honour and duty that had made him volunteer. She had known he hardly wanted to live like this, he had hardly been in any state to be able to hide the depth of his despair… but to hear him speak the words out loud, to know how truly lost and broken he must feel to say something he knew would upset her when he had always been so careful not to give her cause to worry about him any more than she had to…
She took both of his hands, lying limply on the covers, and squeezed them tightly until he looked at her. "Don't ever say that again. Don't ever even imply it. You will never be a burden to me, you will never be anything other than my beloved son, and the child of my beloved husband. You are here, and you've survived the war. That's a miracle enough in itself. Don't take that away from me, Matthew. Please." Her own voice was as choked as his, she knew, but he frightened her now more than she had ever feared for him before.
But he pressed his lips together hard, and Isobel thought perhaps she had finally got through to him. He looked away.
"I know it seems impossible," she said, still clutching his hands in hers, trying to maintain a connection even as he seemed to want to slip away. "I know you think nothing can ever be the same. But you are alive, Matthew. You may not think you're lucky, and what has happened to you is unfair and awful, and you will grieve for the life you might have lived for a long while yet, I think. But I will always, always be glad that you are here, and I will always believe that I am one of the most fortunate women in England to have you as my son."
He didn't reply, didn't even look back at her. But he squeezed her hands, just the slightest of pressure to reassure her that he was listening, that he cared how she felt, even if he couldn't share her feelings.
"Now," she said, forcing herself to sound a little brighter. "How about some peppermint tea and toast? Do you think you could manage that?"
He made a low, non-committal sound at the back of his throat, but Isobel chose to take it as agreement.
"Excellent. I'll be back in a moment."
She squeezed his hands once more, then stood up slowly, knees creaking, and went in search of some tea.
Only when she had left the ward and closed the door to the small nurse's kitchen did she allow the tears that had been threatening to escape for the past several minutes slip silently down her cheeks.
Ripon, 1919
Mary looked critically at tea spread in front of her, finding at least three scratches on the silverware that would have given Carson an apoplexy. It probably wasn't even silver, now she came to think of it.
They were hardly dining in the slums, but the tea rooms Matthew had led her to was not somewhere she would generally visit in Ripon. It was, however, busy enough that nobody would pay them any attention, and far enough out of the way that she was unlikely to meet anyone she knew, while being respectable enough that it wouldn't be disastrous if they were seen there.
Of course, there was nothing truly scandalous about meeting her cousin for tea, but she would rather not have to provide any awkward explanations when they needed things kept quiet. For now, at least.
Cousin Matthew had balked at the need for secrecy to begin with. It was not in his nature to sneak about, she realised, and he had wanted to tell Papa what they were trying to do, to win him over to their position. But Matthew was new here, and although Papa had clearly taken a genuine liking to his new heir, that would not be enough to prevent this turning into the huge row she had been avoiding since the day of Elizabeth's birth if they were found out.
It would happen in the end, she knew that; Papa would have to know at some point. But she wanted to be properly armed and armoured when it did, and that meant she needed to have a sound plan and an answer to every objection Papa might throw in her face.
She needed to be in control of this, if nothing else.
And in the end, Matthew's honour and honesty had been no match for Mary's powers of persuasion, and she got her way with very little difficulty. They would meet where they were unlikely to be recognised, she had decided, and Papa would only be informed when there was something substantial to tell him. Matthew might not be happy with it, but she had not left his office until she was sure he had accepted the necessity.
It had only been three days since then, since she had turned up at his office and placed her trust in him and in the hope that despite the circumstances, they need not be on opposite sides when he so clearly felt as she did. She had been nervous, more than she had wanted to admit even to herself; how could she not be when she had already tried everything else she knew to try?
But when she had waked into his office to see him fumbling so badly with his jacket, when they had caught each other's eyes and laughed at the absurdity of it, the tension she had been carrying had somehow evaporated. Because this was not yet another pompous London lawyer to deal with after a week of failures, this was Cousin Matthew, the man who had laughed with her at Anthony and the salty pudding, the man who had met Lily only once and was clearly entirely enamoured with her, the man who was genuinely sorry to have so dramatically failed to understand quite how hard she had worked to keep the estate running during the war. She had known he would help her before she had even posed the question.
And yet still she felt as if this was somehow too good to be true. After all her fruitless efforts in London, could it really be that Matthew could be the only lawyer in the country willing to take on such a case without some ulterior motive?
And yet she believed him. She had not liked him at first, had resented his very existence and his inability to understand the value of what was being handed to him against his will when she wanted it more than anything. But much as she had disagreed with him then, much as she still disagreed with him on so many things, she had never seen him to be anything but earnestly honest. And if he said he would break the entail, if he said he understood the injustice of it all, she believed him.
Yet after only three days, she wondered what he could possibly have discovered, and feared it was not likely to be good news.
And now, watching him shifting awkwardly in his seat, remembering his tense smile when he greeted her, she began to worry that his willingness might not be enough if it truly was as complicated as she had been led to believe.
They had been making awkward small talk as they had ordered and waited for their tea to arrive, but now the waitress left them with their tea and scones, Mary could wait no longer.
"I can tell it's not good news. You might as well just come out and say it," she said.
He frowned, and she wondered idly whether he was aware quite how clearly his expressions declared his thoughts.
"It's not as good as I had hoped it might be," he acknowledged after a moment.
"My expectations were not high," she stated. "I won't be easily disappointed." She raised her eyebrows, refusing to allow him to delay any longer.
He exhaled slowly. "I have looked through every source, and I cannot find one reason on which to base a challenge."
Mary watched his expression carefully. He was frustrated, she could see that, and genuinely apologetic, but not, she thought, entirely without hope.
"Go on," she said cautiously.
"Both the entail and the legal mechanism transferring Cousin Cora's fortune to the estate are among the most tightly constructed legal documents I've seen. Your grandfather clearly had the very best legal advice."
It was hardly unexpected, she supposed, even as she felt the inevitable disappointment. The entail was clearly a significant obstacle to have apparently defeated even Granny.
"But there must be a way?" she asked, fairly certain he wasn't done.
"There is always a way," Matthew said with a small smile. She couldn't help but return it, but the tension in the air between them didn't diminish.
He sighed. "I can't see a way to challenge it in the courts. But… a private bill in parliament would do it."
Mary stared in astonishment. "Parliament?" she repeated, her heart dropping, "You mean it couldn't be done without changing the law?"
"Not quite," Matthew said, frowning as he watched her across the table. "A private bill wouldn't actually change the law, but it can give powers beyond or in conflict with the general law. It means, effectively, we would change the law in this particular instance, use the bill to override the law on entails because there were compelling reasons specific to the case."
Mary took a sip of tea as she tried to take it in. It made sense, she supposed, but it seemed so ridiculous as to hardly be credible that Parliament could be concerned with who inherited Downton. "But wouldn't that be terribly complicated? And time consuming?" she asked.
"Beyond belief," Matthew agreed, looking weary even at the thought. "And it would only work if the estate were in danger. Or at least, if we could argue convincingly enough that it was." He looked at her gravely. "It will be harder and more complicated than I had hoped, I won't deny it, but there's no reason to believe it's impossible. And I don't think we can extricate Cousin Cora's fortune from the estate. Either we break it completely, or you get nothing."
"I'm not sure I'd want Mama's money anyway," Mary said contemplatively. "It would leave you with an estate you couldn't afford to run and me with a large sum of money and no home."
"We'd find a way for you to have the estate, if that were ever to happen. But no, the money's tied up in the estate now, so the entail itself needs to be destroyed."
Mary took a fortifying sip of tea. "Then what needs to be done? How will we convince parliament that the estate's in danger?"
Matthew shook his head slightly. "I need a bit more time to look into it all, I'm afraid. I know I'm doing wills and conveyancing now, but it wasn't really my area before the war. I used to specialise in industrial law."
"I suppose there was a lot of demand for it in Manchester," she said, oddly pleased to know this about him. For the first time, she wondered what he had been like before the war, whether he really was as changed as he seemed to think he was.
"More so than there is here, certainly," he acknowledged distractedly. "But I'm afraid it does mean some of this is quite new to me. I have some ideas about the arguments we could make, but they need a bit of looking into."
"And you won't share them with me now?" she asked.
"Not until I have a better idea of what might work. But I will work something out for our argument. That won't be our problem."
"Such confidence in your own abilities!" she said, although she heard what he left unsaid: if that wasn't their problem, then something else clearly was.
"I'm good at my job, Mary. I might be good a little else, and certainly very little you would value. But I am good at the law."
Mary didn't know what to sat to that. She hardly knew him well enough to know what he was good at, but felt oddly indignant in her need to defend him, even from himself. She felt an uncomfortable stab of remorse at how she he treated him when he first arrived as she wondered how deeply he had felt her disdain for his background and abilities. He was such an incomprehensible mixture of quiet pride and savage self-deprecation, she hardly knew what to make of it when he spoke of himself so harshly.
But that was hardly the issue at hand.
"Then what will our problem be?" she asked.
"The thing is," he said carefully, "that given this is going to be a challenge in Parliament, it's going to be as much of a political battle as a legal one. We are going to need allies, and strategies. And…" he paused, clearly uncertain.
"And?" she prompted.
"And while we won't necessarily require Cousin Robert's active support, I don't think it can be done with his active opposition unless we intend to be on opposite sides of what could turn into a very unpleasant battle. And it would be… a very public battle too, if we were to try to get a private bill through the Lords with your father against it. It would disturb a lot of people for Lord Grantham's middle class heir and his daughter to change the entail against his wishes. It would establish a precedent plenty of the Lords wouldn't like."
Mary's heart dropped further. "He'll never support it. He'll never even allow us to try."
It hadn't even occurred to her that they would need to go through Parliament, and she knew well enough that in the House of Lords at least, this would not be a popular bill. And persuading Papa… she had been trying all her life. It wouldn't work. And angry as she was with him, she dreaded the thought of going against him so publicly, of splitting the family when everything was still so fragile and was going to be broken apart yet again with Sybil's news.
"I'm not so sure," Matthew said. Apparently seeing her scepticism, he held her gaze as he continued. "I realise you know him far better than I do, but Cousin Robert seems more lost and backed into a corner than actively opposed to change. If we could convince him that all would be well, that the estate would stay in one piece and carry on as it always has, with the Crawleys running it, don't you think he might come around? He's been told so many times that the entail is unbreakable, but almost nothing is ever completely unbreakable in law if you're willing to be patient and creative. If we can show him there's a way, he might come around."
"He'll never trust a woman to run it," Mary said bitterly. Matthew wasn't wrong, she didn't think, Papa was certainly lost, and had at least gone through the motions of asking Murray about the entail. But Matthew was new here. He didn't know how strongly Papa believed that women shouldn't have to be bothered with matters of business and farming and finance, didn't know how many years of disappointment it had taken before Mary had finally given up on hoping that her father would ever be her champion.
Papa had always said the estate was his fourth child, but over the past few years, she had become increasingly certain that it was his first, and favourite. With Patrick, and now Matthew, coming a close second.
"He trusted you to represent Patrick during the war," Matthew said. "Surely that's a first step."
"And then promptly ignored that when it suited him," she said bitterly. "And it's not only that anyway. He'll never accept that you would end up a landless peer. He wants the Earl of Grantham to live here, and that means a woman cannot inherit."
There was nothing to be done about the title, she knew that well enough, and unfair as it was, it hardly mattered compared to Downton itself.
Matthew looked unconvinced, but appeared willing to let it go for now.
"What about the rest of the family? Doesn't Cousin Cora want you to inherit her money rather than me? Might she be able to persuade him?"
Mary considered. "Mama has tried to fight for me in the past. Obviously, she has always failed. She doesn't generally like to go against Papa, but… if we can present her with a credible plan, she might be on our side. And nobody manages Papa as well as she can, when she wants to." She took a sip of tea. "But Granny is our best hope. She fought longest and hardest for us before you arrived, even if she couldn't win in the end. She will fight again if we tell her how."
The thought of Granny's support lifted her spirits a little. It was only when she had said it aloud that she realised how true it was, that Granny, and even Mama, could be staunch allies if only they knew there was hope, and how to fight for it. And difficult as it might seem, Matthew was finding them a direction for their efforts.
Apparently Matthew already knew Granny well enough to take heart from the prospect too. "And I suppose Cousin Violet is a brilliant ally and a formidable opponent," he said with a smile. "That's good."
"And I suppose we would need allies in Parliament too," Mary said, warming to the challenge now. It might be more complicated than she had expected, but at least she had purpose to her efforts now, hope for a plan that wouldn't prove useless. "Granny knowns everyone, she'll be able to help with that, I think. But beyond that… I know more people in the Foreign Office and diplomatic service than I do anywhere that might actually be helpful." Patrick's friends might at least be sympathetic if not actually helpful, and she supposed Evelyn Napier might help her if he could, although she hadn't seen him in years…
"That's a start, anyway," Matthew said, apparently pleased with her reaction. "And I knew a few people who might be able to help too."
Mary felt rather ashamed at the brief jolt of surprise she felt at the idea that her middle class cousin might have useful connections of his own.
"But it won't be quick," she said, and found that she didn't mind so very much. She would prefer not to continue to live her life in limbo, but with Matthew on her side for certain now, she no longer needed to fear for her immediate future. "So we have time to find allies?"
"It's hard to know," he said. "But I would say we need to have our legal arguments ready before we do anything we can't take back. It's up to you how we proceed, of course, but I do generally prefer to be fully prepared. I know you want everything settled, but we do need to fully consider all options. So perhaps it's best to keep it quiet until we have a plan."
"Never leave anything to chance," she said quietly. "That's Carson's motto, and I rather agree."
"Of course you do," he said, giving her a lopsided smile that had finally lost the tension he had been carrying in his jaw all afternoon.
She smiled back, feeling her heart lift at the thought of being able to act with purpose, to finally take control of her life, and to have an ally when she did so. Because they could do it. Between her, and Matthew, and Granny and Mama, they could do it. It might take longer than she had hoped, but one day, Downton would be hers.
Not since the day the telegram had arrived had she felt such hope.
Crawley House
Isobel put down her book and pulled off her reading glasses, finally giving up on her attempts to concentrate. A brief glance at the clock told her it was past midnight, well past the time she usually turned off the lamp and abandoned her book in favour of sleep. But tonight, yet again, Matthew had yet to come to bed despite having to be in Ripon early the next morning.
He had been doing better, she had thought, still tired and pale, but surely sleeping better than he had been after days dedicated to his new passion for restoring a row of old cottages on the estate. She had only heard him cry out with a nightmare once in the past month, and though she knew that didn't rule out that he was simply managing them without waking her, surely it had to be taken as a sign of improvement?
Yet these past few days, something had changed, and Isobel was afraid it might not entirely be for the better.
He had come home from work last Monday with bright eyes, filled with a strange, frantic energy that worried her. She had asked about his day over dinner, but he had been terribly preoccupied, and had answered her enquiries only vaguely. And then he had disappeared into his study straight from dinner and had stayed there until after she fell asleep in the early hours of the morning. She had no idea what time he had gone to bed.
Had it been one night, she could have written it off as an important case from work. In those long-ago days in Manchester, it had hardly been unusual for him to be seized by enthusiasm to known everything he could about whatever was needed for his latest client, and she had done little more than roll her eyes fondly and remember how like his impossibly hard-working father he could be.
And remembering this, wishing desperately for a return to some sort of normality in their new uprooted life, she had restrained herself from commenting, had suppressed ruthlessly her need to remind him that he still needed his sleep, that he was still healing and mustn't risk his health for work. Of course, she knew any comment to that effect would surely have done little good anyway.
But it had not been one night, or two, or five, and she simply couldn't leave it any longer.
The dark circles under his eyes had deepened once again to the shade they had been when they had arrived at Downton, and the dark expression he wore when he had arrived home after his latest physiotherapy session told her that his lack of sleep was jeopardising his progress.
And as the late nights continued into this week without break, Isobel was beginning to fear that he had found a means of avoiding nightmares by avoiding sleep altogether, using his work as a distraction from memories and worries he would rather ignore than deal with. It could not go on.
The house was silent as she made her way down to the study, but Isobel knew well enough that it was not a good idea to surprise or startle Matthew these days, and ensured her footsteps on the stairs were loud enough for him to hear her approaching.
But when she knocked on the door and entered as she always did without waiting for a reply, it became apparent that he had been so deeply absorbed in whatever he was doing, her efforts had been in vain.
"Mother!" he said, wide-eyed and startled, his breath coming a little too fast. He collected himself quickly, but Isobel observed with concern the way he quickly piled up his papers and books to hide them form her view.
"What are you doing up?" he asked brightly, his weak attempt at an innocent expression and casual tone echoing a much younger Matthew caught awake well into the night reading by candlelight or sneaking down for more cake.
It warmed her heart and broke it to see her sweet little boy in the tired eyes of the man he was now.
"I could ask the same of you," she said. "It's past midnight, and I know perfectly well that you have to be in Ripon by nine tomorrow."
He shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. "I have a new case," he said carefully. "It's… important."
He wasn't lying, she didn't think, and Isobel flattered herself that even now, after everything he had been through and all the ways she feared he had changed forever, she did know her son. But nor we he being entirely honest with her.
"Matthew, you must sleep. However important your work is, you'll be no use to anyone if you don't get some rest."
He looked down, not disputing her statement but not agreeing either.
"If you're having trouble sleeping," she said carefully, "I would far rather you took a sleeping draught or better, took my advice and actually talked to someone about everything you're struggling with. You cannot simply avoid sleep, Matthew."
"You don't understand," he said, voice strained. "It's not like that, it's… Mother, I can't speak of it now, not yet, but when I can, you'll understand."
"Matthew…" she began again, but he interrupted her.
"No, Mother," he said firmly. "I need to do this. After tomorrow, I… I'll know where things stand tomorrow. But I must finish tonight, Mother. Please, don't stay up for me, I'm perfectly fine. You don't need to worry."
Isobel was not a woman to give up easily, but she could also recognise a losing battle when she saw one.
"Very well, if you refuse to tell me, I can do nothing to help. But please, Matthew, don't stay up much longer. And make this the last night."
"It will be," he assured her unconvincingly.
None of Isobel's concerns were assuaged by his cryptic assurances, but she did as he had asked, and went to bed. But only when she heard his slow, uneven footsteps on the stairs and then the closing of his bedroom door did she allow herself to drift into an uneasy sleep.
Ripon
Matthew was late. He had left the office just about in time, and it was barely a five minute walk to the tea rooms even at his slow pace, but for once when it came to cousin Mary, he had not been able to find the will to hurry to meet her.
He dreaded the conversation he knew was to come, however certain he was that it had to be done. He had promised to do all he could to help, and much as he recoiled at the thought of speaking the words out loud even to Mary, and never mind to… everyone else he might have to tell, he knew he could not live with himself if he didn't provide her in good faith with all the information, all the possibilities open to her.
He must not let his own concerns enter into it. He was acting as her lawyer now, even if unofficially, and he had a duty to act in her best interests, not his own. He would present it as simply another approach, an option for her consideration. What she did with the information must be up to her.
The cathedral came into view as he rounded the corner onto the narrow street where the small tea room was, and Matthew quickened his pace as much as his tired legs could manage. Mary would surely be there already, and he must not keep her waiting too long. He simply had to pull himself together and get on with it.
She was indeed there, at the same table as they had shared a few days previously, and her small smile when she saw him settled him somewhat.
He negotiated his way carefully through the busy room, back aching as he weaved between tables and avoided busy waitresses. The busyness leant anonymity if not privacy to their conversations, but it was hardly his preferred place to visit, as each clash of cutlery or scrape of chairs set his nerves on edge.
But when he reached the table and sank gratefully into his seat to see that Mary had already ordered some tea and cake for them, the relief almost made him smile.
They wasted little time on greetings and small talk.
"I hadn't expected there to be news so soon," Mary said, watching him with an unreadable expression.
"I prefer to have all the information laid out as soon as possible," he replied carefully. "And after everything, you ought to be kept informed."
"I hope it hasn't monopolised your time too much," she said carefully, and something about her expression made Matthew wonder whether he looked as tired as he felt.
"Not at all, I have more time on my hands than I know what to do with sometimes," he replied.
She looked sceptical, but didn't contradict him.
"What have you found out?" she asked.
He took a sip of tea as he collected his thoughts.
"I have a few ideas about what our arguments would be in Parliament," he said carefully. "I would like your views on them before we go much further."
She gave a small nod to continue. He swallowed hard.
"The most obvious way to claim the estate is in danger would be to claim financial difficulties or something along those lines," he said. "But while it's not exactly efficient, I don't think it's actually in serious trouble that way, as far as I know?" He looked at her questioningly.
"No, I don't think it is," she said with a small sigh. "And I can hardly wish that it was. I haven't seen all the books, but I know Patrick persuaded Papa to change some of his investments to make everything a little more certain. Downton is no worse off than any other estate, I don't think, and a great deal better off than many. I know it's rather morbid, but in some ways, it was lucky Patrick died before he inherited. So many of our friends are having to sell up to pay death duties." She raised her eyebrows at him. "I suppose you approve."
He blinked. "Of taxes? I suppose I approve of redistributing wealth a little more fairly, yes. But not necessarily of the means through which it is achieved. I don't think ruining grieving families with impossible taxes at the very moment they are least able to deal with it benefits anyone."
"I do always wonder if you're quite on our side," she said.
He sighed. He suspected that in political terms, he probably wasn't. An issue to discuss another day. "I'm on your side. Isn't that enough for now?"
"For now," she acknowledged. "But don't think that means I'll leave it at that forever."
"Don't worry," he said lightly, "There's no chance I would ever make the mistake of believing Lady Mary Crawley would ever give up on a challenge."
He was rewarded with a small smile, and took it as a victory.
But her smile faded quickly, and Mary was silent for a minute, contemplative. "There may be a chance there's more to the finances than either of us have seen," she said finally. "How much have you seen of the books?"
"Not much," he acknowledged. "I'm not even sure how much Robert sees of them. I think Jarvis manages most of it."
"I haven't seen it all either," she said. "But I've seen enough to worry. I don't think we're on the verge of financial ruin, but there might be something we could use." She sighed. "But how would it help?" she asked. "I would rather know the state of things than not, but even if there is financial danger, I don't have any money of my own to do anything about it."
"But you have more experience of managing an estate than I do. Again, it's more about persuading Parliament than winning the legal argument. We need some sort of basis for the bill to be considered, but once we've managed that, it will be all politics and persuasion."
"But there are other ways?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, steeling himself. "There are a few different approaches that we could take to it. Essentially, whatever details and legal justifications we use, the core of our argument would be that you are a safer and better prospect as heir than me. Logically, that should be obvious, but making the case against such a well tied-up entail will be… probably more complicated than it ought to be."
"Even though it will mainly be about persuasion?" she asked.
"Even then. You see, the issue is that the entail and the deed of gift are very clear statements of intent, with some contingencies and without obvious loopholes. That means we will have to argue explicitly that there are sufficiently important reasons to go against the clear wishes of your grandfather and of the previous Earl who established the entail. They understood that daughters would be unable to inherit, and decided the risk of a distant cousin like me inheriting was an acceptable price to pay to keep the title and the estate together."
"But you do think it can be done?" she asked.
"Yes. I do."
"Then how?"
"What we need to do is build up enough evidence of your competence and knowledge of the estate, to show that you would be the best custodian of Downton, and then make the case that I, in comparison, would be a liability." He smiled. "I know you probably think so already. We just need the proof."
"I don't think so badly of you as all that," she said, hovering somewhere between teasing and sincere. "You're much less of a liability than the average eldest son, in my experience."
"I'll take the compliment, but I take it the bar is very low," he said, smiling.
"Practically on the ground," she agreed. "But please do take the compliment."
"Coming from you, it's high praise I suppose," he said lightly. "I'll take what I can get. It hardly matters anyway. All we need to do is convince the right people that it's true."
"And how would we do that? You know, surely, that most of those people will think like Papa. I will never look like a safer prospect, not when I could remarry someone unsuitable, or do something stupid and hysterical like the ridiculous woman I am."
Her voice was suddenly bitter, and his heart clenched at the thought of the lifetime of injustice that had made her so certain that she would be so easily dismissed simply because she was a woman.
"Nobody who knew you and knew the relevant facts could ever think you stupid or hysterical," he said. "I know Parliament might not be the most progressive audience, but it's clear enough what you did for the estate during the war. You've lived there all your life, you were married to the previous heir, and a few minutes in your company would persuade anyone that you're capable."
"They won't see it that way," she insisted. "Nobody ever has."
"We'll make them see," he assured her. It wasn't that he was worried about.
"As for the second part… essentially, our argument would be that we don't know who the next heir would be after me, and I'm unlikely to have children of my own. And then we would need to convince them that even in the short term, I might be a liability, and that the estate would be far safer in your hands."
"Nobody will ever believe that. They'll all think like Papa, that it is women who are the liability. And even if they accepted the need to break the entail, surely they'd want some provision saying any son I had would inherit instead of Lily. Or even that Edith's son should have it all." The thought clearly horrified her, and Matthew wondered, not for the first time, what had happened between Mary and her sister to put them so at odds.
"I won't let that happen," he promised. "Not with the estate. But it might be possible to allow the title to pass to the eldest male of your line. If you remarried and had a son, or perhaps if Lily does someday…"
"But only if another heir isn't found, and you never have children?" she asked. "And surely you might one day? You're so good with Elizabeth."
He smiled at that, feeling warm at the thought of Mary's sweet little daughter laughing as he played with her. It was the reminder he needed that he was doing the right thing by them both in telling Mary everything.
"I don't intend to marry. I won't have children, Mary," he said quietly, keeping his voice level.
"So you think you could convince parliament to break the entail by telling them you won't marry? Surely…"
"No," he said carefully. "I would tell them I won't have children."
"But surely they would never see that as a good enough reason? When you could marry a year later and produce a son?"
"No," he said again. "I will make sure they do not believe that will happen."
She frowned delicately. "I love Downton, and I want to break the entail for mine and Lily's sake, but even I cannot ask that you forsake all thought of marriage and a family for us." She softened her voice a little. "I know you are still grieving, but you won't always be. You may find someone else, and I cannot be responsible for your refusing to even try."
He was surprised by that, and rather touched. "I cannot see a future in which I do marry," he said, "but I acknowledge that it may be difficult to convince everyone that will always be the case. Your father will certainly be eager for me to get everything settled." He steeled himself, and ploughed on.
"But I believe the evidence required to clear up any doubts could be found in my medical records. Presented in the right light, I think that could convince them of my unsuitability as heir. And the unlikelihood of my producing an heir of my own."
"Your medical records?" she asked, her brow creased delicately in confusion. "What do you mean?"
Matthew clasped his hands together under the table, refusing to let her see them trembling. "There are… certain things that would be there that might suggest that I am not a suitable custodian of the estate. And… I assume you don't know the details of my war injury?"
She blinked, clearly confused by the direction the conversation had taken.
"No, I… assumed you'd prefer not to discuss it. I know your back…"
"My spine was badly bruised," he said, forcing out the words as he tried to avoid thinking about those first awful days and weeks. "But early on, when I was first brought home, the doctors believed my spinal cord had been transected, that it was permanently damaged. We were told that I would never walk again. But," he swallowed hard, feeling his face getting hot. "What matters is that it is was not only my legs that they said would never work. I had lost all control and sensation below my waist, and… well, I was told that I would never father children."
He couldn't meet her eyes, but glanced briefly at her as she took it all in with very little reaction, her expression perfectly calm even as Matthew's heart pounded. "But they were wrong," she said after a moment. "You're recovering, and surely…"
"Spinal cord injuries are a very complex field of medicine, and most of the advances that have been made are very recent," he said, knowing his voice was too carefully controlled to sound at all natural. He hadn't quite practiced the words out loud, but he had been rehearsing this conversation in his head since the moment he realised it would be necessary.
"The doctors have never been able to tell me quite how full a recovery I might expect, and so few patients have survived long enough to even attempt to father children, there's very little evidence either way." He looked down, swallowing hard as the lump in his throat seemed to come near to choking him. "I'm better than I was, but… it's been months, and you know I still can't walk without this damned stick." And his sensation below his waist still wasn't as it had been before, although he didn't quite know how to say that without alluding too closely to why that was relevant.
He forced himself to go on. "There's no way to be completely certain, really. So I believe it may be possible to credibly suggest that I will never father an heir. And if there is no one else, it may be sufficient to challenge the entail in itself; why have me inherit it at all, when I'll leave it to you anyway?"
"You mean you would stand in front of parliament and… tell them?" she said bluntly.
"The process doesn't quite work like that, but in essentials, yes, I believe that may be the way to do it." He dreaded the thought, but for Mary, for little Lily, he would do it.
She contemplated for a moment. "No. I would not ask it of you."
Matthew tried and failed not feel relief. "You're not asking it of me. I am suggesting it would useful to our case. And there's… more," he said, his voice low. "I'm fairly certain that if I were to get hold of my medical notes, they would make some mention of… of shellshock."
Mary pressed her lips together, but said nothing.
"If they do…" he swallowed hard, then shook his head, struggling for the words. "There's stigma, and fear about it still," he said. "There will be peers who wouldn't want a madman among them."
"There are already madmen among them," Mary pointed out. "Families like ours manage it quietly, but everyone's got a cousin or an aunt who's… unwell. And sometimes it's the heir. And after the war…"
"But as you said, it's managed quietly. If we were to bring it into the open… they might overcome their prejudices and accept that you're the better choice."
"You mean one prejudice would override another," she said disdainfully. "And anyway, whatever your medical notes say, you're better now, surely. Or better enough that you won't appear… unwell."
"Mary, for the bill to succeed, you would want me to appear unwell. Don't bother defending me." He almost laughed as he thought of her initial hostility when he had first arrived at Downton, how happy she would have been then to say and do whatever was needed to get rid of him.
"Sometimes I think you need defending against yourself," she said frankly.
Matthew didn't know what to say to that.
Her expression softened. "I didn't know it had been so bad, but… we all saw you weren't well when you arrived. But you're doing so much better, surely."
He swallowed hard again, clasping his hands together under the table in a futile effort to stop them trembling.
"It is better," he acknowledged. "But I… you haven't seen it, I know, but there's still times when I…when something happens and I'm back there." He swallowed hard. "And I have nightmares. They're better than they were, but I imagine my medical records will leave few people in much doubt that I'm not fit to be the heir. We might exaggerate things a little, but it wouldn't be untrue."
"But I'm fairly sure there have been other cases of peers trying to disinherit sons who were injured. And I've not heard a case where it worked, even when they were trying to argue for the second son to inherit instead, not a woman. There's far too much sympathy for wounded soldiers."
"But in those cases, the heir was not voluntarily trying break the entail. I think it would make a difference, make it look more like good sense than cruelty." He hoped so, at least. "And they might be less worried about cutting out a middle class interloper in favour of the daughter of the current Earl and widow of the previous heir than disinheriting an eldest son. It's a far less threatening precedent to set."
"But what about you? What about your job? Wouldn't questioning your own competence in parliament make things… difficult for you?"
He sighed. Of course it had occurred to him, but it seemed so insignificant compared to the urgency of his need to do right by Mary and Lily. "It might. But there's such a shortage of lawyers now, they will always be somewhere desperate enough to take me on, I think." A depressing thought, but probably both true and useful to him.
She stared at him, and Matthew couldn't look away.
"No," she said finally. "There has to be another way. You said there were different ways of approaching it. Tell me what our other options are."
He swallowed hard. He couldn't, in conscience, let her dismiss so quickly what might be their best choice, but she was right, she needed all the information first. And he wasn't sure he could keep his composure if they carried on discussing all his many deficiencies as an heir and as a man for much longer.
He took a fortifying sip of tea, wishing it was something stronger. He set his cup down carefully, collecting his thoughts.
Mary waited in silence, her own tea apparently forgotten as she watched him.
"There may be something else," he said eventually. "Although I don't want to underestimate how difficult it would be, it's a greater undertaking that we could manage alone, but…"
"But what?" she asked, clearly losing patience.
He took a deep breath, then ploughed on. "If we can't challenge this entail specifically, we might be able to work towards changing the law itself. It sounds daunting, but I have made enquiries, and views are changing. The war changed many things, and there have been calls for land reform for much longer. It would certainly take longer, and I wouldn't be able to do it alone, but I think it's not impossible that the law can be changed in time before… before I inherit by default. Of course, your father would have to change his will, but if he didn't, I would find a way to give it to you as soon as... well, when the time came."
It was the option he was least certain about, but he had caught up on what he could regarding all the debates on land reform he had missed over the past several years. Mr Carter, it seemed, was quite the authority on the topic and had been happy to help.
"There would still be nothing that could be done about the title?" she asked.
"No, I'm afraid not. And I can't see the laws on that changing for several decades at least, it's all too deeply entrenched in the way it all works. You would probably know better than I." He shook his head. "I would certainly give it up if I could."
"I know," she said softly.
"There may be a final option anyway," he said after a moment. "I don't know how we could find out for certain, but if there is no direct male heir after me, or none we can find, my will would supersede the entail. And I would leave it to you, or to Lily if you wanted to avoid her having to pay inheritance tax on it later."
"How would we know?" she asked. "Can we possibly trace every possible line of the family?"
"I think so," he said. "And I rather suspect Cousin Robert might have done it already, given that I was in France when he found out I'm the heir." He didn't think Robert had ever been told the initial worst-case scenario of his injury, or the unlikelihood of his ever fathering a child, but he must surely have known that an officer in the infantry had a pretty low life expectancy. It would have been madness to see him as any kind of certain prospect as heir.
"So you'll ask him?" Mary asked.
"Yes. It's best to know, I think, whatever we decide to do about breaking the entail."
"Whatever we do, we won't use your medical records," she said determinedly.
He felt another wave of relief, but couldn't leave it at that. "Please at least give it some thought," he said.
"I don't need to. It's out of the question."
He sighed. He was so very tired. "I know you think you're sure. But Mary, you must take time to think about it. It may be the easiest way, and surely it will be easier for Cousin Robert to accept."
"I don't need to think about it," she protested. "We'll find another way. And if we can't, we'll change the law."
"We might," he acknowledged. "But please, think about it properly. Then we'll decide what to do."
"I'll think about it, if I must," she said grudgingly. Then she tilted her chin slightly, and Matthew wondered yet again how she could be so beautiful while simultaneously looking so stubborn and dismissive. "But I won't change my mind."
And despite his best efforts at caution, his determination that justice demanded he at least gave her time to think, he tentatively believed her. And the fascination he had long been harbouring for her swelled again as he wondered how he had ever thought her cold or selfish.
The Nursey, Downton Abbey
Lily's eyes fluttered slightly, and Mary held her breath, waiting for the familiar wailing. It didn't come. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Poor Lily seemed to have another tooth coming through, and while there was, as of yet, no sign of the utter misery of the worst episode of teething several weeks ago, she had been tearful all day, and had found no comfort except in Mary's arms.
Mary wondered what it said about her that a part of her had been glad to be so needed, so unconditionally loved. Or that she had been grateful for the distraction Lily's suffering provided from her own thoughts.
But now, as Lily seemed to settle properly into sleep, those thoughts could no longer be avoided.
Matthew believed he could break the entail without forcing too great a rift with Papa. But only by declaring himself impotent and mentally incompetent to both houses of parliament. He had tried to present it as the logical option, had clearly tried to state the facts as if they didn't relate to him, but it hadn't fooled her in the least, and something inside her ached as she thought of the fact that Matthew, a near-stranger who had not even known of hers or Lily's existence until less than a year ago, was willing to sacrifice so much for them when Papa had refused to even try.
She did not think of herself as someone who was easy to shock, but Matthew had managed to do just that.
She had not realised his injury had been so terrible, had not realised he had feared he would be crippled for life, had not thought about the implications of a damaged spine beyond not walking.
Yet the way he had spoken of it, it seemed he was so determined not to marry, it hardly to matter to him whether he could father a child, beyond the problem of convincing Parliament of it. She didn't believe for a moment that he didn't want children, but his adamant refusal to consider that he might marry had been clear. He must surely have loved Lavinia Swire very much.
And shellshock… She wondered how she had failed to see it. She supposed he hid it well enough, and of course he was far from the worst cases she had seen at Downton during the war, but with what she knew now, it seemed so clear. The way he startled so easily at sounds scarcely noticed by everyone else, the way his eyes glazed over sometimes as if he were looking at something nobody else could see, his constant state of alertness to everything around them when they had been in the busy tea rooms, even as he spoke to her with the quiet, earnest intensity he always seemed to hold. The permanent dark circles under his eyes signalling disturbed nights.
He had so clearly hated to discuss it even with her, and yet he was willing, if reluctantly, to have all the humiliating details known publicly, and probably discussed at every social event he would attend for the rest of his life. Although given his background, he probably lacked familiarity with the savagery of London society and even the local gossip mongers.
To her own surprise, she had not even needed to consider it to know it was impossible.
She had believed since the moment Lily was born that there was nothing more important than her daughter's right to her inheritance, nothing that could stand in the way of her efforts to ensure Lily's future. But apparently, that was no longer true. Because having heard him say it, having seen the earnest determination in his eyes, knowing that he would be willing to so completely humiliate himself for her sake and for Lily's, she knew she could never let Matthew do it.
And having heard him say it, having heard in his voice that he meant it, she realised she didn't need him to. It might be the easiest way to break the entail, it might even avoid a complete break with Papa, but knowing Matthew was on her side, come what may, she no longer feared for her future.
She thought of Papa's endless dismissals of her right to Downton, his condescension, his inability to see that it was she who had inherited his love of the estate, his sense of duty to the land and the tenants. She thought of Matthew's sincere apologies, his deference to her knowledge and understanding, his faith in her ability to run the estate better than he could, his determination to fight for her, against his own interests.
And there was no question, no dilemma. The entail must be broken. But Matthew was her ally, not an obstacle to be overcome and sacrificed in pursuit of what should have been hers without question.
She had made her decision.
When she awoke the next morning to bright sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains and birds singing outside her window, Mary felt something inside her come alive, a tentative sense of purpose that had been dormant for more than a year.
She had never been willing to submit to being a victim of circumstances, could never have let herself be dependent forever on Matthew or Edith or anyone else, or quietly slipped away to marry a man of her parents' choosing to get out of the way of the new future Papa was determined to build with Matthew as his replacement son.
But only now, finally, after months of anger and agonising frustration and directionless effort, she was acting, deciding, working for Lily's future rather than sitting and watching as it was stolen away.
She could not deny that a certain smugness at the fact Papa's perfect new heir was secretly on her side contributed quite significantly to her improved spirits.
And so when Anna went through the motions of offering her a purple shawl, as she had every morning for the past several months, Mary nearly gave her poor maid a heart attack and accepted it, and then compounded the shock by asking for the blouse with a faint floral pattern in a matching shade of lilac, just the slightest of lightening and colour against the black.
She was done with letting her world fall apart around her, and letting herself fall apart with it.
When she met Matthew at the station in Ripon, she didn't know whether his obvious shock was due to her first serious concession to half-mourning or to the fact she had Lily with her. Whatever the reason, his surprise soon softened into a genuine smile, a rare enough sight from him that Mary found herself returning it easily, and deciding that both her fashion choices and her decision to bring Lily were somehow vindicated.
She was not completely certain why she needed her daughter with her that day, but somehow, she felt that Lily needed to be there as her future was decided. And after taking the baby out on her own in London, Mary had realised that strange as it might have seemed to her younger self, it was easier to love and spend time with Lily away from Downton, and if she didn't exactly enjoy dealing with dirty nappies and episodes of bad tempered wailing, the freedom she found alone with her daughter more than made up for it. Because in London, invisible among the crowds of strangers and miles from home, they had not been the inconvenient remnants of a shattered past, a sad widow and her disappointment of a daughter, but simply another woman and her baby out enjoying the good weather in the park.
And now, in the glorious weather, and with an excitable baby accompanying them, they decided easily that the park was a better choice than their usual tea rooms. They found a secluded bench off to one side of the bandstand, dappled sunlight reflecting over the whole area to provide both warmth and shade.
Lily, overexcited by the unexpected trip, refused to stay in her pram or sit still on her mother's lap, and as Mary and then Matthew struggled to get her to settle in their arms, she provided a wonderful distraction from the seriousness of the conversation they needed to have.
But when Lily finally seemed inclined to sit still on the grass next to the bench with Mary's shawl spread out under her, adequately occupied with playing with the prize of Matthew's hat after several attempts at stealing it from his head, Mary knew she could leave Matthew in suspense no longer.
"I've made a decision," she said, watching him as he watched Lily.
Matthew turned to look at her, the lightness in his expression turning serious. He nodded for her to continue.
"I want to break the entail," she said firmly, "if we can do it without resorting to questioning your competence and… health in Parliament." She watched for his reaction, but for once he gave nothing away. "But whether we can do that or not, I want to change the law. I know it won't be easy, but we have to try."
"You're sure?" he asked searchingly. "Even if there's an easier way?"
"I'm sure," she replied. "I won't let you do that to yourself. Even for Lily."
If she had not already been certain, his look of profound, undisguised relief would have confirmed it for her, and her heart clenched as she felt the weight of all he had been willing to do for her. And that was the very reason she couldn't let him.
"I must warn you," he said carefully, "breaking the entail without the justification of… my inadequacies will be more difficult, and… we might have to make arguments Cousin Robert doesn't like. And if we want to change the law, it may take years. Five, more... Possibly a decade. Perhaps more. I'll fight for it, Mary, I'll do whatever I need to, but…" he sighed. "There's no guarantee. I believe it can be done, but I have to be honest with you, I've never taken on anything like this before."
"But you wouldn't have mentioned it as an option if you didn't think it was possible," she said, strangely confident in his abilities despite knowing very little about his profession or private bills or how one went about changing the law.
"No," he acknowledged, "I wouldn't. I do think it can be done, and probably in time before I inherit. But it won't be quick, or easy."
"It hardly matters. As long as Lily gets what is rightfully hers in the end, and as long as we're comfortable in the meantime." And again, she trusted him to make sure they were. Sometimes she felt as though he were the only man she trusted.
And her faith was apparently well-founded. "Of course you will be," he assured her, endearingly earnest. "You'll live at Downton for as long as you like, whether we've succeeded in making it yours legally or not. I promise you will always have a place there. And so will Lily."
She smiled then. "Sybil will be very pleased with us, fighting for women's rights."
"Will you tell her?" he asked.
"She already known I'm trying to break the entail. She doesn't know you're helping me yet, but yes, I'll tell her before she goes."
"I suppose she must be quite accomplished at keeping secrets," Matthew said wryly.
"Very," Mary agreed with a sigh. "From Mama and Papa at least. I guessed easily enough, and even Edith did in the end." And, she realised, they absolutely must keep their plans secret until Sybil was long gone and Papa didn't feel like he was under attack from all sides.
"What do we do now?" she asked. She couldn't bear to go back to the interminable waiting and hoping now they had a direction for their efforts.
"We find a good time to talk to Cousin Violet, and anyone else we know who could help. And I'll try to get Robert to show me all the books and finances," Matthew said. "I don't know if there will be anything that will help us claim the estate's in danger, but I think I'll at least be able to find some evidence that your work during the war had an impact."
Mary was going to ask if he really thought her small schemes could have had enough of an effect to be seen in the finances, but before she could speak, they were both distracted by Lily's high pitched screech. They looked down to see her face obscured by Matthew's stolen hat, which had obviously fallen over her eyes when she had tried to put it on. Poor Lily seemed genuinely distressed as she shook her head, trying ineffectually to dislodge it, but the sight was so funny, Mary found herself laughing as she reached down to rescue her daughter.
Matthew was laughing too, louder and more freely than she had ever heard him laugh, even at Anthony and the salty pudding, and he only laughed harder when Lily abruptly stopped wailing when Mary took off the hat, and looked around in adorable bewilderment as Mary picked her up.
"That's what happens when you steal other people's things, Lily," Mary said, trying and probably failing to sound stern. She had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to do, didn't know whether she should be trying to make her daughter learn a lesson, or if she should be cuddling her after her little fright, or whether she should have never let her steal the hat in the first place, however willing Matthew had been to surrender it.
But as Matthew just laughed harder, she found it didn't matter, and found herself laughing again, even as Lily began to whine discontentedly. She bounced the baby on her lap, trying to ward off the danger of real tears.
Matthew picked up his hat from the floor and gingerly wiped off some drool where Lily had apparently tried chewing on it without either of them noticing.
"Do you still think she's a delightful baby?" Mary asked, eyebrows raised.
Matthew didn't look up as he put his handkerchief back in his pocket. "I think I might take your advice and keep my possessions to myself in future," he acknowledged. "But you did warn me, so I can hardly blame her for my own mistake. And there's no harm done."
He looked up, hat back in place. Then his expression brightened, and Mary turned to follow the direction of his gaze to see a young woman heading along the path towards them on a bicycle.
She turned back to Matthew, eyebrows raised, to see him grinning with an unfamiliar boyish mischief in his eyes.
"Might I take her for a minute?" he asked, nodding at Lily.
"By all means," Mary said, handing over the baby. Lily went without complaint, and didn't even reach for his hat.
Matthew lifted her up, turned to face the woman on the bicycle.
"See over there, Lily?" he said eagerly, "That's a bicycle. Can you say it? Bicycle," he pronounced clearly.
Mary remembered their declared competition for her next word and almost laughed again. Of course Matthew was taking such a silly joke seriously. Not that it appeared to be working; Lily looked utterly nonplussed.
"Bike," he tried. "See, that's shorter. Say 'bike', Lily. Bike"
"Bababababa!" Lily shouted happily as the woman passed them and disappeared around the corner.
Mary did laugh this time. "You won't persuade her to join the middle classes, especially when you're the one fighting to make sure she's going to inherit a house and estate, as well as a large fortune." She plucked Lily out of Matthew's arms and sat her on her own lap. "You're going to be a brilliant rider, like your Papa," she told her daughter.
"And her Mama, I take it," Matthew added.
"Mama!" Lily repeated happily.
"Naturally," Mary replied airily. He had never seen her ride, but it gratified her somehow to know he already knew she was good.
It had been perhaps the only thing she and Patrick had had in common. Although of course he could never have managed half of what she could had he been restricted to a side saddle as she had; they had tried it once, swapping mounts to prove a point, and Patrick had been forced to admit defeat when he had cried out in fright at the slightest disruption in the mare's slow trot as she had stepped over a fallen branch, leaving Mary laughing for hours afterwards.
Her heart ached suddenly, her grief catching her unawares as she remembered not her awkward husband, but her childhood companion and good-humoured rival, lost to her long before his death as soon as she had been made to see that marriage was the only solution to the entail.
She held Lily close to her, breathing in her familiar baby scent, suddenly painfully aware that Lily would never go riding with her father, would never have him with her at her first riding lesson, the pain all the more acute because she knew that for all that Patrick would never have been a particularly involved father, he would have loved to teach his daughter to ride.
But Lily, overexcited and in no mood to humour her mother, struggled to pull away and let out one of her high-pitched squeals as Mary pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, and suddenly Mary had to force her mind back to the present and concentrate on preventing Lily from launching herself onto the floor.
Matthew said nothing, but he must have noticed something in her expression, because he quickly took it upon himself to distract Lily. Apparently taking inspiration from Lily's misadventure with the hat, he took it off again and started a game with it, holding it in front of his face and reappearing from behind it with his face contorted into progressively more ridiculous expressions.
And ridiculous as it was, it worked, because Lily started laughing, giggling so delightedly that Mary felt her spirits lifting again as she felt the return of the morning's optimism.
Mary knew it was undignified, knew they were risking being seen be someone who would recognise them, knew that everyone walking past was looking at them and assuming they were an odd little family.
But as she thought of what Matthew had told her about his injury, she couldn't find it in her heart to make any serious attempt to stop it. He seemed to relax with Lily in a way he seemed unable to manage otherwise, and Mary recognised the feeling well, felt even now the way Lily's joy made it impossible to dwell too seriously on the many troubles that otherwise seemed unavoidable.
And as she watched them, Mary admitted to herself that perhaps a part of her had made the decision to bring Lily for this very reason. Because Matthew's easy playfulness with her, his lack of embarrassment at talking to a baby who couldn't properly talk back, his joy in her company… it brought a sense of peace that she had not been able to find in years. And here, sitting in the sun in a pretty public park with her fatherless daughter laughing delightedly and her wounded cousin who feared he would never have a child of his own laughing with her, Mary realised that for the first time in what felt like forever, she felt almost happy.
And she realised that just as she was finding a way to be rid of Matthew, she no longer wanted him to leave.
Author's Note: If you're a lawyer or otherwise know a lot about entails, I hope you can forgive any inaccuracies and suspend your disbelief! Research was done, but I spent so much time on this chapter it was starting to get ridiculous.
Reviews are always welcome and are the best possible motivation, so thank you so much to everyone who left one for the last chapter - I promise I cherish everyone's words of encouragement, even when I don't manage to reply individually.