He finds Mary and Sybil sitting in the kitchen and busy glaring at each other as he never has seen them before. The atmosphere is so tense it could be cut with a knife and it makes him hesitate in the doorway.

"Why are you standing there, Matthew? Come in," snaps Mary, without taking her eyes off her sister who glares right back at her, jutting her chin defiantly.

"I rather feel like I'm interrupting something," he says, looking from one to the other. "Maybe I should come at another time and let you settle it, whatever it is? As long as you promise faithfully I will find you both alive."

Mary's lips twitch in amusement, but her anger doesn't seem to abate in the slightest.

"No promises," she says in clipped tone. "But stay, by all means. Maybe Sybil can enlighten you, as she finally deigned to enlighten me, to the answer to one important question which you yourself asked many times."

Matthew frowns. He is still unsure if it is wise or proper for him to stay for the confrontation between sisters, but in truth he is curious what the hell is happening.

"Which is?"

Mary's smile turns predatory.

"Why we are here in the first place."

He gapes at her and turns his questioning gaze to Sybil, who crosses her arms defiantly.

"And why should I tell Matthew? What business it is of his?"

Matthew raises his hands defensively.

"Obviously none, I will just..."

"Stay!" barks Mary in a perfect imitation of a drill sergeant. "You deserve to know why two of your cousins are risking their lives in this place. If you thought it was for some higher purpose, you would be sorely mistaken as it turns out."

"It is for a higher purpose!" yells Sybil, evidently furious. "The fact you don't recognise it as such says more about you than about me!"

"Oh, really?" mocks Mary derisively. "Maybe confess to Matthew and let's see what he thinks?"

Sybil glares once more at her sister and turns to Matthew.

"I came here for Tom," she says, jutting her chin out again. "He was drafted and I couldn't stand the thought of being separated from him like that when he could die at any moment."

Matthew looks at her in astonishment. The only Tom he can think of is clearly impossible, so he feels as if he is missing a vital part of a puzzle.

"Tom...?" he asks hesitantly. Mary makes a mocking gesture at Sybil, inviting her to elaborate. Sybil crosses her arms and does.

"Tom Branson."

Matthew blinks.

"Your chauffeur?"

"The very one," says Sybil. "But he isn't the chauffeur now and he does not plan to be after the war ends. He wants to be a journalist."

Mary throws up her hands.

"Do you see now? We ended up here because my sister fancied herself in love with the chauffeur."

Matthew blinks again.

"That's... certainly unexpected," he admits. Sybil glares at him now.

"Why?" she asks angrily. "Isn't he a person? A person with his own thoughts and feelings?"

"Well, yes," says Matthew, feeling rather like he is trapped into manoeuvring between Scylla and Charybdis. "But it's rather rare that one in his position shares them with an earl's daughter."

Mary sends her sister a triumphant look while Sybil turns the full power of her glare at Matthew.

"Well, it's wrong! You cannot tell me that such meaningless distinctions matter much on the battlefield!"

"They don't," agrees Matthew easily. "War rather teaches one what matters and what doesn't, and I agree with you, the class one was born into is hardly the most important factor here."

He raises his hand in pacifying gesture before Mary can tear him to shreds.

"However," he continues. "I have no illusions that it doesn't still matter very much back at home. Are you sure your and Branson's feelings are strong enough to face the storm which inevitably breaks out when you confess to your parents?"

"He waited for my decision for two years and loved me longer," says Sybil passionately. "And I am here, am I not? What other proof do you need to realise our love is true?"

"Oh darling, don't be such a baby!" erupts Mary, unable to keep quiet any longer. "Matthew is right, it is easy to fancy yourself in love here, where normal rules hardly seem to apply. You're a nurse, I am an ambulance driver as is he, and we are all comrades together – but we won't be when we come back. It isn't fairyland! Do you think you can marry the chauffeur and we will all come to tea?"

"If you love me and want to keep in touch, you will have to," parries Sybil not giving an inch. "I am perfectly happy to remain friends with everybody. It's your decision whether you want to cast me off or not."

"As if it was so easy! Can't you see that you would be giving up your whole life, your prospects, your world?"

"I see it as finally having a meaningful life to live! I cannot go back to paying calls and dressing up for dinner and I cannot imagine how you could either! Or are you planning to call Sir Richard and tell him you're going to marry him after all?"

Matthew starts at that but remains silent. Mary narrows her eyes.

"Whatever I will end up doing after this whole mess is over, I plan to at least think before I do anything."

"Which is what I'm doing!"

"Yes? Then pry tell me how you two are going to support yourself? Because I do not see Papa giving Branson your settlement."

"He will work as a journalist and I will keep working as a nurse. We do not need Papa's money!"

Matthew decides to intervene.

"Sybil, I understand your point of view, really, I do. It's probably easier for me to sympathise with you and Branson than for others in the family," he studiously avoids Mary's glare. "But tell me, have you considered the practicalities? I am not sure how much beginning journalists make, but I do know that nurses do not earn much, especially at the beginning. Do you know if you two would be even able to afford any servants? And if not, has any of you ever cooked a meal? It's one thing to give up dressing up for dinner, I totally understand yearning for simpler and more useful kind of life – but what you are considering is truly monumental."

He notices with relief that both sisters seem to calm down a bit and react positively to his words. Mary because he is trying to make Sybil see sense and Sybil because she feels he is treating her as a rational adult and actually considering her point of view.

"Look around us, Matthew," says Sybil calmly, making a sweeping gesture at the shabby kitchen they sit in. "I am already living a life which is unimaginable at Downton. We do not have servants here and we do cook our breakfast and supper. I think I have a pretty good idea how to fend for myself."

"But do you really want to live like that, Sybil?" exclaims Mary. "Not just for a year or two, but forever?"

"I hope it won't be quite so Spartan forever," says Sybil firmly. "But I am ready to stand it while it lasts."

"And what about when you have children?" asks Mary incredulously. "Will you be equally ready to stand it when you have one, two or three children and no help to handle them? When you are also supposed to cook the meals, keep the house clean and all without any servants to take some of the burden from you? How will Branson support a growing family when you can no longer work due to the need to take care of your children?"

Sybil looks a bit unsure for the first time. Matthew nearly drops his head on the table when he realises that for all her self-proclaimed long and serious consideration she has apparently not planned so far into the future.

There is no quelling her though.

"We will manage," she says stubbornly. "I am sure Tom will earn more in time, after he has time to advance in his career. We will be living in Dublin, where Tom's family lives; I'm sure they will help with the children so I can keep working. Don't you see? We will face many problems; I am not naïve enough to assume we won't have any, but we will face them together."

Mary throws her hands in the air at such pig-headed stubbornness and starts to pace the kitchen. Matthew looks at Sybil seriously.

"Dublin sounds like natural destination for you two. I know Branson wants to be involved in Ireland's bid for freedom and, as you said, you would have his family there to support you. But Sybil, have you considered that you might not be exactly welcome there? That being who you are might actually put you in real danger?"

Sybil looks uncomfortable and Matthew is sure that she has considered it and has found no easy answer. Her next words confirm it.

"I will be Mrs Branson there, not Lady Sybil. I won't be walking around announcing whose daughter I am."

"It will be enough that you will open your mouth!" exclaims Mary. "Or do you think they talk like you or me in Dublin?"

"Mary is right," agrees Matthew. "There will be no hiding who you are, Sybil, not in a long term. Even if you keep your title secret, if you learn to alter your speech patterns, people will learn enough and then gossip with others. You might be placing yourself in very real danger there. Ireland is on the verge of an explosion and your kind is the most hated there."

"I don't care!" explodes Sybil and rises from the table so rapidly that her chair collapses on the floor. "I know you two don't approve, although I have hoped for more understanding from you, Matthew. I know nobody else will approve. But I love him and he loves me and we will get married as soon as he is free from the war. There is nothing, nothing, you can possibly say to change my mind on this."

She runs out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Mary comes back to the table and collapses into the only remaining chair, dropping her face into her hands.

"You see now what I am dealing with," she says wearily, her voice muffled by her hands. "She is mad, completely, utterly mad, and so stubborn there is no getting through to her."

Matthew hesitantly puts his hand on her shoulder, trying to provide what little comfort he can.

"She is in love," he says softly. "And she is a Crawley, I am afraid the stubbornness comes with the territory."

Mary raises her face from her hands long enough to send him a wry look.

"You would know, wouldn't you?"

Matthew smirks.

"I've been dealing with you for nearly six years now, haven't I?"

She raises her eyebrows.

"And here I thought you have developed some self-awareness. My stubbornness is nothing to yours."

Matthew stares at her incredulously.

"Have you met yourself, Lady Mary? I think everybody who knows us would agree that you are the most stubborn of us all."

He does succeed in making her laugh and it makes him quite happy. He missed her laugh.

It disappears now all too soon, to be replaced by a heavy sigh.

"Whoever of us wins this argument, it is clear that none of us holds a candle to Sybil."

"That may be true, unfortunately."

"I'm just so afraid of Sybil waking up in a Dublin slum, alone and unhappy, with all her bridges burnt thoroughly behind her. It cannot be right. It just cannot be right."

Matthew gathers enough courage to take her hand in his.

"But will quarrelling with her now help? Or will she just dig in her heels? Nobody knows how long this blasted war will last. Much can change in the meantime. Maybe it would be wiser to show her that you love her and support her, even if you disagree with her choices. This way, if things go wrong for her, she will know she can turn to you for help."

Mary's shoulders slump.

"You might be right," she says tiredly. "I definitely don't want to fight with her. She is one of the very few people I really love, and the only one in the world who finds me nice."

"Hey, I also find you nice," says Matthew and laughs at Mary's frankly disbelieving look. "When you feel like it, at least. But seriously, you are much nicer than you want people think you are."

Mary just shakes her head doubtfully, but he notices the corners of her mouth twitching slightly.

"I will try to talk with her again tomorrow, hopefully without one or the other of us attempting to scratch our eyes out," she says with a heavy sigh. "Thank you for trying to talk some reason into her, and for talking me down now. I appreciate it, truly."

"I am glad if I could help a bit, even though it doesn't seem to me like my intrusion into your discussion brought any results," he senses Mary's need to change the subject. "Whatever the original reason you two came here, your whole family is awfully proud of you and Sybil now. Cousin Cora said she was going to write to you to tell it to you again."

Mary smiles.

"She already did, in her usual effusive American way."

"Your Granny compared you to your Great Aunt Roberta," says Matthew solemnly.

Mary's eyebrows go up in response.

"The one of the Lucknow guns?"

Matthew nods.

"The very one."

"Goodness. Now I know we must have truly impressed her. Great Aunt Roberta is a bit of a legend in our family."

"What happened to her?" asks Matthew with interest. "I don't think I heard anything about her before."

"She was my grandfather's, the 6th Earl's, sister. After four unsuccessful seasons she had been sent to visit an uncle in India in hope she finds a husband there – men in the colonies were supposed to be less picky," Mary snorts lightly. "Unfortunately for her, she found herself in the middle of Sepoy Rebellion. But she impressed a British officer so much with her bravery and resolve during the siege of Lucknow that he married her afterwards. They came back to England and had a reasonably happy life until she died giving birth to her 10th child. Papa was named for her, as well as for his grandfather."

"She truly does sound like a remarkable woman," he says distractedly. He could well imagine a soldier being so impressed by a brave, beautiful girl that he married her after they faced all kinds of untold dangers in foreign lands together. Although in his fantasy there would be no early death in childbirth. Then he frowns. "Wait a moment, ten children? They all would be Robert's first cousins. How many second cousins do you have?"

Mary laughs.

"Thirty two. And they are all your cousins as well, you know."

Mindboggling as it is, his thoughts travel somewhere else.

"It really is absurd that I'm the heir," he says. "When there are so many people so much closer related to you."

Mary shrugs.

"They are all related through the female line. Great Aunt Roberta could not inherit any more than I can and neither can her descendants."

Matthew shakes his head.

"If there ever was a law in need of changing, it is definitely this one. Entails are outdated and unfair."

"You won't get any disagreement from me, of course. But it is what it is for now."

"If I get through it all in one piece, I am going to work on changing it," Matthew promises with a frown. It's been years since he has considered the entail, busy with more pressing matters as he was, but it still rankles him now that he thinks of it.

Mary raises her eyebrows.

"And what would Lavinia think about you potentially giving up your inheritance?"

"Lavinia?" he asks, not comprehending for a moment. Mary looks at him as he is missing something very obvious.

"Your future wife?"

Ah, that. Yes, it makes sense for her to wonder about that.

"She would agree with me," he says, very sure of the answer. He remembers Lavinia's reaction to Downton perfectly. "She would prefer I came without the whole burden of a future peerage and an estate to manage anyway."

There is disbelief on Mary's face, but then she shakes her head ruefully.

"She really suits you well, doesn't she?"

And this is the moment when Matthew knows he should end this conversation, because while Mary is right of course – Lavinia suits him very well, in so many ways – it's on the very tip of his tongue that she is not the woman he wants.

xxx

Branson sticks his head into the kitchen warily.

"Is it safe for me to come in or are you going to murder me with that wooden spoon?" he asks distrustfully, eyeing the vicious way she is stirring the scrambled eggs.

Mary scoffs, glaring at him in a way she seriously doubts is going to reassure him about his safety.

"Of course you are safe from the spoon," she snarls. "The knives are just there."

He flinches and she can only think good before she rolls her eyes.

"Oh, come in, the eggs will get cold."

She throws a plate of them in front of him more than serves it, but Branson takes it as a peace offering it is anyway. Or maybe not peace, exactly, but at least an armistice.

"So," he asks carefully. "I take it you're not going to eviscerate me right now? Because I don't think you would fill me up with scrambled eggs first if you intended to."

Mary's glare intensifies.

"Why ever would I want to?" she asks, her tone mocking. "Just for seducing my baby sister?"

Branson gets a delightful shade of red and half stands from his chair.

"There was no seducing!" he yells, clearly offended, Mary is not sure whether on his or Sybil's behalf. "For God's sake, we haven't even kissed!"

"You only made her run after you to a warzone," she points out bitingly. "Am I supposed to find it better?"

"I had no idea she was going to do that!" quarrels Branson. Mary finds his refusal to be properly intimidated by her rather galling, but silently admits it's a good sign regarding his possible marriage to Sybil. They will both need plenty of courage if they decide to go through with their insane plans and it seems they both have it in spades. "If she told me, I would have tried to talk her out of it!"

Mary sends him a doubtful look and sit down to eat her own eggs.

"I would," insists Branson. "I never wanted her to be in danger. Although she probably would not listen to me anyway. There is no talking her out of something when she makes up her mind."

That, more than anything else, suddenly makes Mary realise that he really knows her sister in ways she never suspected him to. What has Sybil said? That he has waited for her for over two years and loved her longer? Mary starts to wonder what exactly that entailed. She knows way too well how much this kind of yearslong longing can hurt.

"It's a good thing it's my turn to make breakfast tomorrow," says Branson thoughtfully. "At least I won't have to worry about you poisoning me."

"Oh, and you haven't worried today?" asks Mary sarcastically.

"I didn't think you had a chance to acquire any poisons yet."

Branson grins at her unrepentantly and it takes everything Mary has to not beat him about the head with that wooden cooking spoon.

She is a lady after all.

xxx

Mary sighs as she starts the ambulance and gets it into gear, her movements quick and sure with the familiarity acquired over the three months she has spent doing it nearly every day. She remembers how she struggled with the unwieldy thing when she first arrived, the car so different from the Renault sedan she learnt to drive in at home. In those first weeks she often felt as if her arms were going to fall out of their sockets at the end of her shift. They arrived in the end of the summer, with the 3rd Battle of Ypres going strong and the trains with the wounded arriving one after another, with no end in sight. She sometimes thinks she still can feel the utter exhaustion of those first weeks in her very bones.

It is the mid-October now and things have been winding down, thankfully. She is racing toward the oncoming train, because the first ambulances on site will get to pick the least wounded men; the most serious cases left for the others so they can be carefully taken off the train without being jostled in the crowd. The last ambulances will get the grim task of transporting the dead and Mary hates that one. As bad as the screams of the wounded haunt both her waking and sleeping hours, somehow the silence of the fallen is worse. At least with the screaming ones there is some hope of saving them if she is fast enough at the wheel. With the silent the only reason to rush is the need to turn back and pick up some more from the next train and nothing at all to distract her from most awful thoughts. Yes, she prefers the screamers, if she is not quick enough to get the walking wounded.

The route is familiar enough that Mary does not have to concentrate on it much, except to be on the lookout for new shell holes in the middle of the road. The orderly going with her, Smith, is not a talkative sort, so she is left free to think and today she is not at all happy to do so. She's been doing too much thinking recently as it is.

She finds it amusing that even with the revelation of Sybil's relationship with Branson it is Matthew she is obsessing about. Then again, hasn't it been par for the course for her for years now? She can hardly remember the time he was not a constant presence in her thoughts.

Right now she is pondering whether she has lied to him when she said that she came to France to protect her foolish little sister as much as she could. Because, as much as she loves Sybil, and however true it is that she would never have done it without Sybil getting it into her head to go nursing at the front, it wasn't Mary's sole motivation for joining her.

She thinks back to the spring of 1917. The relief of having Matthew temporarily back in England and finding herself able to breathe for the first time since he volunteered in 1914, mixed with cutting pain of seeing him happily engaged to another woman, one so much more worthy of him and his love. Her beloved home invaded by the war in form of wounded officers and their caretakers. The looming prospect of shackling herself to Sir Richard Carlisle because she long before utterly ruined all her chances for love and happiness anyway and she was determined to carve some kind of future for herself. The problem was that she wasn't at all sure she could stomach going through with it when the time came.

And then Matthew went back to the front, making her unable to breathe again, and Sybil confessed she was going to do the same, and suddenly Mary just could not stay and pretend that nothing was wrong for a moment longer. Something had to give or she was going to lose her mind.

Although, in retrospect, she might have found a different form of escape than throwing herself into the middle of this.

They arrive just before the train pulls to stop and the pandemonium of unloading bleeding, moaning men begins. Mary thinks wryly back to a similar scene she witnessed once back at Downton – a scene she found then so horrifying she ran away as fast as possible, feeling sick to her stomach. And yet, as upsetting as it was to her then, it was nothing in comparison to this. The men at Downton were cleaned up, dressed in pyjamas, bandaged, neatly labelled. What she sees in front of her now is a writhing mass of blood, mud, torn naked flesh and misery. There is neither time nor resources on the battleground for anything beyond the most basic first aid and getting them the hell out of there; any proper care has to wait until Mary and the others manage to get them to the hospital.

When she oversees packing the first of them into the back of her ambulance, she is checking out every face as she always does, looking for blond hair and blue eyes among the wounded and praying she doesn't find him. She was doing it even before she learnt that he is in fact stationed so close to her, but now when she knows she is all the more anxious that one day she is going to see his beloved body torn apart and bleeding in front of her. It's always such a relief when the ambulance is full and she gets a reprieve, even though she knows logically that he could be injured or dead and she none the wiser for days after, considering the sheer volume of casualties. But once again, he is not among the men crowding her ambulance, so she starts the engine, gets behind the wheel, and begins the arduous journey to the hospital, the ambulance even more unwieldy with the added weight.

Not today, she thinks tiredly. At least it hasn't happened today.