Mary parks her ambulance next to the train with the fresh load of wounded and is immediately stopped by Phryne.

"Mary," she says, looking at her with uncharacteristic seriousness. "I need you to remain very calm."

Mary swallows against the sudden dryness in her throat.

"Why?"

"The wounded on this train are mostly from Duke Of Manchester's Own."

"Is Matthew –?"

Phryne shakes her head.

"I haven't seen him so far, but they only started to get them off."

Mary nods and walks quickly towards the train, her eyes scanning frantically for a blond head and blue eyes and –

There! The orderlies are just putting a stretcher down on the ground and within moments Mary is kneeling down by it, her face aghast at the bloody bandages covering Matthew's chest and arm and the bright red spots on his otherwise sickly pale face.

"Matthew!" she exclaims as she grasps his hand desperately. He is burning hot and she is terrified.

"My darling," he answers, his eyes bright with fever and yet so full of love for her she nearly bursts into tears. "I'm so glad I got to see you again."

His voice is hoarse and his lips cracked, so she offers him water from her own canteen, which he gladly accepts. She gestures for the orderlies to take him to her ambulance and walks beside the stretcher as they do. She climbs into the back and sits down next to him as soon as the orderlies leave them to get more wounded.

"I'm glad I got to see you too," she says, eyeing him anxiously, but desperately trying to keep calm. "How badly are you wounded?"

"Not very badly, just in a lot of places," answers Matthew with a grimace. "The Germans put more holes in me than you can find in Swiss cheese."

"You're going to be alright then," she says, although she looks at his pale, feverish face and her hands tremble. "I will get you to the base hospital shortly and they will make you well in no time."

Matthew looks at her and she sees that he doesn't believe her; that he knows how truly bad he is.

"If they don't –" he says gently and squeezes her hand when she opens her mouth to immediately deny it, to stop him from saying what she is deadly afraid he is going to say. "No, Mary, if they don't – please know that being together with you, being engaged to you, was the greatest happiness I've ever experienced. To be allowed to love you and to know you love me back…"

He reaches into his pocket with his free hand, grimacing in pain at the movement. He pulls out a letter before she has time to offer to do it for him.

"Keep this letter safe and read it if I don't make it. Will you do it, darling?"

Her grasp on his hand is so tight she is afraid she is hurting him, but he makes no move to make her release it.

"You will make it," she insists stubbornly through clenched teeth. "But of course I will."

She takes the letter and puts it in her own pocket.

"Your lucky charm is in my other pocket," says Matthew. "I can't reach it. Could you take it back?"

She shakes her head.

"I'm not taking it back while you still need it."

His eyes are so blue even in a dim light inside the dark ambulance and they look at her with so much sadness that everything in her is being torn to shreds with pain and grief and rage at the utter waste and unfairness of it all.

"I won't need it for very much longer, my darling, and I don't want it to get lost in the confusion later."

She shakes her head again.

"I'm not taking it back yet," she repeats and bends down to kiss him. It is time to drive. "I'm going to get you to the hospital now, in record time. We will talk more after a doctor has seen you."

His lips feel just as cracked and dry as they look, but respond to her kiss as passionately as always.

"You know I love you so terribly much?" he asks and it takes all Mary has to not cry. She can't cry, not yet, she needs to be calm, to be strong, she needs to get him to the hospital as quickly as possible…

"I do know," she says and caresses his beautiful, beloved face one more time before she jumps out of the back of the ambulance and takes her seat behind the wheel.

She has barely started driving when the bombs start falling and she curses bloody murder while pushing the throttle with all her strength, desperate for the ambulance to go faster. The train depot is the main target of the German planes, the further she is from it, the safer she and Matthew are going to be. The vehicle lurches forward on the dark road, lit with the explosions which seem to occur all around them, and suddenly is thrown violently to the side, flinging Mary's body against the door.

She doesn't know how she got out, but she did, frantic to check on Matthew and desperate when she notices that two of the tires are completely bust; this ambulance is not going anywhere and Matthew needs help! But as she stands up to go to him, she immediately falls down with a cry; her ankle is too bruised or twisted from banging against the door to support her. She bites her lip and crawls to the back of the ambulance on all four, when she pulls herself up avoiding putting any weight on her right leg.

"Matthew?" she calls anxiously. "Darling?"

"Are you alright, Mary?" he answers immediately with a question of his own, equally anxious. "Have you been hurt at all?"

"No, darling, I'm alright," she assures him. "I'm going to get help for you."

"No, Mary!" he exclaims and to her horror she sees him trying to get up, only to fall back against the stretcher with a painful groan. "Darling, the bombs are still falling! Just stay here until the air raid is over."

"It's not any safer here than it will be on the way," she answers matter-of-factly. "It's only a few hundred yards and we are not sheltered here in any way from the bombs. I'm not letting you wait for help a minute longer than necessary."

"Mary!" he calls after her, but she gets off the ambulance and starts the painful crawl towards the hospital gates.

The trek is nightmarish and seems to last forever. The planes are still coming, the bombs are still exploding with a deafening roar, making the ground shake, but at least they are lighting up her way. Her ankle hurts like hell but she is getting forward, fast as she can in those circumstances; Matthew needs help and she is going to get it for him. She nearly cries with relief when she reaches the gate, just when the enemy planes finally finish their job for tonight and fly away.

There is a lot of exclaiming over her, but they do send another ambulance to fetch Matthew and Mary insists on going with them. She can deal with her ankle later.

When they reach her ambulance minutes later, Matthew is already dead.

xxx

This time Mary doesn't scream when she wakes up, only her cheeks are wet with tears trickling slowly down her face to Matthew's naked chest under her.

Matthew!

He is alive, wonderfully, beautifully alive, his chest moving slightly under her cheek, his heartbeat audible under her ear, Oh God, he is alive, and this was only a dream, a horrible, cruel dream, taking all the painful details of Captain Summers' death and amplifying them by putting Matthew in his place instead. It was only a dream.

She hugs him tighter, pressing her still naked body to his, and rages at the injustice of it. How could she still be haunted by such a dream after the happiest night she had in months? Why couldn't she dream of Wimereux instead or about what they did before falling asleep or about a glorious future they are going to have together? Why did her joy have to be marred and spoiled in such a cruel way? Was she never to be free of those horrid dreams? Destined to keep losing Matthew over and over and over again?

She tries so hard to keep quiet, to stifle her sobs to avoid waking Matthew up and spoiling his joy too – it's the last thing she wants to do after seeing him truly happy for the first time in months – but either the wetness of her tears on his chest or her body trembling against him does rouse him. She feels him stir slightly as his hand reaches for her face and jerks in surprise when he feels the tears.

"Darling?" he asks instantly. "Are you alright?"

She nods against him, but her tears keep falling.

"Just a dream," she whispers, wiping at her face with annoyance.

"Tonight?" asks Matthew with painful surprise and she is so furious with herself for spoiling it for him, for being so damaged, for not managing to hide her distress from him better.

"I'm so sorry," she apologises, hiding her face against his chest, allowing her dishevelled hair to obscure it further, even though he can surely barely see her in the darkness, with only glowing embers of the fire and slight moonlight to disperse it. Matthew's arms tighten around her and it feels so good, so comforting that she leans into his embrace, even as she's feeling so unworthy of it at the moment. "I thought just being with you would keep them away, but it seems I was a fool."

Matthew strokes her head and back soothingly.

"Not a fool, darling," he says. "Never a fool. We were both hoping, that's all. But I hope my presence makes it at least a little easier to deal with the aftermath, even if I can't prevent you from suffering a nightmare in the first place."

Mary clings to him, allowing her body to relax slightly under his caresses. At last her tears stop.

"It does make it easier," she admits, putting her hand lightly over his heart to feel it beat in his chest. He is alive. "Much easier. But I hate the thought that I woke you up like that and spoiled everything."

"You didn't spoil anything," counters Matthew firmly. "Besides, it could have just as well been me. It still can be me, next time. Or have you forgotten that it was my screams which woke you up yesterday?"

Mary frowns, thinking about it.

"You at least seem to have less than me," she mutters resentfully, which is idiotic because it is not like she would like him to suffer from them more than her. She still is miffed somehow that he came out of the whole mess seemingly better equipped to deal with it than her.

Matthew huffs in exasperation.

"I don't, really," he admits darkly. "I'm just so used to them that I don't even wake up much until they are especially horrifying. But then, I've had them longer."

Mary raises her head to kiss him in a silent apology. Honestly, what has she been thinking by making it into a competition? He spent four years of his life in that hell and came back broken in every conceivable way. There was hardly anything in his experience to envy.

Matthew kisses her back, forgiving as always, and Mary thinks again how little she deserves him.

"I'm sorry," she says again when they part. "I am just so angry that it had to happen after such a wonderful experience."

A wide smile blooms slowly on Matthew's face.

"It was wonderful, wasn't it?" he asks and his gaze becomes heated as he looks at her, naked and dishevelled in his arms. "Maybe we could try and see if I can take your mind off the unpleasant things."

His gentle stroking takes a more purposeful course as his hand drifts from her back to her derrière and he looks at her questioningly. Mary finds her lips turning into a wicked smile and she reaches to kiss his neck in the exact spot which made him gasp last evening.

"Let's try," she says eagerly. "I'm rather confident you will manage to be quite a distraction, darling."

xxx

When Mary wakes up again, it is in much more pleasant circumstances, due to Anna placing a tray with her tea and dry toast next to her bed.

Matthew's bed, she realises as she blinks sleepily against the light from the windows Anna is drawing the curtains from and Matthew, still bare-chested after their previous activities, stirs underneath her.

"It seems rather shocking for Anna to have to see me en déshabille," he mutters, pulling the blankets self-consciously a bit higher.

"I'm made of stout stuff, sir," answers Anna airily, walking to another window. "Don't worry about that."

She leaves the room with a bright smile at Mary.

"I'm sorry. It still seems off to be found in your bed."

"Your bed, technically," points out Mary, snuggling into him for a moment longer and luxuriating in the feeling.

"Same difference," argues Matthew, hugging her tighter. "Being found in one bed with you at all, whoever's it is."

"But very nice," says Mary, hoping rather than he is not going to revert to resisting sharing one with her after the night they've had, but apprehensive nonetheless.

"Oh, as nice as nice can be," he answers, pulling her down for a kiss and putting her fears to rest.

xxx

Since Mary is invited for lunch at the Dower House – ladies only, as she tells him with a wink – and is going to Ripon straight after, Matthew decides to share his with the officers. He still feels vaguely guilty for his privileged position at Downton, even though most of them consider it perfectly natural considering he is both the heir and, as it is now publicly known, the husband of the earl's eldest daughter. It does not mean he is free of ribbing on that account though.

"Decided to join the unwashed masses, Crawley?" asks Captain Anderson jovially, inviting Matthew to park his chair by him with an expansive gesture of his amputated arm. Matthew gives him a sardonic look.

"You're not in the trenches anymore, Anderson, if you are unwashed it's wholly on you."

The others laugh, including Anderson. There is Major Rowling, with the dark glasses and raspy voice of a gas victim, Captain Torville, with both legs blown off, and a new chap, with extensive bandages obscuring half of his face, but not enough to hide extensive burns on the rest of it. He is promptly introduced as Major Gordon, from the Canadian Expeditionary Force. Matthew does his best not to react visibly at the extent of his injuries.

He wonders sometimes if he would exchange his for the ones suffered by some of the others. Would it be better to have his legs blown off like Torville than to have them still attached but useless and alien to him? Would he prefer to be able to walk and make love in a normal way, but have a face which makes people recoil in horror, an eye missing and hands so disfigured by burns he can barely hold a fork? Those are the questions with no easy answer and his own depends wholly on the day and the level of bitterness he feels about a particular aspect of his disability.

Today, after the amazing, unbelievable experiences of last night, he feels the luckiest chap in the world. He knows it will fade; that the bitter thoughts and frustration at his numerous limitations will return shortly, but right now he feels nothing but compassion towards Gordon. At least his own face is still the one his wife wants to kiss.

"So you're the heir to all of this?" asks Gordon curiously, making Matthew sigh. If he could hide this fact somehow from his fellow patients, he would gladly do so. Then again, it would necessarily mean giving up living together with Mary, so maybe not.

Especially not after last night.

"Yes, I am," he answers with a self-deprecating smile. "Although I still find it hard to believe most of the time. I had no idea I was even related to Lord Grantham until I was twenty seven, never mind his heir. It has been quite an adjustment."

"But a pleasant one, surely," observes Gordon. "To learn that all this money and the estate and the title is going to be yours."

"It is a mixed blessing," answers Matthew with a shrug. "It comes with an enormous responsibility and quite a lot of constraints in comparison to the life I used to imagine for myself."

"I wouldn't mind a surprise like that!" laughs Anderson. "Especially when I'm contemplating the necessity to find a job after this is all over."

"You wouldn't," rasps Rowling. "But this is because you never take anything seriously."

"What was it you were doing before the war?" asks Matthew, hoping that it wasn't anything requiring two hands.

Anderson grins wryly.

"I was a bank clerk," he says. "So hopefully they will take me back, unless my handwriting will put them off. My left hand is only capable of a chicken scrawl."

"I bet it still looks better than mine," says Gordon moodily, flexing his burnt fingers with a painful wince. "And at least your face is not ugly enough to scare off clients. I was in banking too, but I don't see going back to it easily."

The others look away awkwardly.

"Eh, they can always put you into a back office," says Anderson dismissively. "They will need chaps who know how to count. Now, look at Torville here. He surely is not getting back to his previous occupation and he's not complaining."

"What was it?" asks Matthew with a bit of apprehension, his eyes flickering to Torville's wheelchair.

"A construction surveyor," answers Torville resignedly. "Climbing scaffolding and the like. Assessing buildings' shape and value."

Another moment of silence falls upon their table. Torville shrugs philosophically.

"Could have been worse. At least I live on the ground floor. Stevens' flat is a fourth floor walk up and he lost his legs too."

"This conversation became quite morbid, lads," says Anderson with resolute cheerfulness. "Any girls waiting for you at home? I'm not asking you, Crawley, we all know what a lucky bastard you are."

Matthew acknowledges Anderson's point with a nod. He knows he is the luckiest bastard in the world when it comes to his wife.

Torville smiles, for the very first time since the beginning of their conversation.

"I have a wife," he says fondly. "Annie. The most plucky girl under the sun. When I wrote her that she's going to have a husband without legs, she just wrote that better one without legs than no husband at all and that she was never fond of dancing anyway."

"It is amazing what women have the courage to face and accept," says Matthew quietly. "Even if it's hard for us to comprehend."

"Oh yes," agrees Anderson with feeling. "My girl is the same. We're only engaged so I offered to release her, naturally, in case she preferred a chap with two arms to embrace her, but she had none of it. Booked the church after Christmas and told me to get well enough to show up."

"Lucky you," mutters Gordon, his scowl pulling on his burns in a grotesque way. "I used to have a fiancée, long ago, but she married someone else. And I'm not likely to find another, with that mug."

He gestures at his ruined face.

"Don't be so hasty," Anderson waves his remaining hand dismissively. "Men are scarce these days, there might be a girl who will fall for you yet."

Gordon stays silent for a long moment, then smiles.

"Who knows," he says finally in a more cheerful tone. "You might be right, Anderson."

xxx

Sitting in the dining room of the Dower House, with Mama, Edith, Sybil and Granny lording over them all, it seems as if the war never happened. There are no visible reminders of it in Granny's domain.

"You seem in a good mood today, Mary," observes Violet astutely and Mary barely suppresses a grin.

"I'm going to Ripon after lunch," she answers airily. "I need to order some new clothes. Anna and I checked my existing wardrobe and it looks like I soon won't be able to fit into most of them."

Cora's whole expression softens at the reminder of Mary's pregnancy.

"It's so exciting when your belly starts to grow. It always made everything so much more real to me. And you should be able to feel the baby move soon after!"

"With the looser fashions now, you will be looking more fashionable than pregnant for some time," points out Sybil laughingly and Mary rolls her eyes.

"You have a better opinion of Mrs Prewett than I if you expect the clothes to be fashionable," she says scornfully. "But I suppose they'll do for the next few months. It's not like I'm planning to go anywhere anybody who matters will see me in them."

"She's not so bad," says Edith. "Not very avant garde, that's true, but decent enough."

"Maybe enough for you," scoffs Mary. "But if I was planning on a more active social life in the near future, definitely not enough for me."

Edith scowls in response, making Cora look at Mary chidingly.

"At least you won't be wearing that dreadful uniform anymore," says Violet distastefully. "Now, if only Sybil stops wearing hers half the time, I'll be content."

"I will stop it when the war ends and the convalescent home closes down and not a day sooner," says Sybil firmly. "But with the way things are going, it can't be long now."

"Oh, to think about having our house back!" sighs Cora wistfully. "I can't wait for it."

"I don't know how you're able to stand it, to be honest," says Violet. "All those strange men and nurses all over the house!"

"We are doing a good thing though by giving them a place to recover and rest," objects Edith, with Sybil nodding in agreement.

"Of course we are," agrees Mary. "But it doesn't change the fact that it will be a relief to have that beastly war over and nobody else becoming wounded and in need of a convalescent home."

"Will you move back to the house then?" asks Edith and Mary looks at her scornfully.

"Of course not. Matthew won't be able to climb the stairs any better than he can now."

She doesn't add that after only three days at their new home she concedes Matthew has been completely right about advantages of a house of their own. Even if Matthew was to recover, she wouldn't willingly relinquish their privacy.

Edith colours in embarrassment.

"Papa has been speaking about installing a lift," she mutters.

"And we will have to do it sooner or later," agrees Mary. "The house will be Matthew's at some point, after all, and it wouldn't do for him to be unable to get around most of it, even if we arranged a bedroom downstairs. But there is no hurry for it. We are very comfortable in the Countess' Cottage."

Edith gives her a rather strange look at the reminder of Matthew's status as the heir, but says nothing.

"Having one's own home is a nice thing for a newly married couple," says Cora, with a look at her own mother-in-law with whom she shared the house for the first ten years of her marriage. "But I am very glad to have you and Matthew so close – and soon my first grandchild!"

"Having a set of private rooms is quite enough for most couples," snipes Violet in response, glaring slightly at Cora. "Not everybody is an effusive American. Besides, it's not like Mary and Matthew need so much privacy."

The silence over the table is rather oppressive. Mary takes a deep breath, consciously relaxes her hands somehow balled into tight fists and smiles smugly at her grandmother.

"Oh, but we do," she says sweetly. "Matthew has been injured, of course, but he isn't dead. There are more ways than one to experience passion."

Sybil snickers, Edith sputters on her water and Cora's eyes grow wide as saucers.

"Don't be vulgar, Mary," says Violet chidingly, but Mary, taking a dignified sip of her own water, thinks that she can detect a hint of a smile in her Granny's features.

xxx

William has just finished helping Matthew get clean and dress back into his uniform after he completed his physical therapy session – they retained the use of his old bedroom for that purpose – when Robert approaches him, looking uncharacteristically perturbed.

"Matthew, could you please join me and the rest of the family in the small library? There is a grave matter I must discuss with you all."

Matthew frowns in concern and surprise.

"I hope it's nothing too bad," he says, his concern only increasing when Robert doesn't offer any reassurance. "Is Mary already back from Ripon?"

Robert shakes his head immediately.

"No, and she won't be included when she is," he says firmly. "You will understand in a moment that this is the exact kind of news we must keep from her at all cost, at least as long as it's possible."

Now Matthew is really worried, but figures out the fastest way to learn what is going on is to follow Robert to the small library rather than quarrelling with him in the corridor.

When they reach it, everyone but Mary is already there, even Violet and Isobel. Matthew notes that everybody looks just as anxious as he feels, with the curious and glaring exception of Edith who places herself firmly by Robert's side and appears more excited than nervous.

"I'm sorry if it's a bit of a crush; I didn't want to be overheard," says Robert heavily.

"Are we talking financial ruin or criminal investigation?" asks Violet sharply, clearly impatient for him to end the suspense.

"Neither," answers Robert, clearly receiving her message. "I'll get straight to the point. We have a patient here who has been badly burned who goes by the name of Patrick Gordon, but claims to be Patrick Crawley."

All air seems to leave Matthew's chest as he is experiencing a strong déjà vu of being told by Robert that Cora is pregnant and he might not be the heir after all. The feeling of sand shifting under his feet is as nausea inducing as back then. Only then he was mostly worried what it may mean for his hopes of getting Mary to marry him and now… Now…

"But I thought he was dead. Didn't he drown on the Titanic?" asks Mother and pulls him out of his half-formed, frantic thoughts.

"Well, of course it is what we all thought. Until now," answers Robert uncomfortably, looking more lost and unsure than Matthew has ever seen him.

"They never found a body," points out Edith and Matthew realises with a start that unlike Robert she sounds and looks utterly convinced that the man is Patrick. The sick feeling in his gut increases. He remembers Mary telling him that Edith used to have a crush on Patrick and probably knew him best. If she is sure…

"They never found a lot of bodies," counters Violet and Matthew sees that in this she is wholly on his side – or, more accurately, on Mary's. Whatever is the truth about Major Gordon's identity, Violet wants Downton to go to her favourite granddaughter and her child, not to this stranger, even if he turns out to be her late husband's long lost grandnephew. "If he is Patrick, which I seriously doubt, where has he been hiding for the last six years?"

"In Canada," answers Edith defensively, jutting out her chin. "Suffering from amnesia."

"He does have a story that would explain it," admits Robert with visible reluctance. "I'm not quite sure about how to test the facts."

"He knows all sorts of things that only Patrick, or someone very close to him, would know," says Edith earnestly.

Violet scoffs.

"As would any fortune teller at a fair! They all come up with a dozen details they couldn't possibly know at a drop of a hat."

"There's no need to be angry," intercedes Cora, although Matthew sees she is quite perturbed herself when she glances at him and quickly turns away to avoid his eyes. He can guess what she must be thinking about yet another way her eldest daughter is going to be cheated out of her future by being married to him. "This young man is either Patrick or he's not. There must be a way to find out. Is he like Patrick to look at?"

Even Edith hesitates.

"He's been so badly burned that it's very hard to say," she admits reluctantly. "Maybe when he heals more and his bandages get removed… But he is the same height and his eyes and hair match."

"Then he looks like half of the English men I've met," scoffs Violet again. "Light eyes and dark blond hair is hardly an unusual combination in those parts!"

"I've sent his account up to George Murray in London to ask for his advice," says Robert, looking at Matthew so apologetically that he feels forced into making a statement.

"That's good. We owe this man to investigate his claim thoroughly," he says with as much calmness as he can muster in the circumstances. "If he really is Patrick Crawley, then of course we have to acknowledge him. In such a case, Mary and I can make plans accordingly."

He takes a big breath.

"However, we have to be certain. The burden of proof is on him, really. If he is in fact Patrick Crawley, it shouldn't be too difficult to prove it to us – you all have enough common memories of him to ascertain whether he is genuine, however little he looks like Patrick used to. There is no need to fight until we know the facts."

Robert looks at them all sternly.

"Until then, I want none of you to say anything about it to Mary. She is fragile and Major Clarkson was adamant that she must not be given any reason to be anxious or stressed."

"And of course she would be distressed at the prospect of missing the Countess' coronet after all," observes Edith and Matthew is not sure who glares at her harder for that, he or Sybil.

"It's her whole future in balance, Edith!" says Sybil harshly. "However little I think of titles, I know there is much more at stake and so should you!"

"We were all so fond of Patrick!" exclaims Edith. "I'm surprised at you, Sybil! Aren't you glad if he's survived?"

"I am going to be glad if he's survived," counters Sybil hotly. "But so far I know of no such thing."

"You only say so because you got so close to Mary in France that you are wholly on her side! You would be willing to abandon Patrick, after everything he went through, just so everything goes to Mary. I did not expect you to act so horrid!"

"Then I remind you that first of all, it's not only Mary who would be affected," points out Sybil fiercely. "Or have you forgotten about Matthew? Secondly, while you've proven quite thoroughly how little you care for Mary's future, don't you think it's callous of you to try to ruin it the second time and again by acting on incomplete information?"

Matthew, realising immediately that Sybil quite forgot in her righteous anger at her sister that nobody in the room besides him and Edith knows about the letter and half of the people gathered don't even know about Pamuk in the first place, catches Sybil's hand and intervenes.

"Enough!" he says, using his officer's voice. "As we said before, there is no reason to fight until we all know whether Major Gordon's claim is true or not. Let's wait for what Mr Murray says."

"Thank you, Matthew. We obviously needed a voice of reason," says Robert with feeling, as Matthew looks at Edith who has trouble meeting his eyes.

"Edith," he says in a gentler voice. "I know that he's convinced you and that you believe wholeheartedly it's really Patrick. I promise you that if he proves it, I won't try to make any trouble for him and neither will Mary. But don't make things more difficult for her than they have to be. She already lost so much and this will be a huge blow to her if it's confirmed."

Edith looks as if she wants to say quite a lot, but in the end simply nods.

"And that's exactly why we cannot mention it to Mary until we're sure," Robert goes back to his original point now that he can finally get a word between his daughters. "It's the opposite of peace she requires now."

"I agree," says Cora, frowning with real concern. "Her pregnancy is at such a vulnerable stage… We have to do everything in our power to protect her and her baby."

Everybody is silent for a long moment; Cora's lost baby very much on their minds.

"But is it right to keep it a secret from her?" asks Sybil. "It concerns her more than any of us besides Matthew."

"Do you want to endanger your sister's health and pregnancy?" asks Robert sternly in return. "Major Clarkson was very clear in his instructions!"

Sybil looks pleadingly at Matthew and as much as he is terrified of the effect of this news on his wife, he shares Sybil's concern. He in turn looks questioningly at his mother.

"Is it truly so dangerous to tell her?" he asks, ignoring Robert's exasperated huff in the background.

Isobel purses her lips.

"Normally I would never support hiding such information," she says hesitantly. "But Mary's health is very vulnerable right now."

"So we must keep it from her at all costs," stresses Robert, looking at each of them in turn. "At least until we know whether there is any need to mention it at all."

They all nod, but Matthew feels in no way convinced and he doubts that Sybil is.