Edith pulled her into the other room and immediately explained the news. Mary felt her lungs seize and heart grow cold. She wanted to scream and throw things. She wanted to cry and run to Mama. She wanted to go to her room and never come out again.
"Girls? Are you alright?" Mama asked, knocking on the door in concern. She had wanted Edith to tell all of them. Mary was glad, for once, that she hadn't listened.
"We have to tell them," Edith whispered calmly. Calmly, as if they weren't ruined. As if Mary hadn't ruined them.
"No!" Mary whispered back harshly. "They can't-"
"They have to know, Mary. It will come out. They can't be blindsided."
"No!" Mary said, angry. Desperate.
"I will tell them even if you won't."
"Mary? Edith? What is happening in there? What did he say to you?" Papa demanded outside the door.
"You can't," Mary begged. "You promised."
Edith's eyes softened. She reached out a hesitant hand to grasp her own. "I won't tell them that, Mary. That's not my secret to tell. Even if I do think you shouldn't be ashamed to tell the truth. But we have to tell them about the book. They need to be prepared to deny the rumors."
"Deny them?" Mary breathed. "But your name-"
"I was never there. You were never there. It's all lies by a Turkish rogue who wanted to make a mockery of the English gentry."
"That won't work."
"Mary? Edie?" Sybil said. She sounded worried and scared. Just like Mary felt.
"It will," Edith said determinedly as she opened the door and the floodgates of questions opened too.
Their time in London was cut short. Instead of leaving in the beginning of July, they returned home in the first week of June. It let them escape town before the rumors became public knowledge, but even at Downton the speculation took its toll.
Papa was angry. Not at Mary, yet. He hadn't even stopped to ask if any of the rumors were true. He instantly ranted and raved about Pamuk, calling him a bastard and a cad. If he wasn't dead already, Mary was almost certain Papa would have ensured that Pamuk was after he heard the news. Mama's reaction was less comforting.
She was equally angry, but she was also scared. While Papa was so certain that no one would believe the rumors about his darling daughters, that they were falsehoods and slander, Mama knew better. Gossip like this spreads like wildfire. Her daughters could be tarnished or even ruined depending on how entangled they became in this scandal, and how entangled they were depended on many things. This included how much of the rumors were true. Mama had only spoken comfort and promised to try and fix the problem on their way home to Downton. She barely spoke of her fears to any of them, but the looks lingered.
Mary cringed each time she felt her mother's gaze. She was constantly worried that, through a glance, Mama would know that she was ruined. It was all she could do to maintain some decorum on the long train ride back home, to not snap to harshly at Sybil's offered comfort, or remark scathingly every time someone implied the situation was of equal danger to both her and Edith. Mary kept feeling the need to yell, fight, cry, run. She felt the need to tear off every piece of her skin she had let Pamuk touch, and that feeling was growing by the day.
Mary hated thinking of that night. Memories of it slipped in with every lingering touch, every flicker of lamp light, every time Edith looked at her with that soft, knowing look. He had been beautiful with his chocolate eyes that seemed to see all of her and smooth, ardent words that melted away her protests like butter in a pan. He had been beautiful, and now he was dead. Mary didn't know how to feel about that. Regardless of her feelings, or Edith's pestering need to debate whose fault it really was, the truth remained and the reality had to be dealt with. Quickly.
"The beasts in London will swarm over this like flies," Granny said, looking searchingly around the drawing room at her daughter-in-law and three granddaughters. "How could this happen? You let one foreigner into your home and it all goes bust."
"Mr. Napier was ever so sorry," Edith sighed, placing her tea cup down on the tray. "He blamed himself for bringing Pamuk here."
"As he should," Granny replied. "I blame him."
"Grandmother!" Sybil scolded.
"He couldn't have known," Mama protested.
"Twenty names of highborn, British ladies all written down like some hitlist. No English gentleman would dream of doing such a thing, or associate with a foreigner of his ilk. It's typical of a foreigner."
"Don't be ridiculous," Edith snapped. "Not all foreigners are like that man. And Evelyn didn't know. If I- If anyone had told him the truth, it would have ended differently I'm sure."
"The truth?" Granny asked sharply.
"What is the truth, darling?" Mama asked, tightly gripping her cup.
"He didn't do anything to you did he, Edie?" Sybil asked desperately. "Mary?"
"Nothing," Mary spat, a frosty rage covering her fear. "Don't be ridiculous."
"He didn't get the chance to, Sybil," Edith said, reaching out to gently hold their little sister's hand. "You remember the fight Mary and I had? Over Pamuk?"
"What?" Mama asked. "When was this?"
"The night he left. Mary and I fought because I told her I didn't trust Pamuk. I thought he would try to take advantage and it caused, well, a bit of a tiff."
"A bit?" Sybil grumbled quietly.
"Mary and I made up that night though. We talked about it late into the night. She actually fell asleep in my room. And Mr. Pamuk certainly didn't join us."
Mary stared at Edith in shock. Edith didn't falter, didn't hesitate, just lied through her teeth as if it was second nature. As if it was true. Since when had her sister gotten so good at deception?
"Of course nothing happened," Granny dismissed sharply. "But that will hardly stop the rumors. Two sisters in the same house, well-"
"Must we speak of it?" Mary snapped. "The rumor hasn't even gotten far yet."
"But it will," Mama said.
"Mr. Napier said he would try to stop it," Edith said simperingly.
"After he has already given the rumor legs on my account," Mary retorted.
"He didn't mean too," Edith said in defense. As if that counted for anything.
"Good intentions don't heal a reputation," Granny said.
"He only spoke the truth as he saw it," Mama added. "Oh Mary, if only you just hadn't ignored him, and not shown so much attention to Mr. Pamuk."
Mary gripped her tea cup, at once feeling shame and rage. How could she say that to her? How could she be so right and not even know it? Vile words bubbled in her throat, ready to flood the room with ice and barbs. "I-"
"It isn't her fault," Edith snapped first. "You hardly discouraged the same behavior when it was the Duke, so how can you blame her for it now? None of y- None of us knew what sort of man he was. And from the look of things, Mary was hardly the only one to be swayed by his charms." Edith paused, a look of guilt and pity on her face. "I'm just glad Mary wasn't swayed nearly as far as some. Poor girls. I can hardly believe he did that to so many."
"Agreed, but he is gone now," Sybil said placatingly. "It's hardly Mary's fault, Mama. And Edith knew he was bad news from the beginning, didn't you Edie?"
"Of course it isn't their fault, dear," Mama said with a shake of her head. Mary looked down into her tea cup. "I'm just glad you two aren't the most prominent names. Mr. Napier did say higher mobility were involved?"
"Yes. And a few engaged and married young women besides," Edith said.
"Merciful heavens, What is the world coming to?" Granny breathed.
"We must act quickly before the scandal is known or while the public focus is on others." Mama said.
"The answer is clear," Granny agreed. "They must both marry. As soon as possible."
"Grandmother," Edith protested. Mary rolled her eyes, hands still clenched on her saucer. What did she expect? To Mama and Granny, marriage was the answer for everything.
"It would be best," Mama agreed. "But who?"
"Well "Evelyn" for Edith, clearly."
Mary felt bitterness swell in her chest. That should be her with the future viscount not boring, plain Edith. So what if he wasn't the most interesting man himself? He was of good character and a good family. She should have held him close while she had him.
Mary had heard many whispers about herself, Edith, and Napier. How strange, they gossiped, that Napier had come for one daughter and left with another. Choosing the plain over the beautiful. Did that mean Mary did something wrong? That she scared him away into the waiting arms of her sister? Napier's behavior hadn't helped either.
Napier had all but ignored Mary when he stopped by to pick up Edith on their way to dinners and plays. A polite greeting, a tip of the hat, and he was gone as if she meant nothing to him, as if Edith meant more. Of course, she had other suitors, better suitors, but now how likely were they to stay?
"Evelyn?" Edith asked, shocked dumb. "He isn't interested in me."
"Really?" Mama asked doubtfully. "I have heard his father is ill. He probably wants to marry while his father is still with us."
"Then I wish him luck finding a suitable bride. He is a good man, an honorable one. He won't want me." But could he still want me, Mary thought. Maybe she should recatch the fish that she threw away. With Edith as a rival, it would hardly be difficult. Especially if the silly twit didn't even know she had him.
"He will," Granny said. "Especially if he is such an honorable man, as you say. He will want to put his blunders to right somehow."
"I won't marry a man out of pity or guilt," Edith said resolutely. Her back straight with her own sense of self righteousness and self worth.
"Then you might not marry at all," Mary retorted.
"Mary," Sybil chided, "what a horrid thing to say."
"She is not wrong," Grammy tutted. "Both of you could be ruined in the year. Better to take the bird in hand then look for one in the bush."
"But surely-"
"Edith dear," Mama said. "Mr. Napier cares for you. He could be your only suitor. You must try. If not for yourself, for Sybil."
"Me?" Sybil asked.
"If Edith or Mary are unwed and their reputations are tarnished, it will be much harder for you to find a good match, darling."
"Wasn't the unwed bit already a concern?" Edith asked dryly. Mary snorted into her cup.
"Edith, please take this seriously," Mama pleaded frustratedly. Sighing, Edith nodded and turned to look out the window rather than answer further.
"So Edith will woo Mr. Napier. What about Mary?"
"There were many suitors in London, but no one seemed ready to offer a proposal or anything quite that serious."
"How about some house parties?"
"I can find my own husband," Mary interjected, but Mama and Granny ignored her to continue their schemes.
"She's been asked to one next month by Lady Ann McNair."
"That's a terrible idea. She doesn't know anyone under a hundred."
"I might send her over to visit my aunt. She could get to know New York," Mama said. She could get to know New York, meaning she could marry an American businessman and not return to England again. Was her mother that desperate to be rid of her? Did they see her as that spoiled even without knowing the truth?
"Oh, I don't think things are quite that desperate," Granny said. "There have to be at least good dozen English men that will do."
"What about Matthew?" Sybil asked suddenly. Mary felt the sharp stab of betrayal. Even Sybil was doing it.
"So you all would just throw me at any man you see?" Mary said angrily.
"Not any man, just any suitable one," Granny corrected.
"Mary," Mama said gently. "He is a good man, a good match. We have to consider all your options."
"Or we could ensure she has more options," Granny said. "The main difficulty is that Mary's situation is unresolved. I mean, is she an heiress or isn't she?"
"If there's any justice in the world, I will be," Mary nodded. The issue needed to be resolved. In her favor.
"The entail is unbreakable. You cannot inherit, Mary," Mama said.
"No, what we need is a lawyer who's decent and honor bound to look into it. And I..." Granny paused. "I think, perhaps, I know just the man."
Matthew had thought the season was going well, all things considered. He had managed to avoid making a fool of himself despite the dozens of nobles determined to test, trick, and otherwise discern his value. Robert said he had done well, and showed a good face as the heir of the Earl of Grantham.
Of course, Matthew hadn't come to be a prancing show pony for Robert, no matter how much he now liked the man. Nor had he come to procure a wife, regardless of what the debutants and their mothers seemed to think. He had come for the Crawley ladies, and because of that, what would have been a rather miserable series of social events, was a rather lovely time.
Matthew had gotten closer to Sybil. The young girl became more than just another face across the dinner table or a young woman his mother ranted about having the potential to be a nurse at the hospital. Instead, he got to truly see her sweetness and gentle charms that she shared with her mother and her determinate wit and opinionated nature she shared with her sisters. Along with that was a fierce loyalty to her family, particularly Edith, that Matthew couldn't help but admire. It made him wonder what his life would be like if his childhood had included a sibling instead of being an only child. Maybe it would be just the same as he was feeling now, for, after only a couple months of protecting Sybil with Edith, it felt like he had adopted her as a sort of surrogate little sister. Perhaps that was what he was feeling for Edith as well.
It had been rather apparent to Matthew that he and Edith were good partners, and the season only confirmed it. It was easy working with Edith to fend off the horde of suitors around Sybil. It was enjoyable to stand by her side, his anchor in a sea of strangers, and dance across the ballroom as if they were the only two present. Even though he felt like a fraud, an intruder to these high brow events, with Edith he felt as if he could have a place with her. But then she would wander off looking for her Mr. Napier and reality would come crashing back.
Was it abandonment that he felt welling in his chest when she walked away? A loss of that steady companionship he found himself relying upon? Maybe he was just protective of her as he was Sybil, and yet, calling Edith a sister felt wrong on some deep level. But if she wasn't a sister, what was she?
Then there was Mary. There was always Mary, floating in the distance surrounded by a clamor of men all as equally entranced as he was. Matthew could admit that now. He was enamored by Lady Mary Crawley. She danced with him a few times, slipped into a few remarkably pleasant conversations before her suitors swept her away. She was the jeweled center in the crown of the season. A glimmering beacon of wealth and beauty. And yet, she was so distant and cold and outside of a lowly solicitor's reach. Let Mary was a distant dream and, no matter the few good conversations they had, she despised him as a thief and intruder.
Matthew sighed as he leaned back in his chair at his office in Ripon. He had work to do, but he kept thinking of the season. Of Sybil's sweet cheer, encouraging him to enjoy himself. Of Edith's beautiful laugh as he spun her around the dance floor in his arms. Of Mary's harsh words when she realized once again that he was the heir instead of her. Was that why they left London?
Matthew had thought the season was going well when suddenly the entire Crawley family up and returned to London. Mary was pale and shaking. Robert seemed furious. Even Edith was unnerved and remained tight lipped about the entire affair. She just smiled sadly and said he would learn in time. Was something wrong? Was it something he did? Was there anything he could do to help?
"Someone to see you, Mr. Crawley," Margret, his assistant, said from the doorway, disrupting his spiraling train of thought. He quickly looked at his desk, looking for any note or document.
"Well, there's nothing in my diary," Matthew said. There shouldn't be. He had only just returned from London, and earlier than expected at that.
"It's Lady Grantham."
"Well, in that case, show her in at once." Perhaps he would get some answers after all. "Cousin Cora to what do I owe-"
Matthew stopped mid sentence. Standing in his small Ripon office was not Cousin Cora. It was the Dowager Countess.
"Oh, I hope I'm not a disappointment." Not a disappointment no, but a disruption and, potentially, a disaster.