Chapter Text
Lady Mary Crawley sat alone in the library, staring out over the lush green lawns of Downton Abbey. The sun fell like a blanket over her skin, warming her and making her smile. She often mused she needed all the warmth she could get nowadays. Sitting in the library, soaking in the sun, had become a ritual—one her son and grandchildren encouraged her to indulge in.
She was older now—her once-dark hair now white, her shoulders stooped, her flawless skin wrinkled, and she’d even shrunk a few inches. Yet age had not dulled her sharp eyes or stolen the steadiness from her hands and gait. Sometimes, when she let herself slip into memory, it felt as though no time had passed at all.
Sybil used to say she looked like Granny when she wore their grandmother’s brooch. She used to say it sometimes felt like no time had passed at all when they’d visit Mary and sit on the lawn, laughing like they used to. But that was years ago, before Tom had passed, before Sybil’s stroke. Before Anna—her dear, darling Anna—began to fade, too.
“Granny?” Her grandson’s voice broke the stillness. He looked so much like his father.
“Yes, Robert, dear?”
“It’s time to go.”
~ 59 years earlier ~
Mary stared listlessly over the choppy gray waters of the Atlantic, the overcast sky mirroring the heaviness in her heart. Her parents had insisted she visit her grandmama in America, to find some reprieve from her grief. They would look after Georgie, they said, and Anna would of course be accompanying her. Yet Mary had wished from the moment she arrived that she had stayed in England. New York had done nothing to lighten her mood. She’d decided after barely a week that it was time to return. Her grandmama, though saddened, seemed to understand. She had come with them to the docks to see her off. Before Mary boarded the ship, her grandmama had pulled her aside.
“Don’t lose yourself to grief, Mary. There is still a world of life ahead of you.”
Mary had simply nodded, her throat tight, and waved goodbye.
She curled her fingers around the deck railing, breathing in the salty air. Even the open ocean felt as suffocating as New York.
She pried her hands from the rail and wandered down the deck, past a few other passengers: an old man with his nose buried in The Times, a group of ladies in long coats, and a couple of middle-aged men playing chess while puffing on cigars. She stopped at another railing, gazing out over the water. The sky was darkening, the clouds to the west tinged with cherry-blossom pink.
“Have you ever been acquainted with the saying ‘red skies at night, sailors’ delight’?” a voice asked from her left.
Mary didn’t look up. The man, young and dressed in a brown bowler hat and suit, had positioned himself beside her, his face a picture of polite curiosity.
“No,” she replied coolly, still staring out at the ocean.
“There’s a second part to it—‘red skies at morning, sailors take warning.’” He smiled, his grin a bit too wide. “It means that red skies at night signal fair weather, and at dawn, a storm is coming. Quite interesting, don’t you think?”
“Not particularly,” Mary said flatly, wishing he would go away.
“I’m sure you’ll change your mind tomorrow, when the weather is fair, like the sailors predicted. Maybe you’d even like to join me at dawn to see the red skies.”
Before she could muster a tongue-lashing worthy of the Dowager Countess, Anna appeared at her elbow.
“M’lady, I’ve had the crew bring up some tea, if you’re inclined.” The man was visibly startled by Anna’s sudden appearance, his posture stiffening as he stepped back, smoothing his suit with a forced smile.
“Yes, Anna, that sounds lovely,” Mary replied, her voice softening. She linked her elbow with Anna’s, feeling the familiar warmth of her presence. “Excuse us,” she said, leading them briskly away.
As they walked below deck, Anna’s touch on her arm was like a tether, pulling her back from the dark thoughts threatening to overwhelm her. The tension in her shoulders eased as they retreated to their cabin, and for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe again.
Anna could see the tension in Mary’s shoulders ease a little as she agreed to tea. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Something that would help them both move through the silence of the next few hours. Anna walked with Mary, feeling her lady’s arm rest lightly in hers, a subtle but meaningful gesture. It wasn’t often Mary allowed anyone this close, even in these small, quiet moments. There was a certain grace about her, even now, though Anna could see how time had chipped away at it. Still, Mary remained a lady—always poised, always in control of her outer self. But soon the easiness was gone as Mary retreated back into herself.
“Thank you, Anna. He was quite irritating,” she said as sunk into a chair.
“Of course, M’lady.” Anna poured Mary a cup of tea and handed it to her. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“No, thank you, Anna.” She breathed a sigh and her gaze drifted to the window, her still untouched cup and saucer resting in her lap.
“Very well, M’lady.” As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, their cabin grew darker, the warmth of the day retreating with the light.
The boat began to settle, and the hum of the outside world grew distant, leaving only the soft creaks of wood and the dull roaring of the ship’s engines. Anna and Mary followed their nightly routine as Anna helped her mistress into her night gown.
“Is there anything I can get for you, M’lady?” Anna said, pausing at the door. Mary shook her head, barely looking up.
“No, thank you, Anna.”
Anna nodded. “Very well, M’lady.”
Several hours into the night, Anna was still lying awake in bed. She tossed and turned, but no matter how she arranged her pillows or what position she rested in her mind seemed too jittery for sleep. She sat up in her bed for what felt like the fiftieth time, and just sat crossed-legged on top of the comforter. She fiddled with the end of her braid, trying to let her mind wander enough to relax, but her mind drifted, as it often done, to Lady Mary. Mr Mathew’s death had brought about a wrenching change in her lady. She barely left her room anymore, barely spoke, hardly ate, and seem to be overall losing herself in her misery. Sometimes, when night had settled over the household and Downton Abbey was completely silent, Anna would feel overwhelmed with concern for her mistress, and her darkest thoughts would whisper that Lady Mary would indeed lose herself completely to grief. That thought alone made Anna want to curl up and cry. Even if their positions prevented them from being proper friends, Lady Mary was still, undeniably, dear to Anna’s heart in a way the blonde had never felt before.
Anna fidgeted again and slipped from her bed. She padded softly across the cold wood floor and filled a glass at the small sink in her room. She gulped it down quickly and filled another glass. The cool water settled in her stomach, but it didn’t make her feel any better. A chill ran up her spine and she set the glass next to the faucet, leaning against the basin as she tried to relax her thoughts.
She pushed away from the sink and started climbing back into her bed. She had barely pulled back the blankets when something caught her attention. She paused, her breath slowing, as she listened intently for the noise agin.
She was just beginning to think it was a figment of her sleep deprived imagination when she heard it again.
Anna lowered the blankets and looked around the room trying to pinpoint where the sounds were coming from. She walked carefully around her room as she listened intently for the sound again. She paused at the connecting door between her’s and Lady Mary’s room when she heard the sound again, louder, coming from the other side. She stood, in her white nightdress, puzzling on whether or not she should investigate further. Surely Lady Mary was fine. Right?
After a long moment to debate, Anna decided that maybe it wouldn’t cause any harm to make she her mistress was alright. She would simply poke her head in, check that nothing was amiss, and go to bed like nothing had ever happened.
Anna tiptoed to the door and slowly turned the handle, hoping against hope it wouldn’t squeak. Ever so carefully she pulled he door open, not daring to breathe as the silence rang in her ears and leaned her head into the room. Lady Mary’s room was pitch black, only the faintest sliver of moonlight cutting through the room from between the curtains. The single shaft of light fell across the foot of Lady Mary’s bed and from it she could make out Lady Mary’s form tossing and turning in her bed. Anna realized that the faint noises she was hearing was Lady Mary’s muffled sobs.
Against her better judgment, against ever fibre of her that believed she was going to be sacked on the spot for such informal behavior, Anna softly approached Lady Mary’s bedside. She could barely make out her features in the darkness, but the faint reflection of moonlight in the tear tracks dripping down Lady Mary’s cheeks drew her eyes. She reached out a hand and placed it hesitantly on Lady Mary’s shoulder.
“Lady Mary…” she whispered. She cleared her throat, forcing her voice slightly louder. “Lady Mary. You’re having a nightmare.”
Mary’s breathing hitched and she stilled, and even though Anna couldn’t see her eyes, she could tell she was awake.
“You were having a nightmare, M’lady,” she whispered, suddenly very aware she was more than overstepping her boundaries. In the awkward silence that followed, Anna hardly dared to breathe as Lady Mary seemed to scrutinize her through the darkness.
“Ah…” she said at last. “I apologize for waking you, Anna.
” “You didn’t wake me, M’lady,” she said quickly, “I was already awake. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh…” she whispered.
Anna cleared her throat and pulled her hand away from Lady Mary’s shoulder. “I- I should go. I’m sorry for disturbing you. Goodnight, M’lady.”
She made to leave, but Mary grasped the cuff of Anna’s night gown. Anna froze and blinked down at the pale hand that was holding onto her sleeve.
“Please,” Mary whispered, “Please stay with me.” Anna drew in a sharp breath. Mary continued, a desperate edge to her voice, “You can lie down if you wish. I would just feel safer if you were here with me.”
Anna could feel heat creep into her cheeks. She swallowed then nodded.
“I’ll stay, M’lady.” Mary’s grip on her sleeve slackened.
“Thank you.” Her voice was soft, almost fragile.
She shifted to the far side of the bed, drawing the heavy blanket aside, the quiet rustle of fabric the only sound in the room.
The mattress dipped slightly as Anna sat beside her, her posture stiff and cautious, her habitual restraint still in place. The room was quiet, save for the soft creaking of the boat. Neither spoke, but the weight of the silence was more than the space between them. Anna's heart pounded in her chest, unsure of her place, of how to be near Mary without crossing some invisible line. Mary curled onto her side, facing away, the hollow space between them feeling cold. After a long moment, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You don’t need to be so tense.” Anna’s breath caught, the words hanging in the air, like an invitation she wasn’t sure she was allowed to accept. She swallowed, forcing herself to relax—just a little—though the tension didn’t fully leave her.
“I’m not... afraid, M’lady,” she said softly, but the words felt hollow. Mary didn’t respond right away. Her back was still turned, but Anna could feel the slight shift in the air—a quiet, unspoken recognition that the space between them was no longer the same. Matthew’s death had changed everything, and Anna could feel it as clearly as if it had been a weight on her chest. For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing in the dim room. Anna’s gaze lingered on Lady Mary’s still figure, unsure whether to speak again. But there was something in the way Mary lay there, so silent and still, that made it clear she wasn’t ready to talk, not in the way Anna might wish. Still, there was comfort in the simple fact that Lady Mary wasn’t pulling away—she was there, and Anna was allowed to be here, too.
Finally, Lady Mary shifted, a small movement, and then her voice, quiet but steady. “Just... stay.”
Anna’s pulse quickened, her breath catching in her throat. The request wasn’t one for words. It wasn’t a plea—it was a quiet, simple thing, as though Mary was simply asking for the comfort of presence. And though Anna wanted to say something, anything, to ease her lady’s pain, she could only nod, her throat too tight for speech. The silence stretched again, but it didn’t feel as heavy. It was the kind of silence that was shared, not forced—one that spoke of the mutual understanding between them, even if neither had the words to express it. Anna finally let her shoulders relax, the tension slowly melting as she lay beside Lady Mary, careful not to disturb the fragile stillness between them. She kept her eyes open, watching the soft rise and fall of Mary’s back, but the space between them felt a little warmer now.
Without a word, Anna reached out, her fingers grazing the back of Mary’s hand, a tentative connection, just enough to offer something.
Mary didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, but neither did she respond. And that was enough.
Anna woke slowly, the soft weight of the blanket over her and the warmth beside her making her feel strangely at ease—until she realized what was wrong.
Her eyes snapped open, and her body tensed. Her head rested against Mary’s shoulder, her arm was draped across her lady’s waist, and Mary’s body was pressed close, as if they had spent the entire night like this.
The realization hit her all at once, and a rush of heat flooded her face. She froze, unsure whether to pull away or stay perfectly still, her heart hammering in her chest. She had never, in all her years of service, been so close to Lady Mary, and certainly not in this way.
Mary stirred beside her, and Anna quickly pulled back, her body stiffening in embarrassment. She was sure she had crossed a line, but she didn’t dare make any sudden movements to disturb the fragile space between them.
Mary’s eyes fluttered open, her brow furrowing for a moment before she blinked, as if she were trying to make sense of her surroundings. She shifted slightly, but her movements were slow, as if she, too, were uncertain about how to proceed. The awkwardness between them hung thick in the air, a silence that neither of them seemed to know how to fill. Anna didn’t know what to say, and Mary didn’t speak immediately either. It was as if both were waiting for the other to make the first move—neither one knowing what the right thing was.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” Anna blurted out, her voice betraying her nervousness. She moved to sit up, but Mary’s hand, almost instinctively, reached out and stopped her.
“No,” Mary said softly, her voice still groggy with sleep. She didn’t pull away, but her eyes were a little wider, and her breath caught in her throat as she seemed to process the situation. “It’s... fine.”
Anna didn’t know what to make of that response. It was neither a dismissal nor an invitation to stay. It was simply... fine. But the word felt heavier than it should have. Anna bit her lip, uncertain.
“I didn’t mean—” she started, but her voice faltered, trailing off. The words felt clumsy, as though she couldn’t find the right way to express the apology she felt was necessary. But there was no way to fully undo what had happened. It wasn’t just the physical closeness—it was the emotional weight that had shifted between them without either of them saying a word. Slowly, Anna began to move to get up, and Mary didn’t stop her. The distance between them wasn’t just physical now—it was emotional, a line they both had to navigate carefully.
“I’ll go,” Anna said quietly, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to leave, but it seemed the only proper thing to do. Anna stood, her hands shaking slightly as she straightened her nightgown. She glanced back once, but Mary had already turned her gaze to the window, her posture rigid, her face carefully composed. She wasn’t looking at Anna anymore, and the distance between them felt even more profound now. She was alone in her grief, just as she had been before. Anna hesitated at the door, her fingers resting on the knob. She wanted to say something—to apologize, to comfort, to explain—but the words felt pointless. She had no words for this, for the awkwardness and the shift in their relationship. So she left without speaking another word. The door clicked softly behind her, and the silence in the room grew deeper. Mary remained still, lost in her own thoughts, her heart heavy with the absence of someone who had been so close, yet so far.
The days on the ship passed in quiet awkwardness, and Anna felt the silence between them grow. Mary remained distant, wrapped in her grief, and Anna, while concerned, didn’t know how to break the distance. She went about her duties quietly, offering what small comforts she could, but Mary’s withdrawal made it feel like she was invisible.
One evening, Anna entered Mary’s room with the usual tea tray, trying to keep her expression neutral, as always. She set it down on the small table by the window, about to turn to leave when Mary’s voice stopped her.
“Anna.” Anna froze. Mary’s voice was quiet, unsure, and Anna turned back, a little startled. “Sit with me,” Mary said, her tone softer than usual.
Anna blinked, surprised by the invitation. She hesitated for a moment before replying,
“Of course, M’lady.” She took a seat beside her, unsure if this was just a brief moment of company for Lady Mary, or something more. They sat together in silence, the quiet stretching between them, but it was different. Less tense. Anna could feel Lady Mary’s presence beside her, and she allowed herself to relax a little, not needing to fill the silence with words. After a while, Mary spoke again, her voice still soft.
“Thank you.” The words felt like a small shift—nothing grand, but enough to make Anna feel like maybe she wasn’t as distant as she thought. She smiled softly, though her heart ached for Mary. The silence settled again, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.
“Always, M’lady.”