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Chapter Text

The alarm went off at six, though Mary had been awake since five. She always was — her mind refused to let her sleep past dawn. Too many deadlines, too many board meetings, too many people waiting for her to falter so they could pounce.

By seven she was already immaculate: black dress pressed to perfection, silk blouse tucked just so, hair swept into sleek waves. The mirror told her she looked every inch the Editor-in-Chief of The Grantham Review. The voice in her head told her she looked tired. She ignored it.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Richard.

Lunch. Claridge’s. Don’t be late.

Mary rolled her eyes and tossed the phone into her bag. Richard Carlisle believed the world revolved around him — and, irritatingly, it often did. But she would be damned if she let him dictate her schedule today.

By half past seven, she was striding through King’s Cross, heels clicking like metronomes on polished tile. She boarded her usual train to the City, claimed a first-class seat, and opened the Financial Times. Edith would no doubt take the tube — flustered, breathless, late — but Mary had standards.

The train rumbled to life. Mary crossed her legs, sipped her takeaway coffee, and let her eyes skim the headlines. But her thoughts were elsewhere: the board meeting at nine, her father’s fumbling grasp on leadership, the investors’ unwelcome solution to both.

Matthew Crawley.

She didn’t know him yet, but she already disliked him. Another outsider who thought he could waltz into Downton Abbey Ltd. and instruct the Granthams on how to run their legacy. He’d last a month. Two, if he was stubborn.

Mary smirked faintly, turned the page. Let him come. She’d seen men like him before. They always broke.

The train slid into St Pancras, skyline jagged against the winter clouds. Mary gathered her bag and stepped onto the platform with the quiet confidence of a woman who knew exactly who she was — and had no intention of letting anyone forget it.

Outside, London rain clung like a curse. Umbrellas bobbed like black mushrooms as commuters hurried across slick pavements. Mary pulled her coat close and lengthened her stride, heels clicking against the wet stone.

She loathed London rain. It had none of the romance poets promised, none of the charm artists painted. It ruined silk blouses, smeared eyeliner, and flattened even the best blow-dry. She swore it followed her, a petty tormentor who knew how much she despised it.

By the time she reached the glass tower of Downton, her hair was still immaculate, though the passersby resembled drowned rats. Small victories.

The lobby gleamed: marble floors, framed covers of The Grantham Review lining the walls like trophies. Mary swept through the revolving doors, shoulders back, chin high. Headquarters was as much theatre as business — a glass-and-steel tower near the Thames, corridors lined with portraits of Granthams from every generation.

“Morning, Ms. Grantham,” the receptionist stammered, nearly dropping her phone as Mary strode past. She didn’t break stride; she never did. Anna would have her coffee waiting upstairs — double-shot flat white, two sugars — because Anna always knew.

The lift doors opened to reveal her father inside, shuffling papers he clearly wasn't happy with. Beside him stood Bates, ever loyal, ever steady, holding the mess together with unassuming competence. Mary almost smiled, thinking of Anna, who pretended not to notice him but clearly did.

“Mary,” Robert said, relief and mild dread laced together. “Big day.”

“Every day is a big day, Papa,” Mary replied, pressing the button for the top floor.

The doors opened onto chaos. Edith was mid-argument with the fashion team, proofs clutched like weapons. Sybil perched on a desk, thumbs flying over her phone, already late for a nursing shift. At the head of the table — impossibly, inevitably — sat Violet Grantham, Dowager Queen of Everything, sipping tea as if the boardroom were her throne room.

Carson boomed “Ladies, please, this is a place of business,” while Mrs. Hughes gathered scattered agendas with quiet efficiency, offering Mary a conspiratorial smile that said same circus, different day.

Mary halted in the doorway. “Granny, what are you doing here?”

“I was told there would be a meeting,” Violet said, not looking up. “I assumed it required intelligence, so naturally I came.”

Robert groaned. “Mother…”

Mary smirked despite herself and slid into her chair. No time to spar with Granny today — not when the investors’ new solicitor was about to arrive.

Cora entered gracefully, smoothing her coat as though the chaos didn’t exist. “Robert, sit. You’ll give yourself a headache before the meeting even begins.”

“I already have one,” Robert muttered.

Edith huffed, cheeks flushed. “I suppose I should leave before I’m told I’ve ruined everything again.”

“You don’t need to be told,” Mary said sweetly.

Edith bristled, but Sybil cut in. “Can we not start yet? We haven’t even met this lawyer.” She swung her legs against the desk. “Honestly, I’m only here to see which of you terrifies him first.”

“I’m betting on Mary,” Violet said crisply. “She’s been sharpening her claws since breakfast.”

Mary folded her hands, spine straight. “If he’s worth anything, he won’t scare so easily.”

The glass doors opened. Mary saw him before he stepped inside.

Matthew Crawley.

Tall, composed, unhurried. His suit was sharp without being flashy, tie slightly crooked as though he hadn’t noticed — or hadn’t cared. Calm confidence radiated from him, and Mary instantly searched for flaws to catalogue.

The flaw arrived in the form of his assistant.

A man stumbled in behind him, juggling a briefcase, two coffees, and an expression of panic. The case burst open, papers scattering like startled birds.

“Oh— don’t move, I’ve got them—” he babbled, dropping to his knees.

Matthew barely sighed. “Moseley.”

“Yes, sir,” Moseley wheezed, scrambling after the papers.

Violet arched a brow. “I do hope he irons contracts as well as trousers.”

Sybil laughed. “He’s brilliant. We should keep him.”

Mary folded her arms, lips curving faintly. “If this is the man meant to save us, I give him two weeks.”

“Don’t be unkind,” Cora murmured.

Mary’s gaze didn’t leave Matthew. He was calm, unshaken, irritatingly self-assured. He didn’t look like a man about to break. And that was the problem.

Up close, he was worse. His tie still crooked, but his posture infuriatingly straight, his eyes steady, as though he were the one appraising them.

Robert stepped forward. “Mr. Crawley, welcome.”

Matthew shook his hand firmly. “Thank you, Lord Grantham. I’m honored to be here.”

Mary arched a brow. Already too polished. Too at ease. He’d crack. They always did.

He greeted the rest of her family warmly and then his gaze landed on Mary.

“And you must be Lady Mary.”

“Ms. Grantham,” she corrected, arms folding. “I don’t need a title to hold my own.”

“I never doubted it,” he said smoothly.

Something in her chest tightened. Irritating. Deeply irritating.

The meeting began. Matthew laid out charts and figures with measured calm. His suggestions — cutting redundant supplements, scaling back costly events, axing the society diaries — landed like blows. Mary parried each one with icy precision, but the damned numbers backed him up.

When silence fell, Violet’s dry verdict lingered in the air. “Well. At least he isn’t boring.”

Mary leaned back, lips curved in the faintest smile. “We’ll review your suggestions. In time.”

“That’s all I ask,” Matthew replied, maddeningly calm.

By adjournment, Mary’s head was pounding. She gathered her notes briskly, only to hear his voice behind her.

“Ms. Grantham?”

She turned, one brow arched. “Yes?”

“I realize we may have got off on the wrong foot. My intention isn’t to undermine you. I only want to help.”

Earnest. Principled. Infuriating.

Mary let silence sting before she replied, silk over steel: “The Granthams don’t care much for help. Especially when it arrives uninvited.”

“Then I’ll have to prove myself useful.”

Her lips curved, sharp as a blade. “Good luck with that.”

She swept away, heels clicking against marble.

Matthew exhaled, amused despite himself. Resistance he expected. He hadn’t expected resistance this… beautiful.

Chapter Text

The only good thing about mornings at Downton was Anna. Loyal, efficient Anna, who knew Mary’s coffee order better than she knew her own and had it waiting the moment she swept into her office.

Mary dropped her folder on the desk with a theatrical thud, slid off her coat, and collapsed elegantly into her chair.

“Rough meeting?” Anna asked mildly, as if Mary hadn’t just eviscerated half the boardroom.

Mary pulled her hair out of its pins and redid them with brisk precision. “He thinks he’s clever.”

Anna set a neat stack of proofs in front of her. “And is he?”

Mary shot her assistant a glare sharp enough to kill. Then sighed, shoulders loosening in reluctant admission. “Annoyingly.”

The truth pressed like a weight against her ribs: Matthew Crawley had been composed. Measured. Prepared. She’d expected a flustered solicitor, cowed by the Grantham name and the glass tower’s theatrics. Instead she’d found a man who spoke plainly, directly, and — worst of all — backed his words with numbers.

Mary Grantham did not like being proven wrong.

She buried herself in proofs for the next hour: snapping at Edith over email, ignoring Richard’s text (again), dictating three impossibly long replies to advertisers. Beyond her glass walls, the hum of the office floor buzzed faintly: phones ringing, assistants chattering, Violet’s voice occasionally drifting through like thunderclouds.

At last, Mary rose, proofs in hand, determined to remind the design team who ran this company. She swept into the corridor, heels striking the floor with militant rhythm.

And then — of course — there he was.

Matthew Crawley. Emerging from his shiny new corner office, files under his arm, that maddeningly calm expression still intact.

Their eyes locked across the glass-and-steel hallway.

Not today, Mary thought, lifting her chin. She tightened her hold on the proofs and kept walking, refusing to yield an inch.

Neither did he.

The collision was inevitable.

Papers scattered like snow across the polished floor. Mary gasped, biting back a curse. Matthew stooped instantly, hands brushing against hers as he reached for the same sheet.

For a fraction of a second, their fingers touched — warm, steady, unsettling — before Mary snatched the page away. She stood, spine arrow-straight, composure restored.

“You might consider watching where you’re going, Mr. Crawley. This isn’t rush hour on the Tube.”

His gaze met hers, steady, infuriatingly unruffled. “I was about to say the same to you, Ms. Grantham.”

From her office doorway, Anna coughed delicately. Edith peeked over her monitor, wide-eyed. Sybil, perched on a desk like a cat at play, grinned outright.

Mary gathered her proofs with ruthless efficiency, refusing to acknowledge the heat rising in her cheeks. “Do try not to trip over your own importance, Mr. Crawley. It makes such a mess.”

And with that, she swept past him, chin high, heart hammering far harder than she cared to admit.

Back in her office, Mary slammed the documents onto her desk with more force than necessary. A few sheets skidded across the wood, but she didn’t care.

Anna raised her brows. “Everything all right?”

“Perfectly.” Mary slipped off her heels, sliding her feet into flats hidden beneath her desk. She told herself it was for practicality — she had a meeting across the building — not because she needed the steadiness after nearly toppling into Matthew Crawley in full view of half the staff.

“Mm,” Anna murmured, unconvinced, and returned to her laptop.

Mary crossed to the window. The drizzle still fell, steady and unrelenting, umbrellas bobbing below like restless insects. She pressed her palm against the cool glass and replayed the collision in her mind: the brush of his hand, the way his eyes had met hers without a flicker, the maddening calm of his voice.

Arrogant. Condescending. Infuriating.

This was what the investors thought they needed? A solicitor with steady hands, tidy charts, and the audacity not to be cowed by her?

She tightened her grip on the windowsill. He would not unsettle her.

“Enjoying the view?”

Edith’s voice, smug and sing-song, carried across the office. She stood in the doorway, folder in hand, delight evident on her face.

Mary didn’t turn. “If you’ve come to complain about your layouts again, Edith, I suggest you save us both the trouble.”

“I only came to say Papa wants us in the boardroom at three,” Edith said sweetly. “Try not to trip over Mr. Crawley on your way.”

Mary finally turned, her smile as sharp as a scalpel. “Careful, Edith. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Edith flinched — just a flicker — before stalking away.

Mary exhaled. She had survived London society, Richard Carlisle, and a century-old business teetering on collapse. One solicitor from Manchester would not be her undoing.

Absolutely not.

By three o’clock, Mary was composed again. Anger was beneath her; Granthams did not stew. The most effective way to win a battle was with calm precision — like slicing silk with a razor.

She arrived in the boardroom ten minutes early, Anna trailing behind with notes. Edith rushed in late, Sybil later still. Robert shuffled his papers, hoping for order.

And then Matthew entered.

Mary did not blink.

He paused, as though surprised she didn’t rise to bait him this time, then took his seat without comment. Moseley hovered nervously at his shoulder, juggling folders like an overburdened waiter.

The meeting began. Budgets, circulation, digital platforms. Mary sat poised, letting Matthew speak — and damn him, he was good. Robert nodded gratefully, Edith muttered reluctant agreement, even Sybil smirked at his clarity. His tidy graphs seemed to carry more weight in minutes than Mary’s years of authority.

Cutting supplements, scaling back events — it all made sense. Painfully so.

Mary allowed herself one slow sip of coffee before speaking. “Interesting ideas, Mr. Crawley. Almost clever, in fact.”

The faintest flicker of amusement touched his mouth. “High praise, Ms. Grantham.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Her tone was calm, but her pulse betrayed her.

The meeting stretched on. Mary kept her composure, kept her silence when she might have snapped, and strangely — it worked. She felt herself winning, not by sparring, but by refusing to be ruffled.

Evening settled. The office thinned. Sybil gone to her shift, Edith vanished with a smug glance, Violet long since whisked away. Mary stood alone in the glass-walled space, city lights smearing across rain-slick streets below. For the first time all day, she could breathe.

Back in her office, she slipped files into her bag. Yes, Matthew Crawley had been insufferable. Yes, his ideas stung because they were right. But she could concede — quietly, to herself — that his presence might not destroy them.

She pulled on her coat, straightened her collar, and walked out calm, collected, untouchable.

The lobby glowed with evening hush, rain streaking against the glass. And waiting there — of course — was Richard Carlisle.

Impossible to miss. Immaculate coat, umbrella dripping at his side, phone clenched like a weapon. His presence filled the space, drawing curious glances from staff on their way out.

Mary felt irritation spike before he even spoke.

“Mary.” Jaw tight, voice clipped.

She stopped, pulse quickening with disdain. “Richard. What a surprise.”

“You didn’t answer my texts. You missed lunch.” His voice was too loud for the empty lobby.

“I was working,” Mary replied coolly. “Some of us don’t spend the day shouting into telephones.”

“You could at least send a reply. Do you know how it looks? Me sitting there alone while people watch?”

Mary arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware your reputation was so fragile, Richard. Next time I’ll send a note to your press office.”

His jaw clenched. He caught her wrist, grip sharp. “You can’t keep brushing me off, Mary. Not when I’ve done what I’ve done for you.”

She yanked free, spine stiff. “Lower your voice.”

His gaze lingered, smug, knowing. “Then don’t make me remind you.”

The name that hovered unspoken between them was enough: Kemal Pamuk. Turkish politician. Guest profile turned personal scandal. The mistake Richard had buried for her — and the rope he now kept knotted around her throat.

Mary smoothed her skirt, tone icy. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Before Richard could press further, another voice cut across the lobby. Calm. Steady.

“Is there a problem here?”

Mary turned. Of course. Matthew Crawley, striding across the marble with that composed gait, files tucked neatly under his arm. He glanced between them, gaze cool but pointed.

Mary rolled her eyes, voice dry. “No problem at all, Mr. Crawley. This is Richard Carlisle. My fiancé.”

Richard’s hand clamped possessively around hers, his smile triumphant.

Matthew’s expression barely shifted, but she saw it: the flicker, the tightening of his jaw, gone as quickly as it came.

“Of course,” he said evenly. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Richard’s grip tightened. Mary’s smile sharpened. And Matthew — damn him — remained perfectly calm.

He inclined his head, turned, and disappeared into the rain-slick night.

Richard exhaled, his shoulders softening now the performance was over. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, lower now. “I don’t like being made a fool of.”

He pressed a kiss to Mary’s temple, firm, proprietary.

She stood still beneath it, smile fixed. And as always, she wished she didn’t feel that spark of irritation every time he touched her.

On the wet pavement outside, Mary slipped free of Richard’s arm. Her heels struck the ground in steady rhythm, rain clinging to her coat, city lights blurring around her. And she thought — not for the first time — how strange it was to feel so utterly alone while walking home beside someone who claimed to love her.

Chapter Text

A week had passed.

Seven long days of hearing Matthew Crawley’s name on every floor of Downton Abbey Ltd.

Edith gushing about his “forward-thinking proposals.” Sybil quoting him over coffee breaks, all wide-eyed admiration. Even Robert, who had never successfully opened an email in his life, had smiled over breakfast and said, “That Crawley fellow seems rather sound, don’t you think?”

Mary had bitten her toast so hard it nearly cracked.

She prided herself on staying above office chatter, but the relentlessness of it was maddening. As though one solicitor with tidy charts had solved all their problems overnight. As though he hadn’t challenged her authority in front of half the boardroom.

Still, she stuck to her strategy: calm, collected, untouchable. If Matthew Crawley thought he could outlast her, he would learn otherwise.

By midweek, even Granny had begun to weigh in. She appeared uninvited in Mary’s office, as though swept in on a gust of perfume and disapproval.

“Tell me,” Violet said, lowering herself into a chair, “is this Crawley fellow quite as clever as everyone claims?”

Mary didn’t look up from her notes. “He knows how to wave a spreadsheet around. That seems to impress Papa.”

Violet pursed her lips. “Numbers are useful, but not half so entertaining as watching you eviscerate them. Do try not to let him steal your thunder.”

Mary set down her pen with a snap. “I don’t intend to.”

“Good.” Violet rose with the grace of a monarch ending an audience. “If he does prove indispensable, do at least have the decency to pretend it was your idea.”

Mary smirked faintly. “I always do.”

Violet’s mouth twitched — the closest she came to a smile. “That’s my girl.”

She swept out, leaving behind the faintest trace of lilac and a silence Mary found more encouraging than any pep talk.

That afternoon, an impromptu meeting was called. Mary arrived first — she always did — and arranged her notes neatly on the table. She had braced herself for another round of family chaos, but the first person through the glass doors was Matthew Crawley. Alone.

He gave the barest nod. “Ms. Grantham.”

“Mr. Crawley.” Mary didn’t look up from her notes.

He took the seat opposite her, flipping open a file with infuriating calm. The silence stretched, broken only by the scratch of his pen. Mary felt the pressure of it, as though they were the only two people in the building.

She forced her gaze onto her papers, but his steady presence needled at her composure. How could one man be so perfectly unruffled? She re-read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.

Finally, without glancing up, she said lightly, “I do hope you’re not here to lecture us on circulation figures again.”

“Not unless you’d like me to,” he replied, calm as ever.

Mary’s eyes flicked to his, sharp as a blade. He only smiled faintly, as though he’d scored a point.

Annoying. Deeply annoying.

The rest of the meeting blurred: Robert fumbling, Edith whining, Violet delivering her barbs like arrows. But Mary couldn’t shake the feeling that Matthew was watching her. Not in open challenge this time, but in quiet assessment, as though waiting for her to slip.

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

Calm. Collected. Untouchable.

That was the plan.

The meeting dragged on until dusk, when the glass walls reflected the city lights in sharp gold and blue. By then, Mary’s composure was slipping. Not from fatigue, but from the unbearable sense that Matthew had carved out a place here — and worse, that the others were happy to let him.

She stayed late after everyone drifted out, finishing her notes in silence. When at last she gathered her papers and headed for the lift, fate twisted the knife.

The doors slid open. And there he was.

Matthew Crawley, files in hand, already inside.

Of course.

Mary stepped in. The doors sealed them into that narrow, mirrored box. The faint hum of cables, the soft whir of descent. Their reflections stood shoulder to shoulder, closer than they ever allowed in daylight.

Mary fixed her gaze on the glowing numbers above the doors, determined not to look at him. But the lift was too small, too still; every detail pressed itself on her senses. The faint scent of his cologne — something clean, understated. The rustle of papers under his arm when he shifted. The way his reflection in the mirrored walls made it appear they were standing together, side by side, like allies instead of adversaries.

It was absurd. Two people in an elevator, nothing more. And yet Mary’s pulse betrayed her, quickening as though she were facing something far more dangerous.

“You seem to have the staff on your side,” she remarked at last, her voice steady, her eyes fixed on the glowing numbers above.

Matthew glanced at her. Calm. Always calm. “I’ve been trying to listen.”

She allowed herself the faintest smile. “Listening is rare here. I wouldn’t rely on it.”

“I think it helps,” he said simply.

Mary tightened her grip on her bag. Calm. Collected. Untouchable. That was the plan.

So why, as the lift doors opened, did it feel like she had lost another round?

Later that evening, Mary sat in her Mayfair flat, a glass of wine in hand. Richard paced before the window like a caged animal.

“You’re working too much,” he said, checking his watch for the third time. “It doesn’t look right — you running yourself ragged while the investors bring in new blood. People will start to think you’ve lost control.”

Mary swirled her wine lazily. “Let them think what they like. I’m not in the business of managing appearances.”

Richard turned, that sharp smile tugging at his mouth. “Of course you are, darling. It’s the only business that matters.”

Later, they made love. Not exciting, not wild, not even tender — just the practiced rhythm of two people determined to believe in what they had.

When it was over, Richard dressed quickly, pressed a brusque kiss to her cheek, and left with a clipped, “See you tomorrow.”

The flat fell silent. The city’s rain-muted glow pressed against the curtains.

Mary lay back against the pillows, sheets cool against her skin, and wished she could feel more. But feeling was beside the point. Richard carried her secret like a loaded gun, and as long as he chose not to pull the trigger, she stayed. Affection had little to do with it.

It wasn’t all bad, she told herself. Yes, he had his temper. Yes, he was prone to reminders of what he’d done for her — but he cared for her, of course he did. He had to.

She reached for her glass, drained what was left, and closed her eyes.

And in the silence, unbidden, came the memory of the lift.

Matthew’s voice — calm, steady. I think it helps.

Mary exhaled sharply, as if to banish it.

She would not think of him.

Not tonight. Not ever.

Chapter Text

If Matthew Crawley had learned anything in his first two weeks at Downton Abbey, it was that the Granthams thrived on chaos.

Meetings began late, ended later, and achieved little beyond fresh grudges. Edith sulked, Sybil texted, Robert dropped papers, Violet eviscerated the nearest target with surgical precision. Exhausting. Sometimes amusing—mostly exhausting.

And then there was Mary.

Mary Grantham, who regarded him like a trespasser in her kingdom. Who could cut him down with a single arch remark and yet sit perfectly composed, every line of her body declaring control. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let her rattle him. That the barbs were only defense.

And yet—

That lift ride lingered. Polite words sharpened into weapons, nothing extraordinary on paper, and still the memory lodged under his skin: the steadiness of her gaze, the way she never blinked first. It left him unsettled. If he were honest, a little impressed.

He had not come to London to be impressed by Mary Grantham.

The next evening, his mother arrived.

Isobel Crawley swept into his flat with the energy of someone who had already decided how to fix it. She frowned at the bare countertops, the unopened post, the files colonizing his kitchen table.

“You’re not eating properly,” she announced, before removing her coat. “And this building has terrible lighting. Honestly, Matthew, do you mean to live like a monk?”

Moseley materialized in the hallway, muttering about takeout menus.

“Even worse,” Isobel said, aghast. “You’ve a manservant.”

“Assistant,” Matthew corrected, rubbing his temple. “Moseley helps with work—”

“He helps you forget you’re a grown man capable of boiling an egg,” she said, then turned to beam at Moseley. “Don’t mind me. I’m sure you’re indispensable.”

Moseley flushed scarlet and dropped a stack of files.

Matthew sighed.

Over dinner—cobbled together under his mother’s command in a kitchen that had never deserved the name—she probed: the job, the Granthams, whether he was “getting on” with them.

“They’re… complicated,” Matthew settled on, pouring wine.

“Complicated, or impossible?” Isobel asked, head tilted.

“Both.”

She gave him that look—sharp, knowing. “And Mary Grantham?”

He hesitated. Too long.

“Ah.” Isobel sipped, serene. “That one.”

“There is no ‘that one,’” he said, too quickly.

“Of course not,” she murmured, satisfied.

He wasn’t about to give her the triumph of hearing she was right. But damn it if she wasn’t.

The very next morning, Matthew was bent over a contract when Moseley appeared, flustered as ever.

“Mr. Crawley—your mother is here.”

Matthew’s pen froze. “Here? At the office?”

“Yes, sir. She’s… already speaking to reception.”

By the time he reached the lobby, Isobel was mid-lecture to a bewildered intern on the perils of incorrect desk height.

“Mother,” Matthew said, horrified, “what are you doing here?”

“Making myself useful,” she replied, kissing his cheek before he could dodge. “You spend all your hours in this place. I thought I’d see it for myself.”

“This is an office, not a tourist attraction.”

“Nonsense. Where’s your boardroom? I should like to see where all the important business happens.”

“Mother—”

Too late.

When the lift doors opened on the top floor, the Granthams were already assembled: Robert fumbling papers, Edith scowling at proofs, Sybil perched on a desk, and Mary—of course—regal at the head of the table, perfectly composed.

And in the corner, like a monarch at court: Violet Grantham.

Violet looked up the instant Isobel entered. The air crackled.

“Ah,” Violet said, dry as dust. “The cavalry has arrived.”

Isobel beamed. “And you must be Lady Grantham. How delightful to meet you.”

“The delight,” Violet returned, “is all yours.”

Matthew wished for a trapdoor.

Carson bristled. “This is highly irregular, Mr. Crawley.” But Mrs. Hughes was already gliding forward, diplomacy personified. “Perhaps we might offer Mrs. Crawley some tea while she settles,” she suggested, as if unexpected guests were strictly scheduled.

Mary sipped her coffee and arched a brow at Matthew. The faintest smile tugged—sharp, knowing, infuriating.

“Lady Mary Grantham, isn’t it?” Isobel asked, hand outstretched before Matthew could intervene.

Mary glanced at it—just long enough to make him tense—then rose and shook it. “Mrs. Crawley. A pleasure.”

“Miss Crawley, actually,” Isobel corrected, warmly. “And I must say, your offices are far grander than Matthew described. He makes it sound as if he works in a broom cupboard.”

Mary’s mouth curved. “That wouldn’t surprise me. He’s been known to undersell himself.”

Compliment? Insult? Both? Matthew blinked.

“I think what you’re building here is remarkable,” Isobel went on, taking the seat beside Mary as if invited. “A heritage name finding its way into the modern world—it must take vision.”

“It takes persistence,” Mary said, expression softening into something almost approving. “The vision comes later.”

“Persistence,” Isobel echoed. “Something Matthew has in abundance, when he isn’t being too modest.”

Mary let out a quiet laugh, light and real. “That’s not what I would have called it.”

“Mother—” Matthew warned, to absolutely no effect.

The two women leaned toward each other, a quick, surprising accord crackling to life.

Across the room, Violet’s cup met saucer with a precise click. “Oh, splendid. The Crawleys have formed an alliance. The end is surely nigh.”

“I should think it a beginning,” Isobel replied, all innocent warmth. “One must welcome competence, even when it arrives from Manchester.”

“Manchester is a condition, not a credential,” Violet murmured.

Robert chuckled; Cora followed; Sybil snorted into her coffee; even Edith cracked a reluctant grin. The laughter, genuine and unbarbed, unsettled Matthew more than any of Mary’s sharpest remarks.

He sat, blindsided, as Mary laughed softly beside his mother—not brittle, not cutting. Lighter. Real.

Somehow, that was worse.

The day limped toward evening. Reports signed, meetings concluded, staff thinning to a hum behind glass.

Matthew gathered his files, grateful for the hush at last, when footsteps sounded in the corridor. He looked up.

Mary. Alone.

She paused in his doorway, perfectly poised. “Your mother seems to have enjoyed herself.”

“I wish she’d warned me she intended to turn a board meeting into a social call,” he said, shutting a folder with deliberate care.

“You handled it well enough.”

“Did I?” He lifted a brow. “I thought you rather enjoyed watching me squirm.”

For a heartbeat, something softened in her expression—almost conspiratorial. “Perhaps. But I can’t deny she was… rather charming.”

He studied her, unsettled by the unguarded note in her voice. Not the Mary of the sparring ring, but someone quieter, warmer. Someone he hadn’t expected to meet on this floor.

“Don’t encourage her,” he said, lacking conviction.

“Perhaps I already have.” A glint of humor flashed in her eyes.

She turned, heels whispering against the corridor, and left him with the echo of her words and the faintest trace of her perfume.

Matthew sat back, staring at the doorway.

For the first time since joining Downton Abbey Ltd., he admitted what he had been refusing to name: Mary Grantham was not merely an opponent.

She was becoming a distraction.

The worst kind of distraction.

Chapter Text

It was unusual for Mary to join her family for breakfast. Normally she preferred her Mayfair flat — her own coffee, her own silence, her own schedule. But the night before, Anna had convinced her to spend more time with her family. Mary regretted it almost instantly.

“Crawley has good instincts,” Robert was saying, buttering his toast with the earnestness of a man who thought Matthew’s efficiency had personally restored his faith in management. “The investors were very reassured.”

Cora nodded. “And he’s personable. That matters, Robert. It’s important for the company to have a human face.”

“Personable?” Edith nearly glowed. “He’s practically saved the company already.”

Mary set down her teacup with a little too much force. “It’s barely been a month.”

“A month is longer than most men last in this family’s employ,” Violet observed dryly, reaching for her paper as though the subject bored her — though Mary knew better.

Edith smirked. “He does seem to get under people’s skin, though. Especially yours, Mary.”

Mary forced a brittle smile. “Don’t you have layouts to ruin, Edith?”

At least Sybil, radiant even in her scrubs, seemed oblivious to the subtext. She twirled her spoon and said, “I might be seeing someone.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Cora leaned forward, delighted. “Darling, that’s wonderful! Who is he?”

Sybil toyed with her spoon, cheeks warming. “His name’s Tom. He’s… very kind. Passionate. He listens when I talk about work. He’s studying politics at Oxford.”

“That sounds promising,” Cora said warmly.

Mary tilted her head, intrigued. “And what does Tom do while he studies?”

Sybil hesitated just long enough for Edith to pounce. “Oh, come on, Sybil, out with it.”

“He’s… driving Uber at the moment,” Sybil blurted.

Robert nearly choked on his marmalade. “An Uber driver?”

“Yes, Papa,” Sybil rushed to explain, cheeks flushed. “But it’s only while he’s in school! He wants to pursue political science. That’s what he’s studying.”

Violet lowered her paper at last, arching a brow. “How modern. Next you’ll tell us he plays in a band.”

“And how did you meet this young man?” Robert demanded.

Sybil gave a small shrug. “He drove me home from work one night. We started talking.”

Mary hid a smile behind her cup. “Of course you did.”

“I asked about his accent,” Sybil added, brightening. “He’s Irish.”

Violet scoffed. “Oh, splendid.”

Edith sniffed. “You could do better.”

Mary set her cup down with a decisive clink. “Better than someone studying at Oxford? Remind me, Edith, which degree did you abandon last year?”

Color rose in Edith’s cheeks. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s exactly the point,” Mary said smoothly. “If Sybil’s happy, perhaps we should let her be.”

Sybil’s grateful glance was fleeting, but Mary caught it.

By the time Mary reached the office, she was still wound tight. It wasn’t Sybil’s happiness she begrudged — far from it — but Edith’s smugness, Robert’s raised brows, Violet’s barbed commentary, and the endless Crawley chatter on top of it all.

She buried herself in reports. That lasted until Richard appeared in her doorway.

He didn’t knock. He never did. He strode in sharp-suited, phone in hand, cologne trailing. “You’ve ignored my messages again,” he said.

Mary kept her eyes on the spreadsheet. “I was working.”

“That Crawley fellow keeping you busy?” His voice had an edge.

She looked up, cool as glass. “He’s doing his job. As am I.”

Out in the hall, Carson slowed, thunder on his face. Mrs. Hughes hovered behind, murmuring something steady — urging restraint.

Richard lowered his voice. “Perhaps you might remember who you’re engaged to before you bury yourself here all night.”

Carson’s jaw clenched; Mrs. Hughes caught his arm, warning him to stay silent. Still, they lingered — guardians of Downton Abbey Ltd., unwilling to turn away.

Mary, aware of eyes on her, kept her tone icy. “Richard, this isn’t the time.”

“I think it is,” he murmured, voice low but sharp. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

Mary’s pulse jumped. Richard wasn’t entirely wrong — and that was the worst part. She had been thinking about Matthew Crawley more than she should.

Her jaw tightened. “He doesn’t look at me at all. You’re imagining things.”

Richard straightened, smoothing his tie. “Dinner tonight. Don’t be late.”

He left with the sharp click of leather soles, the air heavier in his wake. Staff scattered, pretending not to have overheard.

Mary sat very still, pulse quick, telling herself again why she stayed. Richard carried her secret like a blade pressed against her spine: never cutting, but always reminding her it was there. Kemal Pamuk — the reckless article that had tipped into scandal — would ruin her if it surfaced. Richard had kept it buried. For that, she owed him.

So she would stop giving Matthew Crawley any attention at all.

She’d call a truce. 

But even so, Carson’s quiet disapproval lingered, heavy in the air.

A soft knock came. “Come in,” Mary said tightly.

Carson entered, shoulders square. “Forgive me, Miss Grantham. But I must say—Mr. Carlisle’s manner in the office is not… becoming.”

Mary’s lips twitched. “Becoming? Very diplomatic of you.”

Carson frowned. “It is unprofessional. And you deserve respect within these walls, regardless of… personal circumstances.”

For a moment, Mary said nothing. His loyalty made her mask slip, just a fraction. “Thank you, Carson. I appreciate you very much.”

He bowed his head. “Always, Miss Grantham.”

Mrs. Hughes lingered in the hall, arms folded. She caught Mary’s eye, offered the faintest smile — reassurance without words — before shepherding Carson away.

That evening, Mary found herself at his office door.

“Mr. Crawley.”

Matthew looked up, surprise flickering before composure returned. “Ms. Grantham.”

“I’ve decided we should call a truce,” she said, arms folded.

His brows rose. “A truce?”

“Yes. You’re here to do your job, I’m here to do mine. No sense wasting energy on squabbles.”

He leaned back, studying her. “And this truce involves…?”

“Civility. Cooperation.” She hesitated, then forced it out: “Friendship.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Friendship. With you.”

“Don’t sound so astonished. It’s practical.”

Silence stretched. Then his expression softened. “Very well. A truce.”

Mary inclined her head. “Good. Then we understand each other.”

She turned to go, but his voice followed.

“Ms. Grantham?”

She looked back.

He smiled — not smug, not mocking, but something gentler. “I’m glad you came.”

Mary said nothing. Only lifted her chin and walked out.

But the words followed her all the way home.

Chapter Text

Matthew had agreed to the truce with a smile, but now, back in his flat that evening, he wasn’t sure what he’d agreed to at all.

Friendship. With Mary Grantham.

It had sounded so reasonable when she said it, chin lifted like she was issuing a royal decree. But friendship with Mary was a dangerous proposition. He’d seen the steel in her eyes, the precision behind every word. She wasn’t built for friendship any more than he was.

Still, the moment replayed itself anyway. I’m glad you came. He hadn’t meant to say it, but the truth had slipped out. And judging by the way she’d spun on her heel, it had rattled her as much as it had him.

The next morning, Matthew arrived early. The building was quieter then, the glass corridors still half-empty. He liked the solitude — the hum of lights, the soft echo of his steps, the sense that the day hadn’t yet demanded anything of him.

Bates appeared at the door with a neatly organized folder.
“Contracts for Mr. Grantham’s review,” he said. “I thought you should have a copy too.”

Matthew accepted it gratefully. “You keep this place running, don’t you?”

Bates’s expression was modest but steady. “I do what I can.”

A silence followed — not uncomfortable. Matthew flipped the folder, then asked, almost without thinking: “How long have you worked with Miss Grantham?”

“A few years now.”

“And she…” Matthew hesitated, searching for tact. “She doesn’t make it easy, does she?”

Bates’s mouth twitched, the barest suggestion of a smile. “She has her ways. But she’s loyal. In her fashion.”

Matthew nodded, though the word loyal caught at him unexpectedly.

Anna breezed by just then, balancing a stack of proofs. “Don’t let her frighten you off, Mr. Crawley. She’s all bark, no bite.”

Matthew glanced between them, catching the way her hand brushed Bates’s sleeve as she passed. His face softened almost imperceptibly, though he quickly looked away.

“She says you’re ‘insufferably thorough,’” Anna added with a grin. “Which, believe me, is the closest thing to affection you’ll get.”

Matthew laughed. “I’ll take it.”

Mary appeared later that morning, gliding past his office. She hesitated, then stepped inside.

“Mr. Crawley,” she said, voice clipped but calm.

“Ms. Grantham.” He gestured to the chair opposite. “Testing this truce already?”

“Merely putting it into practice.” She crossed the room and sat with perfect poise. “I thought it best we divide responsibilities clearly. If we’re to avoid stepping on each other’s toes.”

Matthew leaned back. “And here I thought you enjoyed stepping on mine.”

Her brows arched. “Careful, Mr. Crawley. That almost sounded like civility.”

“Almost.” His mouth curved before he could stop it.

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp this time. It was—unsettlingly easy.

She cleared her throat. “You’ll handle investor relations. I’ll take press and publicity. That should keep us apart.”

“Very sensible. Though I suspect our paths will still cross.”

“Unfortunately.” A flicker of a smile betrayed her before she smoothed it away.

He leaned forward slightly. “Is this what friendship looks like to you, Ms. Grantham? Drawing up borders?”

“Don’t mock it. It’s practical.”

“Practical,” he echoed. “And do you often make friends out of practicality?”

“I don’t often make friends at all.”

The words hung between them until Mary rose, brushing an invisible crease from her skirt. “Consider the truce intact—for today.”

Matthew stood too, though he wasn’t sure why. “One day at a time, then.”

She inclined her head, turning toward the door. But before she reached it, he said quietly: “Mary.”

She paused, hand on the handle, back very straight.

“You’d have more friends,” he said, “if you didn’t look like you hated everything all the time.”

For a moment he thought she’d flay him alive. But instead, she laughed — low, warm, real.

“Well,” she said, glancing over her shoulder with a spark in her eye, “perhaps I prefer quality to quantity.”

Then she was gone, heels clicking down the hall, leaving him staring after her.

Matthew sank back into his chair, smiling despite himself. Mary Grantham was, maddeningly, wonderful.

The board meeting dragged in the way only Robert could manage. Reggie Swire droned about “stability over flash,” his charts full of outdated logic. Robert nodded along, while Matthew bit his tongue. It wasn’t his place. Not yet.

By the time they adjourned, Matthew’s head throbbed. He stepped into the corridor, grateful for the air — only to hear Richard Carlisle’s voice at Mary’s doorway.

“…I don’t care if he has clever ideas, Mary. He’s a solicitor, not family. Don’t give him more influence than he deserves.”

Matthew slowed, pulse tightening. He couldn’t hear her reply, but he could imagine it: chin high, cool shoulders, unflinching.

“Crawley.”

Matthew turned. Richard straightened from the doorframe, smile sharp. “Long meeting?”

“Informative.”

“I’d hate to think you were wasting your time. Or anyone else’s.” Richard stepped closer, voice low. “Mary can be… gracious to a fault. She entertains nonsense from people she shouldn’t. I trust you’ll remember where the line is.”

Matthew met his gaze evenly. “I’ve no intention of crossing it.”

“See that you don’t.” Richard’s smile thinned. “Because Mary and I — we’ve chosen each other. And I don’t take kindly to distractions.”

Matthew inclined his head. “Then you’ve nothing to fear.”

Richard studied him for a beat, then strolled away, shoes tapping against marble. The faint trace of his aftershave lingered, sharper than it needed to be.

Matthew exhaled slowly. Mary was engaged — end of story. Carlisle’s warning was nothing more than territory-marking. Still, her laugh from earlier lingered in his head, warmer than Carlisle’s threat had been cold.

That evening, Matthew met his mother at a small restaurant near his flat. Isobel had chosen it, of course — an “authentic” Italian squeezed between a dry cleaner and a betting shop.

She was already seated when he arrived. “Matthew! I was beginning to think your office swallowed you whole.”

“It nearly did. Another meeting with Reggie Swire. If Robert keeps listening, nothing will ever change.”

“Then make it change,” Isobel said crisply. “They didn’t hire you to nod along.”

Matthew smiled faintly. “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is. And besides”—her eyes sharpened—“Mary Grantham listens to you. More than she pretends to.”

“Because I like her,” Isobel added blithely. “She’s sharp, clever, unafraid. And you—” she gave him a knowing look “—you come alive when you argue with her.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“You don’t dislike her, though. Not really.”

Matthew gave a short laugh. “We’ve agreed to a truce. That’s all.”

“A truce,” she repeated softly, as though tasting it. Then she leaned back, smiling faintly. “Those don’t always hold.”

“For god’s sake—”

“I’m only saying.” She sipped her wine. Then, more quietly: “Friendship will never be enough.”

Matthew froze. “Mother—”

“Don’t scold me. I see the way you look at her.”

He set down his glass carefully. “Then stop looking so closely. There’s nothing to see.”

“Mm.” She arched an eyebrow, unconvinced, and let the subject drop.

But even as the waiter arrived, her words clung to him.

Friendship will never be enough.

He told himself it was nonsense. And yet, walking home beneath the city lights, it wasn’t his mother’s voice that echoed in his head. It was Mary’s laugh, warm and unguarded, refusing to fade.

Chapter Text

Mary had never thought much of office parties. Noisy, contrived affairs designed to make colleagues forget the long hours they’d already spent together. But when her father announced a “celebration of progress” — complete with champagne and a hired jazz trio — there was no escaping it.

The offices transformed overnight. Strings of lights draped across glass walls; Carson presided over a makeshift bar with the gravity of a coronation; Mrs. Hughes managed the guest list like it was a royal wedding. Edith flitted about fretting over matching champagne flutes, while Violet planted herself like a monarch awaiting tribute.

Mary stood near the windows with a glass of wine, telling herself she was above such things. But truthfully, she was curious. Curious how Matthew Crawley — earnest, infuriating, entirely too sharp — would fit into it all.

The staff mingled more freely than usual, champagne softening the edges of hierarchy. In one corner, Anna and Bates spoke with a focus that looked suspiciously like courtship. Sybil arrived late, Tom Branson at her side — plain jacket, nervous smile, but a quiet steadiness in the way he let Sybil lead him. Richard, of course, planted himself at the center of the room, laughing too loudly and shaking hands as if the party were thrown in his honor. His eyes flicked to Mary now and again, a reminder of his watch.

And then there was Matthew.

He looked… different. Still crisp in his suit, but looser somehow. He laughed at something Molesley said, and the sound carried across the room. It unsettled Mary more than she cared to admit.

Sybil, beaming, eventually tugged Tom toward their parents. Mary watched from her post by the window: Robert stiff-backed, Cora smoothing too quickly, Edith practically vibrating with delight. Sybil flushed, lifted her chin, and Mary almost smiled with pride.

Soon enough, Sybil steered Tom across the room. “And this is my eldest sister, Mary. Mary, this is Tom Branson.”

Mary’s gaze swept over him, cool and assessing. “You’ve survived my father’s interrogation and Edith’s disdain. That’s no small feat.”

Tom chuckled, visibly relieved. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Do,” Mary said, lips curving just slightly.

Before Sybil could glow any brighter, Violet tapped her stick against the floor and studied Tom as if he were a new footman. “So this is the driver. I do hope he doesn’t plan to park outside my house. Petrol ruins the roses.”

Tom blinked, then recovered neatly. “Then I’ll keep my car well away, ma’am. Wouldn’t want to compete with your roses for beauty.”

Violet stilled. Then, slowly, the faintest smile. “Flattery. He’ll do.”

Sybil lit up. Even Mary had to admit she was impressed.

But the moment fractured when Richard appeared at Mary’s side, slipping his arm through hers with practiced ease. “There you are,” he said lightly, pressing a little too close.

Mary forced a smile. “I wasn’t hiding.”

Richard’s gaze flicked to Tom, sharp and appraising. His grip on Mary’s arm tightened, a claim staked for all to see. Mary sipped her wine to keep from snapping.

Sensing the tension, Sybil whisked Tom away to the bar. Violet followed, muttering something about petrol and politics.

At that moment, the opening chords of David Bowie’s Heroes cut through the chatter. Mary felt something stir in her chest — something unexpected, almost giddy.

She turned to Richard. “Come dance with me.”

He blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now.” She tugged him toward the floor. For a fleeting moment, she thought the night might yet be fun.

But Richard’s hand clamped too tightly at her waist, his steps rigid. He moved like a man performing ownership, not joy. Every turn was mechanical, every smile aimed at onlookers. Mary laughed once, trying to loosen him, but he didn’t hear the music at all.

“You don’t need to make a spectacle,” he muttered against her ear.

“It’s dancing, Richard,” she shot back, voice sharp behind her practiced smile. “It’s meant to be a spectacle.”

Her eyes flicked past his shoulder — and found Matthew at the edge of the crowd, glass in hand, expression unreadable. Her pulse quickened.

Richard spun her again, graceless, and Mary thought bitterly how absurd it was: she had asked for this, wanted this. Yet somehow, he had turned it into a cage.

When the song ended, applause rose. Richard dropped her hand too abruptly and, spotting investors waving him over, pressed a perfunctory kiss to her temple. “Excuse me, darling.” He was gone before she could reply.

Mary exhaled, smile collapsing the instant his back was turned. She slipped to the bar, needing something cold, something sharp. Carson poured her champagne without a word.

“Not enjoying yourself?”

She turned. Matthew. Tie loosened, glass in hand, eyes far too perceptive.

“I thought I looked the very picture of delight.”

“You looked like someone counting the minutes until the music stopped.”

Her lips curved despite herself. “And what would you know of it?”

“I was watching,” he said simply.

The words landed heavier than they should have. Mary lifted her glass, hiding the heat in her cheeks.

“Flattering,” she murmured.

“Not flattering,” he corrected softly. “Just true.”

For a moment they stood in silence, Bowie’s riff still echoing faintly. Then Matthew tilted his head. “Interesting choice of song for an office party.”

“‘Heroes,’” Mary said. “A bit too romantic for my taste.”

“Not romantic. Defiant. Snatching a moment, even if it doesn’t last.”

Mary blinked, caught off guard. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I like the song,” he admitted, almost shy.

Her voice softened. “So do I. Though Richard managed to make it feel like a board meeting.”

“Then he wasn’t listening to the music,” Matthew said quietly.

Something in the words lodged deep. Mary looked away first.

“Mary!” Richard’s voice cut across the room.

Her spine stiffened. She set down her glass. “Duty calls.”

Richard crossed the floor, slipping his arm around her waist as though locking a chain. She let him. It was safer to let him. He held too much in his hands.

As he steered her away, the crowd shifted. Reggie Swire arrived, booming greetings, introducing a bright-eyed young woman at his side. Pretty, eager, born to please.

Mary saw Matthew drawn into the introduction, the girl’s hand offered, her smile soft. Perfectly ordinary.

So why did her stomach twist?

She forced herself to look away, but the image of Matthew smiling back at the stranger lingered longer than it should have.

Ridiculous. She cared nothing for him. And yet she did — more than she would ever admit.

Chapter Text

Mary woke to find Richard still in her bed.

It wasn’t usual, but it wasn’t unexpected. Sometimes he stayed; more often he didn’t. He was already half dressed, scrolling his phone in that distracted way of his, as if she were part of the décor rather than the woman beside him.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. A faint ache pressed at her temples — champagne, or Richard, or both.

Underneath it, the echo of Bowie wouldn’t let go. We can be heroes, just for one day. The line had threaded through her sleep like a bright wire, tugging. Reckless. Unfinished. Restless.

Richard leaned down to kiss her goodbye before whatever lunch or meeting owned his morning. She let him. Warm, practiced, predictable.

And yet when the door clicked shut, it wasn’t Richard’s face that lingered. It was Matthew’s voice at the bar, low and unguarded: Then he wasn’t listening to the music.

Mary pressed her eyes closed, irritated with herself.

Of all the things to remember, why that?

It was Saturday. No boardrooms, no investors, no Matthew Crawley with his tidy charts and inconvenient observations. Relief should have followed. Instead, a fizzing impatience took its place.

On a whim, she pulled out her phone and sent a message to the only people who could reliably drown out her thoughts: Girls day. My place. Noon. Don’t make me beg.

Sybil replied instantly with too many heart emojis. Edith complained about deadlines — which meant she’d come. Anna, dear Anna, simply wrote: Of course, Miss Mary.

By noon, the flat smelled faintly of the scones Sybil brought and the lavender hand cream Anna pressed into everyone’s hands. Edith claimed the sofa with a stack of fashion magazines and theatrical sighs. Sybil curled on the rug, legs tucked under, face lit by her phone.

Mary poured champagne into mismatched flutes. “If we must spend Saturday together, we may as well do it properly.”

“Hear, hear,” Sybil said, grinning.

“I can’t remember the last time I sat down with nothing to hem,” Anna added, laughter soft and easy in this space that belonged to Mary more than any office ever would.

“Some of us have actual deadlines,” Edith muttered, flipping a page.

“And some of us intend to be miserable no matter the day,” Mary returned, sipping.

The room warmed around them. For a while they were simply four women in a flat, trading gossip, letting Sybil test the ugliest shades in an eyeshadow palette, ignoring the world outside. Ordinary. Pleasant.

And yet Mary’s thoughts refused to behave.

Not Richard at his mysterious lunch. Not Edith’s screed about fonts. Matthew at the bar instead, tie loosened, eyes too perceptive. Then he wasn’t listening to the music.

Ridiculous. Infuriating.

And then, just as quickly, the bright-eyed girl who’d materialized at his side after. Pretty in the practiced way some women were, offering her hand, sliding into conversation as if born for rooms like that. Mary had pretended not to see. Pretended it didn’t matter.

She topped up her glass before anyone clocked the color in her cheeks.

The afternoon drifted: Sybil told a dramatic hospital story about a patient convinced the tea was poisoned; Edith ranted about incompetence on her team; Anna performed a wickedly accurate Carson that left them breathless with laughter.

Mary almost let herself believe it was enough.

The lyric snagged again. We can be heroes…

She took another swallow, inelegant and necessary.

“Your turn,” Sybil chirped, brandishing a lipstick. “Mary needs color.”

Mary smirked and accepted the tube. “If I look absurd, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Promise?” Sybil said, wicked and sweet.

For a moment, Mary almost laughed.

By the time they’d gone, the flat was a scatter of lipstick-stained glasses and half-eaten scones. Mary tidied, gave up, and fell back on the bed with a book. The day had been good. Restorative, even. She’d laughed — properly laughed — for the first time in weeks.

Sleep should have come easily.

Instead she lay awake, ceiling blurred by the city’s glow, that Bowie refrain still caught under her ribs like a tiny hook. Just for one day.

Her phone buzzed.

Matthew Crawley:
It was good to talk last night. I hope today was kinder to you.
P.S. I can’t get that song out of my head.

Mary stared, the corner of her mouth threatening treason.

Mary Grantham:
Champagne and sisters. Hardly heroic, but kinder, yes.

Three dots appeared. Vanished. Returned.

Matthew Crawley:
Better than investors and their memos. Perhaps we chose the wrong heroes.

Her smile arrived before she could stop it. She typed half a reply, deleted it, set the phone down more firmly than necessary.

She turned off the lamp.

Sleep didn’t find her for a long time.

Chapter Text

Three days later, the text still sat at the top of Matthew’s phone, unread only in the sense that he hadn’t stopped reading it.

Her reply had been brisk but not cold:
Champagne and sisters. Hardly heroic, but kinder, yes.

He had stared at those words longer than he should, imagining the scene: Sybil giddy on the rug, Edith sighing over layouts, Anna laughing softly in the background. Wondering if Mary had smiled faintly as she typed. Then he’d fired back his own attempt at levity:
Sounds better than investors and their endless memos. Perhaps we chose the wrong heroes.

And that had been it. Silence. Conversation ended.

It should have been enough. He told himself it was enough. Yet three mornings later, his thumb still flicked across his phone on instinct, hoping for some belated reply that never came.

Monday’s board meeting brought the usual storm of raised voices and dropped papers, amplified this time by Reggie Swire’s booming announcement: his daughter would be joining the communications team.

Lavinia Swire.

She was eager but not cloying, sharp in her questions, tablet balanced neatly against her arm. There was something unjaded in the way she leaned forward to listen, as if the whole messy machine of Downton Abbey Ltd. still held promise.

When the meeting ended, she lingered by the glass railing. “Mr. Crawley?” Her voice was steady, though a flush crept into her cheeks. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to coffee this week? Nothing formal — I’d just love to hear your thoughts on the contracts.”

It was the sort of request anyone might make. Harmless.

And he had said yes. Smiled, even. Because she was bright, and thoughtful, and deserved encouragement.

But as she walked away, something sour settled in his chest.

He didn’t owe Mary anything. She was engaged. She was untouchable. They weren’t even friends, not really. And yet the flicker of guilt refused to leave, stubborn as a stain.

Trying to ignore it lasted until mid-afternoon. Then he found himself outside her office, pulse irritatingly uneven.

He didn’t owe her an explanation. And yet the idea of her hearing it secondhand — Edith’s barbed tone, Richard’s smirk — was unbearable.

So he knocked.

“Come in,” came her voice, cool and composed.

She was at her desk, posture immaculate, pen poised.

“I only need a moment,” he said, already hating the stiffness in his tone.

One arched brow. “Very well.”

He cleared his throat. “I thought it best you heard from me rather than the office. Miss Swire asked me to coffee yesterday. I said yes.”

There. Clean. Professional.

Mary blinked once. Her pen resumed its steady path across the page. “I see. How very diligent of you both.”

“It was professional,” he insisted too quickly. “She wanted to discuss investor messaging—”

“Matthew.” The steel in her voice was quiet but unmistakable. “You don’t need to justify yourself. You’re free to have coffee with whomever you please.”

He bristled anyway. “I only thought you should know.”

“Now I do.” She didn’t look up.

The silence stretched, brittle as glass. He waited — for a jab, or approval, or anything that proved she felt something at all.

But nothing came.

His irritation spiked. “Fine.”

The door shut harder than he meant it to, and he strode down the corridor, pulse hammering with the echo of her indifference.

He told himself he wasn’t angry. Only that he’d wasted his breath.

A lie.

He hadn’t meant to enjoy it.

But when Lavinia suggested a café near Holborn, he agreed easily. Late drizzle clung to his coat as he arrived, and she waved him over with a smile that brightened the dim shop.

“Mr. Crawley,” she said warmly. “I hope I haven’t stolen you from anything urgent.”

“Matthew,” he corrected, sliding into the chair. “And believe me — this is preferable to Reggie’s memos.”

She laughed, light and genuine.

They began with business, as promised. She asked sharp questions about investor language, about how much detail could survive before the board’s eyes glazed over. She admitted when she didn’t follow, unafraid of sounding foolish. He found the honesty refreshing.

Their single cup stretched into two. Then into a walk, umbrella shared as the rain softened to mist. She told him stories — fainting during a school play, a lingering fear of singing in public. He laughed, really laughed, in a way that startled him.

By the time they parted at the tube station, he was lighter than when he’d arrived.

And yet, waiting for his train, the guilt surged again.

Why should it matter? He had enjoyed himself, truly. He owed Mary nothing.

So why was his first instinct to unlock his phone, to stare at a message thread that hadn’t moved in days, to imagine her cool eyes narrowing at the news of Lavinia?

You didn’t need to be so dismissive. I was only trying to be honest with you.
Delete.

Sometimes I think you enjoy cutting me down just to see if I’ll bleed.
Delete.

It mattered to me that you knew. I don’t even know why.
Delete.

Hope your day was kinder. The rain nearly cooperated.
Delete.

Still can’t get that song out of my head.
Delete.

The train screeched into the station. Matthew slid his phone back into his pocket, jaw tight. He hadn’t sent a word.

And yet, somehow, he felt she would have understood them all.

He sank into a corner seat, the carriage rattling as the city blurred past. This time, when he unlocked his phone, it wasn’t to draft a message.

It was to scroll to Bowie.

His thumb hovered, then pressed play.

The opening chords filled his ears, and he leaned his head against the glass, eyes closed.

He told himself it was only a song.

But he knew better.

Chapter Text

The office was quieter than usual that morning, as though the rain had pressed everyone into submission. Mary welcomed the hush: no chatter, no distractions, only proofs and the comfort of control.

And yet she couldn’t concentrate. Her pen hovered, useless. Every time her mind slipped, it circled back to that moment in her office three days ago — Matthew standing stiffly in the doorway, his words careful, hers sharper than intended.
You’re free to have coffee with whomever you please.

She had replayed it too many times, each recollection ending with the flicker in his eyes as he left. Had she cut too deep?

It was nothing, she told herself. He was only a colleague. If he sulked, that was his affair.
But the thought refused to leave her alone.

By midmorning she found herself outside his office, proofs clutched like a shield. She could keep walking, pretend she hadn’t paused, let silence stand. She nearly did. But a treacherous voice whispered she would regret it.

So she knocked.

Matthew looked up from his desk, expression polite, unreadable.

“I won’t keep you,” Mary said briskly. “About the other day — when you mentioned Miss Swire. I may have been… sharper than was necessary. I only meant—” She hesitated, hating the clumsiness of apology. “I only meant I shouldn’t have dismissed you so quickly.”

His gaze held hers a moment too long. Then he nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”

She forced a smile. “Good. Then we’ll forget it.”

“Of course.” Still polite. Too polite.

It should have reassured her. Instead, his careful tone unsettled her more.

Mary walked away with her chin high, proofs clutched tight. But the echo of his voice followed her all day, and she knew something between them had shifted.

That evening, she left her office late and found Bates at the copier, sleeves rolled, limp heavier after the long day.

“Another late one?” he asked.

She nearly brushed it off, but sighed instead. “Things have been… strange lately.”

Bates nodded, steady as ever. “Strange has a way of passing.”

Mary’s mouth curved faintly. “Anna tells you that, doesn’t she?”

His expression softened. “She does.”

For the first time that day, her chest loosened. “You’re lucky, Bates. People like Anna are rare.”

He studied her a moment, then said carefully, “And like Mr. Crawley.”

Mary paused, caught off guard. Softly, almost to herself, she admitted, “Yes. I think I agree.”

The admission lingered, fragile. Then she straightened, smoothing her hair back into place, her mask restored. “Well. Thank you, Bates. I value your loyalty more than you know.”

“Always, Miss Mary.”

She walked away, steadier but no lighter.

The next evening, Grantham House glowed with candlelight. The dining table stretched long under the chandelier, silver aligned like soldiers, crystal gleaming. Robert presided, Cora serene, Violet ensconced by the fire like a monarch at court.

Sybil sat with Tom beside her, their closeness daring comment. Edith pounced first. “Really, Sybil, must you drag politics into every dinner? Some of us prefer to eat without a lecture.”

Sybil flushed, but pressed on. “It isn’t politics, Edith, it’s life. People deserve better than—”

Richard cut in smoothly, sipping wine. “The world may be unfair, Sybil, but rhetoric won’t change it. Influence does. Power. A newspaper, for instance.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “A newspaper that serves truth, perhaps. Not just what sells.”

Robert leaned forward, faintly suspicious. “And how would you know what sells, young man?”

“By driving people home at night,” Tom answered evenly, “when they talk more freely than they realize.”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Violet tapped her stick against the floor. “At least these dinners are never boring, Robert. Can you say the same when we eat with half the ministers you insist on inviting?”

Cora hid a smile. Even Robert had no reply.

Mary watched with grim satisfaction. Tom was holding his own, Sybil incandescent with pride, Edith sulking. And Richard — his hand slid onto Mary’s beneath the table, firm, possessive. She forced herself not to flinch. It should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like a claim.

Later, in the drawing room, Violet judged the soup “adequate if uninspired” before seating herself with the air of a queen settling court. Robert lit his pipe, Cora poured tea, Sybil and Tom spoke low in the corner, Edith turned pages loudly to disguise her sulk.

Mary crossed one leg elegantly and accepted a glass of port. Perfectly poised, perfectly indifferent.

Richard joined her without asking, his hand resting on her knee. Irritation flared, but she smothered it. She leaned closer instead, voice sweet with steel.

“I do admire your sister’s idealism,” he murmured. “But she’ll tire of it once she realizes how the world works.”

Normally Mary would have retorted. Tonight, she tilted her head. “Not everyone has your pragmatism, Richard. The world is lucky you do.”

His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He pressed a kiss to her temple as though her words had confirmed everything he believed.

Mary forced her shoulders to relax, even laughed at something he whispered. Across the room, Sybil glowed at Tom, Edith smiled faintly at Cora, Violet lanced Robert with barbed wit. Grantham House in its usual chaos.

And Mary, perfectly composed, leaned harder into Richard Carlisle.

He drove her back to his apartment after dinner. Sleek car, sharp lines, London rushing past in blur and light. She rarely stayed there; she preferred her own flat. But tonight she allowed it. Easier than going home alone.

His place was glass and steel, no softness anywhere. Exactly like him. He poured her a drink, kissed her cheek, made a wry comment about Robert’s conservatism. She laughed in all the right places.

Later, in his bed, she let him have her. She even tried to want it — to sink into his confidence, his surety.

But when the quiet settled and his breathing deepened, Mary lay awake staring at the ceiling. And without warning, Matthew’s face rose in her mind. His voice, careful and restrained, yet always honest.

The thought frightened her. Enough that she rolled onto her side, pressed against Richard’s shoulder, and stayed.

For once, she slept in his apartment. Something she almost never did.

When morning came, sunlight spilling hard through the uncurtained windows, she was irritated. At him, for being so certain of her. At herself, for letting her guard slip. For letting her thoughts wander somewhere they never should have.

She dressed quickly, brushed a kiss across his cheek, and left with her chin high.

But the irritation followed her all the way home.

By the time she turned her key in her own flat, Mary had decided: becoming friends with Matthew Crawley had been a mistake. She remembered too well how quickly friendship and admiration could tip into recklessness, how easily one night could spiral into scandal. Pamuk’s shadow still lingered, a warning she refused to ignore.

Matthew Crawley should never have become more than a colleague. She would be professional, polite, even kind — but never more.

The truth was simple: she was with Richard.

And she would not let herself forget it again.

Chapter Text

Matthew had told Mary he accepted her apology. He’d even managed a smile when he said it. But two weeks later, he still felt the words like grit in his teeth.

Of course. Polite, practiced. That was Mary Grantham. And he, fool that he was, had let it sting more than he wanted to admit.

So he busied himself elsewhere.

Lavinia Swire had returned with her father a fortnight ago, and somehow coffee had turned into dinner, dinner into an afternoon walk through Hyde Park, and now she was stitched into the edges of his week. She was warm, unassuming, never made him feel as though every word was a test. With Lavinia, there were no sharp glances to decipher, no silences charged with unspoken meaning.

She told him about her work, the charities she hoped to start, the novels she devoured in a weekend. She asked about his cases and actually listened. She laughed at Molesley’s nervous chatter and never seemed to notice when Matthew stumbled. With her, everything was easy.

And Matthew liked her. Genuinely. He liked the way she walked quickly to keep pace, the way her nose crinkled when she was thinking. He even liked the quiet — sitting in a café with no pressure to fill every moment.

He thought back to their first kiss. It had been after dinner, on the walk to the Tube, when she’d been laughing about something Molesley said in the office. They stopped beneath a streetlamp, and suddenly the night was hushed.

Matthew had hesitated — awkward, uncertain — but Lavinia only smiled, patient, waiting. So he leaned in. The kiss was soft, tentative. No games, no battle of wills. Just a warm brush of lips and the faint taste of wine on her breath.

It was… nice. Comfortable. The kind of kiss that promised companionship rather than combustion.

It was good. It should have been enough.

But sometimes, when Lavinia’s hand rested lightly on his arm, he thought of Mary’s sharp smile. And when he kissed Lavinia goodnight on her cheek, polite and proper, he wondered what it would feel like if it were Mary’s hand in his instead.

He despised himself for those thoughts.

When he’d told his mother about Lavinia, she had been surprised but pleased. They hadn’t met yet, but already Isobel had begun weaving Lavinia’s name into every conversation — asking after her work, her family, her opinions on everything under the sun. Somehow, Lavinia had become part of his life before he’d even realized it.

Which had to be a good thing.

At the office, Matthew threw himself into efficiency. With no detours into Mary’s office, no sparring in the hallways, his days ran smoother. He cleared his in-tray, dictated notes early, even startled Molesley by signing things ahead of deadline.

On paper, it was progress.

But it felt hollow.

Her absence was everywhere — in the quiet between meetings, in the way lunch felt like an obligation instead of a reprieve, in the lack of sharp banter that had once broken the monotony. Mary didn’t seek him out, and he didn’t go looking for her. It was professional, proper… and left the days unbearably long.

Sybil stopped him in the hall one afternoon, shrugging out of her coat to reveal pale blue scrubs beneath. Her hair had half-escaped its bun, giving her the look of someone who’d forgotten she was a Grantham altogether.

“You look buried, Mr. Crawley,” she said brightly, juggling folders and her phone. “Has Papa chained you to the desk?”

Matthew smiled despite himself. “Not quite. Though some days it feels close.”

Sybil leaned against the wall, eyes kind. “At least you’ve got Mary nearby. She can’t possibly let the office grow dull.”

Matthew hesitated, the answer catching. He could have told her the truth — that Mary hadn’t spoken to him properly in two weeks, that he missed her sharpness, her presence, her attention. But Sybil’s expression was so open, so trusting, that he only said, “No. She doesn’t.”

She beamed. “Good. Mary needs someone who can keep up with her. Most people end up a little frightened, I think.” Her tone carried affection, not criticism — the indulgence of a younger sister who saw more than Mary realized.

Matthew’s own smile softened. “Yes. I imagine she does.”

Her phone buzzed then, and her cheeks flushed before she tucked it quickly away. “Well, I’d better run. Don’t work too hard, Mr. Crawley.”

“Good luck on your shift, Lady Sybil.”

She darted off toward the lifts, leaving him with his papers and one thought circling in his head.

Mary frightens people off.

It was true. And yet, for all his better judgment, he couldn’t seem to stay away.

That night, Matthew sat in bed with his phone glowing in the dark. Lavinia’s name filled his recent calls, his recent texts. She was easy to talk to. Easy to like.

And yet his thumb hovered over another name.

Mary.

He typed:
Robert mentioned you in passing. Strange how even when you’re not there, you’re there.
Delete.

Another try:
I almost asked Carson if he’d seen you today. Then I remembered we’re not speaking.
Delete.

He wrote:
Why did you bother apologizing if you don’t mean it?
Delete.

It mattered to me that you knew. I don’t even know why.
Delete.

At last, only one line remained:
Good night, Mary.

He stared at it, thumb hovering over send. One tap. That was all it would take.

But in the end, he erased that too.

On Monday morning, Robert summoned him to the boardroom. The glass walls caught the light in that merciless way that made everything feel exposed.

Mary was already seated, posture perfect, pen balanced between her fingers as though she’d been waiting.

Robert shuffled his papers. “We’ve secured the partnership for the charity gala. The Swires are contributing, which means their solicitor”—his gaze flicked to Matthew—“and our lead editor”—it landed on Mary—“will be working together. Closely. Press releases, contracts, event schedules. All of it.”

Mary didn’t flinch, but Matthew saw the faint tightening at the corner of her mouth.

“This gala matters,” Robert pressed. “For Downton Abbey’s reputation, for our partners. I expect absolute precision.”

Matthew inclined his head. “Of course.”

Mary’s reply was cool, smooth. “Naturally.”

And that was all. No spark of recognition, no flicker across the table. Just the same mask she had worn these two long weeks.

Robert dismissed them, already rifling through another file. Matthew gathered his papers with deliberate neatness, though inside he felt anything but. He had told himself Lavinia’s gentleness was what he needed, that silence with Mary was safer. And now Robert had tied them together again, as though fate had run out of patience.

He should have dreaded it. Instead, anticipation stirred, sharp and undeniable.

In the corridor, their paths crossed, too close to ignore.

Mary broke the silence first. “We’ll work well together, hopefully.”

Matthew adjusted the papers under his arm. “I don’t see why we wouldn’t.”

She gave the smallest nod. “Good. Then let’s make the best of it.”

Professional, polite. Nothing more.

“Agreed,” he said quietly.

She hesitated a moment, as if weighing something, then let the faintest smile touch her lips.

It was nothing, barely there.

But enough to undo him.

Matthew stood rooted in place, his own smile tugging despite himself, long after she had walked away.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the gala files were waiting on Mary’s desk: contracts, timelines, press releases, all annotated in Robert’s neat, earnest hand. She skimmed them once, twice. It was absurd to feel unsettled. This was work — she’d done dozens of projects like it before. Late nights, tight deadlines, difficult personalities. She knew how to manage them all.

But Matthew Crawley was not just another colleague.

She told herself it would be fine. They had proven, in two weeks of silence, that they could ignore each other when necessary. Professional. Detached. And yet the thought of hours spent across a desk from him — disagreeing, compromising, hearing his steady voice dismantle her arguments — tugged at something she’d rather not name.

Mary stacked the folders into a precise pile, smoothing her expression into cool neutrality. It would mean nothing. It had to.

“Mr. Crawley is here for the ten o’clock,” Anna announced.

Mary looked up just in time to see Matthew step into her office, punctual as ever, papers tucked neatly under his arm.

“Miss Grantham,” he said smoothly.

“Mr. Crawley,” she returned, tone even.

They sat across from each other at the glass table, the folders between them like a border neither wanted to yield.

Mary opened the first file. “We’ll need a press release by Friday. I’ve drafted a version, and if it runs in the Times by the weekend, the sponsors will be thrilled.” She slid a page toward him.

Matthew scanned it, brow furrowing. “‘Unprecedented cultural event of the year’? Mary, you’re not advertising a circus.”

She bristled. “It’s called generating excitement. Headlines aren’t made of caution.”

“Contracts are,” he returned evenly. “If we promise this is the cultural event of the year, we’re inviting scrutiny.”

Mary leaned back, cool as glass. “So what would you prefer? ‘A moderately interesting evening that might not be a disaster’?”

The corner of his mouth twitched before he caught it. “Something closer to ‘an evening celebrating culture and community,’ perhaps. Honest without overreaching.”

“That’s practically a sedative,” Mary muttered, but she took the page back, pen poised, and began trimming adjectives.

By the time Anna reappeared with tea, the table was strewn with drafts, mock-ups, and notes scrawled in both their hands.

“This clause is redundant,” Matthew said, circling a sponsorship line.

“It’s reassurance,” Mary countered. “Remove it and the donors will panic.”

“They’ll panic more if it contradicts the legal contract.”

“Then replace it,” she said crisply. “But make it quotable. They’ll want it splashed on flyers.”

He wrote a line, precise and neat, and slid it across. Mary read it and hated how perfect it was. She didn’t say so — only marked a discreet tick beside it.

The hours blurred. What began stiff and formal softened into rhythm — their edits sharpening each other’s, their silences no longer brittle. By evening, the stack of papers bore their handwriting so completely that Mary couldn’t tell where hers ended and his began.

At last she closed her laptop. “Well. If nothing else, we’ve frightened half the adjectives out of the English language.”

Matthew laughed — warm, unguarded. “Which I’d call a public service.”

Mary studied him, tension easing for the first time in weeks. “It’s strange,” she admitted. “I thought this would be harder.”

His gaze met hers. “So did I.”

The words lingered, dangerously close to something else.

“Are we… are we all right, Matthew?” she asked, voice quieter than she meant.

His pen stilled. For a long moment he said nothing. Then he smiled — measured, polite. “Of course we are.”

Mary searched his face, knowing it wasn’t true.

Later, when Carson arrived with a message about the Swires’ sponsorship dinner, Matthew sighed. “I’ll need to confirm with Lavinia. She’s keen to come along.”

Mary blinked. “Lavinia?”

He nodded, hesitating. “We’ve been seeing each other.”

It shouldn’t have stung. Of course he would have someone. He was clever, kind, steady. Mary forced her tone even. “She must be patient, to put up with your relentless precision.”

To her surprise, Matthew smiled faintly. “She is. She tempers me. Reminds me the world doesn’t have to be argued into order.”

Mary traced the rim of her teacup, feigning indifference. “That sounds… nice.”

“It is,” he said softly, before clearing his throat and straightening the papers. “Now, about the program order—”

But Mary didn’t hear the rest. She stood abruptly, gathering her things. “It’s late. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

“Of course,” he said, startled.

She didn’t wait for more. Her heels struck sharp echoes against the floor as she left.

Mary arrived at Richard’s flat later than promised. He was already pouring wine, the television flickering with muted headlines.

“You’re late,” he said, handing her a glass. Not angry — just pointed.

“The gala. Long day.”

He smirked, kissing her temple. “Good thing you’ve got Crawley for the dull bits. You only need to dazzle.”

Mary smiled tightly, sinking onto the sofa. His hand rested on her knee, casual and possessive. She let him.

Later, in his bed, the ritual was familiar: jackets tossed, shirts exchanged, silence settling too quickly. He drifted into half-sleep with a newspaper still beside him. Mary lay awake, eyes on the ceiling, and reached quietly for her phone.

Work-related, she told herself, typing:
Sorry I left so quickly. Had to meet Richard. Don’t stay at Downton all night, Crawley.

She hesitated, then sent it.

The reply came minutes later:
Downton is safe, empty, and free of adjectives. You can rest easy.

Mary bit back a laugh, clutching the phone to her chest to muffle it. She typed a reply, erased it, typed again. At last she set the phone face down, smile tugging despite herself.

Sleep found her gently. And when it did, she dreamed not of Richard, but of golden hair and piercing blue eyes.

Chapter Text

It had been three weeks since that late-night text, and in that time the air between Mary and Matthew had shifted. Slowly at first, then so seamlessly she almost forgot how brittle it had been. They still argued—over copy, over sponsor placement, over the word transformative (which Matthew banned outright)—but the sharpness had dulled into something like rhythm.

They stayed late more often than not, finishing each other’s edits without being asked, conversations straying beyond work in quiet, stolen stretches. Mary would never admit it aloud, but the gala planning had become… pleasant. Predictable, even.

It was only awkward when Lavinia Swire appeared.

She was perfectly polite—unfailingly warm, almost sweet. She’d stop by to meet Matthew for lunch or bring him coffee in the afternoons, smiling at Mary as though they were already friends. And Mary, being Mary, returned every smile with one just as flawless. Later, back in her office, the heat of it burned in her chest: a precise reminder that not every rhythm was hers to keep.

The coffee shop across the street was always too loud for Mary’s taste—the hiss of steam, the chatter of students hunched over laptops, the clatter of cups. But Sybil had insisted, and Edith had tagged along, so here they were.

As much as her sisters could exhaust her, their company was a comfort. Familiar voices, familiar cadences—like slipping into an old coat, frayed at the cuffs but still warm. For a little while, she could almost forget the weight waiting back at the office.

It didn’t last.

Sybil was midway through a story about a patient who’d left chocolates at the nurses’ station when Edith leaned in, lowering her voice.

“You spend more time with Crawley than you do with Richard these days.”

Mary’s fingers tightened around her cup. “We work together,” she said evenly.

“Of course you do.” Edith’s smile was syrup-sweet, eyes bright. “But people notice, Mary. Poor Richard. He must feel dreadfully left out.”

Mary opened her mouth to cut her down, but Sybil’s voice faltered; she’d gone very still, gaze flicking between them, a small frown knitting her brow.

“Edith,” she said quietly. A warning.

Edith only shrugged, smug, and sipped her coffee.

Mary set her cup down with a soft clink. “Perhaps I do spend time with Matthew—at work. Papa put us in charge of the gala. Trust me, Edith, I spend my nights with Richard. Who are you spending yours with?”

Color rose in Edith’s cheeks; the smirk faltered, then returned out of habit.

“Girls,” Sybil cut in gently, eyes pleading in that way that had soothed so many battles. “Must we?”

Mary sat back, smoothing her skirt, the picture of composure. Under the table, her free hand closed into a fist. She was very tired of everyone reminding her she was engaged—as if she needed reminding.

It was Edith’s smirk now, and later Richard’s watchful hand on her shoulder, and always the shadow of Kemal Pamuk—the politician she’d once pursued too far for a story. His name lingered like smoke, a mistake that had chained her to caution. She told herself she was grateful Richard kept it buried. Better tethered than ruined.

But sometimes, when Matthew looked at her a certain way—when she caught herself laughing at his ridiculous quips, when Edith’s barbs landed—she wondered if ruin would be easier than the slow suffocation of safety.

Then she reminded herself: her career—the most important thing she had—would be tainted. The office, her family, all of London would never see her the same. One mistake would not only shadow her; it would define her. She refused to let that happen.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Sybil said, watching her over the rim of her cup.

“I was only thinking,” Mary replied, a small, practiced smile in place. She pivoted. “How is Tom? And how are things between you?”

Sybil softened immediately. “Good,” she said, and the word filled the space between them. “He’s busy with classes, but we make time. He makes time.”

Edith hummed, noncommittal. Mary ignored it. She nodded—cool, not unkind. “I’m glad.”

They drifted to lighter things—Sybil’s long shifts, Edith’s eternal layout crises—but Edith’s earlier words echoed long after the cups emptied.

The office had emptied hours ago, leaving only the hum of the lights and the city’s glow beyond the glass. Mary sat cross-legged at the end of the conference table, blazer over a chair, a half-eaten carton of noodles balanced in her hand.

Opposite her, Matthew—tie loosened, sleeves rolled—looked less like a solicitor and more like a man. Tired. Unarmored. At ease.

“Remind me,” Mary said, aiming her chopsticks at him, “why does anyone bother cooking when there’s takeaway?”

He smiled. “Because not everyone can afford to live off restaurant food.”

“I can.” She popped a noodle into her mouth, smug on purpose.

He shook his head, amused. “Not all of us are Granthams.”

She tilted her head. “And what are you, Crawley?”

He considered, gaze flicking to the dark window. “Practical. Boring, probably. But reliable.”

“You forgot stubborn.”

That won a real laugh—boyish, unguarded—and, before she could stop herself, Mary laughed too. The sound felt reckless in the empty office, like something she shouldn’t do.

When it faded, she twirled her chopsticks. “Reliable isn’t boring, you know.”

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He folded his arms, still smiling. “You’re full of contradictions. You act like you hate everything, but you laugh more than you think.”

Mary shot him a look—sharp, softened by amusement. “Careful. Compliments could damage your professional reputation.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” he said quickly, betraying himself with the smile. “Just an observation.”

Quiet stretched—charged, but companionable. Mary, unable to leave it alone, tipped her head, voice light.

“So,” she said, “are you and Lavinia official now? Or just… seeing each other?”

Matthew blinked. “We’ve been on a few dates.” He shrugged, aiming for casual. “She’s kind. Easy to talk to.”

Mary smiled; it felt brittle. “How very sensible of you.”

“Why does that sound like an insult?”

“Because it is.” She took another dainty bite.

He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “I’ll take sensible over reckless any day.”

Her hand stilled for a fraction. Heat, recklessness, ruin: Pamuk flashed through her mind before she smoothed herself back into place.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said lightly, though her heart thudded faster.

“That might be the first time you’ve said those words to me,” he said, surprised.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He smiled—small, genuine—and returned to his food. “Still… I’ll take the win.”

The quiet wasn’t awkward anymore. It had weight now, the shape of something unnamed. Mary traced the rim of her carton, searching for a quip to break it; when she looked up, he was already watching her.

“What?” she asked, more defensive than intended.

He hesitated, then: “Nothing. Just… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Relaxed. Almost happy.”

She scoffed, weakly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m always happy.”

“No, you’re not.” Soft, not accusing—almost fond.

For one breathless second, she felt seen. Not judged. Known. The air thinned; Mary glanced down, throat tight.

Pamuk had never made her feel that way. With him, it had been fire and risk—desire without light. When he’d gone, she hadn’t mourned him; she’d feared the fallout. That fear had tethered her to Richard: a bargain, not a romance.

But Matthew—quiet eyes, impossible decency—made her feel something she couldn’t yet name. Something more frightening than scandal.

She cleared her throat. “You must be tired. It’s late.”

“Mm.” He leaned back, that quiet, knowing smile still there. “I suppose it is.”

Mary gathered cartons into the paper bag. Matthew reached for the same box at the same moment, and their hands brushed—just the faintest graze.

It was nothing. Less than nothing. Her pulse jumped anyway. When she glanced up, he was already looking at her. Neither spoke. The silence stretched, fragile and bright, until she drew her hand back and tucked the carton away herself.

“Well,” she said, too brisk, “thank you for the noodles.”

“Anytime,” he replied, voice low, almost amused.

Mary turned before he could see the flush climbing her neck. She collected her things with practiced composure, but inside one phrase beat a steady rhythm:

Almost happy.

She left the office with her coat pulled tight, the city damp with drizzle and neon. She walked quickly, head down, but her mind stayed behind in that glass room—on the brush of his hand, the warmth of his smile, the way he’d looked at her like she was something more than perfect posture and sharper retorts.

Pamuk had never done that. With him it was heat and hazard; after, there was only fear of wreckage. That fear had bound her to Richard: safety at the cost of air.

Tonight, as she turned down the quiet street toward her flat, Mary felt the scales tip.

She didn’t care about scandal. She didn’t care if the office whispered or if London stared. She didn’t want safety. She didn’t want Richard.

She wanted happiness.

And she wanted it with Matthew Crawley.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Matthew sat at his desk with an untouched coffee and a stack of contracts he’d read not twice but three times. He couldn’t recall a word. Every time he tried, the same image returned: Mary across the conference table, her laugh unguarded, her hand brushing his.

It was nothing. Less than nothing. An accident over cartons of noodles. He knew that. Yet it had lodged in his chest like static he couldn’t shake.

He told himself it was harmless—colleagues sharing dinner after hours. The lie rang hollow. He could still feel the faint graze of her skin, and worse, the way she’d looked at him—no disdain, no mockery, something softer he didn’t have language for. It unsettled him more than any argument ever had. He hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t asked for it, and now he couldn’t stop turning it over.

Against his better judgment, he went looking for his mother.

Isobel had an uncanny talent for appearing in the office at the least convenient time. Today she was in the break room, reorganizing mugs.

“Good morning, darling,” she said without turning. “You look dreadful. Didn’t sleep?”

“Good morning to you too,” Matthew said, smiling despite himself.

She faced him, gaze sharp. “You’ve been working too hard. Or worrying too hard. Which is it?”

“Both,” he admitted, leaning against the counter. “The gala is consuming.”

“And Mary Grantham is…?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, Matthew.” Isobel sighed, equal parts exasperation and amusement. “You wear your heart like a signboard. Anyone can see there’s something between you. You look at her as though she’s the sun itself—and you’re trying very hard not to.”

Heat touched his cheeks. “She’s engaged. To Richard. And I—” He faltered. “I’m seeing Lavinia.”

“Are you?” Isobel asked, gentle but firm.

“I am,” he said quickly, as if speed could make it truer. “She really is lovely. I care about her. She’s kind, patient… she deserves someone who isn’t second-guessing himself at every turn.”

Isobel’s expression softened, unconvinced. “You’re fond of her. But do you love her?”

He opened his mouth and found silence.

“Caring for someone isn’t the same as loving them,” she said. “Don’t confuse kindness with devotion.”

He bristled—at himself as much as her. “I know the difference. Lavinia is steady. Easy. She doesn’t demand what I can’t give.”

“Do you want that?” Isobel asked softly. “A life without demands? Without risk?”

He looked past her to the gray city. “Perhaps that’s what I deserve.”

Her hand rested lightly on his sleeve. “No. You deserve to be happy. Don’t settle for less because it feels safe.”

“I am happy with Lavinia,” he said—sharper than intended. He softened. “She’s kind and beautiful, and she makes me feel… certain. Happy.”

Isobel searched his face for the crack she knew must be there. He held her gaze steady, even as a hollow note rang in his own words.

She nodded once and reached for a mug. “Then I’m glad, darling. Truly.”

He exhaled; something in his chest loosened. For now, she believed him. Perhaps he believed himself.

That evening he met Lavinia in a quiet Covent Garden restaurant. She was already at the table when he arrived, blonde hair catching the low light, smile warm and immediate.

“You’re late,” she said playfully. “I ordered wine.”

“Sorry,” he said, sliding into the chair opposite. “The office ran over.”

Dinner unfolded easily. Lavinia was steady—quick to laugh, quick to listen, content to let silence stretch. She asked about the gala, his mother, the week ahead; he answered more openly than he expected.

Still, he noticed her fingers tapping the stem of her glass, the way she smoothed her napkin though it lay perfectly flat. When their eyes met, her smile wavered, as if she were working up to something.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She drew a breath and nodded. “Yes. Only—” She reached across the table, resting her hand over his. Her voice dropped, certain now. “I don’t want to pretend we’re only meeting for coffee. I’d like us to be official. I want to date you properly.”

He thought of his mother’s question: Do you love her?

Lavinia’s hand was warm. Thoughtful, attentive, unfailingly gentle, she steadied him. She wasn’t dazzling or dramatic—perhaps that was the point. Peace, not turmoil. Certainty, not confusion.

He managed a smile. “Yes. I’d like that too.”

For a heartbeat, she simply looked at him, as if to confirm she’d heard correctly. Then her face lit; her shoulders dropped as though she’d been holding her breath all evening.

“I’m glad,” she said, relief warming her voice. “I know you’re busy with the gala, but I didn’t want to keep wondering where I stood. I care about you, Matthew.”

She squeezed his hand, thumb brushing his knuckles. The gesture carried no artifice—only quiet devotion.

“I care about you too,” he said.

Her eyes softened. She leaned in and kissed him—gentle, sure, the kind of kiss that felt like a promise.

“That’s all I need,” she murmured.

Matthew nodded, throat tight. He wanted to believe it was all he needed as well. And yet, unbidden, Mary’s laugh flickered through his mind like a match struck in dim light.

On the train home, the city blurred into streaks of light. A pair of students murmured over their phones; a tired man dozed against the window. Matthew replayed the evening—Lavinia’s relief, the certainty of official, the warmth of a promise made. He cared for her. Over time, he could love her. He was almost sure.

And still, beneath the rhythm of the carriage, another memory intruded: Mary’s laugh in the quiet office, the accidental brush of hands. Unfair. Cruel, even. He couldn’t stop it.

By the time the train rattled into his station, the unease remained.

Back at his flat, he tossed his keys onto the table and checked his phone. The screen lit:

Mary Grantham:
Don’t forget the investor packet for tomorrow. I’d hate to have to rescue you in front of Papa.

Matthew breathed out—a sound between a laugh and a sigh. Business, of course. Entirely business. Still, his thumbs hovered longer than they should.

He typed carefully:
Thank you for the warning. I’ll try not to embarrass myself.

He hesitated, then added—
Though if rescue were required, I can’t think of anyone better suited to the task.

He considered deleting the second line, then pressed send.

Her reply came almost at once:

Mary Grantham:
Ever the optimist. Good night, Matthew.

He set the phone on the nightstand, but the smile lingered after the screen went dark. He lay back against the pillows, listening to the city’s low hum. He had Lavinia—promises now, a life unfolding.

And still, it was Mary’s words that followed him into sleep.

Chapter Text

Mary had spent the last few days wound tight, as if any breath might unravel her. At night she lay awake rehearsing half-decisions, turning them over until dawn: what she ought to say, what she must never admit, whether she should put more distance between herself and Matthew Crawley—or less. By day, she pushed through meetings and smiled at Richard when required, and the questions returned the moment she was alone. It was exhausting, this quiet battle no one else could see.

Somewhere in the sleepless hours, the answer came. She would not marry Richard Carlisle. Not to bury a mistake, not to preserve an image. Even if she could never have Matthew—and she told herself that was the truth—she would not chain herself to a man she did not love. She would risk the ruin.

Before she could end things with Richard, she had to face something worse: her family.

The Pamuk scandal had hung over her like smoke for years—whispered only in her own head and in Richard’s clenched threats. She had told herself silence was safety. But if she meant to leave him—if she meant to reclaim any part of her life—she had to tell them. Better from her lips than splashed across headlines.

The thought turned her stomach. Papa’s disappointment, Mama’s wounded dignity, Granny’s acid wit—and Edith, who would revel in every syllable. Still, it had to be done.

Mary poured another cup of coffee as thin winter light spilled over the kitchen table. Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow she would gather them, look them in the eye, and finally say the words she had buried too long.

And then there was Matthew.

He didn’t matter in this—she insisted on that. He was a colleague, nothing more. They didn’t trade confidences beyond the veneer of work. She owed him nothing of her past. And yet the thought gnawed: what would he think if he knew? Would he look at her differently? Would the rhythm they had built collapse under the weight of it?

She set her jaw. It didn’t matter. This was her burden to own, her family’s to bear. Matthew Crawley had no part in it.

She chose to do it after family dinner—the only time she could catch them all: Papa and his papers, Mama with her embroidery, Granny watchful as ever, Edith and Sybil drifting in and out.

Mary stood in the drawing-room doorway longer than she should have, palms damp despite her practiced poise. “I need to speak to you all,” she said at last. Her voice sounded strange to her ears—too calm, too deliberate.

Robert lowered his paper. “What is it, darling?”

She crossed the room and perched on the edge of a chair, back ramrod straight. “There’s something you don’t know. Something that might… come out. I would rather you heard it from me.”

Granny arched an elegant brow. “This already sounds dreadful.”

“It was years ago,” Mary began, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. “You remember the series on Turkish politics? One of my contacts—Kemal Pamuk—came to see me late one night. We… were together.” Her cheeks burned, but she didn’t look away. “By morning he was gone, but not before others at the hotel noticed. It was unprofessional. I regret it more than I can say.”

Silence stretched. Sybil’s eyes went wide; Edith leaned forward like a bird scenting meat. Cora pressed a hand to her chest.

“Mary,” Robert said heavily, “why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because it was my mistake to manage,” she snapped—voice trembling anyway. “And I did. I thought I had. But Kemal’s family sold the story to Richard Carlisle—money, I suppose. He came to me with it and offered a bargain. If I married him, the story would never see print.” She drew a breath. “I don’t intend to let him hold it over me any longer.”

For a suffocating moment, no one spoke.

Robert’s face drained of color. “Good God.” His voice went flat and dangerous. “He blackmailed you into an engagement?”

Cora’s eyes shone, horrified. “Mary…”

Sybil leaned forward, furious. “That’s monstrous. You can’t marry him—not for that.”

Edith folded her arms, lips curling—then, to Mary’s surprise, her tone steadied. “I always wondered why you put up with him. This makes sense. Papa’s right.”

“Edith,” Cora hissed, shocked by the agreement more than the barb.

Violet tapped her cane once, cutting through the noise. “Well. At least the man has revealed his true worth. One does not stay tied to a blackmailer, Mary. Even I can see that.”

Mary kept her chin high though her chest felt tight. “That’s why I’m telling you. I intend to break it off. It means the story will be published.”

Robert’s fist clenched against his knee. “Then let it be published. Better the truth in daylight than you shackled to that man.”

Violet’s eyes gleamed, oddly proud. “If there is one thing this family knows, it is how to survive a scandal. Especially when it is ours.”

Some weight lifted. The storm was coming, but she would not face it alone.

Cora looked up, thoughts clicking into place. “I have an idea. One of my friends is at The Sun in New York. You could work there until it blows over—if you don’t want to be here when it breaks.”

Mary blinked. She hadn’t imagined leaving—London, Downton, Matthew.

But he was not hers.

Perhaps distance was wise. She drew a steady breath. “I want to see the gala through. After that… I think that would be wonderful, Mama.”

“How long will you be gone?” Sybil asked softly, worry pinching her face.

Mary took her hand. “I don’t know. But not forever. I promise.”

She arranged to meet Richard at his apartment rather than her parents’ house. Neutral ground—somewhere she could walk away.

He opened the door with that clipped smile he wore when half-pleased, half-distracted. “Mary. You look lovely. I was just about to open a bottle of—”

“This won’t take long,” she said, stepping past him.

He set the bottle down. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t marry you, Richard.”

Silence. Then a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t be absurd. You’ve already agreed.”

“I did,” she said. “I was wrong. I thought I could accept a marriage built on blackmail, but I can’t. The Pamuk story may ruin me, but better that than living the rest of my life chained to someone who would use it against me.”

His expression curdled. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying? What this will do to you? To your family? The minute I release that story—”

“Then do it.” Mary lifted her chin. “Print it. Shout it from the rooftops. I’m finished being frightened of you.”

He barked a bitter laugh. “You think you’re brave. You’ve no idea what it means to be dragged through the mud. They’ll devour you, Mary. Your career, your name—nothing but scandal.” He stepped closer, voice tightening like wire. “And Matthew Crawley won’t save you. He’s honorable. Do you think he’d tie himself to a woman ruined by her own mistakes?”

Her pulse lurched at the sound of Matthew’s name, but her gaze didn’t waver. “That’s none of your concern. If Matthew despises me, that will be his choice. It has never been yours.”

Fury flashed across Richard’s face; he turned away to pour a glass of wine with unsteady hands.

Mary moved to the door, heart pounding and shoulders square. “Goodbye, Richard.”

She didn’t wait for his reply.

The night air slapped her cheeks as she reached the street. She walked quickly, heels rapping the pavement, pulse still racing. With every step it became clearer: she had done it. She was free.

Freedom arrived with a hollow ache. Without thinking, she unlocked her phone and typed his name.

Hey. Can we talk?

The reply came sooner than she expected.

Matthew Crawley:
I’m with Lavinia. Talk later?

Mary’s stomach dipped. Her fingers moved briskly, as if it cost nothing.

Never mind. It’s not important. Say hi to Lavinia for me.

She locked the phone before she could change her mind and shoved it deep into her bag. The ache pressed tighter as she hailed a cab. City lights slid across the window as she sank into the back seat.

She closed her eyes and forced her heartbeat to slow. Then she whispered the lie she needed most:

It hadn’t mattered in the first place.

Chapter Text

Mary had been acting strange. Not angry, exactly—distant. More distant than when he’d first arrived at Downton. She no longer lingered in his doorway with a wry remark, no longer softened when their hands brushed reaching for the same file. Instead she wrapped herself tight, polite to the point of coldness, as if the easy rhythm they’d stumbled into were a mistake she refused to repeat.

Matthew told himself it shouldn’t matter. She was engaged to Richard. He had no right to expect warmth, no reason to notice its absence. And yet he did. Every clipped reply, every averted glance nicked at him more than he would admit.

He turned his phone over in his palm, her last message heavy on the screen: Never mind. It’s not important. Say hi to Lavinia for me.

What if he had asked her then? Pressed, insisted, refused to be brushed off? What would she have told him? The question gnawed at him, looping back whenever he tried to let it go.

It was absurd to care this much. Mary Grantham owed him nothing—and he owed her even less. Still, the thought of her reaching out only to retreat left him with the uneasy sense that he’d missed something meant for him alone.

“Matthew?” Lavinia’s voice cut gently through his thoughts. He looked up. Concern softened her expression.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He straightened, forcing a smile. “Nothing. The gala’s in two days. There’s more to do than I’d like.”

Relief washed over her. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “If anyone can pull it off, it’s you. I’ll be there cheering.”

Her certainty steadied him, though the weight in his chest didn’t lift.

They lingered over dinner. Lavinia had a way of letting silences rest without making them awkward, smoothing edges he didn’t realize were sharp until she eased them flat. She talked about a fundraising campaign at the charity office; the light in her eyes reminded him why he’d said yes in the first place.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” she said after dessert, chin in hand as if he were the only person in the room. “You think you’re carrying everything alone, but you’re not. People believe in you. I believe in you.”

Something unclenched. That was Lavinia—kind, steadfast, uncomplicated. Being with her was like catching his breath after a long run. Safe. Certain.

And yet, walking her home and kissing her goodnight, the thought returned unbidden: What had Mary wanted to tell him?

The office buzzed the next morning with the specific mania that descends the day before a major event. Laptops clattered. Phones rang. Every surface disappeared beneath press packets and name cards.

Matthew stood in the middle of it, jacket off, sleeves rolled, when Carson approached with a clipboard.

“The caterers need final numbers by this evening,” Carson said, eyeing the chaos. “I’ve told them one hundred and fifty, but if it changes again, I’ll need to know within the hour.”

Mrs. Hughes swept past with a skyscraper of envelopes. “The seating chart is still in flux. Half the investors insist on sitting next to Lady Violet, the other half refuse to be within ten feet. It’s like threading a needle with rope.”

Matthew rubbed at his temple, laughing quietly. “We’ll make it work. We always do.”

Anna materialized at his elbow. “Programs are printing. Bates is confirming hotel arrivals. Moseley—” She turned just in time to see him scatter an entire box of lanyards. “—is assisting with credentials.”

Moseley’s groan echoed down the corridor. Matthew sighed, then smiled. “Remind me to thank you all properly when this is over. Drinks on me.”

“Better be strong ones,” Bates said, good-natured as he passed with a fresh stack of papers.

When he’d first arrived, the clamor had exhausted Matthew—the requests, the paper shuffle, the constant pull. Now, with the gala looming, he found it oddly comforting. There was a rhythm to it: everyone pulling in the same direction. It felt like belonging.

Through the motion, he spotted Mary in the hall speaking with Anna, a file tucked under one arm. Even at a distance she carried herself like she owned the room.

He excused himself from Carson and crossed before he could think better of it.

“Grantham,” he said, stopping beside her.

Mary looked up, one brow lifting. “Crawley. Don’t you have a dozen fires to put out?”

“Thought I’d start with the biggest one,” he said, nodding at the file.

Her mouth twitched before she schooled it. “This fire is entirely under control.”

“Good. The rest of us are barely hanging on.”

For a moment the din faded to a hum. Just the two of them, a little too close, voices a little too low.

Anna glanced between them, read the air, and offered Mary the final page of notes. “I’ll… leave you two to it.” She vanished before Mary could protest.

Mary shot him a look—half warning, half unwilling amusement. “You’ve got her well trained. Abandoning me at the first sign of trouble.”

“I think she trusts me to handle you,” he said, a smile tugging.

“Handle me?” Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Ambitious.”

“Maybe. Someone has to try.”

Ban­ter hovered—warm, almost familiar. Then Mary’s gaze cooled; her spine lengthened. “You’d better get back to saving the gala. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

He nodded, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Of course.”

Almost casually, she asked, “Are you bringing Lavinia?”

“I am,” he said. “Are you bringing Richard?”

She hesitated, eyes dropping to the file. “No. It’s not really his thing.”

The falter in her voice lit every instinct he had. She was hiding something. He didn’t know what, and he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask—but the thought stayed with him long after she walked away.

Two nights later, he fumbled with his tie in the mirror while Lavinia, reflected behind him, fastened an earring.

“Hold still,” she teased, swatting his hands away. “You’ll have it in knots.”

He gave a sheepish smile as she looped and tightened the silk. “You’ve done this before.”

“Once or twice.” She smoothed his collar. “You’ll need to look perfect. Half the room will be investors taking your measure.”

“If they don’t approve of the tie,” he said, “I’ll rely on you to distract them.”

“Flattery won’t save you, Mr. Crawley. But I’ll allow it.”

“We look wonderful,” she said, fishing her phone from her clutch. “Picture?”

She raised the phone—then froze, thumb hovering. Her expression shifted: surprise, then unease.

“What is it?” Matthew asked, stomach tightening.

She didn’t answer at first, scrolling once, twice. Then she met his eyes. “An article about Mary Grantham just went live.”

The words hit like a stone.

“The Guardian picked it up,” Lavinia murmured, handing him the phone.

The headline shouted:

MARY GRANTHAM’S SCANDAL IN ISTANBUL: AFFAIR WITH TURKISH POLITICIAN COVERED UP FOR YEARS

His eyes ran the opening lines—Mary’s investigative series, the late-night meeting with Kemal Pamuk, the hotel whispers that had never quite died. And there, like a shadow, Richard Carlisle’s name—present, implicated, careful.

Matthew’s grip tightened. Anger, protectiveness, disbelief, sorrow—tangled and hot.

Beside him, Lavinia touched his arm. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

Awful, yes—but not for the reason she meant.

“Yes,” he said, forcing his voice steady. “It is.”

He handed back the phone, jaw tight. Lavinia was still talking—about the cruelty of the press, how Mary must be mortified—but her words drifted, muffled under the rush in his ears.

Mary Grantham: proud chin lifted, eyes sharp, holding the line while the ground buckled. What could he do? She was—wasn’t she?—still engaged to Richard. Perhaps the scandal bound her to him tighter. And Matthew, with Lavinia’s hand warm in his, had no right to think otherwise.

Still, the image of her facing this with Richard at her side made his stomach turn.

He pressed his fingers to his temple, willing the storm to settle. Lavinia had never hidden anything, never bartered affection for pride, never drawn him into this constant, maddening push and pull. With Lavinia there was calm. With Mary, always weather.

And yet he wished—fiercely, uselessly—that Mary had called him instead.

They slid into the waiting car. City lights flickered over the glass as traffic pulled them toward the gala. Lavinia chatted about who they might see, which investors mattered most; Matthew nodded, even smiled when she looked at him.

Inside, his thoughts refused to fall into order. The article clung like smoke. Every time he pushed it away, her face returned: defiant, unshaken, carrying a weight no one else could see.

He should have been thinking about his remarks, about Lavinia—radiant beside him—about the names and faces he’d need to remember. Instead he could think only of Mary Grantham, and the possibility that—for once—her mask might crack.

By the time the car eased to the curb, he had smoothed his tie and arranged a serviceable smile. Inside, the storm held.

Chapter Text

Mary had never liked galas. Too many cameras, too many eyes searching for a flaw, too many smiles stretched tight across faces that would happily devour her the moment she stumbled. But tonight—with her name splashed across headlines and her past laid bare—the whole event felt like walking into a lion’s den.

She dressed for battle: deep sapphire silk that directed every gaze exactly where she wanted it, hair pinned with military precision, lipstick like a drawn line. If she was going to be dissected, she would look untouchable.

“Ready, darling?” Cora’s hand brushed her arm, warm and steady.

“As I’ll ever be,” Mary said smoothly, even as her stomach turned. She felt the whispers before she heard them, conversation shifting as the Granthams crossed the lobby. They were used to scrutiny, yes—but tonight the spotlight felt crueler, brighter.

Mary lifted her chin. Let them look. She would not bend.

Inside, the ballroom was already in full swing. Chandeliers blazed; waiters wove with trays of champagne; the low thrum of talk rose and fell like a tide. Normally Mary would glide through it all; tonight she felt every glance, every half-hidden smirk. Snatches of words snagged as she passed—the article… did you see… disgraceful… her poor father—each a pinprick beneath the skin.

Still, she smiled. She smiled until her cheeks ached and the mask felt soldered in place. She leaned into introductions, let Violet’s barbs deflect the bolder whispers, allowed Cora’s hand at her back to remind her she was not alone. But when she finally slipped to the bar for breath, the ache in her chest almost broke through.

That was when she saw him.

Matthew had just stepped into the hall with Lavinia on his arm—tall, steady, devastatingly composed—looking every inch the man people already believed he was. Lavinia, golden and certain, shone at his side. Mary’s heart lurched; her spine snapped straight.

Of course he’d brought her.

Matthew’s eyes found hers almost at once. For a heartbeat neither moved. Then Lavinia leaned up to say something; he glanced away, and the thread between them cut cleanly.

Mary lifted her champagne, hand steady despite the tremor inside. She’d be in New York soon enough. The tickets were already booked: a one-way flight the following night. Only her family knew. Cora had handled the arrangements with quiet efficiency. Standing here—whispers pressing in, Matthew’s attention fixed elsewhere—Mary knew she’d chosen correctly.

London offered ruin and heartbreak. New York promised anonymity, distance, maybe relief. She would go, and she would not look back. She would return someday, when the scandal dulled and her name was no longer passed in undertones. Perhaps she would even meet the love of her life there, far from Downton. Far from him.

She set her glass down, spine long and expression flawless—the picture of a woman with nothing to fear. Inside, she clung to the single certainty she had left: tomorrow night, she would be gone.

She had just drifted to the edge of the room, feigning interest in the flowers, when she heard him.

“Miss Grantham.”

Her stomach tightened. She turned, expression cool. Matthew looked perfectly composed, as if the article hadn’t touched him at all. But his eyes—blue, searching—betrayed him.

“You look…” He stopped, as if the word snagged. “Very well tonight.”

“Thank you,” she said lightly, tilting her chin. “You and Miss Swire make a fine pair.”

He faltered for a breath, then recovered. “That article,” he began, lowering his voice, “it was—”

“True,” Mary cut in. She would not let pity land. “And old news. Best to let the papers tire themselves.”

He held her gaze. “It doesn’t change what I think of you.”

Her laugh came sharper than she intended. “How magnanimous. But I assure you, I don’t need saving.”

He stood close enough that she could see the crease at his brow, the way his eyes searched her as if there were a riddle he could solve.

“Is that why you wanted to talk the other night?” he asked softly. “Because of the article?”

Her throat pulled tight. For one breath she wished she could say yes—let him think it was simple. Safer. Instead she lifted her chin. “No,” she said, voice low and steady. “It wasn’t about that.”

Something unreadable passed through his eyes. He nodded once. “I see.”

Before she could answer, Robert’s voice boomed over the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” her father called from the dais, glass in hand. The room hushed. “Thank you for being here tonight. This gala wouldn’t exist without the tireless work of our staff—and in particular, two people who carried it from the ground up.”

Mary felt his gaze land. “My daughter, Mary Grantham, and our new solicitor, Matthew Crawley.”

Warm applause. Heads turned. Mary smiled; Matthew inclined his head.

Robert lifted his glass higher. “And I’d like to wish Mary good luck. This will be her last event with us for some time—she’s heading across the Atlantic to work with The Sun in New York.”

Mary’s stomach lurched. She had known; she had agreed. Hearing it spoken sent her pulse skittering. Around her, guests clapped again—some surprised, some delighted.

She looked only at the man beside her. Matthew had gone very still. He hadn’t known. It showed in the flicker of his eyes and the polite smile that failed to reach them.

She clapped with the rest, shoulders squared, mask intact—while inside, threads came loose.

As the applause ebbed, Matthew leaned to Lavinia, his mouth at her ear. Mary couldn’t hear the words, but she saw the concern in Lavinia’s face, the small, resolute nod. Matthew set down his glass and walked straight for the doors.

Mary’s heart leapt to her throat.

She stood rooted, every sensible instinct telling her to let him go. He wasn’t hers to follow. She had no right.

Her feet moved anyway.

She wove through guests with tight smiles and murmured excuses, slipped through the doors into the cool marble hall. Music dulled behind her, replaced by the echo of Matthew’s footsteps fading down the corridor.

Mary hesitated at the rail of the grand stair, breath caught. If she called him now, everything might spill—months of discipline undone. If she let him walk away, she might not get another chance.

She pushed through the side doors into the courtyard. Lantern light spilled across stone, catching the edge of his suit as he strode toward the garden gate.

“Matthew!”

Her voice cut the night.

He stopped and turned, expression unreadable in the half-light. The music throbbed faintly beyond the doors; ivy rustled against the wall.

Her heels clicked on stone as she closed the space. “You left rather suddenly.”

“You didn’t tell me,” he said—quiet, sharp. “About New York.”

She hadn’t prepared for that look, as if the ground had shifted beneath them both. “I… wasn’t ready,” she managed. “It isn’t exactly party conversation.”

“And yet your father announced it.”

She flinched, then lifted her chin. “Better him than the press.”

Something flickered—admiration, frustration, something unnamed. He shook his head, as if words were beside the point.

“You’re leaving with Richard.” Not a question.

Mary blinked, then let out a breath of disbelief. “Is that what you think? That I’d run off with Richard Carlisle?”

“Isn’t that why you’re going?”

Her laugh softened—sad, almost. “No. Richard and I ended our engagement. That’s why the story ran. He was holding it over me.”

Matthew froze. “He… what?” The disbelief broke into anger. “He blackmailed you?”

She gave a small, humorless shrug. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.” His hands curled at his sides. “That he would—no, that he would do it to you.” His voice caught on the last word; he looked away, jaw tight. “God, Mary, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because what would you have done?” she shot back, eyes bright. “What could you have done?”

Their gazes locked. For one unbearable beat, the distance between them vanished.

His voice dropped. “Then why New York?”

Mary’s laugh came out too sharp. “Have you not heard how they’re speaking in there? I don’t intend to live under that for a year.”

“No one thinks badly of you,” Matthew said, too quickly. “They—people—feel sorry for you.”

Her eyes flashed. “That is exactly what I don’t need.”

He stepped closer, the frustration breaking loose. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Her chin lifted. “Why do you care?”

His answer struck like a flare. “You know why, Mary.”

The words rang in the courtyard—too loud, too honest. His chest rose and fell as if he’d run; his gaze held hers, daring her to deny it.

Her breath caught. She spoke coldly, to save herself. “Stop.”

“No.” His voice roughened. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t see you and want more than… than stolen glances across a conference table. I’m tired of watching you chain yourself to a man who blackmailed you and thinking I have no right to speak. And I’m tired of—” He broke off, breath ragged. “Do you know what I’m tired of most? You—acting like you don’t feel it too.”

Mary’s throat tightened. The words pressed up before she could stop them. “I never said I didn’t.”

The admission quivered in the night air. Her eyes widened at her own betrayal. She turned, folding her arms like armor.

Matthew moved before she could retreat. In two steps he was there, his hand closing gently—firmly—around her wrist. “Mary—”

She tried to pull away; he turned her toward him. When her eyes met his, the fight drained. His mouth found hers with the same unguarded force as his words—desperate, furious, aching.

It was nothing like Richard. With Richard, her lips moved because they were meant to—because that was what an engagement required. With Matthew—God, with Matthew—it was as though her whole body woke at once, every nerve sparking under his touch.

She reached for him, fisting a hand in his lapel and pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, months of silence and longing flooding through. His hands framed her face as if he couldn’t bear to let go, and she let herself drown, just this once.

“Matthew?”

The voice cut clean.

Mary tore back, breathless. Matthew’s hands fell to his sides. They turned toward the open doors where Lavinia stood in the light, stunned, her clutch dangling forgotten.

The gala music spilled out behind her—cheerful, indecent against the silence.

She took a small step forward. “How long has this been happening?”

Matthew swallowed. “Lavinia, it’s not—”

“Please.” Her voice trembled; she lifted a hand to stop him. “I don’t need excuses.”

Mary’s throat closed. “Lavinia—I’m so sorry.”

For a moment Lavinia said nothing, lips parting as if to ask every question a person should. Instead she gave the smallest shake of her head, eyes bright. “I don’t know what to say,” she whispered. Then, steadier: “I’m going to leave.”

She turned, heels soft against stone, and slipped back into the light. Within seconds the crowd swallowed her.

Silence rushed in.

Matthew drew a sharp breath and dragged a hand down his face. “God. What have we done?”

Mary opened her mouth—no words came. Her chest ached with the echo of Lavinia’s voice and the heat of Matthew’s kiss.

“She didn’t deserve that,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “Not from me. Not from us.” He pressed his palm to his temple, as if to brace against the weight. “I’ve ruined everything.”

The words stung more than she wanted to admit. A thought rose, bitter and unbidden. “If she hadn’t seen—” Her voice shook, edges sharp. “Would you have gone back to her?”

His head snapped up. His jaw worked; when he spoke it was clipped, defensive. “You’re still going to America, aren’t you?”

Mary let out a small laugh—bitter as metal. “I suppose I am.” She met his eyes, steady and unforgiving. “And you’re right. You have ruined everything.”

She turned, skirts whispering over stone, and walked back toward the glow of the gala, leaving him alone in the cold with the echo of her words.

As the doors closed behind her, Mary told herself she hated him—because it was easier than admitting she hated herself more. Easier than facing the truth that, in one reckless moment, she had wanted him more than her pride, more than New York, more than the safety of leaving. And there was no taking it back.