A/N: So in the midst of research for Preferred Stock, I came across the BBC's coverage of Thatcher's election in 1979. It's on YouTube and it's amazing. After a good giggle over the primitive graphics and the fact that the presenter's cigar was ENORMOUS, the following popped into my mind and I couldn't get it out. Thanks to Silvestria and OrangeShipper for providing some proper language.

4 May 1979
Grantham House
London

The miserable sigh that emanated from the other end of the sofa as The Nine O'Clock News signed off made Mary's eyes roll. "Darling, darling, you should be happy. We've elected a woman."

"Not the right kind of woman." Sybil put her hand to her forehead, and Mary was suddenly twenty-two again, her sister insisting on women's rights, and expressing frustration in exactly the same way. That hand was no longer soft and young, but gnarled and ancient, much like her own.

"Well, your beloved Labour didn't pick a woman, did they?" Mary retorted and was rewarded with an equally disgusted groan.

There was a discreet knock at the door, and Thorpe, as ancient as his mistress, peered into the room. "M'lady," he said crisply to Mary. "The Honourable Isabella Crawley is here."

"At this time of night?" Mary stood up, rather quickly for someone of her advanced age.

"Well, she's with a constable, m'lady."

Sybil snorted. "Not voluntarily I assume, Thorpe?"

"I can't say, m'lady."

"Well send them in." Mary folded her arms over her chest and ignored Sybil's cackle. "Don't you start."

"She's not my great-granddaughter. You get to discipline her. I just get to look on disapprovingly."

"The Honourable Isabella Crawley and Police Constable Jack Evans, m'lady."

And Sybil could only laugh at the sight of Mary's fifteen-year-old great-grandaughter, the valiant attempt at punk drowned in water and what smelled like bitter, but might be something else. Thick mascara and kohl ran down her face, and she was trying to sneer, but she was shivering just a bit, the leather jacket and torn stockings doing little to cover her up.

"Lady Grantham?" At Mary's nod, he continued. "I'm told she belongs to you."

"She belongs to her parents. I'm merely an elderly relative she may or may not like at any given moment." Mary looked directly at Isabella, who had the grace to look chastened. "What did she do?"

"Nuffink!" Isabella cried. "We wasn't doing nuffink and the filth came after us."

Mary shuddered. "Isabella, I'm not inclined to listen to any story told in that voice you like to put on. Go on," she said to the policeman.

"She wasn't doing anything, but the people she was with were tossing bottles at the officers. Near a pub, which drew out the landlord, who threw buckets of water and beer on them. The others ran and left her."

"They didn't leave me!" Isabella's natural voice began to slide through. "You arrested me!"

"I haven't arrested you, miss." He let go of her arm. "I just wanted to bring you home, and to let your grandmother.."

"Great-grandmother," Isabella spat out.

"Your great-grandmother know what kind of people you choose to spend time with. M'lady, if you'll excuse me." He doffed his hat and Mary nodded.

"Thank you. Thorpe will see you out." She stared at Isabella. "Take off those ridiculous shoes. Thorpe, bring towels, please."

"Yes, m'lady."

The door had barely shut before Sybil started laughing. "What?" Isabella said crossly.

"Don't say 'what' to your Aunt Sybil," Mary snapped.

"Honourable indeed," Sybil murmured.

The beer-soaked clothes were somewhere downstairs. Sybil had suggested chucking them as punishment, which Mary found wildly amusing. "Punishment for what? Bad taste or childish judgment?" She pulled a thick cashmere jumper from a drawer and handed it to Sybil. "I can't imagine what else I can give her to wear. Pyjama bottoms?"

"Is she staying here tonight?"

"She may as well. I've called Matthew." Her voice caught on the name of her eldest grandson, but she continued. "Honestly, he's terrible with her, and that wife of his." Her voice dropped, eyes darting to the bathroom where the sounds of rather vigourous singing in the shower were ongoing. "Isabella's terribly clever, but they've got their hands full with Percy. I worry she's…"

"Edith?"

"She's not Edith. No, I worry she's going to do something stupid to get their attention. Like tonight."

"Only she didn't go home to them. She had the filth bring her here."

"Filth? Sybil, really." But she was grinning. "True. Perhaps she thinks I'm an old softy."

"That should upset you more than anything else."

"I'm too old to care," Mary said flippantly as she opened the bathroom door. "Isabella, I'm leaving you some clothes. Yours are a disaster.. both literally and figuratively." She waited for a response, but the singing only got louder. "We'll be downstairs. I expect you to make an appearance before you go to bed." She shut the door firmly. "I ask you, what sort of song is that? 'Mary of the fourth form?'"

They were listening to the radio when Isabella slunk in, brown hair braided back, face scrubbed and shining, looking even younger than her fifteen years, swallowed in up the dark blue jumper that Mary realized with a pang was one of Matthew's… her Matthew's… old ones. The child looked lost for a moment until Mary patted the seat next to her and then Isabella smiled, a dazzling thing to behold, a thousand memories for Mary in that one look, the merest hint of Matthew in it making her want to weep. "Much prettier, my dear," she said. "That colour suits you."

"Thank you, Granny," she whispered as she tucked her feet under herself and sat down.

"I called your father." She held up her hand at the beginnings of a scowl. "I told him nothing other than you were out late and you came here to stay. You can tell him the rest."

"Granny, you're a dear." She moved to throw her arms around Mary, but the look on her great-grandmother's face stopped her.

"Honestly, Isabella. The clothes, throwing beer bottles?"

"I didn't throw any."

"Why would you associate with people who would? Why would you dress like that?"

"I don't want to look like everyone else."

Sybil groaned. "But you do look like everyone else. Don't you see? You're conforming to that norm. You can't think it's a way of expressing any sort of power when you have to dress a certain way to fit in. There's no true individuality in punk, only a difference of what the normative is. And you can't think that the women who associate with the musical movement are necessarily ideal representatives of power."

Mary had to stifle a giggle. "What Aunt Sybil is trying to say is that we didn't fight for women's rights for you to throw them away."

"We fought? What's this we?"

"Darling, who took care of your children while you were marching in the streets?"

"Your nanny."

"Yes, well, I let her."

Isabella burst out laughing and then just as suddenly began to sob. Mary quickly wrapped her arms around her. "Darling, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's just… I miss Granddad. I miss when you were at Downton. It was all easier then."

"Oh, darling. Everything's easier when you're five."

"No, I mean it. It's all just so… Don't you miss him?"

"Every second of every day, my dear. You're wearing his jumper, by the way. Don't ruin it."

Isabella sat back and put the sleeve to her cheek. "Granddad was lovely, wasn't he?"

"Very," Mary patted her shoulder, trying very hard not to join her great-granddaughter in crying. "Now, are you hungry? Thorpe can bring you something."

"No, I'm fine. Is there tea?"

"Always."

There was a thin strip of light under the library door and Mary, who had not slept well in nine years, not since Matthew's death, swung it open to find Isabella curled up in Matthew's old chair, poring over an old book. She jumped at the sound of the door. "Sorry, darling. I didn't realize you were still up."

"Couldn't sleep. Thought I might get some work done."

Mary grinned. "So for all your rebellion, you're still worried about your O-levels."

"Dreadfully." She waved the book, and Mary noticed it was Matthew's old copy of Paradise Lost. "Why did anyone think Milton was something that should be studied?"

Mary could only laugh as she picked up her own book and settled in her own chair. "Darling, I don't know. I thought it was terribly dull when I read it."

"For school?"

"I didn't go to school. I had a series of terrible governesses."

Isabella sat up. "Like Jane Eyre?"

"More tragic, far stupider, and significantly less interesting." She pulled the soft blanket from the back of the chair and wrapped it around herself. "And I can't say how much we actually learned. Outside of 'obdurate pride and steadfast hate.' I did always love that line."

Isabella leaned forward. "At once as far as Angels kenn he views." She looked back down at the book and played with the deckled edges of the pages. "Downton used to feel like Eden."

Tears swam in Mary's eyes. "Yes, it did." Her throat swelled with hurt and loss, the pain as fresh as the day he had died.

"You and Granddad made everything so happy. And he used to read with me, and to me. He treated me like a grownup when no one else did. Now it's all wrong."

"It's not wrong, it's just different." Mary reached over for Isabella's hand. "You mustn't think different is wrong. Your grandfather is a fine Earl."

Isabella nodded. "I know he is. It isn't him, or Grandmama, it's…" She sniffled, and Mary dug in her dressing gown pocket for a handkerchief. "Thank you. It's just Percy and Daddy and Mummy…"

"Oh, darling. You can't let Percy's troubles affect you."

"I know, it's just… Oh, I sound so selfish, but they don't notice anything I do, even good things." She wiped her nose.

"Would you rather be the centre of attention like Percy?"

"Good God, no!" She looked horrified.

"Well, then. Do what your Aunt Sybil did and keep your head down until it comes time to escape." She frowned. "On second thought, don't do what your Aunt Sybil did and run off with the chauffeur."

Isabella laughed. "Yes, but she ended up with a family of artists and writers and politicians, not toffs."

"She's still Lady Sybil, and you'll be Lady Isabella when your father's the Earl. There's nothing wrong with… toffs." Mary patted her hand and opened the book.

They read in silence for a bit, until the door creaked open and Sybil poked her head in. "Is it insomnia night? May I join you?"

"Only if you're going to be quiet. Isabella's studying."

"Oh, of course." Sybil grinned at them both and went to the shelves.

It wasn't until the clock chimed two that anyone moved, and it was Isabella, who put down the Milton and stared at her great-great aunt and her great-grandmother, side by side, silver and white heads bent over books, and tears raced into her eyes again.

"Granny," she whispered. "Could I… might I… stay with you over the summer? I've got an awful lot of reading to do. Please?"

Mary attempted to look stern. "Not if you're planning a repeat of tonight."

"Oh, no no no! Granny, that was stupid and I'll never do that again. They weren't friends, they were awful, and it was so stupid. Granny, please."

Sybil raised both eyebrows. "Why here?"

The lower lip trembled. "Because this is lovely. Just us, and tea, and reading. I promise to behave, I promise to help with whatever you need. Please?"

Mary regarded Isabella with some trepidation. She did not feel like another argument with her grandson, not after the one tonight on the phone in which she told him in no uncertain terms that he was neglecting his daughter in favor of his son. Telling him she'd be keeping his daughter for the summer would likely cause another rift, but looking at that face, those blue eyes brimming with tears, the yearning for comfort that she could not help but want to give, the desire for the happiness of the past that she, too, so desperately missed, Mary finally relented. "All right," she replied softly. "No performances like tonight. I expect you to dress properly, speak properly, and behave properly."

"Of course."

"We dress for dinner here, and you'll be expected to do so."

Isabella nodded and sat up a little straighter.

"And you must do as we tell you, and if that means you have to go to dinner with your family, or to Downton with the rest of us, you'll do so. I expect to meet any friends you choose to spend time with, and I reserve the right to disapprove loudly and heartily. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Granny. So I can stay?"

"You have to ask your father. I give my permission, and I will tell him so, but you must be the one to ask." Mary stifled a yawn and stood up. Sybil joined her. "Bedtime for the toffs. Don't stay up all night, Isabella."

"I won't," she murmured. "Thank you, my darling Granny. I love you."

Mary smiled and kissed Isabella's cheek. "Good night, my darling girl."

And Isabella watched as the two elderly sisters slowly made their way out of the library, Sybil's hand reaching for her elder sister's, and smiled as the door clicked shut. "Paradise regained," she whispered to herself and curled back into the chair. "Blissful seat indeed."

FIN