"Mary, please let me take you somewhere. Into London – or even Paris, Rome."

His wife lifted her head and gaped at him, incredulous, then narrowed her eyes. "How can you even suggest that, Matthew? You know my family needs me. That I need them."

Matthew ran nervous fingers through his blonde hair. "I just thought that some time away from the grief, the sadness, would help." He moved forward and took one of her hands in his. "I was only thinking of you, darling."

Suddenly angry, she snatched her hand away and stood up. "Perhaps I don't want you to think of me. Perhaps you should be thinking of Tom, of Mama, of Papa, of that baby who will never know the lovely person her mother was. I know I am." She shook her head and stalked toward their bedroom door, her black dress swaying. "I'm going for a walk. Alone."

Mary slammed the door behind her, raising a hand to her mouth and shutting her eyes for a moment before walking down the hallway. She realized Matthew truly was endeavoring to help her, but couldn't he see that Sybil's death had had a ripple effect through their entire family – through the entire household – that couldn't be repaired by a holiday? Particularly if the holiday separated her from the rest of them. The circumstances of her sister's passing already threatened to rend their family apart. Mary couldn't stand to see the pain in her father's eyes, especially when he looked at her mother. She couldn't bear watching the lines in her mama's face becoming permanent, her haunted and shadowed visage, and her dresses hanging off her as she lost a startling amount of flesh.

She couldn't leave. Not now. How could Matthew not see that?

Wandering down the hallway, Mary observed the door to the nursery open a crack. Peeking in, she saw that Tom sat in a rocking chair, the infant girl in his arms. They both slept.

Mary nodded her head as she stepped away from the door, unwilling to disturb them. Even though he didn't tell her, she knew Tom had had trouble sleeping in the weeks since Sybil's death. A small note of relief attended her heart to know that he slept at least a little now.

Mid-afternoon quiet had settled upon the house, and Mary trained her eyes upon the carpet as she meandered somewhat aimlessly down the corridors, her steps slow and her hands hanging down by her sides. She met no one, for which she was grateful. Her mind was too full, her heart too heavy, to want to speak to anyone.

Although she'd told Matthew that she thought of Tom, Mama, Papa, and the baby, she hadn't mentioned Sybil. But the fact was that Sybil herself occupied the greater part of her introspections. Her sister's spirit permeated the house, and, yet, as the days slipped on – days that should have been full of joy and laughter because of the birth – Mary felt Sybil slipping away as well. Her darling Sybil – the one who was ever so much braver than Mary herself had been – who had trained as a nurse and gone to political rallies and married an Irish chauffeur…. Darling Sybil was gone. How could memories ever be enough?

Suddenly, Mary felt she needed to do something to connect with her sister, to somehow honor her matchless spirit. But the things that Sybil had done, the ways she'd broken free of the chains with which her station had attempted to bind her – Mary didn't see how she could do any of them. Besides, many of the options simply weren't open to her.

Then, as she approached the stairs leading into the servants' areas of the house, Mary had an idea.

Mrs. Patmore leapt from her chair where she rested before she would have to supervise the tea for upstairs. "Lady Mary? Is there something I can do for you?"

Mary's eyes paused briefly upon the black band encircling the cook's arm. "Yes, actually, Mrs. Patmore, there is. I'd like you to teach me to cook."

The woman scrunched her face up, perplexed. "My lady? You want to learn to cook?"

Nodding once, Mary put on a soft smile. "Yes. That's right. Nothing complicated, of course. Simple things. The things –" Her breath caught, and she shut her eyes for a few seconds before continuing. "The types of things you taught Lady Sybil."

Mrs. Patmore's eyes went wide with understanding. "Certainly, my lady. When would you want to have a lesson?"

"I had thought, if you weren't otherwise busy, that we could start now."

Pondering this a moment, the cook's face wrinkled again. "Yes, Daisy and Ivy can do the tea themselves whilst we begin." She went over to a cupboard and twitched an apron off a shelf. Shaking it out, she handed it to Mary. "You should wear this, my lady. And, what do you know already – of cooking, I mean?"

Slipping the apron over her head and tying it behind her, Mary shrugged. "Whatever Lady Sybil knew, I am nearly certain to know less."

Mrs. Patmore shook her head. "I don't think that's possible, Lady Mary."

At the look of mortification that crossed Mrs. Patmore's face at what she'd just said, Mary chuckled softly – the first time she could remember doing that for weeks. "Don't worry about that, Mrs. Patmore. Let's just begin, shall we?"

As Mrs. Patmore instructed her on how to fill a kettle, how to boil water, and how to add the tea, Mary felt a knot loosen in her stomach. She imagined – because she'd not ventured downstairs at the time – Sybil going through these same motions. Mary smiled, already feeling closer to Sybil.

"Well done, Lady Mary." Mrs. Patmore gave her a pained smile as she sipped the tea. "Although this might be a bit strong for most people."

"Oh," Mary said, a crease appearing between her brows. "Did I do it wrong?" She took a sip from her own cup and pulled a face. "Goodness, that's wretched, isn't it?"

Mrs. Patmore set her still full cup down and shook her head sympathetically. "Never mind, my lady. It took her a while to get the hang of it as well. You'll practice." She gave Mary a smile.

Mary knew that the "her" referred to Sybil. She nodded. "Yes, well. At least I now know how to boil water." She returned Mrs. Patmore's smile and, glancing at the clock, took off the apron.

"Tomorrow?" the cook inquired.

"Yes, I'd like to continue, if you don't mind, Mrs. Patmore."

Mrs. Patmore took the apron from her and draped it over her arm. "Come at the same time. I'll have another lesson ready for you."

Mary nodded again. "Might you tell the others not to let my family know? I'd like to keep this for myself." Her eyes flitted over to Daisy, Ivy, and the other kitchen maids who'd been readying the tea.

"As you like it, Lady Mary."

Over the next week, Mary furtively descended the stairs into the servants' part of the house and into the kitchen every afternoon, tying on her apron and endeavoring to follow Mrs. Patmore's directions on cooking. But every afternoon left her feeling more and more frustrated – not to mention frazzling Mrs. Patmore's nerves at her ineptitude at the art. How did Sybil do this? Mary wondered as she tipped yet another failed attempt at her father's favorite biscuits into the bin. She still couldn't even make a proper cup of tea.

On the second day, Carson had approached the pair in the kitchen. "Lady Mary? What is this?"

"I asked Mrs. Patmore to teach me to cook. Like she did for Lady Sybil." Her voice had a hard edge to it. She recognized that Carson, as much respect as he had for her, would probably object to this. But she wouldn't let him put her off.

Hearing the resolve in her tone, Carson inclined his head. "Pardon me, my lady. I didn't mean to intrude. I leave you and Mrs. Patmore to it." He turned and started toward the door, then turned back. "Let me know if there is anything you need, Lady Mary."

Mary's eyes met his concerned ones. "For now, your silence about this to my family will serve me well enough." A faint smile came to her lips.

"Then you shall have it." He inclined his head again, returning her smile and departing.

On the eighth day of her lessons, Mary had "progressed" to cakes. Really, this meant that Mrs. Patmore needed to find something – anything – that Mary might be able to cook well. She felt for the poor girl, truly, for she wanted so much to learn what her sister had.

But as Mary bent to take the cake out of the oven, she burnt a finger on the rack, the pain causing her to release the pan, the contents spilling out onto the floor.

Before Mrs. Patmore could do or say anything, Mary threw up her hands. "It's no use! This was a ridiculous idea." Tossing the cloth she held upon the table, she reached behind her to undo the tie to her apron, fumbling with it ineffectually as tears spilled over onto her cheeks. "I'm sure it was going in the bin anyway!"

Mrs. Patmore sent a look to one of the kitchen maids, conveying that she should clean up the mess. Then she stepped close to Mary. "My lady, please, let me see your hand. You might need something on that burn."

Mary ceased wrestling with the apron and dropped her hands to her sides, sighing heavily and shaking her head. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters."

Nevertheless, Mrs. Patmore extended her hand for Mary's. "Please," she said softly. "Let me see, Lady Mary."

Putting her hand into the cook's, Mary drew the back of the other across her face, wiping tears away. "I just wanted to feel close to her," she whispered.

Mrs. Patmore swallowed against a lump in her throat, fixing her eyes upon the small burn on Mary's forefinger. The eldest Grantham daughter was known for her aloofness among most of the staff, and to witness her ostensibly impenetrable outward shell crack – especially here – affected the cook greatly. Mary's earnest desire to learn the things Sybil did had already given her incentive to contain her usual shrill voice and sharp tongue. But this – this was even more heart-breaking. She gulped again. "You'll be right as rain if we put a sliver of ice on that for a while. Sit right here, my lady, and I'll get it."

She flicked her eyes up long enough to see Mary's nod, then left the room. Normally she would have had one of her underlings do this, but she had to have a moment to herself, to take a deep breath, and to think. There had to be something the young lady could cook.

Knocking a small piece of ice off the block, Mrs. Patmore wrapped it in a thin cloth. Pursing her lips, she returned to the kitchen. "Here, Lady Mary. Put this on the burn."

Nodding again, Mary applied the ice to her finger. "I apologize, Mrs. Patmore, for bothering you. Apparently, I'm not cut out for cooking." She looked up with a pained smile.

Mrs. Patmore cocked her head at her from her place in her own chair. "It's no bother, my lady. And I haven't given up on you." She paused, then added, in a much lower voice, "Lady Sybil wouldn't have either."

Mary closed her eyes, sucking in a deep breath that burned her lungs. But she recognized that Mrs. Patmore had the right of it. Sybil wouldn't have given up. It was one of the things that made her exceptional – she believed her sisters to be far better than they ever actually were. "Yes, I know," she said to Mrs. Patmore.

"So," the cook ventured, leaning forward in her chair, "you'll be back tomorrow afternoon."

"Yes." Mary opened her eyes and fastened them upon Mrs. Patmore's kind face.

Mrs. Patmore smiled. Nothing more was said between the two women as Mary sat for a while, then stood up, removing her apron and placing it on its hook. She nodded at the cook, an unspoken understanding between them.

The next afternoon, Mary arrived in the kitchen once more, but she didn't feel very hopeful that she would do any better that day than she had on any of the others.

Mrs. Patmore waited for her to draw on her apron, then walked with her to the preparation table. There sat a bowl of eggs, a bowl of oil, an empty bowl, a whisk, and a pan.

"So," Mary said, her brows raised, "what am I trying today?"

"Scrambled eggs, my lady. And this will be your lesson until you've gotten it right," she pronounced matter-of-factly. Mrs. Patmore pointed to the eggs. "You've already learned to break the eggs, so break two into the empty bowl."

Once Mary had done this successfully, Mrs. Patmore indicated the whisk. "Now use that to blend them together." She watched her. "There, that's good. Pour a bit of the oil in the pan to coat it, then put it over low heat." Nodding at Mary, she pointed between the bowl of beaten eggs and the pan. "Pour the eggs into the pan, then keep stirring the liquid as it cooks."

For the first time since she'd boiled water during her initial lesson, Mary felt as if she were doing something right. "Oh! They look normal." She grinned as the eggs solidified. Then she glanced at Mrs. Patmore, who peered around her shoulder at the contents of the pan. "I think they're done, don't you?"

Mrs. Patmore smiled. "Well, at least you've an eye for that, Lady Mary. They are indeed. Turn off the burner and put the pan aside."

Mary did this and spun around, her eyes and face shining. "I made eggs!"

Chuckling, the cook handed Mary a fork. "Still one more test, my lady." She shook a little salt over the eggs, then they each took a forkful. Hesitantly, they put the scrambled egg in their mouths. Mrs. Patmore beamed and nodded. "Well done, my lady."

But Mary let her fork rest in the pan, frowning slightly. "What if I can't do it again?"

"You will, but how about you repeat it now? I'll withhold comment or instruction. Then you'll see for yourself, my lady." Mrs. Patmore pulled out a clean pan and put it with the other implements on the table.

Taking a deep breath, Mary began again, going through the steps slowly until, miraculously to her, she had another pan full of scrambled eggs. Upon tasting them, she allowed herself to be pleased with her handiwork. "I can cook scrambled eggs, Mrs. Patmore," she announced, smiling.

After she tasted the fresh batch of eggs, Mrs. Patmore gave Mary a tender look. "She would have been proud, you know, Lady Mary. As I am."

Mary didn't know why her heart felt so full at that moment. On the surface, it was such a little thing – making scrambled eggs. But somehow she believed that Sybil must have felt a similar flush of satisfaction at being able to accomplish even something most would consider so trifling. And it made Mary feel as if, no matter what else happened, how different her life might become from the life of which Sybil had always been a part, she had this connection now. Some might think it silly. But she didn't. Mrs. Patmore didn't. And Sybil wouldn't have either.

"Will you be coming back tomorrow, my lady? To try something else?" Mrs. Patmore asked while Mary hung up her apron.

"No, I don't think so, Mrs. Patmore," Mary replied, shaking her head slightly. She smiled. "I have what I need now. And I'm so grateful to you for your patience whilst teaching me. I know I was a horrible student."

Mrs. Patmore shook her head too and returned the smile. "No, Lady Mary. You weren't. Perhaps a bit frustrating at times…." She chuckled. "But no more than Daisy is on her best day."

Mary let out a light laugh. "I suppose it'll be a relief to deal with only her from now on then."

Her look softening, Mrs. Patmore sighed. "It's a relief that I could do something to help, my lady. And that's nothing but the truth."

"I do thank you. Very much. Good afternoon, Mrs. Patmore." She turned to go back upstairs.

"Good afternoon, Lady Mary," Mrs. Patmore called over her shoulder, still smiling. She thought that perhaps Mary would be easier in her grief now.

After that, as the days and weeks following Sybil's passing turned into months, the household began to find its bearings again. Mary silently rejoiced when she observed her mama and papa finding their way back to one another, helping each other through their mourning. She watched the clothing that covered them all like shrouds go from black to gray and shades of lavender and purple, and then these to other, brighter colors. She went back to bickering with Edith, but relished their infrequent moments of sisterly accord, knowing Sybil would have done the same. She aided Tom to fit in better with the family, to grope his way back into the light, to start delighting in raising Sybbie.

And sometimes, when Mary remembered what they'd lost – what she had lost – and couldn't quite handle the wrench it gave to her heart (which happened far more often than she would admit to anyone else), she would wait until after darkness had fallen. Then when Matthew had fallen asleep next to her, and she knew the downstairs staff was likely to be asleep, she drew her dressing gown around her and surreptitiously made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

Where she made scrambled eggs.