A/N: So this is the last installment in my little drabble set. It contains some spoilers for series three. Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed!

Time had passed and carried them all with it.

She had remained in the village and done her duty. Her duty to Matthew and to herself. She made a weekly appearance at dinner and continued to work. Eventually the gripping sadness turned to a dull ache, ever present in the background of her days. But as the years slipped by and her grandson grew, it seemed a little easier each day. To everyone, it seemed, it was easier every day.

Tom and little Sybbie had moved to the Estate Managers Cottage; his daughter being the first descendent of the Crawleys to attend the village school, she knew the family couldn't be more proud of the darling little girl. And Sybil would certainly be endlessly pleased with the daughter who had no use for a governess or learning French. The spitting image of her mother, she often wondered how Tom made it through each day. But he had, and he did. Tonight he stood chatting with Edith, both sipping the fashionable new cocktails Mary had learned to make.

Edith, just in from London, looked fresh faced and happy. Her eyes glittered each time she spoke of her work, of her life in the city and of her family. No longer a young girl clinging desperately to the coattails of her sister, she stood tall and strong, sipping her drink and laughing as Tom made jokes.

Robert and Cora were locked in the corner on the opposite side of the room. Giggling and passing secrets between them, they look so very happy wrapped up in one another. And when their private conversation passed and they turned to look at the assembled group, she watched them press their hands together and exchange a proud smile. They had come through it all, older, perhaps wiser, intensely grateful for their family and for their lives.

And then there was Mary. Mary who was hunched in by the fireplace, giggling conspiratorially with her son and Sybbie as the three no doubt planned a trick on one of the other adults in the room. Her son cried out as Mary tickled him, whispering something in his ear that made him grin widely.

The little boy who came from her little boy had brought them all so much joy.

Five now, he was bright, sharp and the spitting image of his mother. It made it easier, in a way. Because looking at him, his dark eyes and hair, they only saw him.

Not his father and not the pain of their loss. Just him.

It was Mary who stood finally and located her long discarded champagne flute and raised it in celebration. She offered a brief toast with hopes for a wonderful new year and the promise of health and happiness for them all.

The adults raised their glasses as the children clapped excitedly.

Time passes, she mused, taking a sip of champagne and tousling her grandson's hair as he ran past, Sybbie in pursuit.

Yes, regardless of everything around them, life would go on. It would carry them along and age them; it would make them grow and learn and fade.

It would all go on.