Hi! Just a big thank you to everyone who read and reviewed Home Is Where The Heart Is - I promise that's not the last you've seen of that storyline, but I've had this idea in a head for a while. I'm really interested to see how they handle Mary post-Matthew, so seeing as we have to wait until autumn, I thought I'd have a crack at it now. In this story, I've got some of the faces that are said to be in season 4 (i.e. Charles Blake/Lord Anthony Gillingham etc.) and there are some hints of Mary/Evelyn Napier but not too much that you're put off, I hope. Obviously references to Mary's love for Matthew as well. This is more of seeing how she's dealt with it, with her family and her moving on, so to speak. The italics are more of the immediate aftermath with no time references, and every else picks up from September 1922 when she's gone to London.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy and, as always, reviews are alwaaaaays appreciated!

Chapter One:

She eased herself down on the bed. Still tender. Not surprising, she'd only given birth three days before.

"Are you sure that this is where you want to be? I can have Mrs. Hughes ready another room..."

Another room that wasn't their room. Hers and his. It had been hers alone for so long - and in less than two years, it was hers alone again. She could barely think, only sensing her mother's anxious thoughts coming at her from the end of the bed, Anna adjusting her pillows around her.

"Where's the baby?" Mary cleared her throat, it sounded hoarse. She hadn't strung more than a few sentences together, not since...

"Downstairs, with Isobel and your father. Granny here's too - her first chance to see him. Have you given any more thought to a..." Her mother trailed off as Mary flinched at the question. A name. They all wanted her to name him. But how could she possibly, when they were supposed to christen the baby together. A list of names that they'd never got around to making because the baby had come early. He'd come early and her husband had driven to see them, driven and...

If he had a name, then this was real. Then she truly had a son - who truly didn't have a father.

"It doesn't matter." That soft American lilt hoped to soothe, but it couldn't. "It can wait. Not until you're ready, my darling."

Ready? How could she possibly be ready for this?

London, September 1922.

"A year old, I can hardly believe it." Mary smiled politely into her teacup at her aunt's words. "And I'm so sorry to have missed it."

Rosamund didn't bother to acknowledge what other event had seen a year go by and Mary was thankful for it. Although Mary could not imagine that her aunt was particularly sorry to have missed her great-nephew's first birthday. Rosamund, never having had her own, had always remained somewhat adverse to the presence of children. Looking around her aunt's drawing room, as immaculate as always, trinkets and vases low enough for any child's hand to reach out for them, Mary couldn't envision bringing George or Sybbie here. And she doubted her aunt could envision it either.

"You didn't miss much." Mary assured her, trying to dismiss the matter casually, but she sighed inwardly as Rosamund, ever the observer, raised an inquiring eyebrow, knowing there was more to the story than that. Of course, there had to be. Why else would she abandon Downton the next day, leaving her son behind?

"And you've enjoyed this past fortnight in London, Mary?" Rosamund went on, stirring her own cup.

"I've been a chaperone to Rose." Mary replied. "Mama doesn't trust her alone in London and I thought I could use a holiday."

"You thought you'd escape the country for the city smog?" Rosamund inquired drily, becoming more like Granny as time went on. Mary, the child, the young woman, the wife, would have raised an eyebrow of her own, and given a sharp retort making it clear that her aunt should mind her own business, but Mary, the widow...She put her teacup down and sighed. She had no defence; she couldn't stand Downton any longer. Rosamund swallowed guiltily, having expected a spar only to be greeted with defeat. She saved Mary from answering. "Well, I understand how suffocating Yorkshire can be." Mary nodded, playing with her strand of pearls absentmindedly. "Mama sent me a recent photograph. Whilst Cora and my brother are undoubtedly biased, I can say honestly that George is quite a handsome baby."

Mary smiled at that, despite the pang she felt to hear his name yet to not be near him. "Thank you. Isobel says that he takes after...his father."

"Raven hair, those round cheeks - he looks just as you did as a baby." Rosamund frowned, before shrugging lightly. "But I suppose she would say that. Wouldn't we all?"

Mary gave a shrug of her own. George had his eyes, those piercing blue eyes. She didn't know whether to be pleased about that or not, but she couldn't lie to herself. George looked like she had once. He even seemed to act as she did, often restless and irritable. Mary was hoping that was simply a case of his tender age rather than an indication of his personality, but Sybbie had been such a good baby that she wasn't sure what to think.

She glanced back up at her aunt who looked almost uncomfortable, which was a rare sight. As if she had run out of things to say, questions to ask. Mary knew that she should probably start politely inquiring after Rosamund, but these last two weeks had rather been a blur. She'd stepped off at King's Cross and shut down in many ways. She no longer had to maintain a smile for her parents or for Isobel; Rose didn't seem to expect anything from her. Granny could always read her like a book, but thankfully the Dowager Countess didn't dine at Downton every night. And now, it was hard to pretend that she cared again, about any of it.

"...Do you miss him?"

Mary's face softened at the question. Well, she did care about that. Her darling boy, her little George, all those miles away. It had seemed the right decision at the time. She had needed to get away, but she hadn't wanted to disrupt his routine. He enjoyed Sybbie's attentions in the nursery, and Isobel would have probably followed her to London, pleading for Mary to return with her grandson. But God did she miss him! Quite simply, he was everything to her. Mary gave a small smile, but the first true smile since arriving in London. "Oh, Georgie's in good hands - he won't want for anything whilst I'm away, and this is only temporary. Though, I admit, he's never far from my thoughts."

"No, I meant..."

Mary started as Rosamund trailed off in embarrassment, as comprehension suddenly dawned on her. Matthew.

She licked her lips, hoping to slow down her heart, now pulsing in her ears.

"I try not to think about him at all."

"I can't stop looking at him. He's so beautiful."

She almost grimaced as her mother-in-law - or former mother-in-law, she wasn't sure how it all worked now - held her son even closer, unwilling to let the baby out of her sight for a moment. Papa had insisted Isobel stay to help the new mother, and she'd obliged. And now she wouldn't leave.

"I thought, perhaps, we should christen him Matthew." She heard Isobel whisper as she looked out into the garden. It didn't matter, the older woman only had eyes for the baby. "It's only right. I suppose it was going to be Reginald before, was it?"

Reginald. After Matthew's father. The name whirled around Mary's mind; she cringed in distaste. No, Reginald hadn't been raised. No name had been considered. Matthew had been so busy with the farms and she with the nursery that they'd decided, that when they'd finally returned from Scotland, more than a fortnight before her due date, they'd choose names together. Always efficient, Matthew had been so sure that they'd settle on something quickly.

"It's nice how Tom honoured your sister like that. This way, there'll be a Matthew Crawley, Earl of Grantham, after all."

Her gaze went to Isobel, irritated. Isobel had never cared about the earldom and Downton before, not like Mary had. This wasn't how things were meant to be at all, and having a Matthew as a son wouldn't replace Matthew as a husband. And Isobel could not do any replacing either.

"He's my son, not yours."

It was the clearest she'd spoken, her tone unwavering. They were in shock, both wild in their grief, processing it in differing ways. Her Mama's gasp, pausing in her sewing, told her that she'd been cold. But she didn't have it in her to apologise.

"I know," the older woman whispered, finally lifting her eyes from her grandchild, "- my son is dead."

She didn't even blink, choosing to look back out on to the garden, to watch the gardener tend her mother's roses. "I like George."

She could feel rather than see her mother sit up straighter. "George? That's a strong name. Did Matthew like-"

"I like George, Mama. Who else decides but me now?"

Mary closed her book shut, unable to concentrate. Her mind drifted back to her afternoon tea with Aunt Rosamund and was grateful that, instead of staying with her aunt, her Papa had acquiesced to her wishes and allowed her to open up Crawley House. The luxury of being a widow - she didn't need a male relative to open up the house for her. Sighing, she returned the book back to its rightful place - even without her father there to watch her, she would have felt guilty for misplacing it - and made her way to the hall and upstairs. At Downton, she would have retired earlier but she'd assured the London housekeeper - Mrs. Wright - that she wouldn't need a maid to undress her in the evenings. Having not the heart to tear Anna away from Mr. Bates, she had no need for late night chats with a stranger, the maids coming and going far more from her father's employ in London than in Yorkshire.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Mary's hand stopped on the banister, as music came quietly down the corridor. She shook her head smiling and turned away from it towards her room. Cousin Rose and her jazz. She supposed the girl was readying herself for another night on the town. Soon, a cab would pull up outside the house and Rose would sneak out as best she could, only to return, stumbling, in the early hours of the morning just before the servants arose. It was almost sweet - how she thought Mary was none the wiser, how she feigned she wasn't tired at breakfast or feigned a morning's migraine at lunch when she was too tired to rise at all. What a terrible chaperone Mary had proven to be. But Rose was young and unblemished. Perhaps not unblemished in conventional ways - Edith had soon apprised her of their young cousin's tryst with the married Terence Margadale - but she still had the innocence of a girl who thought she had the world at her feet, who thought that falling in love and being happy were one in the same.

Suddenly feeling very old and not caring for the sensation at all, Mary paused at her door and before she could really think about her actions, headed back down the corridor to her cousin's room, opening its door without even bothering to knock.

Music from the gramophone assaulted her ears, but she regained her senses quickly enough to see Rose jump up in surprise from her seat at the window sill and throw out of the window what Mary could only presume - from the distinct smell of smoke in the room - to be one of the many cigarettes young Rose had enjoyed this evening.

"Mary! I thought you'd gone to bed - I was just heading to bed myself."

Mary raised a wry eyebrow, her cousin somehow making her feel much more herself than her more familiar Aunt Rosamund had done so this afternoon, and looked at Rose appraisingly. A cream flapper dress fringed at the bottom, jewellery glittering round her neck and hanging from her ears and holding a cocktail in her hand, its contents undoubtedly snuck away from her Papa's drinks cabinet downstairs. Mary didn't even bother to reply.

Rose swallowed nervously, knowing she'd been caught red-headed. "Please don't tell your mother, she'll tell my mother - or worse, Aunt Violet!" She bit her lip, dark red with lipstick. "It was only this once, I swear." Another eyebrow from Mary. "Alright, not just this once - but please don't tell anybody! I have been trying - I haven't allowed any gentlemen any liberties! I just love to dance, that's all, - and I promise this is my first drink!"

She seemed so sincere, wanting to please but unwilling to bend in order to do so. Mary could see why Rose reminded her mother of Sybil and thus why Mama had taken the daughter of her husband's cousin under her wing. But Granny maintained that Rose was far more like the eldest Crawley sister. Stubborn with a strong ability to manipulate and the potential to land the family in scandal - only far more of a handful, for Rose - the baby of the MacClares - did not fear the consequences of her actions as Mary did, as Mary always seemed to do.

Mary sighed inwardly; she wasn't much of a liar but even she could do better than Rose. "Where to this time?"

Rose frowned prettily, but guiltily. "...the Blue Dragon."

"A favourite of yours?"

"Well yes, but I don't go with Terence, if that's what you're thinking - Matthew made me see the light on that score." Rose insisted, honestly this time. Mary only blinked a little; only Rose was able to mention Matthew without checking to see how Mary took it. Rose didn't make a point to mention him or a point not to as so many others did. As if there was no reason to halt over his name. As if nothing had changed since they'd gone up to Duneagle Castle at all. Mary felt lighter for it - Rose was simply incapable of bringing Mary down or putting her in a bad temper. Perhaps Mama was right, then; Rose was like Sybil.

"Have you drunk the last of that, or is there more?"

It was Rose's turn to blink. "No, of course not," she stuttered, smiling breathlessly as she opened up her closest and reached down for the bottle hidden at the back. "but I'm afraid the best I can do is a gin rickey! I already mixed it, so - here!" She laughed, thrusting her glass towards Mary.

Mary smiled obligingly, and took a sip. Rose spurred her on, unimpressed; she took a bigger sip. Her eyes watered a little. "This is strong."

"A little Dutch courage, that's all."

"Scared to go dancing?" There was that eyebrow again, it felt good, familiar. She took another sip.

"No," Rose smiled, daring to take a swig from the bottle and inviting Mary to sit on her bed beside her. "Scared that one day soon I won't find the Blue Dragon as fabulous as I always do."

Mary sat a little uncomfortably, nervous to slosh her glass on bed. "Matthew said it was like the outer circle of Dante's inferno." She started at his name entering the conversation so easily.

Rose shrugged, not understand it and not noticing her cousin's pause for thought. "He may have prevented me from wasting my life on Terence, but only a stick-in-the-mud wouldn't enjoy the Blue Dragon."

Mary almost spluttered on her drink. "A stick-in-the-mud?" She wasn't sure whether she was supposed to defend him, so rarely did anyone have a bad word to say about Matthew. Especially now. Never speak ill of the dead, that was it, wasn't it?

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, " Rose was quick to defend herself, her fingers tapping away to the jazz record, "you and he are of a different generation - my parents can't stand all this jazz either."

Mary's eyes widened, aghast. Different generation! She couldn't believe it. Sweet Rosie MacClare who'd - to Edith's continual annoyance - emulated the elegant Mary Crawley as a young child, following her faithfully around Downton and Duneagle, who'd insisted that only Mary's opinion would do when picking out her debutante gown, now thought her old. She was being compared to Cousin Shrimpie and Cousin Susan, for God's sake. With everything going sour in her life, the accusation of being a bore was almost too much.

"The eleven years between us does warrant a generation."

Rose's brow furrowed at her older cousin's tone, realising she'd caused offence. "Oh, no. I didn't mean that exactly..." And yet another eyebrow was sent her way. "You're more fun than Edith."

Mary snorted, throwing back the rest of her drink. "That is not the compliment you think it is."

Rose sighed, leaning into her pillows. "You're not going to let me go." It wasn't a question, young Rose was quite sure of it.

"Come now, Rose," Mary held out her glass for a refill, "are you going to give up that easily? Where's your insistence that you're an adult and can do what you like? That, were you to acquiesce to an authority figure, I am neither your mother nor even my mother and therefore have no say in your evening plans whatsoever?"

The younger woman sighed again. "Yes, I spend my night as I desire, but afterwards, you inform your mother who informs my mother of my evening - who books me on the first available passage to India."

Mary shook her head. "Mama wouldn't do that." She assured her softly, knowing her mother's good heart. "And I may be guilty of many things, but spilling secrets has never been a sin of mine." Rose grinned a little at that, looking younger than her years and, despite her protestations, making Mary feel rather old. "But you cannot go alone."

Rose wilted at her older cousin's words. That was the end to the fun, then - and it had only lasted a fortnight. "I suppose, it wouldn't be proper." She said, swigging the bottle again remorsefully.

"No, it wouldn't." Mary said, her tone brooking no argument. "Which is why I'm coming with you."

The first thought Mary had when they entered the Blue Dragon was that she'd made a terrible mistake. In fact, she'd almost grabbed Rose's arm to leave, but then she'd turned and spotted her cousin's delighted smile, remembered her haunting words of different generations and forced herself to stand straighter, forced herself to have an open mind. Matthew had never really cared for dancing or parties but Mary always had done so, and he loved that about her. How giddy she got before a ball, how flushed she was after a dance and then he'd grin at her as they lay together in bed, simply content to see his wife happy. I'm glad that you enjoyed yourself, darling.

Well, if she could enjoy a waltz and a reel, she could enjoy...whatever it was that these people were doing. Mary's eyebrows rose up her forehead to see so many couples squeezed on to the floor, the gentlemen holding the ladies inappropriately, their hands wandering, some couples even daring to kiss. Mary blinked away, swallowing tightly. Matthew and she had never kissed in public - and they never would do.

"Champagne?" Rose smiled, not bothering to wait for Mary's answer as she dragged them to an available table, her eyes continually scanning the room for anyone she might know, but her cousin sensed she was looking for someone in particular.

Mary allowed herself to be pulled along, her own eyes scanning the various clientele, too, around the room, her eyes widening at the many married men she knew of who were enjoying the company of women who weren't their wives. She was starting to feel very out-of-place. Nothing Mary owned had been short enough - how do you expect to dance in a gown which touches the floor? - and so she was uncomfortably clad in Rose's daring attire, a black silver-beaded flapper dress. Rose had thought the black would be in-keeping with a widow's wardrobe. Mary wasn't convinced that it had been a joke. Regardless, despite her evening coat, she felt horribly under-dressed and now understood better why Rose needed a glass of something or two before she left the house.

Coming to sit in the booth and removing her coat, Mary frowned as Rose didn't bother to get the attention of the waiters who walked by, but instead waved and beckoned a gentleman or two she knew from God knows where. "I thought you wanted champagne."

"Yes, but why pay for it yourself," Rose asked, still smiling cheerfully at the men who were coming over, "when there are men willing to pick up the bill?"

Mary didn't have a moment to chastise such a comment before she saw one of the men blanche before her. She frowned in recognition. Charles Blake. So much for hating town and preferring county pleasures.

"Lady Mary, how lovely to see you again." Charles smiled handsomely, his voice just as smooth as she remembered.

"You know Charlie?" Rose blurted, before slapping her forehead, forgetting herself. "Of course, you do - Cousin Cora's summer party, that's how we first met!"

Mary only nodded, taking note of Rose's reddened cheeks as Charles Blake smiled politely in agreement at her. So long Terence Margadale. His attention quickly turned to Mary, appearing ever so charming but he seemed embarrassed to her. It served him right, she supposed, smiling pleasantly as he introduced the pair to his good friend and school chum, John Ardley. Rose offered another smile but not as bright for the poor Mr. Ardley, not that anyone but Mary would notice such a thing, and her cousin was quick to invite the two gentlemen to sit with them before Mary could object.

However, Charles paused before he sat down and smiled agreeably, his eyes twinkling. "Only if Lady Mary is agreeable, of course."

But Mary was in no mood for a gentlemen who'd done his best to flirt with her over the summer and coax smiles out of her, only to lead on Rose who - despite her insistence and previous experiences - was more innocent than she believed herself to be. "I'm sure that you've had the pleasure of my dear cousin's company without me, Mr. Blake. You don't need my permission." She wore a smile, but he faltered, not mistaking her meaning.

Still, he sat down, looking to Mary somewhat pathetically as Rose smiled up at him. "Oh yes," Charles' friend spoke up, Mary grimacing as he actually clicked at the waiter for some glasses and champagne, "Blake said that there was a lovely blonde he just had to dance with again, and he was right!"

Mary raised an eyebrow as Rose blushed, somehow taking this Ardley's words as a compliment. Charles managed to smile, but his eyes kept straying guiltily to Mary. Sure she was going to say something she might regret and having no doubt that any beverage bought by these gentlemen would leave a decidedly bitter taste in her mouth, Mary got up from the table to the surprise of everyone else sat down. She'd been right; this night was a terrible mistake.

"I'm just going to...powder my nose."

Rose nodded, concerned that her cousin might get lost in the crowd. "Do you want me to come with you? You can use my lipstick."

Having absolutely no desire to look like she'd been drinking merlot all evening, Mary shook her head, but squeezed Rose's hand gratefully. "No, you're alright. I'll only be a few moments." She squeezed her hand again. "But don't go off anywhere, will you?"

Rose shook her head obligingly, but Mary rolled her eyes as her cousin was soon diverted by the champagne coupe offered to her. Walking away, she knew Charles Blake's eyes were on her. It had been satisfying once to have such attention, satisfying if not necessary. Yet, all she could think as she walked away was that Kemal Pamuk had had brown eyes, too.

Mary breathed in the night's air, wishing after her coat, as she stood outside the Blue Dragon, both watching people enter and intrigued passers-by walk past. The doorman had been good enough to offer his flask as she watched the world pass by and, in her shocked stupor, had accepted, enjoying the fiery burn of whiskey. It reminded her of sombre evening in the library with Tom, two broken-hearted souls with an Irish bourbon. Still, she decided that it probably tasted better than the champagne inside.

She took a moment to imagine what Matthew would make of this all. Would he be disappointed in her for coming to such a place? Or would he applaud her for taking a chance and acting on a whim? She'd never know, but funnily enough, it didn't matter that much - not when this was perhaps the first time that she'd been alone with her thoughts of Matthew without her chest feeling as if it couldn't get enough air.

Handing the flask back to the doorman and thanking him, espying Soho square but only a few yards into the distance, Mary decided to stroll over and sit down on a bench, knowing she could afford a few minutes more before she should return to the Dragon's lair and ensure that Rose hadn't been whisked off into the night. She doubted it. Rose really did love to dance.

Rubbing her arms, she'd barely made it up the small flight of stairs to the main street, before a familiar voice made her smile, really smile.

"Do my eyes deceive me or is Lady Mary Crawley at a jazz club?"

Mary stopped and turned, as the man in question shook his head, happily bemused. Finally, a friendly face. "It's good to see you too, Evelyn."

TBC...

Thanks for reading and please review!