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so happy together | downton abbey, mary/lavinia (part 1)
I wanted a little backstory on this wee ficlet, and it turned into more than I expected! So I guess we have a work in progress of sorts going on here. :)
so happy together - Matthew gets engaged. Mary is heartbroken. (But will only cry in front of Carson, of course.) And then Mary meets Lavinia, and everything changes. A series of modern AU vignettes.
1.
The worst news of Mary Crawley’s life comes to her, unsurprisingly, through her sister Edith.
Specifically, an innocuous text message reading, have you seen facebook?
Mary checks Facebook. And there it is, the fourth post on her updates feed (after Carson’s photo album of all the produce he and Elsie Hughes have grown in their back yard garden this summer): “Matthew Crawley is engaged to Lavinia Swire.” There are already 42 congratulatory comments. Including a totally predictable one from Thomas Barrow reading only, “well well well.”
Mary takes a moment to remind herself that Matthew’s better off without her, then clicks ‘Like.’
She texts Edith back, About time. I was starting to worry he’d die an old maid. You next, then?
Then she looks at every one of Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes’ pictures of cabbages and carrots and potatoes and cucumbers and very handsomely grown leeks, comments, Married life is certainly treating someone well. Bon appetit!, and cries onto her laptop like someone’s just killed her puppy.
2.
“Are you all right?” Anna asks when she stops by Mary’s flat.
“All right is a bit of an understatement when one of your dearest friends is getting married. I’d say I’m giddy. Rhapsodic, even.”
“Mary,” Anna says knowingly.
“In fact, let’s go out and get blindingly drunk to celebrate, shall we?”
Anna cringes. “John and I are already going to the movies. You can come with us. Daisy might join. It’s that one with Anne Hathaway in it,” she adds hopefully, like that will reignite Mary’s will to live.
“I’ll go get pissed then,” Mary says, making sure to keep her voice airy, like this is all a satirical version of herself. The only kind of Mary Crawley that could possibly care. “But I’ll have you know that I’m very disappointed in you.”
“We’ll come with you,” Anna offers quickly. “The movie can wait.”
Mary takes a moment to visualize herself up in the club with Anna, Daisy, and John Bates. It’s hilarious enough to cure her heartache. Well. For a second, anyway.
“It’s all right. I’m a big girl. I don’t need you babysitting me in my hour of grief.”
“Sure you do. That’s what friends are for.”
Mary does go to the movie, for Anna’s sake. She makes sure to be lively and funny and say all the right things and be perfectly okay with the fact that Anna’s fallen in love with one of her father’s childhood best friends. If Anna’s not bothered about the age difference, then neither is Mary.
Who’s Mary to turn her nose up at love, after all? Everyone seems to have gotten the knack of holding onto it when they find it. Except for Mary, who prefers to beat it senseless with a shovel and then sink into irrational disappointment when she discovers, oh look, it’s died.
+
She does go out and get blindingly drunk afterwards. She even invites Richard Carlisle along. It’s not one of her best life decisions, but no matter: she’s pretty sure she’s already made her worst. Things can hardly go downhill from here.
3.
Mary is bombarded with phone calls and emails from everyone she knows – well, except her father, but her mother assures him that he’s quietly, stoically devastated.
“Devastated? Really, Mother; someone hasn’t died.”
“Mary, we all know you well enough to know that the careless act is just that: an act. Please don’t treat us like we’re overreacting just because we’re worried about you.”
Mary hangs up on her. It’s not very mature, but sometimes immaturity is the only option.
Edith, she isn’t speaking to outside of insulting text messages. It’s best that way.
Then there’s Sybil, whose bizarre three-person-couple situation with Gwen and Tom has given her a naively optimistic view about love triangles. “Something always works out!” she soothes, to which Mary snaps, “Oh, go back to your orgy.” Sybil starts indignantly babbling about how patriarchal notions of binary sexuality are severely restrictive, and there’s nothing debauched about polyamory, and blah blah blah blah blah; there are days when she really wishes some internet villain would bring down Tumblr once and for all just so Sybil could become tolerable company again. (That’s a lie: Sybil is always tolerable company, bless her, even when she’s making their father’s eyes bug out by telling him she will be bringing her boyfriend and her girlfriend home for Christmas. In fact, especially then.)
Mary imagines what Matthew might do if she just invited herself along into his new relationship. That makes her laugh, at least.
+
The worst of all is visiting Carson and Mrs. Hughes at their cottage in the country. Even though she’s been told to call her Elsie, Mary has a very hard time thinking of Mrs. Hughes as anything but Mrs. Hughes. You don’t just go around calling the kind-and-fair-but-don’t-you-dare-cross-her housekeeper of your youth by her first name once you hit your twenties.
“Oh, milady,” Carson sighs sympathetically, pulling out the nickname he’d given her in her childhood. Mary’s very, very glad he’s not a butler anymore – as she got older, she realized what a thoroughly insufficient line of work it was for someone as smart as Carson, though he never seemed to complain – but she misses him living closer.
Mrs. Hughes makes tea and lays it out on the small (but very cozy) kitchen table. Mary knows that Mrs. Hughes is not inclined to think nearly as kindly of Mary as Carson is, but she’s always decent nonetheless, and Mary likes her. Maybe she’ll be like Mrs. Hughes, going about life alone and taking care of herself, finally settling down once she’s old and wise enough to appreciate it.
“I don’t know about this Miss Swire,” Carson pronounces in his booming tones as he sips his tea. Mary has always imagined that God must sound a great deal like Charles Carson, though He probably laughs more. “I expect Matthew will wake up one day and realize he’s made a very grave mistake in settling for someone so unsatisfactory.”
“Oh, hush, Charles,” Mrs. Hughes chastises, swatting his shoulder with a dishrag as she passes by him to sit down on his other side. “Lavinia Swire’s done nothing to nobody, and doesn’t deserve our scorn.”
“She’s taken Mary’s fiance!” Carson protests.
“But he is not Mary’s fiance anymore,” Mrs. Hughes says firmly. She meets Mary’s eyes afterward, and says, not entirely convincingly, “Sorry, Mary dear. That was a bit harsh.”
“No, you’re right,” Mary says. “I wish everyone else was as correct on the matter as you are.”
“Mary, you simply have to wish him happiness, try to not to let bitterness eat you up, and carry on with things,” Mrs. Hughes tells her. “You’re a bright girl and the future holds a great deal for you. Just carry on finding it, and remember that Matthew wasn’t the one for you.”
“I only wish I knew how to act toward Lavinia,” Mary laments. “We’re going to have to see each other sooner or later. And knowing this family, probably sooner.”
“Well, there’s a simple formula for that,” Mrs. Hughes says, undaunted. “Be good to her until she gives you reason not to be.”
And, well. Mary supposes there’s sense in that.
“She’s a very wise woman, your wife,” Mary tells Carson, smiling.
“I’ve often thought so,” Carson replies, looking at Mrs. Hughes with such affection that Mary wouldn’t be surprised if his eyes turned to hearts.
“Only often?” Mrs. Hughes asks, lifting her eyebrows.
“So sorry, my dear. Always.”
“That’s better.” Mrs. Hughes kisses his cheek.
Mary laughs, and tries to smother the pang of utterly senseless envy while Mrs. Hughes starts gathering the dishes.
“No, no, I’ve got it,” Carson insists, gallantly taking the domestic lead. Mrs. Hughes gratefully sinks back down into her chair. “And once we’ve got the kitchen sorted, Mary, you must see the cabbages. I’ve never been one to brag, but I must say—”
“They’re extraordinary,” Mrs. Hughes interrupts proudly.
“Exactly,” Carson says, smiling.
And so Mary gets a comprehensive vegetable tour.
On her way out an hour or so later, Mrs. Hughes gives her a quick hug in the kitchen and then starts on dinner.
Carson walks her to the door.
“Don’t tell Mrs. Hughes,” he says in conspiratorial tones as Mary puts her coat on, “but I think he’ll see the light.”
“Do you, Carson?” Mary asks, and her voice comes out sounding so meek and childish.
“How could he not?” Carson says simply, which sets Mary off crying. She’s always only been able to cry in front of two people, Carson and Anna, but she feels like such a burden to Anna sometimes. Never Carson.
Mrs. Hughes considerately turns on some music in the kitchen, and Mary sobs in Carson’s arms until she feels like she can face the world again.
They send a basket of vegetables home with her.
4.
And of course, she studies Matthew’s new Facebook profile picture obsessively. It’s of him and this Lavinia Swire. Matthew looks all right – he’s put on a little weight, but isn’t that what’s always supposed to happen when you’re settled down and in love? The point is, he looks happy. Much happier than he did in the last few months with Mary, where he was really beginning to look like an anorexic vampire, all pale and brooding and upset all the time.
He’s outside – Mary recognizes the area as his mum Isobel’s backyard – and he’s got his arm slung around Lavinia.
Mary feels almost sorry for the picture. It’s the only one of Matthew and Lavinia up on Facebook so far. He hadn’t even said they were dating beforehand. Then again, he went a bit off the grid after the breakup with Mary. So it makes sense. Still, there’s no getting away from the fact that this picture will be obsessively scrutinized by everyone Mary knows, after his first attempt at getting engaged led to his lovely bride calling the wedding off two days before.
This is all that Lavinia Swire has to offer, to placate the people who thought Matthew belonged with Mary. And really, it’s not much. She’s pretty, but an ordinary kind of pretty: reddish blonde hair, a sweet face, very much a traditional English rose. She’s wearing jeans and a light green cardigan, and her hair’s up in a bun that makes her look a bit like an escapee from a period piece film. She looks a little awkward, her smile a little pinched and forced, like she’s one of those people who doesn’t like having her picture taken. Something in the pinch of her mouth makes the petty part of Mary hope that she’s an insufferable bitch.
Maybe Matthew has a type.
When eventually Matthew gets in touch with her, as Mary knew he would, it’s on bloody Facebook chat. ‘I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us,’ he types. (He always goes above and beyond grammatically speaking in these kinds of scenarios, but still neglects his commas a little too much for Mary’s taste. She used to tease him about this. Thinking back on it now, she can only conclude that people in love are literally suffering a form of insanity.) ‘We are family after all.’
It’s technically true, though perhaps not as true as it feels. Knowing you’ve repeatedly shagged your long lost adopted cousin isn’t exactly Game of Thrones, but nor does Mary want to be constantly reminded of it. Unfortunately, since her family is also his family, this is impossible.
Mary winds up inviting Matthew and Lavinia out to dinner, just to prove how very, very, very all right she is.
‘My treat,’ she insists, and Matthew accepts.
+
Part 2
so happy together - Matthew gets engaged. Mary is heartbroken. (But will only cry in front of Carson, of course.) And then Mary meets Lavinia, and everything changes. A series of modern AU vignettes.
1.
The worst news of Mary Crawley’s life comes to her, unsurprisingly, through her sister Edith.
Specifically, an innocuous text message reading, have you seen facebook?
Mary checks Facebook. And there it is, the fourth post on her updates feed (after Carson’s photo album of all the produce he and Elsie Hughes have grown in their back yard garden this summer): “Matthew Crawley is engaged to Lavinia Swire.” There are already 42 congratulatory comments. Including a totally predictable one from Thomas Barrow reading only, “well well well.”
Mary takes a moment to remind herself that Matthew’s better off without her, then clicks ‘Like.’
She texts Edith back, About time. I was starting to worry he’d die an old maid. You next, then?
Then she looks at every one of Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes’ pictures of cabbages and carrots and potatoes and cucumbers and very handsomely grown leeks, comments, Married life is certainly treating someone well. Bon appetit!, and cries onto her laptop like someone’s just killed her puppy.
2.
“Are you all right?” Anna asks when she stops by Mary’s flat.
“All right is a bit of an understatement when one of your dearest friends is getting married. I’d say I’m giddy. Rhapsodic, even.”
“Mary,” Anna says knowingly.
“In fact, let’s go out and get blindingly drunk to celebrate, shall we?”
Anna cringes. “John and I are already going to the movies. You can come with us. Daisy might join. It’s that one with Anne Hathaway in it,” she adds hopefully, like that will reignite Mary’s will to live.
“I’ll go get pissed then,” Mary says, making sure to keep her voice airy, like this is all a satirical version of herself. The only kind of Mary Crawley that could possibly care. “But I’ll have you know that I’m very disappointed in you.”
“We’ll come with you,” Anna offers quickly. “The movie can wait.”
Mary takes a moment to visualize herself up in the club with Anna, Daisy, and John Bates. It’s hilarious enough to cure her heartache. Well. For a second, anyway.
“It’s all right. I’m a big girl. I don’t need you babysitting me in my hour of grief.”
“Sure you do. That’s what friends are for.”
Mary does go to the movie, for Anna’s sake. She makes sure to be lively and funny and say all the right things and be perfectly okay with the fact that Anna’s fallen in love with one of her father’s childhood best friends. If Anna’s not bothered about the age difference, then neither is Mary.
Who’s Mary to turn her nose up at love, after all? Everyone seems to have gotten the knack of holding onto it when they find it. Except for Mary, who prefers to beat it senseless with a shovel and then sink into irrational disappointment when she discovers, oh look, it’s died.
+
She does go out and get blindingly drunk afterwards. She even invites Richard Carlisle along. It’s not one of her best life decisions, but no matter: she’s pretty sure she’s already made her worst. Things can hardly go downhill from here.
3.
Mary is bombarded with phone calls and emails from everyone she knows – well, except her father, but her mother assures him that he’s quietly, stoically devastated.
“Devastated? Really, Mother; someone hasn’t died.”
“Mary, we all know you well enough to know that the careless act is just that: an act. Please don’t treat us like we’re overreacting just because we’re worried about you.”
Mary hangs up on her. It’s not very mature, but sometimes immaturity is the only option.
Edith, she isn’t speaking to outside of insulting text messages. It’s best that way.
Then there’s Sybil, whose bizarre three-person-couple situation with Gwen and Tom has given her a naively optimistic view about love triangles. “Something always works out!” she soothes, to which Mary snaps, “Oh, go back to your orgy.” Sybil starts indignantly babbling about how patriarchal notions of binary sexuality are severely restrictive, and there’s nothing debauched about polyamory, and blah blah blah blah blah; there are days when she really wishes some internet villain would bring down Tumblr once and for all just so Sybil could become tolerable company again. (That’s a lie: Sybil is always tolerable company, bless her, even when she’s making their father’s eyes bug out by telling him she will be bringing her boyfriend and her girlfriend home for Christmas. In fact, especially then.)
Mary imagines what Matthew might do if she just invited herself along into his new relationship. That makes her laugh, at least.
+
The worst of all is visiting Carson and Mrs. Hughes at their cottage in the country. Even though she’s been told to call her Elsie, Mary has a very hard time thinking of Mrs. Hughes as anything but Mrs. Hughes. You don’t just go around calling the kind-and-fair-but-don’t-you-dare-cross-her housekeeper of your youth by her first name once you hit your twenties.
“Oh, milady,” Carson sighs sympathetically, pulling out the nickname he’d given her in her childhood. Mary’s very, very glad he’s not a butler anymore – as she got older, she realized what a thoroughly insufficient line of work it was for someone as smart as Carson, though he never seemed to complain – but she misses him living closer.
Mrs. Hughes makes tea and lays it out on the small (but very cozy) kitchen table. Mary knows that Mrs. Hughes is not inclined to think nearly as kindly of Mary as Carson is, but she’s always decent nonetheless, and Mary likes her. Maybe she’ll be like Mrs. Hughes, going about life alone and taking care of herself, finally settling down once she’s old and wise enough to appreciate it.
“I don’t know about this Miss Swire,” Carson pronounces in his booming tones as he sips his tea. Mary has always imagined that God must sound a great deal like Charles Carson, though He probably laughs more. “I expect Matthew will wake up one day and realize he’s made a very grave mistake in settling for someone so unsatisfactory.”
“Oh, hush, Charles,” Mrs. Hughes chastises, swatting his shoulder with a dishrag as she passes by him to sit down on his other side. “Lavinia Swire’s done nothing to nobody, and doesn’t deserve our scorn.”
“She’s taken Mary’s fiance!” Carson protests.
“But he is not Mary’s fiance anymore,” Mrs. Hughes says firmly. She meets Mary’s eyes afterward, and says, not entirely convincingly, “Sorry, Mary dear. That was a bit harsh.”
“No, you’re right,” Mary says. “I wish everyone else was as correct on the matter as you are.”
“Mary, you simply have to wish him happiness, try to not to let bitterness eat you up, and carry on with things,” Mrs. Hughes tells her. “You’re a bright girl and the future holds a great deal for you. Just carry on finding it, and remember that Matthew wasn’t the one for you.”
“I only wish I knew how to act toward Lavinia,” Mary laments. “We’re going to have to see each other sooner or later. And knowing this family, probably sooner.”
“Well, there’s a simple formula for that,” Mrs. Hughes says, undaunted. “Be good to her until she gives you reason not to be.”
And, well. Mary supposes there’s sense in that.
“She’s a very wise woman, your wife,” Mary tells Carson, smiling.
“I’ve often thought so,” Carson replies, looking at Mrs. Hughes with such affection that Mary wouldn’t be surprised if his eyes turned to hearts.
“Only often?” Mrs. Hughes asks, lifting her eyebrows.
“So sorry, my dear. Always.”
“That’s better.” Mrs. Hughes kisses his cheek.
Mary laughs, and tries to smother the pang of utterly senseless envy while Mrs. Hughes starts gathering the dishes.
“No, no, I’ve got it,” Carson insists, gallantly taking the domestic lead. Mrs. Hughes gratefully sinks back down into her chair. “And once we’ve got the kitchen sorted, Mary, you must see the cabbages. I’ve never been one to brag, but I must say—”
“They’re extraordinary,” Mrs. Hughes interrupts proudly.
“Exactly,” Carson says, smiling.
And so Mary gets a comprehensive vegetable tour.
On her way out an hour or so later, Mrs. Hughes gives her a quick hug in the kitchen and then starts on dinner.
Carson walks her to the door.
“Don’t tell Mrs. Hughes,” he says in conspiratorial tones as Mary puts her coat on, “but I think he’ll see the light.”
“Do you, Carson?” Mary asks, and her voice comes out sounding so meek and childish.
“How could he not?” Carson says simply, which sets Mary off crying. She’s always only been able to cry in front of two people, Carson and Anna, but she feels like such a burden to Anna sometimes. Never Carson.
Mrs. Hughes considerately turns on some music in the kitchen, and Mary sobs in Carson’s arms until she feels like she can face the world again.
They send a basket of vegetables home with her.
4.
And of course, she studies Matthew’s new Facebook profile picture obsessively. It’s of him and this Lavinia Swire. Matthew looks all right – he’s put on a little weight, but isn’t that what’s always supposed to happen when you’re settled down and in love? The point is, he looks happy. Much happier than he did in the last few months with Mary, where he was really beginning to look like an anorexic vampire, all pale and brooding and upset all the time.
He’s outside – Mary recognizes the area as his mum Isobel’s backyard – and he’s got his arm slung around Lavinia.
Mary feels almost sorry for the picture. It’s the only one of Matthew and Lavinia up on Facebook so far. He hadn’t even said they were dating beforehand. Then again, he went a bit off the grid after the breakup with Mary. So it makes sense. Still, there’s no getting away from the fact that this picture will be obsessively scrutinized by everyone Mary knows, after his first attempt at getting engaged led to his lovely bride calling the wedding off two days before.
This is all that Lavinia Swire has to offer, to placate the people who thought Matthew belonged with Mary. And really, it’s not much. She’s pretty, but an ordinary kind of pretty: reddish blonde hair, a sweet face, very much a traditional English rose. She’s wearing jeans and a light green cardigan, and her hair’s up in a bun that makes her look a bit like an escapee from a period piece film. She looks a little awkward, her smile a little pinched and forced, like she’s one of those people who doesn’t like having her picture taken. Something in the pinch of her mouth makes the petty part of Mary hope that she’s an insufferable bitch.
Maybe Matthew has a type.
When eventually Matthew gets in touch with her, as Mary knew he would, it’s on bloody Facebook chat. ‘I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us,’ he types. (He always goes above and beyond grammatically speaking in these kinds of scenarios, but still neglects his commas a little too much for Mary’s taste. She used to tease him about this. Thinking back on it now, she can only conclude that people in love are literally suffering a form of insanity.) ‘We are family after all.’
It’s technically true, though perhaps not as true as it feels. Knowing you’ve repeatedly shagged your long lost adopted cousin isn’t exactly Game of Thrones, but nor does Mary want to be constantly reminded of it. Unfortunately, since her family is also his family, this is impossible.
Mary winds up inviting Matthew and Lavinia out to dinner, just to prove how very, very, very all right she is.
‘My treat,’ she insists, and Matthew accepts.
+
Part 2
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