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Lavinia knows Mary and Matthew have a history that's still very much present in the present. She's not blind, and even if she were, she'd still be able to feel the tension making itself at home between them whenever they share spaces. But Mary is kind to her and Matthew is polite but generous in his declarations of affection, so she finds it in her to trust them.
It's simply a delicate situation, she thinks. But things are the way they are now, and there's no reason they should change. It's comfortable, if a little complicated.
In retrospect, she had no idea.
Things do change, because circumstances keep conspiring to throw Mary and Lavinia together in Matthew's absence. And through painfully polite conversation, they discover a vast amount of common ground.
After that the conversations become decidedly less awkward and far more animated.
And Lavinia starts to understand why Matthew loves his beautiful, charming cousin quite well.
By the time Matthew comes home for an extended stretch, on leave, they're fast friends.
Much like their friendship, falling into the detective business is an accident. Lavinia has become taken with detective fiction, and she's devouring the latest collection of Sherlock Holmes stories when it happens: a baron's daughter from a neighbouring estate goes missing.
Surprisingly, Mary is the most affected of the Crawley sisters, a role that usually falls squarely to Sybil.
There's a snide comment on her reaction from Edith after dinner. (And Lavinia would expect nothing less.)
"You've never heard her pay a single compliment to Miss Edwards in her life until now."
Lavinia hides her smile as Mary narrows her eyes at her sister. "I heard that Edith."
"Well it's true."
"It is not. We used to play together as children when you were just a baby. When you were older we didn't see them as often because-" her tone clearly indicates that she's quoting someone, her father or mother or grandmother, "- I had you to play with. Anyway, even you must think it's simply awful news."
"I do," Edith assures her. "So awful in fact, that I'm going to drive over tomorrow and give Mrs Edwards my condolences. But I want to go in the morning when you're still in the village so I suppose you won't be able to join me. And Branson is taking Papa to his meeting tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps you could waiting until Thursday."
Mary looks like she just might stick out her tongue at her sister. Instead she smiles sweetly, "Well I guess I'll have to."
Lavinia sets her tea cup down in her saucer. "Or I could take you Mary, tomorrow afternoon?"
When the details are settled, Mary takes Lavinia's arm as she shows the guests out. "Thank you for the offer Lavinia, really. Edith was being frightful this evening."
"I think she might just be proud that she learned to drive."
"Well I'm sure I could too if I cared to."
"So am I," Lavinia pats her hand and drops her arm. "How about I teach you? Tomorrow? We'll try it."
And so they do.
By the time they make it to the Edwards' home, Lavinia's knuckles are white from gripping at the door and she's never been so scared in her entire life. Mary, on the other hand, has more confidence than skill and is enjoying herself immensely.
Her mood sobers though when she regards the familiar house. "Oh Lavinia. I wonder what became of her."
"She sounds a lot like Lady Frances Carfax in the novel I'm reading," Lavinia answers as they both regard the facade, far more modest than Downton, but still inviting. "A woman denied an inheritance because of her gender, gone missing from her home."
"That could be me," Mary remarks.
"I suppose you're right."
"What happens to Lady Frances?"
" She's robbed of some precious jewellery and about to be buried alive, but Holmes and Watson find her in the end. "
"Well then, I rather hope that in this instance, life imitates art."
"It could," Lavinia observes, suddenly struck by the idea. "We could investigate ourselves a little bit, if you wanted."
"Lavinia, you've been reading far too many books."
"No I haven't," she defends. "But I confess, they have made me curious. What's the harm in it?"
"Well there's none I suppose, except that it's completely pointless."
"Would you wager on it?"
(Lavinia is learning that Mary's stubborn streak is trumped only by her love of competition and that this is by far and away the best way to talk her into just about anything.)
"I was told that only fools speculate," she declares, but Lavinia hears the note of hesitation.
She presses. "And I was only told that only those that fear they will lose turn down a bet."
"Very well." Mary turns to her with a determined look in her eye. "I'll stake five pounds on the outcome. If we find anything of any particular interest, it's yours."
"Deal."
They shake hands and the rest of the visit passes uneventfully.
Two weeks later, they find Catherine Edwards themselves. As Lavinia bends to cut the ties binding her wrists Mary catches her eye and reads the silent I told you so. When the police arrive, they watch as the kidnappers are led away in shackles, leaning against the hood of the car. Lavinia opens her mouth, but before she can do more than open her leather-clad palm, Mary is shoving a crisp bill beneath her fingers, half-scowling, half-smiling.
The hobby slowly becomes more of a vocation, obsession. They concoct a story about serving the war effort and instead, drive to the surrounding areas, tracking down adulterous spouses and missing veterans, catching petty thieves and even once, a lady's maid who had attempted to murder her employer. As their reputation grows though, it becomes harder and harder to keep the secret at Downton.
Eventually Lord Grantham catches wind of his daughter's new past time.
Thankfully, Sybil chooses that evening to announce her engagement to the chauffeur. Mary relays the tale to Lavinia with a laugh and a, "Bless her soul. I don't know what he would've said otherwise."
"Well we always knew they wouldn't approve," Lavinia says, refilling their cups of tea. "So long as they can accept it, I'm satisfied. Besides, he couldn't honestly expect that you'd be happy simply being Mrs Richard Carlisle for the rest of your life. You're much too clever for that."
Mary sips her tea politely.
Their respective fiancées have never been something they discuss.
"I imagine that when we marry the arrangement will have to change," she observes. "You and Matthew will live at Downton of course, and Sir Richard is looking at property in the area but nothing is settled."
"No," Lavinia agrees, averting her gaze toward the floor, eyes catching Mary's fingers where they curl around the handle of Mrs Crawley's good china. She feels strangely empty all of a sudden, at the prospect of married life. When she looks up, there's a heavy subtext behind her words, a voice to new uncertainties. "I suppose it's not."
Their solve rate is so impressive that Mary thinks Sir Richard, were he more receptive to the idea at all, would be encouraging them to charge. As it is, neither of them know the slightest thing about running a business. Lavinia surprises her one afternoon by suggesting a drive down to the village. She stops in the middle of a row of shops in front of an empty glass window. Her knuckles rap against it. "I was thinking we could open up an office here."
"Here?" Mary gapes a little at the thought. Everybody who's anybody in Grantham knows her. She's not sure she can handle being the talk of the town anymore than she already is. More importantly, she's certain her mother couldn't bear it.
"Well, I did look in London when I was at home last week. There are certainly spaces, but the rent in the city is much higher and we might have to consider a less than prized locale. And then of course, there's the matter of you still living here."
"Are you sure we need an office? It seems a bit much."
Lavinia's teeth curl into her lip and Mary hates being the reason her face falls. It's only momentary though, her expression shifts almost at once. "We could ask Mrs Crawley if she wouldn't mind us using the front room. She's always saying that the house is far too big for just the two of us."
It's a compromise (or at least a smile) that she can live with. Mary nods her consent and lets Lavinia link their arms. She chats amiably all the way back to where Branson is waiting with the car, but about what Mary can't say, she's too distracted by the pleasant scent of Lavinia's hair.
At the end of the war, planning for Matthew and Lavinia's wedding begins in earnest and Mary finds it incredibly difficult to be happy about that. Lavinia has absolutely no spare time to dedicate to solving crimes which leaves Mary at a loose end for most of her day, wondering how on earth she used to fill the time. (It's been nearly five months since Miss Edwards' disappearance. They've slipped into what was a comfortable routine.) The solitude makes her distant, with Lavinia, with her family, even with Matthew. Her sisters are used to her periods of detachment and she can tell that though Matthew is discouraged by her aloof manner, but he's not wounded by it. It's Lavinia who is hurt the most by her curt but polite conversation, her seemingly bored manner whenever they're together.
Mary sees it. Lavinia has always had honest and expressive eyes, a girlish face and there's no hiding anything when you're the picture of earnestness. It puzzles her. If anything, Lavinia is the one doing the damage. It's the wedding that's changing things, not Mary.
After a particularly onerous conversation over lunch, Mary escapes to the garden to be bemused in peace. Her mother thinks she's suffering over Matthew, but, as Cora told her the other night before dinner, there's no real way of avoiding the subject with the fixed date fast-approaching. There's simply too much planning to be done. But it's not Matthew that's troubling her, which is troubling in itself. It's a feeling she daren't name aloud, that she resents Lavinia not for marrying someone Mary has loved, but rather, for marrying anyone at all.
Everyone else is oblivious, but Mary expects her grandmother knows somehow, because the Dowager Countess has made an art out of seeing right through people. And she's noticed Granny's eyes darting back and forth between herself and Matthew and Lavinia in turn, shrewdly.
The very idea is mortifying enough to raise a blush. She presses the palms of both hands against her cheeks in an effort to suppress it. When she realises the effort is futile she drops them to her sides hoping that she's truly alone, and that if she isn't, she can pass off embarrassment for the cold.
As if at the thought, the sound of ground underfoot disturbs her.
Lavinia crosses the grass in a brisk walk and slumps onto the seat beside her, drawing the shawl around her shoulders more tightly and rubbing her hands together.
"Whatever are you doing out here without a coat?" Mary asks as a greeting. "You'll catch your death."
Lavinia's teeth are already threatening to chatter but she shakes her head and looks incredulous. "You left rather abruptly. I thought I had better check on you."
"I'm fine, I was just -" she pauses while she runs her fingers in patterns against the wood beneath them "- thinking."
"You haven't been especially excited for me Mary," Lavinia almost whispers. "You haven't been the same since Matthew got home, since we started planning the wedding."
"How could I be?" She looks up, eyes pleading with Lavinia's even as the rest of her tries to force her face into a neutral expression.
"Are you jealous of me?"
"No," Mary says. "It's the funniest thing but I'm not jealous of you at all. I think I'm jealous of Matthew."
Lavinia blinks, slow in her understanding.
"Because he gets to marry you Lavinia," she explains quietly. "And when he does, nothing will be the same. I keep listening to you try to convince yourself that it will be, but how could it?"
The conversation is emotional though they're both fighting it, attempting restraint. They trade words as whispers and they lean forward to be heard, until the fog of their breath rises between their faces.
"Matthew's a good man, you know that. He'd never stop me from doing something I love. He wants me to be happy."
"And the detective work, it makes you happy?"
"Of course it does, you must know that. In fact, I don't think I could ever be happy without it." Lavinia pauses, sucks in a breath like she's steeling herself before she finishes the thought. "Without you."
The surprise of Mary's hand gripping at hers almost sends her jerking backwards. She curses the impulse though, because Mary sees it and pulls her own hand away, burned.
"I apologise I," she begins, more flustered than Lavinia has ever seen her. "I only meant to say that I'd miss it too."
"Mary," Lavinia wonders at her name, question and plea and promise, then reaches out, shyly, for the fingers her palm feels the loss of. Their hands tangle. "Look at me," she instructs, softly, punctuating her request with a soft tug at Mary's hand.
They face each other honestly and Lavinia forgets the words that were poised on her tongue, forgets everything except for the way all of her skin seems to be alive with sensation and how the only thing she can hear is the drumming of her own heart in her ears. She leans forward, hesitates, waits but Mary doesn't move, doesn't even seem to breathe and that's enough. She swallows down the quieter voices that tell her to stop and listens to the louder ones singing out for contact. It's a quick and soft brush of lips, tentative, and when she sits back and opens her eyes, Lavinia's half-shocked by the fact that Mary's still sitting beside her, still holding her hand.
In fact, she looks awed by it herself. Mary's fingers dart up and press against her lips. "What was that?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know what's come over me," Lavinia breathes, fear driving her heart impossibly faster. "I confess I ... I've wanted to do that for so long but I never thought I would."
Mary looks surprised but not shocked. "You've wanted to kiss me?"
"Yes. I know. It was strange to me too but -"
She finds herself unable to continue. Mary's fingers are pressed against her lips, and her hand has dragged Lavinia's with it.
"That was hardly a proper kiss Lavinia," she says, ever the mystery, each word carrying its own volume of ambiguous undertones. Sometimes when she speaks like that, like she's telling a secret that she might get in trouble for, Lavinia wonders how Matthew could have turned her down, how any man could not fall in love with her.
And then she reaches out with her free hand to stroke Lavinia's jaw and leans forward until her mouth catches Lavinia's lower lip. The pressure is gentle at first, teasing, but it builds, it builds until Lavinia desperately opens her mouth to her and revels in the feel of her tongue, darting out to taste her. Lavinia's eyes are closed and she trembles at the unfamiliar response of her body, limbs threatening weakness, everything in her smouldering, including her lungs until the need for air cuts through everything else.
She chances a glance and Mary's face, but it's all composure. While Lavinia catches her breath, Mary folds her hands in her lap and looks as though nothing has changed. She throws a knowing smile over her shoulder after she stands and walks back towards the house, leaving Lavinia reeling on the garden seat.
Lavinia's intent is to demand an explanation. Her arm is tucked firmly into Mary's side and she nudges her into an open doorway as they lag behind the others in the hall. The door to the library slips shut behind them.
"What on earth are you doing?" Mary asks, pulling her arm free and adjusting her gloves.
"Don't pretend that you don't know." Lavinia folds he
r arms and leans against the door. "Mary. Please. I'm so very confused."
For a moment she considers admitting her own uncertainty, but it's not in her nature. Mary looks impatient. "The others will wonder you know, why you've dragged me off like this."
"We'll say it's about the wedding." She reaches out and clutches Mary's arm again when she makes to move past her, open the door.
It elicits a warning glare, but Lavinia ignores it, twists at Mary's arm and crowds her body, until she's the one leaning against the door and Lavinia is breathing against her neck. It causes a blush to creep above the neckline of her dress.
"You don't know either," Lavinia accuses, hands rough at the side of her face, teasing out a breath that sounds more like a whimper of need. Mary's hands find the waist of Lavinia's dress, linger on it, the rest of her stunned by the feeling.
It's so very different to Kemal Pamuk. She had thought she wanted him at the time, but now she thinks it wasn't really desire, it was just that she enjoyed how much he wanted her, the power she wielded, the chance to deny him. This is much less intellectual. It necessitates indulging instinct, because she's simply never heard of wanting another woman before. So she grips at Lavinia's dress and tries to ignore her body and says, "How on earth would I?"
It's the last thing Lavinia gives her an opportunity to say.
This is rougher than the kiss in the garden, a tousle of tongues and for dominance, fuelled by the knowledge and impossibility of what they want from each other.
Mary wants to mark her, wants to pull at her hair and mouth her neck until it's a clue, like the ones they piece together on cases. But she doesn't, because the need for secrecy is greater. Instead she lets her teeth swipe at Lavinia's lip as she pulls back, settling down onto her shoes and breathing heavily.
It draws a moan that hums through Lavinia's lips and echoes throughout Mary's body and then there's distance between them and a collective need for air.
They stare at each other.
Lavinia wants to say the right thing, wants to find words to explain the complicated things she feels but Mary beats her to speaking.
"We should hurry," she says, hands flying to her head to fix her hair by touch. "There'll be questions."
There are already too many.
It suddenly feels like there are too many eyes on them wherever they go. Mary feels it crawling on her skin, can't shake the sense that it's marked her visibly. But it hasn't. It takes her a week to abandon the thought completely, but she starts to realise that nobody is paying them much attention, that she can brush her fingers against Lavinia's thigh beneath the tablecloth and lean into her shoulder when they sit down for tea and indeed, steal kisses in abandoned rooms, without raising a single eyebrow.
They find a new rhythm.
Mary starts to test the theory that no one is watching and her experiments are glorious: fingers running through Lavinia's hair, pulling it from its pins, mouth discovering the skin below her ear which sends her gasping, hips pressing to hips against walls and mind alive with a singular focus, more.
It's gluttony at its worst.
And when she discovers that a well-wedged knee between Lavinia's legs beneath her skirt can have Lavinia keening into her mouth or biting down on her shoulder to silence her pleasure, she decides that the eternal damnation of her soul is going to be worth every sin.
In the first week of December, there's a call about a case they simply can't refuse. Lavinia catches her for a moment in the hall, pulls her into the shadow of the stairs and says, "What'll we do?"
"I imagine we'll drive up there tomorrow morning and stay with the Bingley's for a few days, do what we can to find their missing painting and come back here late next week."
Lavinia shakes her head, looks sad. "No, that's not what I mean. What I mean is... this might be our only chance. We could... go, and not come back."
Her breath hitches at that. She lets it out in a sigh. "I suppose I always knew this is what it would come to, sooner or later, that this would be my choice."
"So." Lavinia's stare reduces everything in her to the bare bones of it. "What do you choose?"
"You," she breathes.
They're not touching at all, but this is their most intimate moment.
When they recover the stolen Remembrandt and tie up loose ends, they find themselves sitting in a humming car staring at the driveway ahead and ahead of that the road that leads to any number of other roads.
Lavinia looks at Mary, studies her profile. She's looking out over the grounds of the country estate and thinking of home.
"Where shall we go?" Lavinia asks, gently.
"London," Mary says, resolutely. "To open up that office."
Lavinia stares at her, half expects her to add and then home to Downton, but she doesn't. Instead, she leans over and brushes a stray curl behind Lavinia's ear. "Well come on, what on earth are you waiting for?"
You, she thinks, I feel as though I always have been.
Instead she feigns displeasure and lets the car roll forward, gravel crunching under the weight of the tyres. She senses the eyes on her and glances over. "You're staring at me."
"Yes," Mary says, unrepentant. "I'm still... wondering. Why is it you?"
"Does it matter?"
"No, I suppose not. But it is Lavinia, it is you."
When she glances over, Mary has already turned to stare at the countryside and slip into introspection.
"I'm glad of it," Lavinia tells her quietly, eyes back on the road.
"I am too."
At least they can be certain of that.