Just a bit of fluffy humor in anticipation of the changing family dynamics in series 3. As usual this is not to be taken too seriously :) Special thanks to 3down1up for looking it over and making sure I'm not crazy!

Chapter 1

The foyer was rife with Mary's unvoiced annoyance that morning. It felt to be creeping out of her very pores, seeping up the walls and filling in the grooves in the crown molding. But as usual the ivory surface of her face betrayed nothing, looking to the entire world as a lesson in imperturbation. It certainly appeared that way to Mary's younger sister, who suspected nothing amiss as she lounged on a plush bench, serene as the Lady Madonna herself, and blathering on about her latest pair of botched booties."

"It was a disaster, Mary. The yarn was completely ruined!"

"You never did have a genius for needlework," Mary replied brutally. "Best to leave it to one of Branson's innumerable female relations."

Sybil sighed. "That's what his mother keeps telling me."

Their loitering in the foyer was a reversal of sorts, a paradox of the ages, for at the moment it was the women waiting for the men folk. Mary in particular was eagerly anticipating the arrival of her husband, who two days previous had been struck with another of his splendid ideas – a Saturday drive out in the countryside with their new motor. That morning was to be the fulfillment of his grand scheme, and such an excursion might have been the perfect antidote for Mary's ill humor, a reminiscence of their early engagement when country drives were frequent and sometimes whispered behind closed doors in the neighborhood to be indecently long.

But she could foresee with an ominous clairvoyance that this outing would bear no hint of those memorable getaways, for Matthew, in his vast charity, had invited along the Abbey's most recent guests, which just so happened to include the one person who'd been the sole source of Mary's dour mood, and who was just then emerging from behind one of those forbidden baize covered doors.

"Good morning, Branson," Mary greeted.

"Good morning, Lady Mary," he evenly replied.

Yes, the chauffeur was back, yet again, and this time at the earnest behest of Lady Grantham. Sybil was nigh onto her delivery date, and her mother considered it an extreme offense, a veritable affront to nature if her first grandchild were born anywhere but under the secure rooftop of Downton Abbey. The Bransons themselves had decided early on that the drawbacks of the journey outweighed any of the numerous benefits; but Cora's fervor had eclipsed all argument. Papa pleaded. Sybil reasoned. Edith felt sure she didn't care one way or another. And Mary wisely chose to swallow down any of her complaints in the face of her mother's ferocious threats.

"What were you doing down there?" Sybil inquired of her husband, patting the empty seat beside her.

He sat down and began rubbing her belly. Mary looked away. "Just popped down for a few to do some catching up," she heard him reply.

Typical Branson, Mary mused. Of course he would have the audacity to traverse the halls, whether intended for servant or family use, with impunity. Indeed, he seemed to take distinct relish in trampling over each and every one of the established and time-honored household customs. He would have no valet. He dispensed with Anna's linen changing each morning. He even refused to ring the bell!

Mary took a deep breath. If she drooped her lids just right her vision blurred enough to transform the fawning into something more akin to Carson polishing a fat, silver tureen. The irritability that stoked whenever Branson was near was something she tried desperately hard to regulate, and on the whole she managed to bear with the trial of her sister's wayward decision with an adequate amount of composure – at least, when the Bransons were nestled hundreds of miles away in Dublin's fair city. But when they were visiting the Abbey, and she had the misfortune of actually seeing him, whether casually leaning against a piece of furniture worth more than his life savings, or seated intolerable close to her darling little sister as he was now – a fresh and palpable reminder of everything he had taken from her – her heart never failed to simmer with fierce a resentment.

The prospect of the upcoming activity was causing the heat to bubble up even now, a matchstick thrown under the burner of her temper, but was remarkably cooled by the vision descending the steps – Matthew Crawley, her husband – clad in a fine khaki suit and a pair of sumptuous driving gloves.

"We were wondering when you would arrive," Mary greeted him with a smile. "If you ever expect to be a proper host you must learn not to be late to your own party." They exchanged a swift kiss, and all dreary thoughts of brother-in-laws were discarded. "I suppose it was the cuff links this morning. Do I need to have another word with Molesley?"

"Hardly," Matthew chuckled. "Your father stopped me on the way over. He wanted to discuss some business with the estate. It seems the geese have gotten quite the run of the lake lately," he informed her with zeal.

She flashed a magazine-cover smile. "Fascinating. Well, now that we've all convened we had better set off." Mary turned to address her sister being helped to her feet by her husband. "I'm sure you're quite looking forward to our jaunt into the wilderness."

Sybil yawned. "I suppose. Though to be honest I'm not very fond of drives."

They gathered into the new motor – a 1920 Rolls Royce with all the trimmings – Mary perched to the left of Matthew who took steady command of the driver's seat, his wife's hand laced up in a tasteful white glove that rested gracefully upon his knee. With some intricate maneuvering Sybil was eventually crammed inside with Branson occupying what little space remained in the back seat.

They drove on companionably, both couples content in their own quiet and mercifully separate conversations. It was early summer, and the caustic heat of North York was beginning to wilt the countryside; but nonetheless the charming aspect of nature's easy beauty was a balm to those ensconced in the cement fortresses of the city, and still a sweet diversion to those more at home amidst the hillocks and dales.

The evening before, Matthew had papered their dining table with detailed maps of the county, scribbling down copious notes. "Are we going for a drive in the country or storming Haxby Park?" Mary had teased, but smiled fondly over his head bent low in serious concentration. Matthew had an aptitude for planning, but was rather over-meticulous – a natural fault of lawyers, she had always assumed. But since the specially designed route would take them a good ways apart from civilization, even she had to admit it was wise to ensure they ventured forth sufficiently prepared.

Other than destination the scheme had also been careful in its schedule, set as a morning expedition that would have the party back well before luncheon. But for Sybil, whose sake the early hour had been decided, their hour of homecoming and sustenance would not be nearly soon enough. Apparently Matthew, for all his foresight, had forgotten that uniquely pregnant necessity of the midmorning snack.

A loud grumbling preceded Sybil's next words.

"I'm hungry," she pouted. The complaint gave Branson a jolt as he remembered:

"Oh! I asked Daisy to make a sandwich for you while I was down in the kitchen." He made a grand show of presenting her the bounty, which she duly accepted with overt gratitude, and before long Sybil's mouth was full to the brim with ham and cheese.

Mary viewed it all with ugly disdain from the mirror. Aside from the canoodling, and the visible evidence that Sybil's eating habits had grown rather indelicate, there were other observations that disquieted her, such as how a full-length ham and cheese sandwich could suddenly appear out of seemingly thin air.

"Where was he keeping it?" she muttered to her husband. "Under his hat?" Typical Branson, she mused. Full of secrets.

Matthew chuckled, a light, frothy sound that carried to the clouds. He was a regular chatterbox that morning, regaling Mary with anecdotes from the office and being put to stitches by her wry replies. He looked quite as delicious as Sybil's ham and cheese with the wind fraying his brown locks and the sunlight dressing up his eyes, and for a while Mary was able to ignore the nauseating display from the backseat.

The roads became slimmer and dirtier; the number of people, sheep, and living beings in general thinned out to a hair. Ambling along, the quick, fresh air restored vitality and cleared away any residual anxiety as to the make up of the party. It was event planning at its epoch, and Matthew smiled with a bit of smug pride that he had successfully worked out his ploy to make Mary enjoy a day out with Branson.

"Still seething?" he asked her.

"Do I look like it?"

"No. But then you never do."

"That would present a quite problem for your husbandly discernment. I suggest you make a return to the habits of your schooldays, and denote myself as the subject of your devoted study."

"You have my devotion in any form you please, and that for the rest of my life." He snuck in an adoring glance before plastering his eyes back to the road, and removed his timepiece from his jacket pocket to check on the time. "I think things have gone marvelously. The only thing left is to get your pregnant sister safely back to Downton," he said – which naturally meant that was the exact moment when a loud, abrupt grating emitted from under the bonnet.

The car lurched to a slow crawl. The engine stalled and came to a stuttering stop.

Matthew tittered nervously.

"Well, looks like something's gone awry. Let me just…" He hopped out and fiddled for a few minutes with the crankshaft.

Branson didn't budge an inch from his seat, but kindly offered, "I don't think that will help."

Matthew glanced up. "Oh?"

"Sounded like the transmission, not the starter."

"Ah." Matthew popped open the hood of the bonnet. What greeted him was a tangle of metal parts and widgets as familiar as ancient hieroglyphics.

"Yes, the transmission." He cleared his throat and loosened his tie, before giving another tremulous laugh. "Rather grimy down there, isn't it."

"Should be," Branson replied, "if it's working right."

"Or even if it isn't, apparently," Matthew said with a chuckle.

Mary was fast growing weary of the banal exchange. Branson, just get out and fix the bloody thing! Not in a score of centuries would she have uttered the remark out loud, but to her luck there was another mouth with the gumption to voice the obvious.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Tom, just get out and fix the bloody thing!" Sybil exclaimed, several morsels of bread flying from her mouth.

"Language, darling."

"I'm not a lady anymore, Mary, I don't have to watch my language." Mary's eyes made several revolutions as Sybil applied to her husband yet again. "Well?"

Branson shrugged. "I can't," he said simply.

"Don't be ridiculous! I've seen you turn a junk heap into a working engine before. Surely you can repair whatever's broken in this brand new, top of the line motor!"

"Of course I can. Just not here, like this." Sybil lowered her eyes, a visual message that if she missed even one bite of luncheon he would surely be the one to suffer. "I don't have any tools!" he cried in his defense. "I can't fix it with the power of my mind!"

"Then it seems we'll need to acquire some tools," Matthew chimed in diplomatically, reclaiming his seat behind the wheel. "Perhaps from the next village?"

The next village. It sounded simple enough, but Mary felt that telltale tingle tip toeing its way up her spine, that pervasive, unshakable feeling that things were about to get a lot worse before they got better.

"How far away is that?" she asked tersely.

Matthew retrieved the map and ran his finger down the thick, red line that marked out their route. "About fifteen miles, I should say."

"That's not too far," Branson responded hopefully. "I suppose we'll just have to –"

"I am not walking," Sybil protested. "Not unless you all want to try your hands at midwifery before the day is through."

Leather seats not yet worn in belched loudly as Mary twisted around. "Of course Sybil's not walking. And neither am I," she said flatly, permitting no dispute.

"Then what do you propose?" Matthew asked. Mary shrugged.

"We'll wait. Our absence will be noticed and after a time Papa will send a motor out looking for us. You did tell Papa where we were going, didn't you Matthew?"

Matthew looked down to his feet.

"Matthew."

He looked up at the sky.

"Matthew?"

He gave a sheepish smile. "Perhaps that one small detail slipped my mind…"

An aggravated groan was looming at the base of Mary's throat, but like all emotions undignified she squelched it down soundly – so much for Matthew's perfect planning."I don't believe all is lost," she said. "While this obviously isn't a busy road, I'm sure it's not completely deserted. We'll simply have to wait for another passing motor."

The trio obeyed without contest and endeavored to situate themselves for a long wait. But to their endless relief, and after only a half hour of tense silence punctuated by bouts of heavy blame shifting, a lorry came rumbling by, headed in the direction of Matthew's village about fifteen miles off. Branson and Matthew left the car to wave the good driver down, Mary fast on their heels.

"Move aside, I'll deal with this," she ordered, patience with the affair waning, and brutally shoving both men aside as she stepped up to the driver's window with a winning smile. She knew herself to be by far the most diplomatic of the bunch, as well as the best speaker besides, and immediately set about issuing an eloquent and concise explanation of their current dire straights. The driver nodded along, appearing wholly sympathetic, and Mary felt sure of an early release from their plight by the end of her spiel, wherein he cupped a hand over his ear, all but shouting:

"What's that, Miss?"

Mary started.

"Forgive me, I thought myself clear. I said our motor has broken down and we'd be ever so grateful for a lift to the next village."

"Gonna have to talk louder, Miss," he said, tapping his ear by way of explanation. There were too many grievances Mary was currently harboring, but she set aside extra room for this cosmic joke, this sending of a stone-deaf driver as their deliverance, that the heavens were no doubt giggling over. But she collected herself, sallied forth bravely, and tried once again, one notch higher in dynamic.

A ping pong match ensued, Mary crawling inch by inch up in volume, the driver responding with requests for more; but they were at an impasse, for the driver could no sooner mend his hearing as he could his teeth (or what was left of them), and as for Mary, decades spent mastering the art of polite table talk forbid her from raising her voice above anything indecorous, though she tried to compensate by accentuating with vigor. By the fourth recapitulation it was clear action must be taken by the single member of the party with absolutely no compunctions on civility.

"CAN YOU TAKE US TO THE NEXT VILLAGE?" Branson shouted directly into the man's ear.

A toothless grin erupted on the driver's face. "Course I can take you all! Hop into the back and we'll be off!"

Branson gallantly handed his wife in, while Matthew quickly followed to help lower the pregnant woman down onto the bed of the lorry, and she looked tolerably settled when a stricken expression overtook her.

"My sandwich!" Sybil cried, reaching fruitlessly in the direction of her cherished snack. Branson immediately set off towards the motor, and before Mary could be helped in her husband proffered down a request of his own.

"Mary, darling, could you fetch my jacket from the front seat? I wouldn't bother but it has my wallet."

Mary bit her tongue. She wouldn't have bothered either if it weren't for the way his twinkling blue eyes sweetened the entreaty, and it really was such a petty request that she soon found herself trailing after Branson, who was upbeat and whistling, appearing almost too jovial in his readiness to remain Sybil's eternal servant.

Two heads bent down to retrieve their spouses' errant belongings, and snapped back again at the sound of a rumbling engine, the screeching of wheels, and the look of dismay on Sybil and Matthew's faces from the back of the lorry as they were bore swiftly down the road.

Matthew quickly popped his head around to the driver's side window. "Stop! Stop I say!" But the man drove on, heedless, hearing nothing but his own atonal humming and what he assumed to be a very nasally bird.

Matthew tried again – "You've left some of us behind!" – which additional plea availed him not. Panic set in, and Sybil gave him a wide berth as he dispensed it with furious arm flapping and futilely yelling out his wife's name. The two stranded figures on either side of Matthew's motor continued to diminish, and when time and distance had shrunk them down to miniatures he took a steadying breath, and turned towards Sybil.

"Shall we jump out?" He might have suggested they bake her first born into a meat pie for the expression of horror on her face.

"You're right," Matthew agreed. "Wouldn't quite be the thing, now would it?"

"No, very unwise indeed. But I'm sure another motor will come by soon. They can catch a ride then, and we'll all be reunited before long." Matthew looked unconvinced, and troubled. Sybil exerted a modicum of energy by lifting her hand to his in support. "Don't worry Matthew," she comforted. "Mary will be all right. I'm sure Tom will take good care of her."

Matthew grimaced.

"Mary's not the one I'm worried about."

Next time we shall see how our stranded wayfarers are doing. Thanks for reading :)