HERE IT IS! My STEAMM day contribution! This story will be told in three parts, with parts 2 and 3 to follow soon (hopefully!) I won't say too much, as this is long enough, but thank you for reading, and LONG LIVE THE AU!

WHO WANTS TO DATE A CRAWLEY SISTER?
by The Yankee Countess

Chapter One
"The Auction"

The crowds were starting to gather when he arrived.

He wandered over to the far side of the room where others like him were standing, some with cameras hoisted up on tripods, others typing away on laptops and tablets, and a few simply using their phones to do their job. He was a rare one amongst this group; he still used a tape recorder and took notes with a pen on a small, spiral notebook.

"Ha! So you're the one who drew the short stick then?"

He sighed at the familiar voice and turned to look at his former work colleague who was grinning from ear to ear, because it was no secret between the both of them that he hated covering these sorts of things.

"Hello, Michael."

"Tom Branson; Tom 'I'm a political journalist and don't have time to cover such frivolous fluff stories' Branson is here, covering…?"

He sighed and tried his best not to look as defeated as he felt. "A charity auction—WHICH JUST SO HAPPENS to be run by the Crawley family, so there is a political connection to it," he argued.

"Bullshit," his friend laughed. "Nice try though."

Tom sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It was true; he hated covering things like this. He much preferred attending party conferences, leadership summits, interviewing MPs, and even getting in the fray of protests and rallies. Politics was the reason he got into journalism…not celebrity gossip. And as much as his brain tried to spin this particular assignment as being "political" because the Crawley family held some significance in the House of Lords ever since the Thatcher administration, the truth of the matter was…this was, as Michael teased him, a "fluff piece". Wealthy toffs, trying to look good for the papers and show the masses just how "generous" they were by hosting something grand like this.

"I still can't believe that you're still with The Standard," Michael chuckled, interrupting his thoughts.

"I still can't believe that you left!" Tom shot back. "And for Richard Carlisle's paper, as well. Whatever happened to, 'my grandfather was Old Labor, my father was Old Labor…'?"

"Pay is better at a Tory paper," Michael shrugged his shoulders. "Besides, I was never as 'political' as you, but maybe that's because I'm not an Irish republican?"

Tom snorted before sitting in a vacant chair near his old friend. "Selling out one's ideals for money; your grandfather must be turning in his grave."

Michael didn't seem bothered in the least. "Who said they were my ideals? Besides, it could be worse; at least it's not one of Murdoch's papers," he chuckled. "And as for my grandfather, he taught me to think for myself, which is what I did, and I'm glad of it. If I had stayed with The Standard, you think I'd be editor?"

Tom's eyes widened at this revelation. "What!? Already?"

Michael laughed. "Well, next month, actually. But yeah…you're looking at 'Michael Gregson, soon-to-be editor for The Herald Star."

Tom couldn't believe it. Not even six months, and Michael had already been promoted to editor. He had been with The Standard for nearly three years, and there was no talk of that happening any time soon.

"So what's a 'future editor' doing here, covering a posh charity auction?" he asked, somewhat bitterly. He couldn't help but feel a little envious of his friend.

"Well as I said, I won't be made editor until next month. But even so, you think I would miss this?" he grinned, before thrusting the auction program into Tom's face.

Tom frowned and took the program out of Michael's hands and examined it carefully. It was a list of items that would be auctioned off, including a 1922 Rolls-Royce and 1914 Renault. A whistle escaped his lips as he imagined the price tags of two such fine motors; he always had a thing for old cars. "Real beauties, I'd imagine," he murmured out loud.

"I'd say," Michael grinned.

Tom looked at his friend with a quirk of his eyebrow. "Even if the pay is that much better, there's no way you could afford either of those."

Michael looked a little confused. "What are you talking about?"

Now it was Tom who looked confused. "The Rolls and the Renault, of course! Why? Didn't you…?" he looked back at the list, trying to see if there was something he was missing.

Michael's bark of laughter practically caused him to fall off his chair.

"Good God, Tom! You thought I meant…?" he kept laughing and shook his head. "No, no, I meant this," he pointed to a section in the middle of the program, and Tom followed his finger.

FOR ONE NIGHT!
WIN A DINNER DATE WITH A CRAWLEY SISTER!
LADIES MARY, EDITH, AND SYBIL CRAWLEY

Tom blinked…and then read the program a second time. He finally lifted his eyes to Michael, his own wide with shock. "The man is auctioning off his own daughters!?"

"Well technically it's their grandmother, as she's the one who runs the Grantham Foundation, but for heaven's sake, Branson, you make it sound as if the whole is 'nefarious', when it's just a bit of fun! Dinner dates, nothing more!" A smirk began to spread across his face. "Although, I suppose it's always possible more could happen—"

"You're sick," Tom muttered, tossing the program back at his friend. "And besides, as members of the press, I highly doubt we're even allowed to participate. Just cover the event, not take part in it."

Michael shrugged his shoulders and stuffed the program back into his waistcoat pocket. "Ah well, a man can dream, can't he?" he sighed. "I've heard they're all gorgeous too."

Tom chose to ignore Michael, and instead began taking notes in his notebook about the crowd that was starting to fill the auction hall, his eyes scanning the growing throng to see if any key political figures had decided to attend.

One such figure did catch his eye, and Tom thought the man significant enough to scribble down in his notebook: Sir Anthony Strallan, Minister of Agriculture.

He couldn't help but wonder…what had brought the Yorkshire baronet to auction? And what was it that the man was hoping to win?

"Well, as I live and breathe, Anthony Strallan is here!"

Anthony looked up from the program he was reading (and marking with a pen) at the voice that was calling out to him. He smiled at the sight of the old friend who was approaching, and rose to shake the man's hand.

"Martin! So you've come as well?"

Martin Grey laughed and nodded his head. "As if I would this; I think Violet would have my head on a spike if I dared not show to her annual auction," he chuckled. "Although I think I know what you've come for…am I right?"

Anthony couldn't help but grin knowingly.

Martin sighed. "I'm almost afraid to ask which one you'll go for."

Anthony chuckled. "That depends on which one I can outbid you on."

Martin narrowed his eyes, though there was humor in his glare. "I've seen the Rolls, and it is a beauty. But a vintage Renault? That predates WWI? Can you imagine how rare a car like that can be?"

Anthony only grinned, glancing down at the notes he had been making on his program. "More than you know," he murmured to himself.

"Such a thing of beauty belongs in a museum if you ask me," Martin added, folding his arms across his chest. "But no doubt you disagree."

"Absolutely!" Anthony responded. "What's the point of having a beautiful car if you're not going to drive it around?"

"But a vintage 1914 Renault?"

"All the more reason," Anthony declared. "Beautiful things should be seen, not covered up or locked away. And just because something is 'old' does not mean it's lifeless."

Martin lifted an eyebrow at his words. "Are we still talking about the Renault?"

Anthony chuckled and went back to examining his program. "May the best man win," he murmured.

"Well, we shall see about that," Martin warned him. "You should know that my son Larry is with me this year, which means that you may find yourself trying to outbid not one, but TWO Grey men."

Anthony's eyes rose to follow Martin's gaze, which was focused several rows in front of them. He recognized Larry Grey right away; the man made it into a great many tabloids for his late-night antics with London socialites. The way the younger man was flashing his wallet to several people nearby, boasting about the various items he was going to outbid them for, did not necessarily fill Anthony with worry that the car he had come to win would slip through his fingers.

So instead, he put on a smile and held his hand out for Martin Grey to shake. "Challenge accepted."

The room was nearly filled to capacity; practically every chair was taken. There was one directly in front of him that remained vacant…that is, until a young blonde-haired man sat down on it, after offering several apologies for practically crawling over people's laps to get to it.

"So sorry," the young man apologized as he sat down, glancing over his shoulder at Anthony. "I hope I'm not blocking your view?"

"Oh! Oh no, no, it's quite alright," Anthony reassured.

The young man smiled at this. "Well, I won't be here for very long, I can assure you. I've really only come for one purpose."

Anthony glanced up from his program, rather curious about the young man's words. "Oh?" he asked. The man looked like the sort who enjoyed cars. Should he be worried?

The young man nodded, before extending his hand in greeting. "Forgive me for not introducing myself: Matthew Crawley."

He had only been back in England for two weeks. He had only been back in London for two days. And yet here he was, at an auction hall, his bank account practically empty and with only one goal in mind.

Matthew sighed as he glanced down at the program he had been given upon entering the hall. Unlike others around him, who were chatting about the various items up for bidding, his eyes were focused on place and one place only.

Mary.

He closed his eyes and let out a long, shaky breath.

How would she react if she saw him right now? How would she react when he started bidding? Would she even accept his bid if by some miracle, he won? He glanced around the room and saw a great number of handsome men, some of them he knew, others he didn't, and he wouldn't be surprised if they all put in a bid to win a dinner date with the beautiful Lady Mary Crawley. And who was he compared to them? Not a blue blood by birth, certainly.

Matthew sighed and lowered his head, as if going into a contemplative prayer.

Five years. Good God, that was how long it had been! Five years since the two of them had seen each other, let alone spoken to one another. Five years too long.

And was he too late? What if, despite this auction idea, she was involved with another man? Seriously, involved? What if, despite their history, she wanted nothing to do with him? After all, it had not ended well, the last time they had been in the same room together. And how would she respond when he told her his story? That he had come back to England for her? That he had been searching for her, working up the nerve to try and approach her, and that only yesterday he had learned about this auction, and that she was the sole reason he was there, prepared to go bankrupt if needs be, just so that he could talk to her and try to make things right?

…Even if that meant having to say goodbye forever?

Oh God, he was going to be sick. His stomach was twisted into so many knots right now!

"Mr. Crawley?"

He lifted his head at the sound of the woman's voice, his eyes widening as he recognized the lovely blonde. "Anna?" He quickly apologized for his informality. "I'm sorry, I meant, Miss Smith."

Anna laughed and shook her head. "That's quite alright, sir; and actually it's Mrs. Bates now," she explained.

Matthew's eyes widened. "Oh! Well, congratulations! Sorry, I…I've only been back in the country for two weeks," he apologized.

Anna waved her hand. "That's alright sir, in fact it's only been four months; I still sometimes catch myself saying my maiden name by accident," she giggled. "But it's good to see you! It has been a while, I must say." Her smile faded slightly, and she glanced over her shoulder briefly, before speaking again. "Does um…does…does she—?"

"No," Matthew answered, knowing what she was trying to ask. "No, I…I haven't had the chance to speak with her, let alone see her face to face, yet."

Anna's eyes widened at this bit of news. "And so you've come to the Grantham Foundation's annual charity auction to do just that?"

Well, when you put it like that…

Matthew gave the woman a somewhat sheepish smile, before sighing in defeat. "It's stupid, I know—"

"I wouldn't say that, sir," Anna shook her head. "But you should be prepared."

Prepared? He swallowed nervously at her words.

Anna glanced towards the first three rows of the auction hall and Matthew followed her eyes. "I would say your biggest competition is going to be those gentlemen," she murmured. "Mr. Blake is a financial advisor for the foundation who spars with Lady Mary a great deal, but it wouldn't surprise me if he puts a bid in—it's rumored around the office that he likes her," Anna explained. "Then there's Mr. Napier and Mr. Gillingham, both close friends to the family, and both who have made it known in some way, shape, or form in the past, that they fancy her, and then…" Anna's eyes scanned the crowd looking for a specific face. Matthew, however, was feeling his heart fall further and further into his stomach at the woman's words. Oh God, what was the point? This was a losing battle, wasn't it?

"Ah yes, Mr. Pemuk, a Turkish diplomat who has a slight history with her, and who I have heard boasting whenever I pass him by, about how he's going to 'win her back'."

Not if I have anything to say about it, Matthew thought. Oh he knew all about Mr. Pemuk; and his jaw tightened that he was going to be forced to sit in the same room with the bastard and breathe in the same air as him.

"Other than that, I think you stand a good chance," Anna teased, giving him a wink.

Matthew smiled, though it was strained. This had done very little to ease his nerves. "Thank you."

She reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "If it's any consolation…I don't think she'll run screaming at the sight of you."

Did that help? He wasn't sure.

"I should go," she sighed. "I'm managing everything back stage, and duty calls!"

Matthew nodded his head, giving the woman a grateful smile. "Best of luck to you, Mrs. Bates."

She smiled and nodded her head. "And to you as well, Mr. Crawley."

She turned then and quickly made her way towards the back stage, passing the various men she had just pointed out to Mr. Crawley, passing the press who were already taking pictures of "who's who" for their various papers and magazines, before finally reaching the corded off area that was reserved for staff personnel only, flashing her name badge to the security guard, before proceeded behind a closed curtained area.

Oh this year's auction was going to be most interesting!

"Oh come on, Sybil, it's not that bad," Edith said, trying to soothe her baby sister's pout.

Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter to the Earl of Grantham, was sitting on a nearby couch in the curtained off "green room", her arms folded across her chest, and a look of disgust and annoyance clouding her pretty face.

"It's barbaric and sexist and I really can't believe that YOU, Mary, agreed with Papa to do this!" she accused, turning her eyes on the eldest Crawley daughter.

Ever the picture of elegance, Mary Crawley sighed as she recapped her lipstick, before meeting her baby sister's eyes in the mirror. "First of all, it was Granny who asked—"

"Even worse!" Sybil groaned.

"And second," Mary continued, ignoring Sybil's interruption. "It's for charity," she informed her sister for what felt like the hundredth time. "And it's just a simple dinner date, nothing more."

"But we're being AUCTIONED OFF!" Sybil groaned. "Men will be making bids based on our looks!" she folded her arms and shook her head. "No, no, I refuse to go out there on that stage let them judge me on such a superficial—"

"Oh as if you have anything to worry about," the middle daughter groaned, rolling her own eyes. Edith Crawley crossed the room to stand next to Mary, running a hand through her hair, making sure it looked as good as it could under the circumstances, taking notice, again, at how different she looked when compared to her elder and younger sister. "Both you and Mary will be snatched up right away, whereas I will be the last one standing, as per usual."

Sybil opened her mouth to say something, but Mary beat her to it.

"HA!" Mary shook her head. "You're not the one with the reputation for being an 'ice queen' or a 'ball buster'; men see me coming and go running the other way." She glanced at Sybil and gave her a smile. "I mean, I'm not the 'sweetest spirit'—"

"Oh, DON'T START THAT AGAIN!" Sybil groaned, pushing herself up from the couch. It was a pet name that their housekeeper had given her when she was a child, and at the time Sybil hadn't minded it, but now that she was grown, she didn't want to be only thought of as "the sweetest spirit", as Mary liked to tease. She was more than that…and to be perfectly honest, she didn't think she was that sweet, anyway.

"Well, with an attitude like that, you'll prove quite the contrary," Mary reassured.

Sybil sighed and began to pace the room. "Alright, so it's for charity, it's for the 'good' of the foundation," she reasoned. "I understand that those are your reasons, Mary, but Edith…?" she turned and looked at her middle sister.

Edith blushed but put on a smile, trying to appear cheerful and positive, despite the nerves she was feeling. "Oh I don't know, I mean, it might be fun?" she offered. "And...well…in some ways, it can be a bit romantic, don't you think?"

Sybil's eyes looked like they were ready to bulge out of her head. "Fun? Romantic? You're not serious, surely!?"

"Oh Sybil, pipe down and leave Edith be," Mary groaned. It wasn't often that the elder sister came to the middle sister's defense, but sometimes the younger sister's progressive and "holier than thou" attitude was a bit much.

She sighed and turned away from the mirror to look at her younger sisters. "Look, I understand your discomfort about the whole situation," she said, pointedly to Sybil. "And I'm thankful that you're trying to put on a brave face and be positive," she added, looking pointedly at Edith. "But…it really is for a good cause; the annual auction has always been the foundation's most successful charity event, and for that reason in of itself…shouldn't we support it?"

Sybil sighed, giving Mary a look. "Oh you do know what buttons to push with me, don't you?" she muttered. Indeed, Mary did, which was why she was grinning rather proudly.

"And who knows!" Mary continued, glancing more last time at the mirror. "Maybe by some miracle, we'll each find the perfect gentleman?"

Both Sybil and Edith exchanged a look before turning their faces back to Mary…and then the three of them burst out laughing.

"Alright, the chances of pigs flying are far more likely than that," she conceded. Mary then stepped forward and took her sister's hands in hers. "But it will make for some interesting gossip come Sunday brunch, don't you think?"

Sybil groaned. "I should have known Granny was behind all this; the whole thing reeks as some sort of giant 'matchmaking' scheme."

"Lady Mary? Lady Edith? Lady Sybil?" A curtain was brushed aside and all three sisters turned to see the face of their grandmother's personal assistant who was standing in the doorway that would lead them out to the auction hall where hundreds of flashbulbs were illuminating a nearby stage. "It's time," Anna announced, giving the three of them an encouraging smile.

"Right," Mary sighed, squeezing her sisters' hands again. "Shall we, ladies?"

Sybil sighed. She still wasn't comfortable with this whole thing, but at the same time she drew strength from her sisters: Edith, ever the romantic optimist, and Mary, ever the brave, future leader for the foundation. "Oh alright," she muttered. Though what she didn't tell her sisters was that this auction was going to be on her terms.

Edith giggled at her youngest sister's pout, before wrapping an arm around her shoulders and giving her a squeeze which seemed to do the trick and put a smile on Sybil's face. She then turned to Mary and nodded, before confidently announcing, "Lead the way!"

Mary did just that, moving towards Anna who held the curtain open for them. "Anyone we know in the audience?" Mary whispered. There was really only one person she cared about, and she hoped and prayed he wasn't going to be there. What utter humiliation if he were.

"Quite a few, milady," Anna whispered back.

Mary swallowed and glanced at the woman, wondering if she could learn more. However, before she had the chance, the auctioneer was announcing their names, and the crowd began to applaud, and the three Crawley sisters found themselves climbing up onto the stage, hundreds of flashbulbs blinding them as the auctioneer welcomed them, before turning back to the audience and asked the fateful question, "Now who amongst you wants to date a Crawley sister?"

The auction hadn't been anything that spectacular. Not that he had a great deal of experience attending such events. But it certainly seemed no different from the one auction he had once attended at Christies, to cover a story on an MP who was rumored to be using party funds to nurse his addiction for Impressionist paintings. For the most part, Tom found the entire thing rather boring, making a few notes here and there about some political figures he saw in the audience making various bids (Sir Anthony Strallan hadn't made any bids yet, and Tom wondered if the man was waiting for something specific—possibly those vintage cars which were near the end of the list).

"Blimey!"

He glanced over at Michael, who was looking straight ahead at the stage. He turned his eyes to it to see what had his friend so gobsmacked, and felt his own eyes widen as three very beautiful women stepped forth.

"Gorgeous, aren't they?" Michael hissed in his ear.

Indeed, they were. Tom swallowed and looked at Michael for confirmation. "Are they—?"

"The Crawley sisters?" Michael finished for him. Just then, the auctioneer confirmed what Tom had been asking, and applause went up around the room as the three lovely ladies stood side by side on the stage, each smiling and blushing and looking calm and confident, though he wondered if any of them were feeling nervous at all.

He that the Earl of Grantham had three daughters. And he had seen Mary Crawley's picture before. She was the eldest, and would one day take over the running of the Grantham Foundation when her grandmother finally decided to retire. Sometimes she would go and speak on behalf of "Old Lady Grantham" as the press called Violet Crawley, and attend various ceremonies from hospital ribbon cuttings, to school award assemblies. She was very elegant, that could not be denied, perhaps even more so in person. She was the tallest of the three, and stood in the middle, exuding the most confidence he would say. On her left, and standing closest to the auctioneer's podium was a woman who looked very different from Lady Mary. She had copper-colored hair, and it was pulled back, away from her shoulders. She was very pretty too, and judging from the way Michael's eyes seemed to be lingering, it was clear who his friend preferred.

"Lady Edith," Michael told him. "Rumor has it that she's an advice columnist for a woman's magazine, under some strange penname, though it escapes me at the moment."

Tom's eyes returned to the stage and now looked at the young woman on Lady Mary's right.

She looked to be the youngest, and had long dark hair, very similar to Lady Mary's. Like her sisters, she too was smiling, though there seemed to be something…forced, about her expression. There was also something about the way she stood; a slight "slouch" of her shoulders, as if…as if she wasn't thrilled about being there.

A rebel, he heard his mind murmur. He couldn't help but smile at that.

Nearby, Sir Anthony gazed up at the stage and his own eyes widened at the beautiful sight of the three Crawley sisters. Indeed, they would make some young man very happy to be fortunate enough to escort them to dinner. He sighed, as he glanced around the room at the various "young bucks", all getting their wallets out and counting their notes. What he wouldn't give to be twenty years younger…

Anthony noticed how the young man who was sitting directly in front of him had straightened to attention when the three ladies walked across the stage. He had been watching the young man with some fascination during the event, noticing how he was sitting quietly and glancing every so often at the program he was holding, but not once lifting his hand to bid on any of the items that had come forward…yet.

He did recall how the young man—Matthew, was his name—had said he had come for a specific purpose. Anthony had assumed, like himself, that the young man was a bit of "speed fiend" and was waiting until either the Rolls or the Renault were brought forward. But judging from the way he was nervously fidgeting with his wallet, he couldn't help but wonder…had he come with hopes to "win a date" with one of the Earl of Grantham's daughters?

Matthew took a deep breath and lifted his eyes away from his wallet, looking back up on the stage and wondering if she had seen him. Would she say something? Would she call for security and tell them to take him away? No, no, Mary was not one to make a scene. That didn't mean, however, that once the bidding commenced, she would let him win…if he won. And even if he did win fair and square, would she agree to have dinner with him? Oh God, he was torn between standing up and making a fool of himself and calling out to her…and wishing the earth would just open up and swallow him whole.

"Shall we begin?" the auctioneer asked, turning and smiling at the three sisters.

The girls blushed and glanced at each other. "Well, I suppose I should go first, being the eldest," Mary murmured to Edith and Sybil.

"Oh no, let me," Edith said, surprising the other two. "I mean, it will be very discouraging to have to follow you up there."

However despite Edith's wish, the auctioneer was already calling Lady Mary Crawley forth, and Mary gave Edith an apologetic look, before squeezing both sisters hands, and stepping forward, a radiant smile spread across her face, smiling for all the cameras that clicked and flashed her image for their various news sources.

"Lady Mary Crawley…" the auctioneer introduced, giving a slight bow of his head. "Shall we start the bidding at…?"

"A modest sum," Mary whispered in the auctioneer's ear.

The man nodded and lifted his gavel to begin. "Let us start at…£100? Do I hear £100?"

A hand shot up and Mary's eyes flew to the owner of the hand. It was Evelyn Napier, a longtime friend of her family's.

"Thank you sir, do I hear £150?" another hand shot up, to a man sitting just next to Evelyn, Mr. Gillingham.

"£150 to Lord Gillingham, do I hear £175?" Another hand shot up, once again from Evelyn Napier, and then it went back to Anthony Gillingham, and so on and so forth. By the time the price had risen to £275, a voice spoke up and Mary rolled her eyes at the sight of Charles Blake, the man who she blamed for all her headaches when it came to the foundation. Oh he did enjoy vexing her.

"£325," Mr. Blake grinned, having the audacity to wink at her.

However, before the auctioneer could say anything, a gasp went out around the room when someone practically shouted, "£400!" and all eyes turned to handsome Turkish diplomat who exuded more confidence than any other man in the room.

People began to murmur in the room, and Mary felt her jaw tighten at the sight of the man. The nerve of him! To come here and—

"£450!" Mr. Blake declared.

"£500," Mr. Pemuk countered, not looking worried in the slightest.

Mary looked at both Evelyn Napier and Anthony Gillingham, both looking unsure if they dare bid any higher, though Evelyn did raise his hand and shout "£525!" however that was quickly countered by Mr. Pemuk's "£600!"

Good Lord, £600. Edith and Sybil glanced at each other, both stunned by how high the bidding had gone. They doubted it would be anything like that for themselves.

"Well… £600 is our latest bid…do I hear £625?" the auctioneer asked.

"No, you won't," Mr. Pemuk rose from his chair, looking most pleased with himself, clearly feeling he had won the day.

"£650!"

A gasp went up around the room and everyone turned to look in the center, including Mary who was peering out into the audience, momentarily blinded by the flashbulbs that had turned towards the speaker. She knew that voice! But…but it couldn't be…

"Oh my God!" Sybil gasped.

"Matthew!?" Edith spoke the very name Mary was thinking as her eyes widened at the sight of the familiar face she never thought she would see again.

What was he doing here!?

"I bid £650!" Matthew declared.

Now the eyes turned to Mr. Pemuk, whose confident, cocky smile began to fade.

He stuck out his chin. "£700," he growled.

"£750!" Matthew countered.

£750!? Mary stared at Matthew as if he had lost his mind. He didn't have that sort of money, surely!

"£800!" Mr. Pemuk growled.

"£850!" Matthew countered.

More gasps went up around the room, and the people began to applaud. Clearly this was the most entertainment anyone had expected to take place!

The Turkish diplomat scowled at Matthew, and then said through clenched teeth, "£1000!"

"Oh my!" the auctioneer was stunned speechless. Mary glanced over her shoulder at her sisters, who were just staring with slack jaws and wide eyes as Matthew did everything he could to outbid the other man. She turned her eyes back to him, staring and silently asking, "Are you mad!?"

Apparently so.

"£1025," he answered back.

"LIAR!" Mr. Pemuk declared, pointing an accusatory finger at Matthew. "You don't have that sort of money! PROVE IT!"

"The man doesn't have to prove anything to you!" shouted a voice behind him, and people turned to see Sir Anthony rising and shouting back at the Turkish diplomat. "Let the Foundation sort it out; besides, this is all for charity, is it not?"

Several people nearby applauded him, and even the Crawley sisters looked impressed. Edith couldn't help but grin. That was very noble, she thought.

"Do I hear £1050?" the auctioneer asked.

All eyes returned once again to Mr. Pemuk who was fuming. He glanced at the stage, caught Mary's eye, and then muttered something that sounded like "damn you all!" before turning on his heel and marching directly out the door without a backwards glance.

"Well, I think that's that," the auctioneer announced, banging his gavel against the podium. "£1025 to this gentlemen!"

The crowd clapped and some near Matthew slapped him on the shoulders, offering various congratulations. They had been entertained immensely. But Matthew's eyes were focused on the woman whose company he had just won for dinner, and he hoped and prayed she wouldn't turn her back on him now.

"Well…it will be hard to top that!" the auctioneer chuckled as Mary rejoined her sisters, still stunned by everything that had happened…and by seeing Matthew again. She honestly didn't know which shocked her more.

Edith forced a smile despite the auctioneer's words. She wasn't expecting half the fuss that Mary had received. In fact, she wondered if it were possible to make the modest starting sum even more modest.

"Lady Edith Crawley!" the auctioneer introduced, and Edith smiled, feeling a little shy now, but tried to look brave and elegant as she now stepped forward. "Right, shall we start the bidding at £100?"

Here we go, Edith thought.

"£100!"

Her eyes flew to where the voice had come from…and felt her heart sink a little. "Papa, that's not fair!" she groaned.

Lord Grantham, who was standing off to the side gave a sheepish shrug, which heard a hearty chuckle from the audience, though Edith's cheeks grew bright red. How mortifying to have your father of all people, make a bid because no one else wants to!

"Well, £100 to Lord Grantham," the auctioneer chuckled. "Do I hear £150?"

Silence fell.

Edith's face began to burn.

"£150?" repeated the auctioneer again. "Anyone?"

A cough was heard, and Mr. Napier smiled and raised his hand. "£150," he said with a polite smile to Edith.

Pity bid. Edith could barely force a smile.

"Excellent!" the auctioneer decreed. "Do I hear £200?"

£200!? That was jumping ahead by leaps and bounds, wasn't it? Apparently the crowd thought the bidding would be just as exciting as it had been with Mary; they were wrong.

Oh Lord, this is embarrassing, she thought to herself. And there she was, thinking earlier that it was going to be "romantic". What had she been thinking?

"Ah, such a shame," Michael sighed to Tom. "She's a pretty girl; I'd make a bid if I could," he sighed wistfully.

"You're married," Tom muttered under his breath.

"Only on a technicality," Michael muttered back.

"£200," Lord Grantham answered a second time. A polite applause went up from around the room, but Edith couldn't believe her bad luck. She knew what her father was doing; trying to drive the bidding and keep it going, but the problem was, she had never been as popular as her sisters, she had always been shy and—

"£2000!"

A gasp went up from around the room and all eyes turned to the voice that had spoken. Edith's head snapped up and she tried to peer through the audience to see who had spoken. Mary and Sybil were stunned as well. £2000!? That was even more than the amount Matthew had put forward!

"£2000! What a generous offer!" the auctioneer gasped, just as stunned as everyone else. "Of course, it's all for charity, ladies and gentlemen," he reminded everyone while clearing his throat. "Sir? Will you please stand so we may…?"

Edith squinted her eyes, trying to see through the haze of flashbulbs who her potential dinner date was. And was surprised when she recognized the gentleman who was standing to be none other than the man who had spoken in defense of Matthew.

"Oh!" the auctioneer recognized the man right away, and Tom nearly dropped his pen, as several people around the room gasped. This was certainly going to be making the front page of many newspapers tomorrow. "Well…" the auctioneer tried to regain his composure. "£2000 to Sir Anthony Strallan! Do I hear £2025?"

Of course he wouldn't. Why would anyone, who barely bid after £200 try to bid after £2000? And apparently the auctioneer thought so too, because he quickly beat his gavel against the podium, and the room erupted into applause.

"Well done, Edith!" Sybil hissed at her sister, drawing her back to the rest of them.

"Indeed," Mary murmured into Edith's ear. "That was interesting, to say the least!"

Edith didn't really know what to make of it all. On one hand, she was grateful that she wasn't a laughing stock. But on the other hand…was this good? Or was it like Evelyn's bid? Had it simply been done out of pity?

As for Anthony, he quickly sat back down, his body shaking as he realized what he had just done. "Well…" his friend Martin patted his shoulder. "Suppose I won't have to worry about you outbidding me on that Renault now, will I?"

Anthony swallowed and put on a smile at the man's joke, but the truth was…as he watched the young woman on that stage, he felt something in him stir, a feeling he hadn't felt in a great many years, but…it was more than pity that he felt, when it seemed no one would make a bid for her. But rather…why waste his money on a car? When he could instead spend an evening with a lovely lady, having fine conversation over dinner?

Of course, there was the fact that she was no doubt at least twenty years his junior, but…still, he felt compelled to say something…and not let this moment pass.

"Well, our final lady of the evening," the auctioneer announced, turning and smiling at Sybil who's smile instantly faded when she realized it was her turn. "Lady Sybil Crawley!"

"Go on," Mary urged, practically pushing her sister forward.

"That's right; all of us have suffered! Now it's your turn!" Edith hissed, helping Mary in pushing Sybil.

Sybil turned and gave them a filthy look, before plastering a smile on her face and turning nervously towards the crowd.

"Well, shall we start the bidding at—"

"£200!"

A gasp went up from the crowd and Sybil stared with wide eyes at the man who spoke. Oh no…

Larry Grey.

"Oh no…" her sisters muttered behind her, reading her thoughts and feeling her sentiments. She despised Larry Grey with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. The man was a sexist pig who thought he could anything with his money. And he had been boasting for a number of years that he would get Sybil to go out with him. And her response had always been to drop dead and eat shit.

No, no, she REFUSED to go on a date with that bastard!

"Well… £200 to a very eager Mr. Grey," the auctioneer announced, earning a chuckle from the crowd. "Do I hear £250?"

"£300," Larry declared with a cocky grin.

"You can't bid twice in a row Larry!" Sybil shouted from the stage, earning several gasps from the crowd, as well as several flashes from nearby cameras.

"Um…indeed," the auctioneer coughed, looking a little confused. "Until someone else makes a bid, sir, there is no need to—"

"£400!" Larry declared, completely ignoring what was being said, and clearly enjoying the attention he was receiving.

Sybil looked ready to commit murder. Mary and Edith turned towards their father, each of them giving him a look that silently screamed "DO SOMETHING!"

Robert coughed and lifted his hand to make a bid himself, just as he had done for Edith, but Larry must have seen him raising his hand out of the corner of his eye, because he shot to his feet and shouted loud and clear, "£500!"

Clearly, Larry was not going to allow anyone to take this opportunity away from him.

"Well…" the auctioneer glanced nervously back and forth from Larry to Sybil to Lord Grantham. "Our last bid was for…£500, to Mr. Grey." He looked around the room, trying to see if anyone was going to say anything, but no one looked ready to challenge the man who was grinning proudly. With a heavy sigh, the auctioneer lifted his gavel, and Sybil stared in horror as she realized what was about to happen.

"No, no, I refuse, do you hear me!" her voice rising with every breath. "I am NOT going on a date with him—"

"£500…!" all eyes suddenly turned to the side of the room, where the press was gathered, and Michael looked in shock at his friend.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" he hissed. "You can't bid!"

Tom ignored him and kept his eyes focused on the girl on stage. She was looking right back at him, and he swore his heart came to a stop.

"Um…I'm sorry sir, but £500 has already been declared—"

Tom shook his head. "£500 and…1!"

Everyone blinked as the amount settled over them. £501?

The auctioneer gasped as the gavel was ripped from his hands and Sybil sent it crashing down on the podium. "SOLD!" she shouted, before tossing the gavel aside.

"WHAT!?" Larry roared, looking back and forth between the stage and the press. The room had erupted into laughter had what had happened, and it was drowning out Larry's shouts. "HE CAN'T BID! HE'S A MEMBER OF THE PRESS! IT'S FORBIDDEN!"

"The auction is over, Larry," Sybil stated matter-of-factly, before joining the room in applauding the man who had, in a manner of speaking, come to her rescue. "Don't be a sore loser; it's not very sporting."

Larry looked ready to commit murder, but his father was suddenly there, slapping a hand on his shoulders and telling him to sit down and be quiet before he caused a scene.

"Well! That was exciting!" the auctioneer grinned, trying to bring order back to the room. "And thus concludes our bidding with the lovely Crawley sisters. Thank you, ladies!" Everyone joined the auctioneer in applauding, and the three sisters smiled at the audience, before quickly turning and exiting the room, retreating back stage at once.

"Good God," Mary groaned, feeling as if she had just endured a marathon.

"I take it back," Edith said. "That was the opposite of romantic."

"I am NEVER doing that again," Sybil stated quite firmly.

"It's over, that's all that matters," Mary muttered, glancing out through curtain that separated the backstage from the rest of the auction hall. She was trying to find Matthew. What was he doing here?

"I can't believe that Matthew is back," Sybil murmured, as if reading her thoughts. "And I can't believe you have a date with the Minister of Agriculture," she turned and grinned at Edith. "He is rather handsome and distinguished in that 'Alan Rickman meets Colin Firth' sort of way," she giggled.

Edith felt her cheeks darken. "Well…what about you and the 'radical Irish journalist'?" she challenged.

Now it was Sybil's turn to blush. "He did sound Irish, didn't he?" There was something about the Irish brogue that always made her melt.

"Is that allowed?" Edith asked, turning to Mary. "I mean, can members of the press do that? Participate in the auction?"

"Actually, they're not supposed to," Mary told them, but Sybil was shaking her head.

"If you think I'm going on a date with Larry Grey just because that follows the silly rules of this thing…" she kept shaking her head. "No, no, I refuse; I will not give my Irishman up!"

Edith couldn't help but giggle at that. "Your Irishman? My, aren't we the possessive one?"

"Alright, alright, that's enough," Mary muttered, turning and leading her sisters by the elbows back to the green room. "The press will no doubt want to conduct a few interviews after the whole thing is done, so…let's just go back, freshen ourselves up…and prepare for the next phase."

"You mean our dates?" Edith asked.

Mary blushed as she once again realized that she was going on a date with Matthew Crawley…her ex.

"That's right," she stated, putting on another look of determination. "But just for one night, mind you!" she reminded them…and herself. "Remember, this is all for charity!"

Sybil and Edith exchanged a look, but didn't say anything. They knew all about the history between their sister and Matthew Crawley.

"Well…it certainly was memorable, I will say that," Sybil sighed as she linked her arms with Mary and Edith.

Indeed, and this was only the first phase. Tomorrow, they would be going on their individual dinner dates: she with a journalist, Edith with the Minister of Agriculture, and Mary with an ex-boyfriend.

"Well, you are right, Mary!" Sybil grinned, smiling at her sister. "This will make for some interesting gossip come Sunday brunch!"