It was remarkable how much pain something so simple as the ticking of a clock could cause. Normally such a mundane sound, the definite signalling of the passing of each second was presently all Mary could think of. It was as if time itself was mocking her; forcing her to take note of the dying of each individual moment, bringing them ever closer to the inevitable horror that was to be the conclusion of this ordeal.

The only other sound was that of the infant's increasingly laboured breathing; tiny chest desperately rising and falling as he fought valiantly against Death's attempts to steal the last wisps of life from within him. He was certainly a fighter; of that there was no doubt. If only he had been given a fair chance at life, instead of this semi-existence marred by malady, he would likely have grown to become a strong, energetic man.

Such was not the hand he had been dealt, however. This darling child was to have his life snatched away before it had even begun. After everything Margaret had suffered through to bring little George into the world, Mary could hardly bear to think that her endeavours had been in vain. This precious young life, which they all hoped would contain more love and happiness than his poor mother's, was to be wasted before the merest glimmer of its potential could be reached.

And that his mother should have to suffer the unbelievable anguish of succeeding her child – this pained Mary most of all. For, try as she might, Mary could not imagine any possible way in which Margaret might emerge from the firm grip of melancholia, into which the imminent loss of her son had cast her. Even now, the ghostly figure beneath the sumptuous covers of the four-poster bed bore no more sign of life than George himself. Eyes unblinking, Margaret stared not at her son, but vacantly up at the canopy overhead; an empty gaze devoid of soul or sense. Did Margaret still exist within this shell of a person?

Mary dearly hoped so; the alternative was far too painful to consider.

Shuffling slightly in the armchair she had occupied near-constantly following George's diagnosis, Mary extended her stiff, aching limbs before her. It seemed an age had passed since the doctor's visit that morning – the final, solemn visit, during which the good man had confirmed their worst fears, admitting there was nothing further he could do for the child. With his departure went the very final glimmer of hope; all they could now do was wait for the inevitable, and hope that the poor dear's suffering was not drawn out too much longer.

It could not have been more than an hour or two since the doctor had taken his leave – yet to Mary, it felt as if several days had passed. She did not wish to hurry the scant remainder of George's short life away – for all the world, she wished he could live on in health – but as his fate was sealed to end in suffering, she could only hope that his relief from pain would come soon.

A gentle spring breeze ruffled the drawn curtains above George's crib, teasing him cruelly with the breath of a season he would never experience. The injustice was more than Mary could bear, and she suppressed a strangled sob as her weary limbs slumped in her seat.

Weary – she was ever so weary. It was a tiredness unlike any she had ever known; not just physical, but reaching deep within her soul.

She had failed. Failed in her most fundamental of duties as a maid: that of caring for her mistress, and ensuring her daily life was made as easy as possible. Mary had lost count of the number of times she had agonised over the day George became ill; dwelling on each opportunity she had missed to be firmer with Margaret in sending for a doctor.

It had been Mary's responsibility to call for medical assistance. Margaret, still delirious following the agony of childbirth and intense joy of motherhood, could hardly have been expected to realise something was amiss. No, it was Mary who had noticed that George was unwell – it was Mary who should have insisted upon the doctor being sent for. It pained her to think how much agony might have been prevented, had she only made Margaret see sense before it was too late.

The unhelpful thoughts whirled ceaselessly within her head, never granting her a moment's respite. What she would not give to disappear into deep, dreamless slumber – just for a little while.

But she could not succumb to sleep – not yet. For Margaret's sake, she had to remain conscious, somehow, until the very end. Only then could she relax, knowing at last that the boy's suffering was done.

It was so difficult, though – the weariness was bone-deep, infiltrating the fragmented tendrils of her mind. Despite her best efforts to resist, Mary felt her eyelids droop, before her exhausted eyes closed themselves entirely.

Just for a moment or two...

***

"Sweet dreams, little one."

Mary gently stroked the vivid red curls atop the child's head, gazing fondly down into the cradle at the pair of crystal clear blue eyes peering up at her, innocent and full of wonder. They blinked upon hearing a rustle from across the nursery – a slight snuffle and sigh from his elder sister's bed as she turned over in her sleep. She could not even remain still in slumber; much like Mary herself had been at that age.

In this very room were two of the three people she held dearest in all the world – and, turning away from the cradle, she realised with a smile that the third had appeared in the doorway.

"Ought you not to be downstairs?" she asked, wondering how long he had been watching her.

"I wished to enter the room with my wife beside me," he replied, with that charming smile which could not fail to make her feel rather weak at the knees.

"Oh," realised Mary, with a blush. "Well, the children are now both settled – shall we venture down?"

"May I have the honour of escorting you into the ballroom, milady?"

Mary felt her cheeks colour as she smiled bashfully.

"The honour would be all mine," she replied.

Arm in arm, husband and wife left their sleeping children, making their way down to the elegant ballroom. Catching sight of herself in an entrance hall mirror, Mary grinned as she regarded her reflection, marvelling at the way her violet gown rustled as she was swept across the room by her finely-dressed husband.

They paused on the threshold of the grand room. Mary, peering eagerly in at mass of silk and muslin gowns swishing about the ballroom, wished to enter immediately – but propriety dictated they should wait until announced.

"Sir Edmund and Lady Wills," came the cry from the announcer positioned in the doorway.

As heir to Alverton Hall, Sir Edmund hardly required an introduction – yet at the sound of the clear voice ringing out across the room, the heads of their guests turned as one to behold the baronet and his wife's descent into the ballroom. Blushing slightly at the many pairs of eyes upon her, Mary thankfully managed to keep her footing – partly thanks to Edmund's firm, unwavering grip on her forearm as he steered her down the stairs.

With the arrival of the baronet and his wife, the ball could now properly begin – and within moments, the musicians had struck up a first chord to assemble the guests for the first dance.

To her relief, Mary was not expected to dance – it was not often a pastime married couples engaged in – and so she took to a seat on the edge of the dancefloor more than willingly, perfectly content to watch their youthful, unattached guests dance and flirt together.

Mary had expected Edmund to go and greet his guests – but to her delight, he seemed reluctant to leave her side.

"It pleases me to see you smile, my dear," he told her quietly, taking the seat beside her.

"Well, I have every reason to be merry," smiled Mary in return.

Edmund regarded her seriously.

"Indeed, you do," agreed Edmund. "It is a relief to see you put the trauma of the past years behind you at last. You did all within your power to support Margaret – not one person could have saved her from the melancholia which claimed her."

It was as if Edmund had swept a rug from under Mary's feet; as if the entire world had tilted on its side. Gasping as she drank in the full meaning of Edmund's words, her head began to spin and her chest tightened; the weight of intense guilt pressing down upon her chest.

The melancholia had claimed her; claimed Mary's dearest friend. Where was the joy to be had in all this – the grandeur, the title, the lavish gowns– without her oldest companion to share it with? Margaret, after all, had been the sole focus of Mary's life for so many years – what purpose could her life hold without Margaret to serve?

From far away came the sound of a child's wailing. It began softly at first, but grew in volume and intensity until it distracted Mary from her thoughts entirely.

"Our baby!" cried Mary, staggering to her feet. Some maternal instinct deep within set her mind ablaze with panic. Her child was in need; she had to make haste!

"Mary!" called Edmund, as she attempted to hurry away. "Mary, it is not him – how can it be? We would not hear him from up in the nursery, and besides, his nurse is with him!"

"No, Edmund – I simply know it is him!" Mary told him fretfully, although by now she was beginning to feel rather confused. The crying seemed at once to be coming from far away, yet also to be prickling at Mary's very consciousness. What was more, the ballroom appeared to be fading around her, as if she were surveying the scene through a haze of fog. To her horror, the scene continued to darken until all she could see was blackness – as if all the candles in the room had been simultaneously snuffed out.

"Edmund?" she called out into the gloom. "Edmund!"

"Mary! Oh Mary, please wake up!"

***

"Mary!"

Her eyes snapped open to be met with the wide, panicked brown pair of Margaret, who was currently shaking her roughly by the shoulders. Blinking slightly as she struggled to regain consciousness, Mary suddenly noticed about three things simultaneously.

Firstly: she had just been deep in the midst of a rather embarrassing dream in which she starred as none other than Sir Edmund's wife. That she had fancied herself a gentlewoman was mortifying enough – but the fact that her mind had conjured up in slumber what she knew deep down to be her heart's true desire was even more shameful to realise.

There was no time to agonise over this, however – for Mary had also realised that the crying from her dream had in fact continued now that she was conscious, filling the previously silent room with a perpetual grizzling. Nor was the room shrouded in stillness any longer, for Margaret had left her bed for the first time in a week, and was currently making every energetic attempt possible to capture Mary's attention.

"My goodness!" gasped Mary, with a sharp intake of breath as Margaret's grip upon her forearm became a little too tight. "Whatever is it, Margaret?"

In the brief silence which followed, it all fell into place.

The wailing.

Margaret's desperate attempts to wake her.

Margaret's being out of bed at all.

"George!" cried Mary, leaping to her feet and hurrying over to the cradle, where she found a pink-faced, screaming baby sobbing his heart out – yet to Mary, it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.

With a shaking hand, she tentatively reached out to touch George's forehead, dodging flailing fists as she went – and as her palm made contact with the child's skin, she all but fainted with shock.

"Good Lord!" she murmured incredulously.

Margaret hovered uncertainly at her side, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

"What is wrong with him?" she sobbed. "Why does he cry so?"

Mary was so giddy she felt like laughing aloud.

"Oh, Margaret!" she cried, taking her poor, troubled friend by the hands. "It is impossible – yet I do believe his fever has broken!"

From Margaret's blank expression, it appeared this did not mean much to her.

"It is truly a miracle, Margaret!" Mary told her friend, wringing her hands with joy. "How it has happened, I could not possibly say – for this very morning I had given up all hope – yet bless his soul, he is recovering!"

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A/N: Baby George is going to be okayyyy! Everyone can stop hating me for being a mean author now ;)

So, Helena is happily engaged, and Margaret's baby is recovering - seems like it's about time for us to turn our attention towards Mary, and the fact that she is having dreams about being Sir Edmund's wife! What are we thinking: #Medmund? #Edwary? Going to leave this one with you guys!

As always, please give this a vote and leave a comment if you enjoyed :)