First off, sorry this so late, my life has gotten quite busy recently especially with training for the summer camp I am working at. Second, in the past month I've read The Sun Also Rises, A Movable Feast, and A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway. So was inspired by the themes in his writing- 20's Paris, the Lost Generation, WWI love, ect. Anyway, it's just a short, cute piece- so enjoy!

The Dome was crowded that Friday night. The smell of smoke and alcohol lingered on the lips of its patrons and deep inside the fabric of the chairs, as if the place had been created to smell like the recklessness and frivolity that occupied the café. Despite being in Paris, the whispers and squeals from inside were only English: voices of the people who had come here, from America, from England, to try to forget. Everyone seemed to believe that perhaps just one more drink would let them forget horrors of war that the men saw when they closed their eyes or the lurking emptiness the women felt when they thought of their lost fathers, brothers, and lovers. They were the lost generation and Paris was their haven.

Lady Mary Crawley was seated at a table, drink in hand, surrounded by five men and two women. Her dark eyes and short black bob had attracted the attention of several men in the Paris scene, but it was the gossip that surrounded her that kept them more interested. Everyone knew about how she hadn't batted an eye when her fiancé and cousin, Patrick, had died in the war. Even more people knew about her affair with the Turkish diplomat. And her recent engagement to newspaper baron Sir Richard Carlisle had certainly helped to propel her back into the papers- engaged to be married to the man who had published her scarlet secret. Everyone in the Paris arts scene wanted to monopolize on this scandalous and seductive woman.

But tonight she looked distant, distracted.

"We should really set a date soon, don't you think?" Carlisle asked, drinking his absinthe.

Mary still seemed lost in reverie.

"Mary dear?" Carlisle repeated. As much as Mary hated it, he was marked by slight wrickles in his face, marking him as older than the other young men who sat around her table. They had all served in the war, valiantly, yet Carlisle was too busy selling papers.

"What darling?" Mary asked, withdrawing from her state.

"We've still got to set a date," Carlisle reminded her.

"Oh lets not both with that till the summer is over. We go to Pamplona next month. I simply can't deal with wedding preparations till then," Mary sighed.

She took in her table, wondering if anyone at the table understood her misery of wandering from one awful fiancé to another. She and Carlisle performed the charade of agreeable fiancés in front the public, even though everyone knew that she lived in a large apartment in Paris and he only visited from London now and then. Any of the men seated here would be more desirable than him: Charles Blake, a new avant-garde artist with a bizarre but intriguing "mud flinging" style to his art, Tony Gillingham, a talented musician who was composing new classics (tonight he was toting along Mabel Lane, his new fiancée, a daft little thing with a shrill voice), and Evelyn Napier, a member of the aristocracy who was doing government work in France. And of course there was Matthew Crawley.

She had adored him since she met him. Several years back, when her family's estate had been turned into recovery center for injured soldiers, he had arrived. She remembered when she saw his pale, blond head tucked among the faces of the wounded in the hospital. He was a man, but he had this boyish innocence to him, that Mary could not forget. She asked Dr. Clarkston for his diagnosis- permanent spinal damage. Her heart broke for this sweet, young man so full of hope, knowing that he would never walk again or have a family of his own.

When he moved from the hospital to the house to recover, Mary took to caring for him. At first it started in small ways, she'd bring him an extra blanket or read to him a little longer, her little gestures met by his gentle smiles. As their friendship progressed, she'd push his wheelchair outside on sunny afternoons or steal him away to the library. She told him her deepest thoughts- that how no matter what other people said, she had cried over Patrick. She didn't love him, but she wasn't happy to see him die either.

One afternoon, Sybil had casually asked Mary to give Matthew a sponge bath. Mary did the task dutifully, though by then she knew she cared for Matthew more than she had ever cared about a man before. It hurt her to see him before her, so young and strong, but yet so weak and helpless. When she was done, he pulled her beside her beside him. "Oh darling Mary, if only-" He said softly, tears forming a glossy layer over his eyes. "Shh, I know," she soothed and kissed him on the forehead.

Weeks later he left. Mary felt sad and empty when he was gone. She knew they could never marry him, but God, she adored him. They wrote to each other at first. Then the article was released. The Daily Mirror. Earl's Daughter's Affair with Turkish Diplomat. The article detailed her night with Kemal Pamuk, leaving out a single detail- where the Turk died. She took a train to London. After a meeting with Richard Carlisle, she guaranteed the rest of her secret safe, in exchange for her hand in marriage. Embarrassed and mildly horrified, she fled to Paris.

The whole thing was a mess really. She despised Carlisle, but what choice did she have? So she immersed herself in Paris. She chatted with the greatest writers, artists, and musicians. She spun her embarrassing past into a salacious mystery. She would get very, very drunk in the cafes, and try to forget that she had tied herself to another loveless marriage. When Carlisle was away, and she had had more than a few drinks, she almost could forget. Almost.

Then two weeks ago, as Mary was at The Select chatting with Hemingways, she saw him. Matthew. She didn't know what shocked her more- the fact that he was walking or the fact that he was accompanied by a woman.

She had excused herself from Hadley and Ernest and greeted him. Talking with him made it feel as if no time had passed. He told her of his misdiagnosis, how he'd met Lavinia (his new fiancée) in London, and how he wanted a new start here in Paris. He wanted to start writing and Lavinia was very interested in fashion. Mary smiled pleasantly and was kind to them, telling them of her engagement to Carlisle. "Isn't that the editor that wrote that awful story about you? However could you marry him?" Lavinia gasped. Mary shrugged. She couldn't talk about it, especially not to this woman she had never met before.

So she adopted Matthew and Lavinia into her small crew of friends, to join her with Blake, and Gillingham, and Napier. Just days after long after, Carlisle decided to visit. Mary's Paris experience became instantly bittersweet. She was trapped between her actual reality of an already manipulative husband and the sweet, tender man she always dreamed of marrying. She found herself lost in thought, constantly imagining how glorious every moment would be if Matthew were beside her, instead of Carlisle.

Perhaps Matthew noticed her poignant expression, because at that moment he spoke up. "Lady Mary, I wonder if you might join my for a dance."

A band was playing something jolly and smiled at Matthew, "Why not?" She rose without a glance to her fiancé, though she expected her looked annoyed. He seemed displeased when he had arrived and found that Mary had acquired a cohort of male friends. Mary had been furious at him for implying that she would be unfaithful. Sir Richard had then made a very rude comment that made Mary so mad she spent the night with the Fitzgeralds.

Matthew put his arms around her. It was the sort of song that might be too upbeat for such intimacy, but Mary enjoyed the feeling of his arms around her.

"Thank you for stealing me away," Mary confessed, as they began to dance.

"You looked so miserable beside Carlisle," Matthew told her, "And I am said to be on the side of the down troddin."

"You are very kind," Mary smiled, graciously. Mary secretly lamented his observation. Sir Richard would be mad later, she supposed.

"Why do you stay with him," Matthew asked, "if he makes you so unhappy?"

"He doesn't make me unhappy-" Mary began, but Matthew knew her too well, he would see right through her lie. "You see, really, it is a bit too complicated, too personal to talk about. Now at least." She paused, a wave a shame passing over her as she thought of the fact that Matthew must have read the gossip about her, and she couldn't bare him to knowing the ghastly details of her secret. "How are you liking Paris?" She asked, hasty to talk of other things than her dreadful fiancé.

Matthew frowned, knowing Mary was hiding something, but obliged her change of subject. "I quite like it. I've got a little flat to myself. I get to write there in the mornings and then visit the cafes to write more in the afternoon."

"How lovely," Mary said. "And what do you write?"

"Poems mostly for now. I'd quite like to write novels one day, but I'm not sure I'm there yet." He told her.

"You will be," Mary murmured, her lips whispering into his ear, "I believe in you."

The song was slowing now and he pulled back to look at her. The music and dancers swirled around them, but Matthew's eyes were for Mary alone. He took in her dark hair and the way her red, red lips contrasted with her pale, pale skin. She was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. For weeks now, he had been trying to put aside his feelings for Mary- trying to think of her as just another girl in Paris, trying to forget the tender young woman who had loved him when he couldn't love himself. But he could hold it off no longer. He realized in that single, tiny instant that he could love no one but Mary.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" He asked, his hands sliding down her arms to hold her hands.

Mary looked back at Richard. "I'd like nothing more," she whispered.

They went to exit the café. Matthew gave the man at the door some money to give to Lavinia to take a cab to her flat. But she had left his thoughts now. They walked outside and found a cab of their own.

"Where are we going darling?" Mary asked, leaning against Matthew.

"The Select, maybe?" He asked.

"No no," Mary murmured. "No more cafes."

"No?" Matthew asked. He hadn't been in Paris long, but the cafes seemed like the only place to be at night.

"Let's go walk by the quai side," Mary mummured.

Matthew gave directions to the driver and they took off. Mary watched the city flash past her eyes, little patisseries and perfumeries with dark windows as the city pretended to sleep. This was really happening. She was with Matthew alone in a cab in Paris. They were going to walk along the Seine. This was the sort of thing that she dreamt about.

The cab driver pulled up along the water and Matthew paid him, before helping Mary out of the vehicle. He offered her his hand, she took it, not releasing it when they were both standing beside each other. They walked in silence down the steps to the river's bank.

Matthew loved Mary. He knew he did. He assumed, by the way she acting now, that she loved him too. But yet, there were still thing about Mary he didn't understand.

"Why did you stop writing to me?" He asked, breaking the silence.

"Oh Matthew," Mary sighed. Her eyes looked out to the water, which was glistening under the lights of the city.

"I want to understand," he said, giving her hand a tiny squeeze.

"Well you see, there was that dreadful article," Mary sighed.

"That? Mary, really? Do you think I would believe a petty gossip column?" Matthew asked.

"Well you should have," Mary admitted bitterly.

"What are you saying?" Matthew paused. Part of him wanted to not know. He always assumed the rumors about Lady Mary's virtue were a lie.

"I am saying it was true," Mary confirmed.

"You and Pamuk?" Matthew asked dumbly.

"It was just one night," Mary murmured, looking down, her cheeks red. "I didn't ask for him to be there…" her voice choked for a moment, "and I wasn't sure how to get him to leave. I couldn't scream he said, everyone would know."

Matthew was horrified. What had this awful man done to her? And why was Mary baring this burden now?

"He died didn't he?" Matthew mentioned.

Then Mary was crying. He didn't understand exactly why she was. All he knew was this beautiful, brave woman he loved was crying. He hesitated for a moment before putting his arms around her.

"It's okay Mary," He whispered into her hair.

"No it's not," Mary choked. "It's not okay at all. It is the reason I'm in this mess in the first place."

"What do you mean?"

"There is more to the secret you see," Mary whimpered, "He actually died… in my… in my bed."

"Oh Mary," Matthew sighed. He let her go to go stand by the water. He stood there in silence for a few moments

"Is that why you are with Carlisle?" He asked, turning to her, suddenly understanding, "So he doesn't publish the rest?"

Mary nodded.

Matthew felt his heart sink for Mary. Her story was beginning to be pieced together for him. She was the product of a terrible situation, trapped by one awful man, than another. No wonder she had escaped to Paris, maybe here just for a while, she could forget it all.

He crossed the space to her and pulled her into his arms again. They stayed there in silence for a very long time. The sound of the Seine rushing past and Mary's soft cries the only sound. Matthew looked past her head to the faint top of the Eiffel Tower where it peaked out behind the buildings. He was overwhelmed with sadness for the woman he loved, but he knew that there was hope, some form of hope on the distance.

He pressed his lips to her hair, before pulling back to wipe the tears from her eyes. "Mary, you've got to split with Carlisle," he said firmly.

"But, I'll be ruined," Mary said.

"Mary you already are surrounded with gossip," He said, his voice warm, "a few more details will only make you more interesting."

"Do you think?" She asked.

"Of course," he smiled, taking her hands and tugging on them to keep her walking. "You can't let him ruin your life Mary. You deserve so much happiness. And maybe it wouldn't hurt to have come good gossip in your favor."

"What do you mean?"

"What if you were to marry someone else?" Matthew suggested.

"Who would want to marry me?" Mary laughed.

"What if you were to marry me?" Matthew repeated.

"Do you mean it, Matthew?" Mary asked.

Her heart surged with hope. For the first time, she saw a future outside her miserable situation. A life worth remembering. It was as if everything she had dreamed of, in her craziest fantasies, were coming true.

"I love you Mary. I think I have always loved you, since I met you during the war. I want you to be happy. And I want you to be happy with me," He sighed.

The Eiffel Tower had come into full view behind Matthew. She felt herself pool with love for him.

"What about Lavinia?" Mary hesitated.

"What about her? She is a kind, sweet girl. But you loved me when no one would and I love you like no one else can," He told her, his voice earnest.

"I won't say yes unless you do it properly," Mary teased, finally giving in.

Matthew's face ignited in a grin and he dropped to his knees. All Mary could think is that she wanted to stop forgetting. She wanted to remember this moment forever.

Her reply left her lips and she was swept into Matthew's arms, his lips on hers, as they spun beneath the light of the Eiffel Tower. Neither of them could ever think of a time they were happier.

A few days later, they would pick out a ring together from a Parisian boutique, the same day that Mary's name returned to the gossip column- but by then she didn't care. Not long after, they would take a ferry back to England where they would wed at her families estate, where they had met so many years ago. They would think fondly on their brief time in the hustle and bustle of 1920's Paris, but they would remain infinitely more happy that they found each other again.