Hi! This is my first real semi-long canon era fic. It's mostly completely canon in thought and action. More of a fill in the spaces in the "Now Come and Kiss Me" scene from S3 E1. I have lots of thoughts about that scene. And as you can see in this (hopefully not too rambly) opening chapter on some of the events that surround the long and winding road of MM's courtship. And yes… I am writing largely from Matthew's perspective. I am considering writing the next chapter from Mary's… we'll see how this all goes. But the end is going to be in that drawing room with Matthew's invitation and an attempt to explore the meanings and motivations behind Mary's reluctance. All this started with Patsan's tumblr #hashtag on whether Matthew got that kiss. I don't quite have an answer yet… but hopefully by the end of this ficlet I will! Please Please Please review. This is a personal view of course of these events. Of course the characters belong to Julian Fellowes.
XX
Matthew dressed methodically. Molesley had laid out his clothes and was currently fussing with the lint brush and muttering under his breath. For once Matthew was unbothered by Molesley's careful management of his clothes and appearance.
Matthew wanted to look his best this evening. His thoughts were far away from the tie he affixed around his neck. Preparation. The key to success. One of the things he learned while in the Army.
Although that sometimes ended catastrophically. He furrowed his brow at that thought.
He knew full well that he and Mary still had differences. Such as where to live. His desire –seeming impossible amongst the Crawley clan - to live a simpler life. Such as the money. That damned Swire inheritance as he was now thinking of it. Already seeming to create a rift between them. Why was she so interested? He knew in his soul that he would never accept the money. Blood money. That would destroy their marriage before it began. Talk about 'kicking the traces.'
He pushed such judgments from his head. This evening would be different.
Two nights previous he had decided a change of strategy was needed. A well timed operational plan of the type he had engaged in the army. Only this time the endgame was to be alone with Mary.
For two nights ago, he barely had time to say a private good night before his mother accused him of dawdling with her insistent "Matthew! Do come on!"
He shook his head. It had been a typical evening meal at Downton of the type he had endured since the inheritance fell into his lap over eight years previous. Although since the war he had come both to appreciate the continuity of a family meal while at the same time trying to make the point that such formality and decorum spoke of a bygone age that had encouraged a type of arrogant assumption of class and power that had gotten a generation of good men killed.
That had not gone over all that well. So after a few attempts to engage Robert in such a discussion over cigars, Matthew had given up. They would find it out soon enough. The world Robert wanted was gone. Matthew was more than ready to let it go.
Except that Mary, even as she would rail against it, was more of a creature of tradition than she admitted. No real surprise, Matthew realized, especially given that the one truly scandalous action in her life -one he only very recently knew the entire truth of- left her scarred and afraid. Afraid, not really even for herself, but that she would be the cause of scandal against her family, against the Crawley name. Willing to be engaged to a man who used her most ill for his own professional and social climbing aims. For that Matthew would never forgive.
Matthew realized he had to tread carefully. The last thing he wanted was for Mary to be uncomfortable with him in the days leading up to their nuptials.
But he had to be alone with her.
This dinner finally ended after a long discussion on the repercussions of Sybil and Tom's return to Downton as well as the daunting visit of the "other" grandmother Grandmamma Levinson from America.
The seating arrangements at formal meals always befuddled Matthew. He never quite understood the protocol. That evening had seated him away from Mary. So he had very little time to be alone with his fiancee.
So the walk across the saloon became the only opportunity for any intimate conversation.
He had walked leisurely with Mary to the door. They had flirted outrageously. It was intoxicating to be able to say his thoughts in public.
And then, "The chauffer's freezing to death and so am I."
He loved his mother dearly, but sometimes she was willfully blind to the fact that he was going on 35 years of age. A veteran of the Great War. A man who had seen a great deal that he could not talk about. Had experienced more than he ever wanted to reveal to another living soul.
He acknowledged her with a nod, then proceeded to ignored her.
Instead his gaze preferred to take in Mary. "Are you looking forward to the wedding?" Mary rewarded him with an enticing sidelong smile.
"What do you think?" She played along.
"I'm looking forward to all sorts of things." His mouth danced as the words escaped his lips. They pursed and curved into a smile as she furtively smirked at his suggestive comment.
She had started it he almost reminded her. On their walk of the previous morning. When she said that her father was "So relieved we're getting married, he wouldn't mind if you carried me up naked."
He almost did a double take as he strolled beside her. "Careful I might try it." An understatement if he ever spoke one. Given the chance he would so that very evening.
But alas he was not be given that chance.
So instead he leaned in closer. He could feel long strands of her hair against his cheek. Brushing it. Gently. Driving him wild. He shivered in anticipation of the few remaining days between then and the wedding night. How was he to endure it?
"Don't make me blush." Mary had whispered as he leaned in further to graze her cheek with a kiss.
"Matthew!" His mother turned. Her voice turning annoyed even as she maintained a proper smile.
He sighed. Turned to give a private look to Mary and gave in to the inevitable. He moved towards the front door to take his mother home.
But not before he acknowledged Mary's challenge.
He gave her long gold and bejeweled necklace a delicate but deliberate tug. Glanced up to meet her eyes.
An ever imperceptible flush crossed her cheek. He smiled as he clocked her reaction. Just what he wanted.
A hint of things to come. A secret message that he understood she equaled his desire to be on their own.
That was when he began to plot his next visit.
A plan to be alone with his beloved fiancee. Unchaperoned. He knew they were expected back for dinner in two days hence. For Sybil and Tom's return. That would be perfect.
Everyone would be distracted by those two. He could make a move to stay a little extra late in the evening. If he played the cards correctly they would have some time together. He would duck out of cigars with Robert early. Tell the chauffer not to wait for him. To let the driver take his mother home alone.
He knew all too well the rules of the society in which he now found himself. Even so he found it more than a little ridiculous that he was shadowed at all times around Mary. He understood -of course he did. Especially in light of what she told him. The fear of scandal that had ruled her life. A scandal he suspected nothing about. Until he knew all too much. He wanted so much to take that burden from her. Damn Pamuk. But even more damn Carlisle for his scandal sheets. He knew and had said to her that she was strong. "A stormbraver."
He maintained his insistence upon a short engagement time. Violet had of course wanted them to wait. But Matthew wanted to be Mary's husband when /if any scandal arose. He wasn't sure what he could do other than offer strength support and love. And proof that he wasn't going anywhere. That the ghost of Pamuk would never part them.
Once married he could become as much her support as she had been his. "You are my stick." He had said. That night. That dance. The night when everything had changed.
He wanted to have no impropriety. He wanted her to feel secure in his arms.
But he needed time alone with her.
The walks on the estate were not enough. He found it greatly ironic that Cora allowed those walks at all.
Fleeting moments of time they needed to get to know one another. "To learn about who we both are without everybody being there."
Not the family. Nor the ghost of Lavinia. Or more particularly the guilt of Lavinia's death that descended upon Matthew.
Damn this money. He didn't want this inheritance. He never asked for anything from Reggie Swire. He believed Matthew had been true to Lavinia when he knew better. He resisted the urge as he dressed for Sybil and Tom's dinner to go down the self-tortuous path of reminding himself just how unworthy he was: of Lavinia's trust, of the money, unworthy perhaps of the happiness he and Mary shared. For he had tried to push some of the blame on her. And for that he could never forgive himself. He was to blame.
Now-even as he had promised neither the ghost of Pamuk nor Lavinia would be a barrier to their happiness—it seemed to be happening. The fragile happiness they had felt. The indescribable happiness he felt.
He never knew such happiness could be bestowed on him. He would not have believed it in the war. In the stench. Sitting for long hours as the guns pounded, the artillery returned fire. Betraying Lavinia as he looked at her picture while he tugged with his fingers at the toy dog in his pocket. Like everyone else in the trenches he had prayed for death to come cleanly. In his darkest moments to have death come quickly. That he would not see any more of his men, his fellow officers, his friends die or be horribly mangled in some God forsaken fashion.
And he had not emerged from the war unscathed. The inevitable nightmares. The spinal injury. The fear of impotency. He knew so little as to why Lavinia returned to him as she did. With Carlisle that day. Was it all manufactured he now suspected? How stupid he was not to suspect such a thing from that bastard.
But Lavinia deserved nothing but affection. They were perhaps both duped by the man. And since he saw no future with Mary—he wanted to set her free—as he had said and believed—he was the cat who must walk (what irony) by himself.
He wasn't proud of the way he had handled things. The miracle of learning it was a bruised spine. The hasty (and perhaps ill thought) re-engagement to Lavinia He needed to get away. Away from Downton. Away from Mary's engagement to another man. He had no future there. He dwelled on those thoughts too much. Lavinia had said as much in the last real conversation they had had… and he had responded—showing where his thoughts truly laid: "Mary's marrying someone else." How stupid he had been to let those words slip from his mouth. Another betrayal. That he thought of her. That he still thought only of her.
Like the dance. The revolving spinning sensation that they were the only boy and girl in the world. The frisson in their connection. He felt it through his core being. He was the one who asked her dance. He held out his arms in precise position. He willed her into them. She had been reluctant. He had spoken the words of apology. The first time he could say them in her presence with no one less listening in.
But also the last time they would be together. He had to say them. The next day he thought he was to be wed. That it was the correct thing to do. Then it all came spilling out, Violet's admission that Mary was still in love with him; that he was only marrying Lavinia out of (misplaced?) honor… that he could not throw her over "however much he might want to."
Their lips, moving steadily closer, his hand guiding hers to his shoulder. Her delicate, gloved fingers entwined in his once again. In his nervous haste his lips just tasted the corner of her mouth. Her lips barely opened. They knew it was wrong. They knew it was inevitable the more they existed in each other's lives.
He had been going on instinct the entire dance. Instinct led him to take her in his arms. A hungry need to hold her, to possess her once again. One last time. A burning ache of physical passion that would not have been quenched by that siimple kiss. How utterly blissful it all was until... until Lavinia's querulous and subdued "hello" shattered what was left of his belief that he was an honorable man.
His own hollow words... "I can explain" were cut him off by her with the truth. How utterly worthless his attempt to salvage the situation "I won't let you do this." Then the self-pitying guilt set in after she died. At the graveside, standing next to Mary. The anger and bitterness towards Mary really reflective of his own worthlessness. He had discovered a side to his personality that he found hard to shake. The guilt intermingled with the grief.
Such gloomy, bitter thoughts he did not need this evening. As he allowed Molesley to slip his arms into the dinner jacket, he convinced himself in the veracity of happiness. That he deserved it. That he would earn it through his enduring love for Mary.
The self-condemnation had subsided. The war's scars were healing. Mary's love healed them. He had found his courage to ask for her hand in marriage. "To do me the honour of becoming my wife." And it was an honour and privilege. They had been through so much. So much he had not known about. She had lived a life without him and he without her for long enough. It was more than enough time for them "to live it together." It had been so beautiful that night. The snow filtering the world away.
He had been so uneasy to ask. Had virtually left it to the last moment. After Robert and Cora and her sisters had gone to bed. To find her alone outside. She might say no. She might go to America. But she didn't. She accepted him. She smiled and broke her façade of propriety as she made him kneel in the snow. He lifted her up in his arms. She was as light as air. They twirled as the snow fell around them. He would never forget the perfection of that night.
Oh how he needed to be alone with her. To begin to confide in her these thoughts that filled his brain. It frustrated him that Mary wanted to live at Downton. He already felt so confined there. Like the stiff collared evening suits, Downton constrained him. Made him less than who he used to be.
The very order of the place bothered him. In this new age. It was a place out of time. But he was willing to try for Mary's sake. It was her home. For a woman that he knew did not always "conform to the fitness of things," Downton fit her like a glove. It would be tearing away a part of her. And that he would never do that.
But this night. This night he would find the time to be alone with her.
Molesley tunelessly hummed as he put away his brush in the dressing cupboard. Matthew continued to fiddle with the white tie.
He glimpsed outside. It was raining. Not a great sign. But he remained resolute in his determination.
Tom and Sybil's presence was an omen. A couple that was perhaps his inspiration for being a little rebellious about getting Mary alone tonight. They just went and did what they wanted. Ran off to Ireland. Got married. He admired them. Looked forward to getting to know Tom better. He needed male allies in this family.
He finished dressing to Molesley's satisfaction. Walked down the steps to greet his mother and help her into her coat. They exited Crawley House and made their way to the waiting car. The new chauffer helped Isobel in while Matthew got in the other side.
He bristled with anticipation for what the evening had in store. And no matter the outcome, he would see his beloved Mary. And that, in and of itself, was worth everything he owned in the world.
XX
The actual events of the evening play out in the next chapter.
