Disclaimer: They're still not mine, despite the fact that I asked for them for Christmas. Santa has failed me.
Author's Note: You asked for it and here it is. Enjoy!
"The Dear Repose"
Mary couldn't resist Matthew's hand as he held it out in a wordless invitation to dance. He might be engaged, but she was so happy he could dance again.
"Can you manage without your stick?"
"You are my stick."
They had only spun for a moment when a wave of dizziness rolled through her. Matthew watched her pale in his arms and felt her step falter.
"Mary?"
"Oh, dear. I believe I'm ill as well." She put a hand to her clammy forehead. "If you'll excuse me?"
"Of course. Do you want me to help you upstairs?"
"That's quite all right. Thank you, though."
He watched her make her way up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. Lavinia met Mary in the middle. They spoke briefly and continued on their way.
"Mary says I'm to stay here and Dr. Clarkson will see us all in the morning."
He nodded. "How are you feeling?"
"Like a nuisance." She shook her head. "I must get to bed. Good night."
"Good night." Matthew watched her retrace her steps up the stairs and went to turn off the phonograph. The needle had reached the end of its path.
Matthew found his mother watching over a sleeping Lavinia the next morning.
"How is she?"
"Tired, but managing."
"Have you heard how Mary is?"
Isobel eyed her son. "You haven't been to see her?"
"I thought I should check on Lavinia first."
She nodded in approval. Her son was torn between two women and she could see the internal battle all over his face.
"Lavinia's asleep. Go look in on Mary."
He glanced at his sleeping fiancé and turned for the door.
Matthew found Mary in much the same position, but with Anna watching over her. He felt a little odd being in her bedroom, but shook it off as he saw her glassy eyes looking in his direction.
"Hello," he said. "How are you feeling?"
"Awful, thank you." She gave him a small smile and he was pleased to see a little of her fire. "How's Lavinia?"
"Sleeping, with mother watching over her like a hawk."
"Naturally." She adjusted herself against her pillows. "I'm sorry our dance got cut short last night."
He smiled. "Me too. I should let you rest. Thank you, Anna, for sitting with her."
"You're quite welcome, Mr. Crawley."
"Sleep well, Mary."
As they sat down to dinner that night, Matthew asked, "Does Sir Richard know that Mary's ill?"
Robert answered, "I sent him a telegram."
Matthew shook his head. "What kind of fiancé doesn't come running when he hears his fiancé is ill?"
"I quite agree."
"Do you know why she accepted him?" Matthew asked curiously.
"I keep wondering, thinking he'll do something that will earn my respect."
"Hmm."
"Indeed."
Sybil came running in.
"Papa! Matthew!"
"Is it Cora?"
"No, Papa. It's Lavinia."
They found her in a very sorry state and the look on Dr. Clarkson's face told him the worst. Matthew took the chair by her bed and felt for her hand.
"My darling, can you hear me? It's Matthew."
"Matthew?" Her voice was so weak and rattled in her chest like a marble in a box.
"Yes, I'm here."
"Promise me that you'll be happy, Matthew."
Oh, God. "How can I be happy without you?"
"You know how already. You've made me so happy, my darling. So happy…" Her voice faded and he grabbed her hand a little tighter. His head snapped around to Dr. Clarkson. The good doctor felt for a pulse and he shook his head. Robert laid a comforting hand on Matthew's shoulder.
He laid his head in his hands. He was numb. He didn't know what to do or what to say or anything. She had been such a loving part of his life, a contrast to the trenches, an uplifting light and she was gone. There would be no wedding on Saturday… or ever.
"Matthew."
He lifted his tear-filled eyes to meet those of Lord Grantham.
"I'm so very sorry, my dear boy."
Matthew nodded ever-so-slightly. "Thank you."
Isobel came in just then, took in the state of things, and wrapped her arms around her son. "Oh, Matthew. I'm so sorry."
He held on to her as he hadn't in years, not even in the hospital when he was recovering.
Lord Grantham and Dr. Clarkson left them alone to grieve their loss.
Mary took the plate of toast from Anna without much enthusiasm. "Must I eat this?"
"Dr. Clarkson doesn't want you taking your medicine on an empty stomach, I'm afraid, so yes you must."
Mary sighed and picked up a piece.
Sybil came in with tears in her eyes.
"Sybil? What's wrong? Is it Mama?"
"No, it's Lavinia. She's… dead."
"Oh, God! But last I heard she was getting better."
Sybil shook her head. "That's how this flu works. When you're getting better is when you're most vulnerable. If the second wave gets you—"
Mary wiped the tears off her cheeks. "Oh, poor Matthew. He must be crushed!"
"Isobel's in with him. Papa's downstairs calling to arrange the funeral. He figures it's the least he can do for Matthew."
"She was such a sweet girl. How awful."
Matthew stared out of the library window, but saw nothing that was passing on the other side of the glass. He felt cold, but had no desire to move closer to the fire.
"Matthew?"
He turned to find a very concerned Lord Grantham behind him.
"I've had Carson set up a room for you, Matthew. Isobel's keeping an eye on Cora and Mary and I think it would be better if you stayed here tonight."
Matthew searched for his manners and found them buried somewhere deep inside. "Yes, thank you, that's very considerate."
"Can I have Carson bring you something to eat? You didn't have any dinner."
"No, thank you."
Robert laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Please promise me you'll try and sleep, Matthew. I don't want you to fall ill as well."
"I'll try," he said, knowing that if he closed his eyes he'd just see Lavinia's face as she had died.
Bates helped him into a spare pair of Robert's pajamas and he slipped between the sheets.
He felt bruised and raw. He had watched men die in the trenches, but this was somehow worse. This disease was vicious and sudden. He vaguely wondered how Mary was. Someone must have told her about Lavinia.
With a sudden urge to hear her voice, he hobbled to his dressing gown, felt for his damned stick, and made his way down the hall to her room. He knocked gently and heard Anna's voice bid him to enter.
Matthew immediately felt a little bit calmer just because Mary was there, even though she was asleep.
Anna launched to her feet when she saw him. "Mr. Crawley, I'm so sorry about Miss Swire."
"Thank you, Anna," he replied and all but fell into a chair.
"Mr. Crawley, are you quite all right? You're pale as a sheet. Here," she poured him a cup of tea from the pot on Mary's dressing table, put two spoons of sugar in it, and forced it into his hands. "Drink that."
The fragrant waves infiltrated his numbed senses and the warmth crept into his hands. He lifted the china to his lips and took a sip. The tea slid down his parched throat and pushed out the tiniest bit of grief. He looked up at her gratefully. "Thank you, Anna."
Mary opened her eyes slightly. "Matthew?"
He leaned forward and drank a little more of his tea. "Hello, again."
"Sybil told us about Lavinia. God, Matthew, I'm so, so sorry."
She watched the light in his eyes dim. She had never seen them such a color before, they were more gray than blue and were harder than she had ever seen them.
He simply nodded when he found his throat too clenched to let any words out. She laid a weak hand on his arm and that warmed him even more than the tea had. If only he could wrap her around himself, he might be able to face the next few days. He cleared his throat and asked, "And how are you feeling?"
"A little better, I think, but I'm still not going to be dancing anytime soon."
She would have missed his smile if she hadn't been trying to provoke it and watching so closely for it. "A pity, for you are a lovely dancer."
"Certainly better than my singing."
"Oh, I don't know. I thought you had a very nice singing voice."
"That's your working class upbringing for you. Clearly you've spent too much time in the Manchester dance halls listening to inferior performances," but she said it with a smile so he'd know she was teasing him.
"Would you like some more tea, Mr. Crawley?" Anna asked him. She had watched as the tea, and her mistress, she thought, brought some color back to his face.
He had rather forgotten she was there. "No, thank you, Anna. I'm feeling much better. I should be off to bed." He turned back to Mary. "Thank you."
She raised her eyebrows. "For what?"
He didn't know quite how to thank her for being herself and treating him as she always did. She had made him smile and he was more grateful than he knew how to express. "Just… thank you for… the tea."
She smiled her gentle smile at him and he went back to his room and slept without dreams.
"Matthew!"
He bolted to awareness in a heartbeat and was tying his dressing gown when Robert burst into his room. One look at the Earl's face and Matthew felt every drop of blood leave his face.
"Oh, no. Mary?"
"I'm afraid so."
He followed him down the hall to Mary's room as he thought to himself, Good God, not Mary too. He was wounded at losing Lavinia, but he couldn't bear to think of losing Mary. Mary had helped him pull himself together last night and she didn't even know it. If he lost her too, he'd simply fall apart.
One look at her face had him pushing past Dr. Clarkson and reaching for her hand. The sense of déjà vu grabbed him by the throat. "Mary?"
"Matthew?" her voice sounded just as Lavinia's had. He held her hand tighter, as if he could hang onto her life by his fingers.
"Mary, don't you die on me."
Her feeble laugh broke his heart. "Not sure I have a choice in the matter."
"Like hell you don't. You're the strongest person I know. You could brave any storm and come out on the other side, just don't give up."
She coughed and blood dribbled down her chin. He shot Dr. Clarkson a look. Clarkson leaned forward with a handkerchief and wiped it away. "It happens sometimes."
"Will she be all right? What can I do?"
"If she makes it through the day, she should recover, but the chances of that aren't good, I'm afraid."
Matthew turned back to Mary and said, "Do you hear that? The doctor thinks your chances are slim. I know you, Mary. If someone thinks you should do things a certain way, you'll do them in exactly the opposite just to thumb your nose at them. Well then, prove him wrong. Stay with me."
She rolled her eyes at him. "Rather selfish don't you think?" She wheezed and whistled as she worked to get the question out.
"Damn straight. I'll swear and needle you all day long, if I have to. That should keep you determined to outwit me. If anything can hold off death, it's that."
Her eyes slipped closed and the only thing that kept him from screaming her name was the continued whistle and wheeze that was her breath.
He watched her face, held her hand, and prayed.
Dr. Clarkson looked in a little while later and found the two of them in the same position.
He backed into the hall and turned to Robert. "She's maintaining. I swear that boy is keeping her alive through sheer force of will."
Robert smiled. "I wouldn't put it past him. A man in love is a fearsome thing to behold."
Clarkson smiled as well. It was an ill-kept secret that the two were in love, despite Miss Swire and Sir Richard. "Has Sir Richard communicated at all?"
"He wired to ask to be informed when she's well," Robert replied.
"Hmph."
"Quite."
"I'll just go and check on Lady Grantham now, my lord."
"Yes, of course."
She felt something warm on her hand. She had been blistering hot for so long that it should have disturbed her, but she found it remarkably soothing. Every once in a while, it would brush against the back of her hand. Occasionally, there was a voice along with the brush and it usually said something to denigrate her snobbish upbringing or her superiority over everyone around her.
There was always something in her that surged to come up with a fitting reply about his uneducated, working-class, ineptitude. He heckled her about "obscure literature" and "theatre that no human could be meant to understand." She wanted to throwback something about lowbrow entertainment and the unwashed masses, but couldn't seem to get her mouth open.
The voice always had a biting edge to it, but the hand on hers was the epitome of gentle. Slowly, she felt herself float closer and closer to the surface.
"Matthew?"
He sat up straighter in his chair and searched her face.
"Mary. Are you awake?"
Her eyes blinked open and he had never seen a better sight in all his life than her eyes meeting his.
"You don't really think Shakespeare is a 'superior and lofty ass,' do you?"
He smiled at her as his eyes got slightly damp. "No, but I thought it would irritate your mind into sticking around. It's apparently worked. I wonder if Dr. Clarkson should add a battery of insults to his bag of tricks."
"I imagine it would only work for contrary patients who like to do things as they see fit and to hell with everyone else."
They grinned at each other just as Dr. Clarkson came to check up on her. "Ah, you're awake. Excellent." He listened to her breathing and took her pulse and proclaimed that she would "do quite well," to Matthew's great joy.
They all heard Matthew's stomach grumble. He looked slightly ashamed.
Dr. Clarkson said, "I'll just have Mrs. Patmore send you up a tray of something, Mr. Crawley."
Matthew was grateful he didn't have to leave Mary's side. "Thank you, Doctor."
As the door closed behind him, Mary said, "How long have you been sitting here, Matthew?"
He looked at his watch and said, "I don't quite know."
She shook her head. "You haven't even changed out of your pajamas and dressing gown."
"No. I didn't want to leave you. I was afraid that if I did, then—"
"Oh, Matthew, you're too good to me."
He looked at her matter-of-factly, "That's because I love you."
She sighed. "Matthew, you're in mourning for Lavinia. You can't say things like that. Besides, I'm engaged."
Matthew stood and paced at the foot of her bed. "Lavinia wanted me to be happy. I'm sorry she's gone, of course I am, but that doesn't change what I feel for you. You make me happy. Well, usually you make me happy. And yes. You're engaged. You're engaged to an ass who barely communicated, despite the fact that you nearly died!"
"Matthew!"
"Why are you marrying him? There has to be a reason beyond his money and his position. Tell me what it is." He calmed a little as he saw the distraught look on her face. "Please, Mary… tell me."
"I—I'm not sure I can. You'll despise me and I couldn't stand that."
He leaned closer and took her hand in his again. "You've beaten this illness, Mary. If you can beat that, then you can beat anything. I need to know."
She looked in his eyes and knew it might be the last time he looked at her like that, but he was right. He should know everything.
"Do you remember Kamal Pamuk, the Turkish ambassador who came before the war?"
He stood up and turned away from her. He needed to think. He needed to breathe. And he needed not to vomit on her carpet. Images of Mary and the Turk filled his mind and he took several steadying breaths before she broke the silence.
"Please say something, if it's only good bye."
"Did you love him? Cause if it was love—"
"How could it be love? I didn't even know him."
"Then what—"
"It was lust, Matthew! Or a need for excitement… What difference does it make?"
"And Carlisle is threatening to put it in the papers unless you marry him?"
"Yes."
"All the same, you must sack Carlisle."
"And I must brave the storm alone?"
"Do you forget so easily that I told you I love you? I wouldn't call that alone at all."
"Oh, God, what did I ever do to deserve you?"
His crooked smile, her favorite smile, appeared on his face. "Something awful, clearly."
A smile of her own appeared. "Do you really forgive me?"
"I don't believe you need my forgiveness."
A lone tear fell down her cheek. "I feel I could brave any storm if you're by my side."
"Why, Mary, I think that's the most romantic thing I've ever heard you say."
She grinned at him. "Look what you've done to me. You've sullied me with your middle class fantasy of happily ever after."
"You've been saving that one up, haven't you?" He leaned in so their faces were mere inches apart.
"Yes," and she leaned forward and met his lips with her own.
The title comes from the following sonnet by Mr. Shakespeare:
"Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expir'd:
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find."
-Sonnet XXVII, William Shakespeare