August 1914 – Mons, Belgium

Evelyn sat next to the window of the room above the café, the setting sun illuminating the countryside in a brilliant burst of red, orange, and green hues. He was reminded not of Dorset, but of Yorkshire of autumn hunts and summer dinner parties and gazing hopelessly at her across the table.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

The dark-haired viscount's son turned to face his bunkmate, a Sergeant Benjamin Wilson. The man was from Yorkshire, he had a farm on the Grantham estate coincidentally enough. He was a broad-shouldered, burly, red-faced man with a shock of blonde hair, a bushy mustache and pleasant blue eyes. He was around ten years older than the twenty-three year old newly-commissioned lieutenant and much more experienced, having been in the Second Boer War. He, like many of the men under his command, was a trained soldier. Evelyn was trained—albeit much less—but had only just joined in July, begging Lord Flintshire to put him on the front lines as soon as possible. He wanted to think he had done it solely because he was patriotic, but it wasn't only that. It was his feelings for a woman he was certain would never love him in return that had driven him to enlist the day after they last met in London. He wanted to escape his love for Mary Crawley but by some twist of fate was sharing a room with a man that lived near her home. Not that he liked Wilson any less because of it—on the contrary, he liked the man a great deal. Despite his intimidating physical presence, he was amiable, gentle as a lamb. He remembered him graciously accepting a Belgian girl's bouquet of flowers as she and her fellow Belgians hailed their liberators.

"It is." the young lieutenant answered, shrugging on his khaki tunic. It had been so unbearably hot during the day's march, but now that it was getting dark, the heat had left.

Wilson saw this and chuckled jovially. "Not used to the cold, sir?"

Evelyn smiled and shrugged. "I'm a southerner, Wilson—born and bred in Dorset."

"Mary's from the south, too. Always complains about the cold…my wife." Wilson added at his superior's questioning expression.

"Ah." Evelyn nodded, briefly reminded of a discussion he and his Mary—his, as if—about the contrasting climates of their respective home counties.

"Here's a picture of her." The older man withdrew a daguerreotype from his breast pocket and handed it to Evelyn. The woman was light-haired, plump, and pretty in that motherly sort of way—as in the picture Wilson and his wife stood behind a young boy and girl, both resembling their parents.

"You have a beautiful family, Sergeant." he commented sincerely, smiling as he handed back the photograph.

"Thank you, sir. Have you any family?"

He shook his head. "Only my father." His mother had died a few years ago and his father was the only living relative he had in the world that he knew. He supposed there could be some stray distant Napiers running about, but that wasn't the same.

"A sweetheart, then?"

Evelyn's hand tightened around the arm of his chair. "Not exactly." he admitted, letting out a sigh. He wasn't sure if he should tell whole truth, but he was all too aware that when they prepared to defend the village at dawn, he could fall in battle. "It's complicated. There's a lady named Mary—"

"Lady Mary? The Earl's daughter?" The man's eyes widened and he grinned apologetically. "I'm sorry, I just can't help but wonder—we all heard you were in town a couple of years ago when that Turkish gentleman died—"

"Yes, Lady Mary Crawley." he confessed, not wanting the conversation to shift toward those ridiculous rumors.

"I've only heard her name mentioned, I've never seen her, sir. Do you have a photograph?" Wilson wondered.

"No..." He had never asked because he thought she would think him forward, and he didn't to endanger the friendship they had by confessing he was in love with her, that he had broken his engagement for her, when it was clear she did not care for him in that way. "She…she is like a painting. She has the most expressive eyes I've ever seen, like coffee. She doesn't smile much, but when she does…" His eyes grew distant and he fell silent.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be intrusive, sir."

"It's perfectly alright, Wilson." Evelyn was beginning to see how war broke down class barriers. He respected propriety but was much more open to those who were not respectful of it than his more conservative counterparts. He had his own ethics, but did not expect everyone to follow them. He saw the value of each person, lord or villager, but still respected boundaries. That said, he did not find Wilson's innocent conversation intrusive at all.

"Do you write to her?"

"No. No, she has no idea of what my…my feelings are." Nor would she ever, he imagined. "I love her—very much." He always amazed himself when he said the word out loud—exactly twice he had done that, this being the second time. The first had been when he answered his father's direct question of whether he loved her after ending his engagement.

"If I may be so bold, sir…wouldn't it be better to write to her? I've seen some of the men do the same thing—join the Army because of a girl, beg your pardon, sir. I think if you do tell her—even if things don't work out to your favor…at least it's one less thing to worry about. A distracted man in war is a dead one." Wilson observed shrewdly.

Evelyn was by now aghast. "I know. It's only…only I am afraid of how she would react. She finds me very boring—"

"You, sir? How could anyone think that? A man that's travelled the world and still isn't used to Belgian weather?" Wilson replied half-teasingly. The cavalrymen exchanged a grin, but Wilson's faded first. "I had to work to win Mary—Mrs. Wilson," he corrected with a chuckle. "Over. It took years just to get her to come to dinner with me. We may not have years, sir, but you shouldn't give up. If you care for her—and I can tell you do—you should let her know, so you have no regrets…but that's a still old farmer's advice, begging your pardon, sir."

"Not at all." Evelyn brushed aside his apology, shaking his head. "You've given me much to consider. I'll think on it."

Wilson nodded and swung his long legs over onto his bunk. "I'm going to get some sleep—long day tomorrow and all. Good night, sir."

"Good night, Wilson." Evelyn answered with a nod before staring out into the night sky.

Benjamin Wilson was one of the first men in Evelyn's platoon killed at Mons. Machine gun bullets pierced his chest, staining the wool of his uniform and throwing him to the ground in a crumpled, lifeless heap. Eyes so lively hours before were frozen in time, emotionlessly, hauntingly. Evelyn had to continue the charge despite the shock of seeing a man die. Sitting in the farmhouse in which he was billeted the next evening, he couldn't stop thinking about the two Marys—the one he had to write a letter to informing her of her husband's death and the Mary that was never really his, the one whose face he wanted to gaze upon to forget it all..

He set down his pen and held his head in his hands, the tears over all he'd seen finally coming unbidden. He sat there for what felt like an eternity before grabbing another sheet of paper and beginning to write. Dear Mary…